Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (103 page)

“The woman is a friend to my cousin, not of myself.”

“I was not speaking of that
fatua mulier
, but the
vierge
, Mademoiselle Roux. She seems quite taken with you.”

Taken aback by Juliette’s frank and somewhat coarse denunciation of Marie-Therese, Darcy glanced toward Roux’s daughter who was, indeed, looking at him in unadulterated devotion, and sputtered, “She is just a girl. Surely you do not suggest…”

“Look there. Speak but a word and I assure you she will happily surrender her virtue-knot unto you.”

Heretofore quite unused to hearing virginal hymens addressed in the drawing room, he reddened and glanced about to see if they were overheard before remembering he was in French company. Hence, he did not immediately take flight, and discarded Juliette’s notion.

“The girl is an innocent flirt.”

“I cannot fault the girl for her acumen. If she wants to be delivered of her chastity, she could do worse than to avail herself of your amorous favours.”

His crimson deepened, not only because of the nature of the praise, but that she was in a position to opine it in the first place.

Gathering together his considerable hauteur, he bowed formally, “If you will excuse me.”

It was perchance fortunate that he did not see the mischievous glint in Juliette’s eyes as he left her side, lest her amusement at his expense further sully his already sorely abused dignity.

Customarily the most cautious of men, Darcy knew it was unorthodox, but did not question the wisdom of requesting a woman from his past—a woman of decided intimacy from his past—to deliver a message to his wife. For he was desperate to contact Elizabeth. He must get word to her, to let her know he had found Georgiana safe, if nothing else. And that he would be home to her soon.

Seeking out Roux, he excused himself, begging his early departure the next morning. Roux, however, was not ready to let his guest leave company without a further toasting. He drank to the future, the British, the French, the weather, and eventually, simply to excess.

After only picking at his meal, and downing far more wine than he knew was wise, the inevitable occurred. The wine Darcy rarely partook befriended him far too acutely and he felt himself in his cups.

Making every effort to appear not to be, and with all the gravity of an undertaker, he bowed goodnight to Roux and his guests.

C
harging down a hill would seem inordinately easier than an upward onslaught. In reality, it was more dangerous, gravity and momentum lessening manoeuvrability. If a horse was not surefooted, his rider usually plunged to the ground, as often
as not being crushed beneath his (or someone else’s) mount. After the initial charge whence protocol and aesthetics demanded sabres pointed heavenward, cavalrymen such as Fitzwilliam pursued the enemy in not so
recherché
a fashion. Often they wielded a pistol in their other hand, reins clutched betwixt gritted teeth.

Hence, if there was one accommodation certain to be afforded the cavalry, it was that each officer was allowed to supply his own mount. Whatever the cost in time and trouble, they brought their own horses. If cavalry was integral to success in war, and it was, the trust in one’s seat in battle was an inviolate part of that success. Of course the horse Fitzwilliam rode was Scimitar; he was as much a part of Fitzwilliam’s perception of himself as a cavalryman as his uniform. The horse and Fitzwilliam were in such close concert, Fitzwilliam was secure enough to abandon his reins altogether, knowing Scimitar would respond instantly to no more than the subtlest of pressure from his jack-booted knees.

By mid-battle, it became a pounding match and many of those horses along with their riders had been lost, for there was little but mangle and mess. Few infantrymen were yet fighting and horse soldiers were the only true defence remaining. The standard bearer was a stern rider who stood his ground through strong assault, but he was soon victim to the murderous cannon barrage. The standard drooped to the ground just as another man leapt from his horse to rescue it. It was essential for it to remain upright, for the yellow standard of their horse company was the symbol to which all rallied. As long as it stood, they knew from whence to regroup. Fitzwilliam did so as rote, and all able amassed to their flag, thereupon besieged the enemy once more. Each time they regrouped, their number grew fewer.

The fusillade continued, cannonball after cannonball fell like monolithic hailstones, and the horses were spooked to consider wild dashes to escape the melee. It was a separate battle just to keep them from bolting. Scimitar jumped about nervously but did not flee, his confidence in Fitzwilliam that keen. His master, however, was not compleatly undaunted, for the enemy onslaught was so savage there was not time to reload his pistol, thus his sword was given no reprieve from blood.

The French upon horseback were few, too; many horses had been dispatched. The cavalrymen not killed fought with sabre and gun from the ground. Scimitar’s sure-footedness had kept Fitzwilliam mounted long after others had fallen, thus giving him a height advantage, but also rendering him a blatant target. Thus, it was not the sword or the gun that brought him down, but a cannon. The shot landed to the right of Scimitar, who reared up at the explosion, the percussion finally dislodging his footing. Having no time to jump clear, the dying horse collapsed onto Fitzwilliam’s leg. Knowing him mortally wounded, Fitzwilliam had little time to grieve, for as the eviscerated horse flailed in his death throes, he struggled frantically to scramble from beneath some eighty stone of horseflesh.

