Pride, Prejudice & Secrets (32 page)

“Thank God!” Darcy exclaimed in excited happiness. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He quickly opened the letter and skimmed through it before raising his eyes to the others in the room.

“It is from my cousin in Spain. He says that his regiment was involved in a large and decisive battle at a place called Salamanca but that he is alive and unwounded. In fact, he seems far more concerned about a trifling wound to his horse Nelson than he is about himself.”

“That does sound like Richard,” Georgiana said with a smile of relief.

“He does love that horse. In fact, he loves horses in general,” her brother said in agreement, returning to the letter. “He reports that the army fared rather well in the engagement, driving off the French in confusion and inflicting three times as many casualties as themselves.”

He handed the letter to Elizabeth, and Georgiana immediately joined her to read over her shoulder, which left Darcy free to surreptitiously glance at Caroline Bingley. Elizabeth had reported Caroline’s impulsive question about Richard, followed immediately by a look of distress and her sudden flight from the room. Now, she had turned away from the rest of the company and stood by herself looking out the window into the darkness.

Perhaps Richard might be in error in his report that my suggestion foundered on the rocks of Caroline’s intransigent arrogance,
he thought.
Perhaps there might be an interest there. Now, whether that is a good thing or not is a matter for conjecture and the passage of time. I wonder what Elizabeth will have to say?

Later that night, with her head comfortably cradled in the crook of Darcy’s shoulder and arm, her thought was much as his.

“I do not think she has changed her mind from what Richard wrote you,” she said. “But I also think she is not comfortable with that decision. Something certainly upset her that first day, and I saw her turn on her heel as soon as I announced the letter was from Richard.”

“Yes, I tried to catch her expression, but she turned away too soon. But I have some familiarity with her normal posture, and she was holding herself very stiff as she made sure none of us could see her face.”

“Exactly. Her mind is, I think, disturbed, and she does not know what to do.”

“I must admit to being of two minds on this matter, darling,” Darcy mused, his free hand beginning to move over Elizabeth’s bare midriff. “But at the moment, other matters are beginning to occupy my mind.”

“Lecher!” she said happily. “You
are
incorrigible.”

“Yes, dear,” he said contentedly as she arched under his hand.

Chapter
19

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

— Plato, Greek philosopher

Friday, October 16, 1812: London

Thank you for the dance, Miss Bingley,” Mr. Grayson said, giving her a quick bow before turning away and leaving her at the side of the ballroom.

Caroline Bingley hid a grimace as her dance partner made his way back across the ballroom. Despite her initial impression that he gave every indication of being an attractive partner, the dance, and especially the conversation, had been most unsatisfying. She was all too aware that the thanks he tendered to her were as artificial as her own, and she despaired yet again at how such artificialities increasingly left her unsettled — more than unsettled, in fact; they left her distinctly discontented.

That had never before been the case before her disturbing confrontation with Colonel Fitzwilliam the previous May on the day Mr. Darcy married his Elizabeth. Before that day, she had regarded such meaningless words and actions as part of the ritual that society demanded. That was one of the lessons taught at Mrs. Hanover’s establishment, and she had believed such lessons implicitly since leaving that exemplary institution — until these past distressing months.

She still remembered the devastating shock of learning that Mr. Darcy, the man she settled on as her future husband had chosen that undistinguished and completely inelegant Miss Elizabeth Bennet as his wife. It was not simply that he had chosen another woman to marry and raise his children; she could have understood his choice of another lady of beauty and breeding. The unstated but still ferocious competition for suitable husbands among young ladies in her position made such disappointments a part of the milieu of society.

No, Fitzwilliam Darcy had chosen that country savage for reasons based on nothing but bald emotions. From her observations at the wedding ceremony, he seemed absolutely smitten by Miss Elizabeth Bennet when he promised to love, comfort, honour, and keep her for the rest of his life. And that impression was only buttressed during her later visit to Pemberley. It was insupportable! It was unbelievable! It was completely beyond understanding!

Yet it was true. Not only true, but Darcy’s relations, Lord and Lady Matlock, whom she had so often thrilled to think would one day be
her
aunt and uncle, seemed as completely taken with Miss Eliza as was their nephew! Further, one of their sons, that sea captain, whatever-his-name, had married her sister, Miss Jane Bennet, who had once deluded herself that she might become the wife to her own brother! And the culminating shock was the way a second Matlock son, that penniless soldier, not only showed his approval of Darcy’s wife but even more inexplicably, openly stated that, while he might consider
her
, Miss Caroline Bingley, as his wife, he would only do so if she changed her behaviour to something less condescending and more amiable — presumably to something more like that of
Miss Eliza! What cheek!

