Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  He had been impressed at their instructors’ precision the first time he picked up a real one. The rocks they had launched replicated the weight of the grenades. He gave one a little toss in the air to test it again and saw the man next to him flinch. John looked at him queerly for the fuse was not yet lit. (The previous fight had left a few men jumpy.)

  Before the battle, he had spent a bit of time wondering (in light of his failed attempt at murdering Mr. Darcy) had he the courage to actually kill anyone. It fell apparent that neither enemy faces, nor the mothers that love them, come to mind when one is thinking of nothing but endeavouring to survive. Philosophising about war, he deduced, is useless under fire.

  A cadence of launch was hastily (and a bit awkwardly) established. He watched the grenades dwindle, his arms aching in reverse proportion to size of their store. It took just over an hour to shoot their bolt. The firepower of veteran French troops created a bastinado unparalleled in John’s imagination. None of the Grenadiers could stand under such an assault, much less see in the acrid air. By snaking along upon his belly, he found a shallow ditch already inhabited by two fellow grenadiers. Implausible under the circumstances, none could keep themselves from curling into a foetal position and covering their heads in defence of incoming cannonballs. Yet, when the tir de barrage ceased, it was rather ominously.

  The sultry air hung heavy with smoke, but John poked his head timidly from the trench. In such close fighting and resultant confusion, a general, friend or foe, would be hard-pressed to tell his own men from the enemy, therefore, the cannons were silenced (this not a decision born necessarily of humanity, but of economy). John had slaughtered pigs, decapitated chickens. He had once seen two men hanged. But he had never imagined such carnage.

  Hands shaking violently, John wrestled with spiriting a bayonet upon a long gun, certain the French infantry was upon him. Miraculously, they did not come in to his depth. Their victory of this position evident, the French rolled on. A fugato of cannons rattling away and their own drums beating a retreat gradually influenced him to understand this particular battle was over. He had not been victorious, but he was alive. At that moment, survival was not the most important thing. It was the only thing that mattered.

  John rolled upon his back, awash with relief whilst clutching the gun to his chest. Only a moment did he allow himself repose to savour life. He groaned to a sitting position and looked about to see what was next to be done. Every instruction they had been given was in anticipation of battle. Not a word what to do in its wake.

  In the smoking stench, John espied Major Wickham’s riderless horse running about randomly. His reins dangled dangerously, nearly tripping him once. John crawled upon his knees, then staggered to his feet. The major was most likely down. Yet another victim of Mr. Darcy’s perfidy. Compatriots at the hands of such villainy had to aid each other, lest none survive. Stumbling over bodies and gear, John lurched toward the terrified horse.

  “Halt,” he reminded himself. “Speak quietly. Move with care.”

  He held out his hand and cooed in a low voice. The horse slowed and then stopped, his head hanging, but eyes keen. Grasping the reins, John looked about for either the major or the major’s body. He then espied Major Wickham. He was, indeed, down, just upon the other side of a rise. But he was not dead.

  It was not until he and the horse were almost upon Wickham that John saw him clear. He was not wounded as first thought. He was engrossed in the most incongruous activity. A corporal, rendered faceless and a corpse by reason of a horrific head wound, lay at his feet, and he was jerking violently at the man’s jacket. John stopped some twenty feet away in disbelief. Obviously, the major had run mad. Spellbound, he watched as the major exchanged uniform coats with the dead corporal. It was not until Wickham finished his grisly task that he saw John staring at him. The gaze that passed between was so deep as to envelop the soul. And with it, all due revelation.

  Wickham may have had no feel for battle, but when he saw his deceit mirrored upon the solemn face of a soldier in his command, he did not hesitate. He tugged the gun from his belt and deliberately discharged a single round into John’s stomach. The impact of the shot tossed him backward upon the ground. Only from thence did the searing pain announce itself. And it was from thence that he watched the Major approach him, for he still clutched the horse’s reins in his hand. Wickham yanked them free. Thereupon, he mounted the horse and dug his spurs deep into his flank to speed his departure.

  Wickham did not look over his shoulder as he rode away.

