Fair Stands the Wind

by Catherine Lodge

  … since our marriage was never consummated, it is possible, and indeed incumbent upon me, to release you from an arrangement whose utility is now dubious. Your recent letters have demonstrated that a lady of your ability will never lack for admirers, and I am sure you will soon be able to embark upon a marriage in every way more suitable. There is, of course, no question of repaying the settlement made upon you, which will, I hope, enable you to embark upon a new sphere of life.

  On receipt of your agreement, I will write to my Uncle Matlock and request him to take Georgiana and her mother into his household. I regret that the estrangement between my brother and my Fitzwilliam relations prevented such an arrangement before you and I were obliged to take such drastic measures to preserve her. Your Mr. Lester seems a gentleman admirably placed to undertake the administration of the estate, reporting to Lord Matlock where appropriate. I understand from your letter that my uncle was prepared to act in this manner before your arrival rendered his assistance unnecessary. However, it would be most ungenerous of me to expect you to continue as you have when you must be desirous of your own establishment.

  Mere words cannot express my consciousness of your forbearance to date, and it is for this reason that I will not and cannot demand anything further of you. I understand that it will be necessary to make a declaration before the appropriate ecclesiastical authorities, and I await only your written consent to make the necessary preliminary enquiries.

  I remain, madam, your humble and obedient servant,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  For the first time in her life, she thought she might faint. There was a tingling sensation in her face and hands, and darkness seemed to be gathering at the edges of her mind. This could not be true. She bent forward and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She could not think. She could barely breathe for the weight pressing on her chest.

  There was a noise. Someone was knocking. She had to clear her throat before she could bid the person enter. It was Mrs. Reynolds, looking concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am?” she asked nervously. “Anderssen says he heard you call out, and I’ve been knocking for some while.”

  Elizabeth’s thoughts seemed to have slowed, and it felt like several minutes passed before she could answer. “I am not feeling very well,” she said. “I believe I will go and lie down for a while. There is no need to alarm Miss Darcy.” She was conscious that her voice sounded strained, but there was nothing she could do about that. She got to her feet, and some part of her was surprised they would bear her. Walking like a woman three times her age, she slowly made her way upstairs and lay down on the bed in her new room, blind to its comfort and beauty. Her thoughts had settled down to a dull roaring noise like the sea, which gradually drowned out all conscious attempts to make sense of what she had read. She slept.

  It was almost dark when she awoke, and she was dimly conscious that a door had just closed—Georgiana, no doubt, checking that she was well. There was a heavy weight on her thoughts, and it was several minutes before she could bring herself to rise and wash her face. Maria came in when she rang and was touchingly glad to see her up and about, and Elizabeth had no doubt that the news would soon be spread downstairs.

  According to Aunt Phillips’s clock, which cut a decidedly plebeian figure in her new rooms, it was almost time for supper, and she hoped Georgiana or perhaps Mrs. Reynolds had seen to its ordering. For herself, the mere thought of food was nauseating, but she knew she must make the attempt for the sake of those who depended upon her. The memory that they might not so depend for much longer struck like a knife, making her gasp.

  Warm water and a fresh gown went some way to reviving her, and she managed to take her place at table, assuring her little family that it was only a passing indisposition. She could not bring herself, as yet, to inform them of the letter—tomorrow, perhaps, when she had forced herself to understand it. She managed to eat enough to satisfy the most affectionate scrutiny and then, pleading a continuing headache, retired for the night. She knew she would not sleep. It was time to think. She had often been called intelligent, perceptive, and even clever; now was the time to apply all the gifts of intellect the Almighty had bestowed.

  The letter was still on the floor of her bedroom where it had dropped from her despairing grasp while she slept. Carefully, she smoothed out the creases and carried it over to her dressing table where candles burned in extravagant profusion. The handwriting caused a dreadful pang, but she thrust that aside to consider the matter contained in the letter.

  As she read, she felt the first stirrings of something that felt very much like anger. There was so much about it that was puzzling, especially when set against the conversational and affectionate warmth of his previous letters. After several readings, she dismissed the first two paragraphs as mere civilities, the bare minimum possible in a gentleman’s correspondence, although she made a note to pass on to Longbourn the comment about her father.

  The appointment to HMS Vanguard in the next paragraph had not appeared in the Naval Chronicle which she had received only the previous day; however, it would appear there in due course so that, quite apart from the difficulty she had in seeing him as a bald-faced liar, the statement was subject to corroboration and therefore had to be accepted as true.

  The meat of the difficulty lay in the next two paragraphs. What on earth did he mean by “Your recent letters have demonstrated that a lady of your ability will never lack for admirers”? The only gentlemen she had mentioned had been her Uncle Gardiner, Lord Matlock, and Mr. Lester, who were married, and the colonel. Surely to heaven, he was not suggesting some sort of attachment had grown between them? She had laid her heart on every page of her last few letters, letters she knew he had received since he mentioned the restoration of Pemberley. What sort of woman did he think she was?