Nothing in her life had been the same since those dreadful few days in the spring. Summer and part of the autumn had followed, and, though she was still undecided on whether she wished to hazard a third Season, she threw herself into the social scene with a vengeance after returning to town. If Mr. Darcy could find a wife unlooked for, she would do him better and find herself a husband in whom any young lady of her position in life could take pride. So she set off on The Hunt, sharpening and honing the tools she learned at Mrs. Hanover’s, certain of success.

But such success proved elusive — and for the most unanticipated reason. Many a young and eligible man was attracted to her beauty and her bearing, and true to her training, she flattered and cajoled those who showed an interest. Her position as a most eligible, beautiful, and accomplished young lady with a handsome fortune resulted in many invitations to the social events in town, and her efforts produced an admirable list of eligible young men, more than a few of whom offered distinct advantages of either fortune or social standing and even, a few times, both.

But the unanticipated reason for her lack of success was not any lack of skill on her part, nor was it due to any lack of interest on the part of several young men. It was due to her
dissatisfaction
with those young men.

Dissatisfaction!

How can this be?
she asked herself.
One was the son of a baronet, and another would be heir to a very handsome estate in York. And those were only the two most laudable examples. Several others were nearly as praiseworthy. Why did they inspire an almost instant distaste in me mere moments after becoming acquainted?

Worse, each repetition of that unfavourable reaction brought a most unnerving memory: the mental image of Darcy’s cousin moving away with a stride that was purposeful, proud, and somehow…catlike. She remembered his height and the erectness of his posture as he marched away, the sunlight bright on his red coat and white breeches. She was more than a little uncomfortable at the memory and could not help contrasting his rugged form and deeply tanned face with that of the many young men who had so dissatisfied her these past months. The comparison was not complimentary to those young men, all of whom increasingly seemed insipid and unprepossessing when measured against the manly and forthright soldier of her memory.

Yet this penniless vagabond, a mere younger son of an earl, had the impudence to reject her as a future wife — even if she had been so completely insensible as to consider such an outlandish notion for more than a fraction of a second! — because
her
behaviour was unsuitable! And then had the sheer, unadulterated impertinence to suggest that she —
she!
— would first have to become more agreeable and less haughty. He had not said so directly, but she well understood the implicit suggestion that she would be better served to base her behaviour on that of the uneducated daughter of a country landholder too strapped for money to provide dowries for his daughters! And whose estate was entailed away to another! Even if the arrogant nonentity
was
the son of an earl, he could have no possible reason for spouting such arrant nonsense!
She
would find someone far more suitable to
her
requirements and would demonstrate, to both him and Mr. Darcy, that Miss Caroline Bingley could manage her own affairs quite capably, thank you!

Except she could not.

Starting from that point and occurring with increasing frequency, the artificial and contrived behaviour of the eligible young men to whom she was introduced by her circle of friends, many fellow graduates of Mrs. Hanover’s academy, rasped on her nerves. She had always accepted the teachings of Mrs. Hanover, and she could see no reason for changing her frame of acceptability.

Only she kept remembering that wide-shouldered, trim-waisted man leaving her in the garden of Longbourn after she failed to accept his requirements…

What is happening to me?
she thought in despair, and her unsettled thoughts were so extreme that she turned blindly and made her way through a doorway and onto the terrace outside the ballroom. The air was chill, almost freezing, but she did not feel it. She simply could not countenance another polite request to dance from yet another artificial young man, to be followed by contrived and meaningless conversation and her almost instinctive mode of recommending herself to such a man by flattering and deferring to him in the approved manner.

Worse, much, much worse, was her unspoken conviction, which she could not even admit to herself, that the man in that red-coated uniform would not expect — indeed, would not countenance — such fashionable attentions.

For the first time since those devastating days, she was so unsettled as to ask herself,
Where is he now? Has he been in more battles? Is he even alive?

The never-before-asked questions jolted her, especially when she remembered the conversation she overheard at Pemberley when Mr. Darcy clearly showed his worry at not hearing from his cousin and his obvious relief when a letter arrived.
Being a soldier is not like being in trade,
she thought, with a dismay that made her stomach turn over in nausea.
I remember making fun of Mrs. Darcy’s uncle because he was in trade. I must have thought Colonel Fitzwilliam’s occupation was in the same category since he is not an heir to his father’s title. But it is different, at least in time of war. Soldiers can be hurt or even killed, and it could be weeks or even months before his family would learn of it.