  71

  The single blessing Elizabeth could find of her husband’s absence was that Jane would not worry relentlessly that their unborn child would see its father’s…membrum virile. Being unavailed of conjugal pleasures, however, was not foremost in Elizabeth’s mind. As she became increasingly heavy with child, their bed may have grown more incommodious, but it did not seem less empty to her.

  As time wore on, Elizabeth’s funk deepened. It was only rarely that she spoke of her multitude of fears to Jane. Truly, she knew Georgiana was in the greatest danger, but she could not will herself to fear for her husband less than anyone else. Newspapers were rampant with rumours of the ever-looming war. She read them voraciously, far too often allowing the hyperbole of the press to sweep her away with fright. It was no compensation to understand that danger was relative. Fitzwilliam, Newton Hinchcliffe, and young Howgrave would actually fight the war. But she kept a special place in her prayers for poor John Christie. To have been begat by George Wickham was test enough. To be a hapless cog in the ever-turning wheels of war was ill, indeed.

  Sitting and brooding alone, Elizabeth could not reconcile her conscience against the notion that the entire tumult of their family had been instigated, however unintentionally, by her own mismanagement. She had handled Fitzwilliam’s declaration of love badly. When she learnt he intended to rejoin Wellington she should have intervened. Had Fitzwilliam not departed, John Christie would not have taken his lead and gone as well. It was an horrendous train of events, for had he not gone, Georgiana might not have left on her own. That was the most perplexing thing. Why did Georgiana go?

  Having not the remotest notion of that circumstance was exceedingly troubling. Though she had no clue as to Georgiana’s motive, Elizabeth only knew that, had she been a better sister to her, she might have anticipated it. A full circle of self-recrimination.

  *

  It was when she was packing up some baby items that Elizabeth came across the quilt Alexander’s mother had sewn for him. She wrapped it in a scarf and tied it with a ribbon. In time, she would send it to Kirkland, for the baby must know his mother loved him. It had only been the day before that they had received word of Mary’s quietus. Elizabeth fancied she could hear the tolling of the passing bell in the morning’s stillness.

  That quiet was resoundingly broken by a tremendous yawp downstairs. It sounded as if an army had just been encamped in their lobby and Elizabeth, in the direst dregs of pessimism, hurried to see what had next claimed misery. And as she should have known, if one expects the worst, one is rarely disappointed. From the top of the stairs, Elizabeth saw misery itself standing in their vestibule. Wearing a bonnet with an obscenely large ostrich plume and a nose for the affliction of others, Lady Catherine de Bourgh had come to call once more.

  At the sight of the Detestable Doyenne of Distress, Elizabeth could feel herself droop. For Lady Catherine to arrive upon her threshold this early in the day, she must have left Rosings well before sunrise. It did not betoken a pleasant encounter. But Elizabeth wrapped her shawl resolutely about her and came down the stairs with as much dignity as she could invoke. This time, she attempted little civility, but she would not deny Darcy’s aunt entrance into his house (no matter how vehemently she had threatened to do just that).

  Lady Catherine’s admittance, however, was not couched with anything more than rudimentary courtesy. Elizabeth did not speak in greeting, merely nodded blandly in Lady Catherine’s
direction. She intended to lead her into the grand salon, but in the considerable disdain that lady could muster, she pushed past her and into Darcy’s library. Elizabeth did not particularly mind the affront, for that room afforded more privacy and she was certain words would be spoken that she did not want overheard. Indeed, Lady Catherine did not take a seat when Elizabeth motioned politely in the direction of a chair, but claimed her ground in the midmost of the carpet. Defensively, Elizabeth crossed the study to Darcy’s desk, turned and stood as well, folding her arms in front of her. Lady Catherine at first did not speak, possibly awaiting Elizabeth. Unaware of Lady Catherine’s drama, Elizabeth merely raised her eyebrow at the woman, silent. Lady Catherine came to her, it was she who must ask.

  But Lady de Bourgh did not come in query, for she had her own resources and she had heard. And that was what she announced.

  “Young woman, I have had word.”

  Thereupon she added the odd demand, “You will take leave of this house.”