Before he could wriggle free, a French cavalry officer approached, his sabre resting upon his shoulder. This man too was already dead (he had a ghastly wound), but he did not know it and raised his sword. It was as if in half-time that Fitzwilliam watched the French soldier’s approach and the proffering of his weapon. Desperately, he tugged at Scimitar’s reins.

“Scimitar, until now you have never once given me reason to curse you.”

With a moaning groan deep from his chest, the horse made one last valiant lunge and freed Fitzwilliam’s crushed leg. If Fitzwilliam’s decision to join Wellington had been more than simple reckless risking of his neck, possibly even suicidal, his will to live was fiercer than self-destruction. With the preternatural strength of a man not yet ready to be carried from the field upon his shield, he stood upon his one good leg and plunged his sabre into the Frenchman’s beckoning chest. There was but a brief moment to savour his success before he heard the eerie whistle announcing the imminent arrival of yet another cannonball.

The missile, in fortune, did not strike him directly, but ignited a powder horn at what would have been at his feet was he yet standing. However, a burning flash seared his eyes and the force knocked Fitzwilliam backward. He tried to rise, fell, tried again, and fell once more. From thence, he heard himself scream out in pain and anger.

Lying amongst the mass of dead and writhing men and horses for an ungodly long time, he began to realise it was quite possible he would die where he was. Not from the enemy, for the battle either was over or fighting elsewhere. He could hear yet occasional salvos in the distance. But death would come as surely as the sunset, could he not stanch the blood seeping from his leg.

There was a tinkling and murmuring in the distance as unknown persons approached. He prayed they were British, not French come to finish off the wounded.

It would appear, however, the colour of the uniform was the single thing of no import to the hoards that scampered across the gore-strewn battlefield that day. They were the ragged camp-followers, both alien and allied, who were as relentless in scavenging as any London mud-lark. Without the tedious nicety of making certain their benefactors dead, they methodically stripped the bodies of their weapons, coats, boots, whatever they could heist. One inventive fellow carrying a bucket brandished a formidable pair of pinchers and inspected mouths often conveniently rendered opened by the throes of death. If he saw no gold, with the utmost delicacy, he appropriated front teeth (an incisor in good condition brought two guineas in London; not every dental deficient could afford ivory or gold).

Auspiciously, Fitzwilliam was spared this particular desecration, yet another vulture beset him for his fine boots. Someone, man or woman, he had no notion, tugged at one heel. Fortune or misfortune, the one they chose first to pilfer encased his wounded leg and at the resultant pain, he rose up wildly swinging the blade he clutched yet in his hand.

“Get back! Get back, I say!”

The unidentified despoilers promptly retreated, for there were innumerable other victims far less resistant. Of this, Fitzwilliam was not truly cognisant. For the pain and exertion of his rebellion robbed him of what little strength he had. He fell back, his arm across Scimitar’s lifeless neck.

Thenceforward, he was rewarded with an unconsciousness that would take days for him to thank.

A
s Darcy perambulated up the stairs, they swayed unsteadily beneath him and he was grateful to have the railing to cling to. By the time he stumbled into his room and collapsed upon the bed, perspiration had broken out upon his forehead, causing him to fear he was becoming ill. That would be a mortification. It was abominable enough to admit to a little inebriation, but to be so conspicuously subjugated by intoxicants was indefensible. It was never acceptable to be out of one’s wits. Especially amongst strangers. In another country. In war.

He eschewed the dressing room, for he had a matter upon which to attend (this is what he told himself, but actually he feared he might stumble and did not want even an anonymous servant to observe him in such a condition). Therefore, tossing off his jacket and wrenching free of his collar, he sat at the
escritoire
and fumbled for some parchment in a drawer, yet of the mind if he behaved soberly it would demand it of his body. But as he unsuccessfully endeavoured to focus upon the paper to write, he realised his lucidity was far too compromised to produce a coherent letter and he decided to abandon it until morning.

Picking up Elizabeth’s picture, he attempted to focus upon that. When he failed at that as well, he ceded defeat. However unwise, he poured another glass of wine and lay back against the pillows, promising it was just for a minute. To let his head clear. That minute and several more did not improve his mind. His head swam. When the headiness of the drink rendered him into sleep, the glass he held dropped from his fingers and the wine spilled across his stomach and ran down his side, soaking the bedclothes. The wetness did not awaken him from his desultory dreams. Or what he thought were dreams. In some percipient limbo, he was uncertain what was conscious thought and which were actual dreams; they became confused in the tumult of his mind. He slept, awoke, thereupon slept again.

It was not surprising he thought (or dreamed) of Juliette, for he fancied he could yet smell the fragrance from her skin. Although she had crossed his mind, he had not truly thought of her since he fell in love with Elizabeth. He should have, for as much as he would like not to recollect it, she once played a particularly provocative role in his life.