Darcy's Journey (20 page)

43

At the end of Rue della Blanchisserie
was such a crush of carriages that the Viscount instructed his driver to halt,
so that the party could proceed on foot. Colonel Fitzwilliam led off, clearing
a path for his hosts; Darcy followed with Elizabeth on his arm. The Duke of Richmond’s
residence was easily located: Gordon Highlanders were playing the bagpipes at
the entrance, attended by red-coated officers, some mounted, as well as the
cream of Brussels society.

Viscount de Crécy presented their
invitations, and they passed through to a ground-floor coach house which had
been transformed into a huge ballroom. Elizabeth gasped, released Darcy’s arm,
and stepped forward to survey the scene. Never in her life had she seen so many
people at a ball: already there must be hundreds, and the arena was still
filling. The opulence took her breath away. The walls had been newly papered in
a rose trellis design, and were adorned with huge drapes, and clusters of flags
representing countries of the coalition. Pillars bordering the dance floor were
bedecked in ribbons and flowers; behind them, in the alcoves, divans, chairs
and drinks tables were set out on rugs. Overhead hung rows of magnificent chandeliers.

Lorraine de Crécy came to join her. ‘Impressive,
no?’

‘Splendid beyond words.’

‘The duchess is not what one might call
frugal
.
Perhaps the duke’s fortune could be better spent, and yet …’ She swept her arm
around the hall. ‘These men are about to risk their lives, and deserve the best
farewell party we can give them.’

‘All officers are invited?’ Elizabeth
asked.

‘Yes, as well as nobles from home and
abroad. William, Prince of Orange will be attending. Also his brother Prince
Frederick. Numberless dukes and counts with their wives and daughters.’

The
Vicomte
led them to an alcove
where they joined a group centred around the Duc and Duchesse de Beaufort and
their daughter, who jumped up to greet Lorraine. The young women conversed in
rapid French, leaving Elizabeth beside an Englishwoman who had sunk into a sofa
looking pale and exhausted. Her husband, it emerged, was a general who had left
her alone while joining a discussion about the campaign. Darcy, like the other
gentlemen, remained standing. The noise was deafening, with excited voices
raised so that they could be heard against the bagpipes and general clatter.

Lorraine de Crécy leaned close to her
ear. ‘Everyone is talking about the French advance. Some say it is just a
border skirmish; others say Bonaparte is already engaging our Prussian allies.
All rumour, but since Field Marshall Wellesley urged that the ball go ahead, my
friend thinks the situation cannot be too grave.’

‘Is the Field Marshall here?’

‘Not yet. Normally he would never miss
such an event, so it will be a bad sign if he stays away. But it is early, so
we should not be concerned.’

‘Miss Bennet!’ Elizabeth looked up to
see Darcy kneel beside her. ‘Might I make so bold as to reserve a couple of
dances? The first, and the supper set?’

‘
Two
sets!’ She grinned. ‘You do
me great honour, sir, but I warn you: tongues will wag.’

‘Tonight they have plenty else to wag
about.’

She marked her card, while Darcy
requested a set also from Mademoiselle de Crécy.

Lorraine bowed graciously. ‘
Enchanté.
The second set?’

‘We are paid a great compliment,’
Elizabeth said, with a sly glance at Darcy. ‘As a rule Mr Darcy does not dance
at all. Three sets are exceptional.’

‘And sufficient for one evening,’ Darcy
said. ‘The party is mainly for the officers.’

Looking around, Elizabeth saw that the
redcoats did indeed outnumber the ladies present—and that Lorraine and
herself were attracting the attention of British cavalry officers. But the room
hushed as the Master of Ceremonies announced a Quadrille, and Darcy came to
claim her hand.

Several sets later, Elizabeth
returned with Colonel Fitzwilliam to a seat near the
Vicomte
, having
just danced an Allemande.

‘You look tired.’ Lorraine de Crécy
joined her on the sofa. ‘Take some refreshment. A glass of wine.’

She waved to a servant, who poured from
a decanter.

‘The toast?’ Lorraine asked.

‘To our brave soldiers,’ Elizabeth said.
‘May they return unscathed; and may they tire of dancing before I am utterly
exhausted.’

Lorraine clinked glasses with a smile. ‘Perdition
to Bonaparte.’

‘May the rain fall upon his armies so
that they stick in the mud.’

‘Is your card marked for the next?’

‘I hope to sit this one out so that I
have energy left for the supper set.’

They continued talking through the
interval, until an officer came to claim the next dance with Mademoiselle de Crécy.
Elizabeth exchanged a few words with the Viscount, but they were interrupted by
a buzz at the entrance, followed by cheering and clapping as a group of men in
red-gold coats and white breeches entered the ballroom.

‘
Hourra! A la bonne heure!
’ The
Viscount pointed to the leader. ‘Field Marshall Wellesley, latterly Duke of
Wellington.’

‘He has come after all!’ Impulsively
Elizabeth jumped up and advanced a few steps for a better view, almost colliding
with two officers who appeared suddenly from behind a column. One of them
turned, and with a gasp she froze, unable to believe her eyes.

He stared at her with equal shock. ‘Miss
Bennet?’