  Elizabeth knew it was inevitable she exposed an expression of dumbfounded incredulity and hastily reclaimed it. Seeing she had caught her off guard, Lady Catherine moved in post-haste to mark a coup.

  “Yes, I know it all,” she said. “My nephew is dead, my niece lost. What you have wrought upon this house!”

  The declaration of her husband’s death hit her like a slap in the face. She refused, however, to allow Lady Catherine to have the whip-hand over any part of her. Elizabeth might worry about it prodigiously, but no one would declare her husband dead until she stood over his cold, dead body. It was a point from which she would not waver.

  Presenting a somewhat wavering facade of unflappability, Elizabeth, nevertheless, said evenly, “I am sorry you have been caused undue distress. My husband is in good health. My sister-in-law is well. You have no reason for concern.”

  “Play no parlour games with me, young woman! With Darcy’s death, I am his closest blood-relative. This house will be entailed to me and whatever you may think, I can make you remove yourself. There is no heir and you shall not be welcome as his widow!”

  Again, and with even more resolve, Elizabeth repeated, “My husband is in good health, madam. My sister-in-law is in good health as well.”

  Lady Catherine began to wail, “They are dead! Darcy is dead! Had he married my daughter none of this would have bechanced!”

  “No,” Elizabeth thought meanly, “he would have a bunch of sickly, bucktoothed children.”

  Lady Catherine began to keen, “Now he is dead! What you have wrought! What you have wrought!”

  The plume upon the woman’s bonnet bobbed incessantly back and forth, to and fro with each belaboured pronouncement. Finally, Elizabeth quite lost herself.

  Slamming open the top drawer of Darcy’s desk, she picked up the pistol, the very pistol that Darcy had so recently reminded her how to cock. It was heavier than she remembered, and she held it with both hands, in fortune, for they were both needed to draw back the hammer and take aim just above Lady Catherine’s nose.

  As Elizabeth’s bead was drawn, Lady Catherine’s eyes came into focus beyond the sight. They had widened profoundly. Furious yet, Elizabeth did not find enough satisfaction in this. Thus, she took her aim slightly higher, and squeezed both triggers at once.

  In the relatively large library, the gun sounded much louder than it had those days in practise upon the lawn. Too, the smoke and powder had disappeared with more dispatch in the outdoor air. Hence, there were a few seconds when Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine and thought her to have swooned. Waving one hand in front of her to clear her eye-line, Elizabeth’s vision gradually claimed sight of Lady Catherine standing yet exactly where she had. Elizabeth was impressed with the old crone’s fortitude, for the resounding boom of the gun had frightened her from its grip, and she was not the one at whom it had been aimed.

  The smoke cleared, enabling Elizabeth to have a better view of Darcy’s aunt. She had stood her ground, but her face betrayed more mortified terror than Elizabeth might have ever found for her in her sweetest of daydreams. Lady Catherine yet clung to her walking stick, but her bonnet had stopped bobbing, possibly because the plume upon her hat had been cut in two. The top half was only then wafting to the floor at her feet.

  If being fired upon was not shock enough for the lady, Elizabeth had dropped her shawl to take aim. Thus, when her unsteady gaze finally rested, it was upon the decided bulge in Elizabeth’s midsection.

  Lady Catherine did not take her leave with any courtesies, but she did take leave in haste and Elizabeth desired nothing else. By the time she had reached the door, it was flung open for her by two burly Pemberley footmen, and just behind them stood Mrs. Reynolds. It was at that moment Elizabeth knew Darcy had laid instructions for them upon bechancing a visit by his aunt.

  One of the men said, “Mrs. Darcy, ma’am, pray, is everything well?”

  Knowing it was useless to deny the gunpowder in the air, Elizabeth nonetheless did not leave her position from behind Darcy’s desk before kicking the yet smoking gun out of sight.

  “Yes. Yes, it is quite all-right, just a slight accident. Everything is quite well.”

  She walked from behind Darcy’s desk. The men backed out, following in the wake of Darcy’s aunt’s hastily retreating heels. (It was at this point that Elizabeth considered making a run for the window to gauge the overbites upon Lady Catherine’s coachmen, but restrained herself.) Instead, Mrs. Reynolds entered and she and Elizabeth met midmost in the room. They both looked at the floor at the same time. It was the most difficult decision Elizabeth had been called upon to make for several weeks.