  She got up so she could pace about the room, for she could feel the anger now, hot and unmistakeable. And the rest of it, the subtle suggestion that she had taken too much upon herself, the mention of money that came perilously close to payment for services rendered. How dare he! What sort of man was he? It was impossible that the gentle loving man who had written the previous letters should have written this…this…dismissal.

  And then she had it, and the relief cut her legs from under her so that she sat down on the floor in a heap. Yes, it was impossible. It was unmistakeably his hand, his way of writing a single “s” where two were needed and then squeezing the extra one in, his hand, his words and yet not him, not the true, the inner Fitzwilliam Darcy. Something else was at work here—something she did not as yet understand but most certainly would before very long. It was long past eleven o’clock, but she took a candlestick, went down to the library, and searched out the last Naval Chronicle. There had been much discussion of the new design of the Vanguard and yes, there it was: a note that the ship was currently in the hands of the riggers and caulkers and was expected to be provisioned and ready for sea at Portsmouth by the end of the month.

  She took her candle and returned to her bed, apologising in passing to a bleary-eyed Haslam who had come to see who was moving about the house. Tomorrow she would send him—no, tomorrow she would send one of the grooms on horseback to all her neighbours to beg copies of every newspaper they had, and she would write to Uncle Gardiner. He had correspondents in the merchant service; perhaps he could help, for she was certain it was something that had happened at sea. She knew herself to be far from perfect but could think of nothing she had done that could possibly have called forth such a dreadful letter.

  Something had happened between her husband leaving Malta on his mission and his writing from Gibraltar. She had three weeks to find out what it was, and then she would act.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next day, Pemberley was a hive of activity. Grooms rode out to beg, borrow, or steal newspapers, the family chaise was disinterred from the stable where it had rested for the l
ast ten years, and an express was sent to Mr. Gardiner in Gracechurch Street. To Georgiana and her mother, she said only that her husband would be in England for but a brief time, and that she would dearly love to spend that time alone with him. Georgiana, although disappointed, was neither so ungrateful nor so insensible that she did not understand the request, and she settled down to writing a monstrous great letter and to drawing as much of the restored Pemberley as she could manage in the time allowed.

  Elizabeth poured over the newspapers and the back issues of the Naval Chronicle and gathered little. The Vanguard was described at length and the name of her future captain speculated upon for, in the words of one of the Chronicle’s correspondents, “a more ‘plum’ posting it would be hard to conceive, and the man who finds himself posted to this magnificent ship will surely be distinguished either for his parts or for potent interests on shore, pressing for his promotion.”

  Although her mind was much oppressed with speculation and anxiety, Elizabeth did not neglect the business of the house and estate. A conference with Mr. Lester and another with Mrs. Reynolds ensured that all would proceed smoothly, with particular care being taken to celebrate Georgiana’s sixteenth birthday. She wrote to Lord Matlock, reminding him of this happy event in the hopes that he would ride over and perhaps invite the two ladies to visit his home, Alfreston Park. Anderssen and Haslam were to stay at Pemberley to guard Georgiana if necessary, and Elizabeth would travel through Hatfield and take up Puttnam to act as guide. It would be cruel indeed to expose the able-bodied seamen to the dangers of the Press.

  Although it felt like hubris of the worst sort, she did not neglect herself. She had already ordered from the dressmaker in Lambton the most becoming of travelling clothes and gowns for wearing in the day. Half in shame and half in bravado, she had also ordered a nightgown of such translucent daring that she was by no means sure she would ever venture to wear it. The promise of an additional generous fee ensured that the remainder of the items would be supplied as soon as possible. She had originally ordered the clothes for his longed-for return home, to look as beautiful as she might. Now, as Maria alternately packed and pleaded to be allowed to accompany the party, Elizabeth tried not to imagine a journey home, when all this finery was revealed for the desperate throw she suspected it might prove to be.

  Mr. Gardiner’s reply when it came was not such as to aid in calming her spirits. It arrived the day before she had determined she must leave for Portsmouth and enclosed a copy of the latest edition of The Times.

  He wrote, “I have been unable to discover much more than is written in these pages. There are rumours of great changes at the department of the Admiralty in charge of intelligence, consequent upon some as yet announced failure on its part. Please write as soon as you can. In the meantime, your aunt and I and the children will keep you both in our prayers.”

  She tore the newspaper open, her eyes darting about its pages. She was so flurried that it took her several minutes to find the report headed “Naval Engagement in the Mediterranean.”

  “We are informed,” it began, “that an engagement took place at sea off the island of — between His Majesty’s Ship Achilles and the French national ship of war La Gloire, accompanied by a number of lesser vessels from states allied to the French.” To Elizabeth’s shocked gaze, the list of additional ships seemed horribly long. “The Achilles was present to meet with parties thought eager to shake off the yoke of Corsican tyranny; however, we regret to say that, due to a culpable laxity in the arrangements, from which we do not hesitate to acquit the ship and its gallant officers and men, the appointment was widely known and much canvassed in Malta and doubtless other parts where British naval business is conducted.