She had tried to read about the Peninsular War in the months since visiting Pemberley: Wellington, Napoleon, towns and rivers with strange names where soldiers in red coats such as Colonel Fitzwilliam went to battle for inexplicable and inane reasons, fighting other soldiers that sought to kill them.

Caroline Bingley felt another, stronger, and more soul-wrenching shock sweep through her as words she had never even considered suddenly became real. Such stories as she read in
The Times
and other newspapers had always seemed unreal…disconnected from the life that was her own…insignificant happenings set down in black type on cheap paper.

She felt hollow. She remembered the way Darcy and Elizabeth looked at each other that terrible day in Hertfordshire. How she had sneered at their undisguised display of happiness! But no longer, for now she comprehended the reality of those emotions, which she had so blithely dismissed as plebeian and common. She was uncomfortably aware she had never felt anything similar to that simple contentment and happiness shown by the newlywed couple. And now, for the first time, she felt a yearning for something equally meaningful in her own life.

But instead, there was only that bleak emptiness…

Finally, for the first time since that shattering day in the Longbourn garden, when she wanted to weep but could not, she felt the sobs come. She fled into the darkness, away from the light and the people, and finally found a deserted bench in a rose arbour. The cold stone was icy through her elegant dress, and the dark was as deep as the loneliness in her soul as the unstoppable tears swept through her. She hugged herself, rocking back and forth as her slender shoulders shook, mourning for she knew not what.

Friday, November 6, 1812: Second Battalion Winter Quarters, Portugal

“Woolgathering, Wickham?”

George Wickham jerked alert as he realized he was being spoken to and saw Captain Wilson looking down at him. He started to stand up from his camp chair, but Wilson stopped him with a hand motion. The captain looked around and saw another chair at a nearby tent not being used and brought it over to where Wickham had been staring into the fire.

“Mind if I join you, Wickham?”

“Certainly not, sir, though I am not sure I am very good company at the moment.”

“Perhaps some of this might help cure whatever ails you,” Wilson said with a smile and produced a cut-glass decanter about two-thirds full of a dark amber liquid.

“Is that…brandy? Sir?”

“Nonsense, Wickham. You know the standing orders against the stronger spirits while in camp. This is merely tinted water. See for yourself.”

Wickham accepted the expensive-looking bottle and removed the glass stopper before raising it to his lips. He would never have thought of doing anything so impolite before he arrived in Portugal, but now he gave it as little thought as anyone else. He sighed and closed his eyes as the warmth filled his stomach and spread through his belly.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked soberly at his superior officer. “Yes, sir, I see what you mean. Definitely amber-tinted water. Uh…”

“Where did I get it? Surely, you know that a gentleman never reveals his secrets — if I was a gentleman, that is. I am no longer quite sure.”

“I feel much the same these days,” Wickham said, the black mood again claiming him.

The two men were silent for a few minutes, sharing several more tastes of the “water” before Wilson said, “I do not believe I had a chance to tell you, but you have done well, Wickham — especially back at the River Carrion. You kept your men well in hand there. It is always difficult to hold a position under fire while the rest of the army makes it to safety. No one wants to be part of a suicidal rear guard action, and your men did their duty.”

“That is part of what has me woolgathering, sir,” Wickham said dispiritedly. Wilson said nothing, waiting for Wickham to continue, and finally Wickham said tentatively, “Do…do you ever dream of the men you lost, sir?”

“Ah,” Wilson said sagely. “I wondered when that was going to hit you. Almost all officers worth anything have second thoughts like that once they get beyond their first few terrifying experiences.”

“I am having trouble sleeping,” Wickham said lowly. “Actually, I try to avoid going to sleep. I keep seeing Sanders being hit by canister when we charged the French cannon at the river. He was right next to me one moment and gone the next, and I cannot escape the thought that it was my fault.”

“I assure you that what happened to Sanders and to the other men we lost was beyond your control, George. We held that position all day, man! Then we charged the cannon and took them before returning to our position at the river with more prisoners than we had men in both the Thirtieth and the Forty-Fourth combined. The colonel was very pleased.”

Wickham nodded, but the expression on his face was still troubled. Wilson leaned over and clapped the man on the shoulder before handing him the bottle. “Here, you need this more than me. It will help you sleep. But first, I have something for you.”

Wilson took two letters from his pocket and handed them to Wickham, seeing the other man’s face light up as he recognized the handwriting. “Lieutenants are not supposed to marry, you know,” he said, and the smile on his face defused any hint of disapproval. “But since you already had a wife before you joined us, it does not really apply to you.”