  Should she tell Mrs. Reynolds that the puddle at their feet where the feather rested was the result of Lady Catherine’s excited incontinence, or give blame to the dogs?

  72

  But a day later and a few miles away from the Charleroi debacle a slow, low drum roll was heard. It kept eerie beat and lent even greater menace to a dark line of advancing French infantry. The British held fast to the top of a small ridge at Quatre-Bras. From his vantage atop Scimitar, Fitzwilliam stood in his stirrups and could see the feet of British soldiers in front of him begin to shift in anticipation of the clash only minutes away. Scimitar began his own skittish dance and jigged in place. Fitzwilliam leaned down and patted the horse’s neck, speaking to him in murmuring reassurance.

  For most soldiers, this was the moment of greatest dread: that of the brief, agonising wait with the enemy in sight, but not near enough to engage. These few minutes of delay were crucial that day, for the half-dozen cannons that would be their only true means of defence had only just arrived and were creaking far too slowly into position. The massive column of Napoleon’s army began their assent of the hill. Scimitar danced in place again.

  Fitzwilliam’s company had endeavoured with feverish haste to shore up the allied line at this point. And as always, as if as much by an unseemly evil intuition as military astuteness, Napoleon’s generals seemed to know just where to drive their wedge to breach the enemy position. Covering this weak spot was only a brief and miserly triumph for the allied. As the weakest link, it was there that they would bear the brunt of the assault of this particular battle. The French artillery behind their troops was now within a half mile and Fitzwilliam could hear the first salvos that landed short of the British line.

  Finally, theirs could respond and did, but only sporadically, for the ammunition had arrived tardy of the cannons.

  Their own volleys were falling short of the French and Fitzwilliam could see the men make scurried correction to the lay of the cannons. He eyed one cannon specifically and watched the rhythm closely as it was loaded, primed, aimed, then fired. The power of the shot lifted the heavy gun upward, then hard backward with the percussion, as even the cannoneers cringed away. Hastily it was loaded, primed, aimed, and fired once more. Fitzwilliam made a mental calculation. First, one blast was shot off a minute, then two, then, blessedly, three. Their own cannons up to sp
eed bestowed precious little time for self-congratulation, for they were immediately assaulted by incoming fire. The assault decimated their tightly packed ranks, mangling both bodies and equipment.

  By the time the enemy had been engaged, the single shot had been expended from every soldier’s rifle, and the bayonet rendered the weapon an unwieldy sword. Howbeit Fitzwilliam knew himself to be a particularly conspicuous target atop Scimitar and wearing the plumed hat of regimental leader, he had not drawn the most jeopardous undertaking. That fell to the lead infantrymen. It was they who had the poor prospect and unjust duty of meeting, bayonet to bayonet, the first of Napoleon’s finest. These demonically hungry and worse, foolhardy, French soldiers were not ordered, but chose, to bloody themselves upon British knives.

  As these frontiersmen began to bludgeon and stab, the cannon fire yet crossing landed upon enemy and defender without discrimination (victory being more urgent than economy in this particular battle). At one time Napoleon’s weighty army would have deployed right through a position as slim as theirs, but politics and desertion had taken away what leverage greater numbers afforded the French.

  *

  This fight was a face-to-face encounter and the blood that splattered from it was an odious and unseemly repetition of the earlier rain. Had not every soldier’s ears been deafened by the cacophony of arms, the screams of agony and rage would have been indiscernible of origin.

  The first waves of French were repelled by the incline as much as military might, but the sight of these ferocious troops falling back lured some amongst the allied to move forward to crush them. But that was not the battle plan. They held and waited to be assaulted again. When it came, the next movement of French troops had again to fight the incline, but were now also hindered by the obstacle of dead bodies and abandoned equipment already fallen victim to the fight.

  The French cannons volleyed yet into the British and Belgian troops, yet the second attempt by Napoleon’s army took even greater toll upon both sides. Three British cannons had been silenced, hence, the throat-razing sting of gunpowder that filled every man’s lungs came mostly from below.