  “We understand that Captain Darcy of the Achilles brought this to the attention of the naval authorities in those parts, but there was present no superior officer with the courage to overrule orders from London, and the ship was forced to sail for a meeting which many aboard must have suspected would prove not only fruitless but dangerous.

  “The result is easy to foresee. The appointment was a trap, and it is only the bravery and seamanship of those aboard which brought the ship away, although the expense in men and materiel is impossible to exaggerate. There are reported killed 52, including Mr. T Pascoe - First Lieutenant, Mr. M Hannaside - Sailing Master …” The column of names reached the bottom of the page and included names familiar to Elizabeth from her husband’s letters. She could only guess at the anguish such losses would cause to the men who had been their shipmates. “… many dying in the days after the battle from their wounds. Also wounded, 36. This from a ship’s complement of only 284.

  “No greater tribute to the fallen can be given than to report that La Gloire was forced to flee and that two smaller vessels [their names and details were given at length] were taken prizes. We understand that the Achilles will require substantial repair and Captain F Darcy will transfer to the new ship HMS Vanguard.

  “Although no man who serves his country in time of war expects that service to be always safe or easy, it is to be hoped that the gallant men of the Achilles will not again face more danger at the hands of their friends than they do at those of their enemies.”

  This was worse, much worse than Elizabeth had feared, and she was at once wild to be off. Hiding the report from Georgiana was imperative, and any longer delay would only increase the chance that she would miss her husband altogether.

  Within the hour, the coach was ordered round, trunks and bags packed aboard, and a rider dispatched to order horses prepared at their first stopping place. Mr. Lester produced a considerable sum of money for the journey, and all was prepared. Her last sight of Pemberley was of Georgiana standing forlornly on the front steps, waving her handkerchief and attempting, with indifferent success, not to cry.

  For once in her life, money was no object to Elizabeth, and they swept south as fast as the horses could gallop. Frequent changes, a moonlit night, and good roads saw them dash into Hatfield not thirty hours later. Puttnam was collected, assuring her as he climbed unwillingly inside that no further letters of any description had been received. She did not wait to call at Longbourn, dearly though she would have loved to see Jane, but set off south again, determined to reach the first tollgate on the road west as soon as might be.

  As they raced through the countryside, Puttnam forever asleep opposite her, she attempted to subdue the wild imaginings of her heart. They travelled at such speed that reading was impossible and sleep only available to the exhausted or insensible. Time and again, she stepped from the coach to stretch stiffened limbs while the horses were changed or attempted to snatch a bite to eat, and time and again, she begrudged every second she was not upon the road.

  The ten hours between London and Portsmouth seemed to her the longest day she had ever spent. At the post boy’s recommendation, the Darcy chaise pulled into an inn known for accommodating naval officers ashore, and Puttnam stumped in to make enquiries. He came back within minutes.

  “He’s ’ere, ma’am,” he said, and Elizabeth felt again the terrible hollowness of anticipation. “Leastwise, ’e’s expected back from the dockyard later tonight.” She climbed from the chaise; her legs felt weak beneath her, and she was pathetically glad for a brief respite before she saw him.

  She took rooms at the rear of the house, and the chambermaid helped her out of clothes and into bed. She had persuaded the inn servants not to mention her arrival to her husband, for instinct told her he might well flee her presence, out to some ship where she could not follow. So she told them her arrival was to be a surprise, and since they knew he was no libertine who might be surprised with a woman of the town, they took her coins and promised their silence with indulgent smiles. It was agreed that Puttnam would send the chambermaid to wake her the minute he arrived.

  To her surprise, she slept deeply, and it was dark before the tap came on her chamber door. Sh
e dressed hurriedly but well, not ashamed to use every weapon in her arsenal. If he intended to set her aside, he would be brought to recognise what he had chosen to discard. She was so hurried that there was scarcely time to be afraid before she stepped out into the corridor to meet Puttnam. He took her to the next floor, and she was just in time to see a door open and a man who looked like a clerk come out.

  “And tell those crooked hounds at the Victualling Board I know all their tricks. I am not to be bribed, and I am not to be practised upon.” It was his voice, strong and alive, and her knees weakened. The door shut, and she summoned the courage to approach it. However, before she could do so, Starkey came up the backstairs with a tray of food in his hands, the captain’s belated supper. He did not see her until she came round her corner, just as he knocked on the door and announced his errand.

  She thought she heard him whisper some words of thankfulness for her arrival but she could not hear them. All she heard was his voice from within, bidding her enter. She took the tray from Starkey’s hands, and he opened the door for her.

  The captain was sitting at a table covered with official-looking books and papers. He was in his shirtsleeves and had loosened his stock; his eyes were closed, and he was resting his head against the back of the chair in utter weariness. Everything was made plain to her. His face—his dear, kindly, strong face—was ruined. A great scar covered the left side, from forehead to lips, obliterating one eye and twisting the corner of his mouth into an ugly sneer. He had grown his hair long to conceal it, but the puckered, pockmarked skin and his horribly damaged ear were still visible.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, and instantly he swept the candle to the floor and plunged the room into darkness.

  There was silence, and she could hear her heart beating. She bent and set the tray on the floor and listened.