She managed a bow. ‘Mr Wickham.’

He floundered, for once lost for words.
‘I hardly expected to meet
you
here.’

‘Nor I you.’

‘I am now in the regulars you know. First
Yorkshires. Since …’

She nodded. ‘Since your marriage to my
sister.’

‘A pity you were away and could not
attend the wedding. It was arranged hastily, of course, in town. Mr and Mrs
Gardiner represented your family.’

Elizabeth frowned. ‘I was relieved to
learn it had taken place at all.’

‘Certainly it did not happen in the best
way …’ His cheeks reddened and he blustered on, ‘Miss Bennet, if you are free
may I ask for the supper set?’

‘I’m sorry, I am already engaged.’

‘Perhaps the second dance of
this
set?’

Elizabeth hesitated, casting round for
an excuse, but he looked so eager, so lost, that she could not bring herself to
refuse: after all, he might shortly be risking his life on the battlefield.

‘I should be delighted.’

‘Excellent. Your group is …’

Elizabeth flinched, recalling that she
had given no account of her presence in so unlikely a location.
What did
Wickham know?
He would have learned from the Gardiners of her expedition to
Italy in the company of Sir Ambrose and Lady Havers; and perhaps of Sir
Ambrose’s death from cholera. But the rest, including Darcy’s rescue mission?
Probably not …

Her gaze wandered to the opposite
alcove, where Darcy had joined a group of officers after dancing with Lorraine.
She had spotted him several times in earnest conversation, probably seeking
advice on their journey to the coast; for once, he had felt no necessity to
keep her under observation.

‘Miss Bennet?’ Wickham prompted.

‘Sorry, I was distracted.’ She had to
decide: mention Darcy, or not? With a sigh, she pointed at the sofa where the
Vicomte
was conversing with the Duchess de Beaufort. ‘I am with the Viscount de Crécy’s
party.’

‘Good. Until later!’

They bowed, and she returned trembling
to the alcove. As she took her seat, she realised at last the folly of what she
had done. Wickham’s presence at the ball could not be concealed from Darcy:
Colonel Fitzwilliam was still dancing, and sure to see them. What was worse, the
next dance was not a traditional Cotillion or Boulangere. It was the latest
trend, still shocking in London society, in which the gentleman might rest his
hand on the lady’s waist …

Wickham stood before her, his
earlier confusion replaced by his usual supercilious charm.

‘I had forgotten that this dance was a
waltz,’ Elizabeth said as they walked to the floor.

‘Have you danced it before?’

‘Yes, at a ball in Venice. My friend
Lady Havers taught me the steps.’

The music started and they circled slowly.
He held her gently, with practised confidence, and gradually she relaxed and
felt able to talk.

‘How is my sister?’

‘Well, so far as I know.’ He smiled wryly.
‘Lydia is not one to write often.’

‘Have you been in Brussels long?’

‘We have been encamped west of the city
for just over two weeks.’

‘Could Lydia have accompanied you here?’

‘Since I am an ensign that would be
rare, and we could not afford the accommodation.’ He grimaced. ‘Financially we
are placed somewhat ill.’

‘And where is your new home?’

‘We have a town house in Newcastle.’ He
wrinkled his nose. ‘Passable, but a far cry from the parsonage at Kympton that
I should have had, if a certain gentleman had honoured his father’s wishes.’

‘You would have enjoyed preaching
sermons?’

‘Exceedingly: a quiet life would have
been much to my taste.’

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘Strange,
for I have it on good authority that you were not always set on becoming a
clergyman, so much so that you renounced the living, accepting a considerable
sum as compensation.’

He forced a smile. ‘Well, there is truth
in that too—indeed, I said as much when we first met, you may recall.’

‘It must have slipped my mind. Still, we
need not dispute over the past …’

Elizabeth froze, almost tripping as a tall
familiar figure emerged from the alcove and regarded them with thunderous rage.
As they turned, Wickham saw him too and stared at her in shock.

‘My God, was that …’

‘Yes. Mr Darcy. I forgot to mention that
he is visiting Colonel Fitzwilliam.’

He guided her to the other side of the
floor as the music sped to its conclusion. ‘Pardon me, Miss Bennet, but I ought
to re-join my party. The order to march may come at any moment. To see you
again has been a delight. Pray convey my best wishes to your family when you
return to Longbourn.’

‘Thank you sir, and I wish you every
good fortune.’

He blinked, as if moved, and they parted.

44

As the waltz ended, Darcy lost
sight of Elizabeth, who had been manoeuvred—deliberately he
suspected—to the other side of the ballroom. So agitated that he could feel
his heart pulsing, he crossed the floor to the seating area where the Viscount
de Crécy and Duke de Beaufort were in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mademoiselle
de Crécy had returned, but not Elizabeth.

Darcy leaned over his cousin. ‘Have you
seen Miss Bennet?’

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. ‘The
Vicomte
said she had been dancing. Should be back soon. I say, Darce,
have you heard …’

‘Later.’ Darcy stood tall, peering over
the crowd. ‘Ah! I see her.’

Without waiting for a reply he threaded
his way along the alcove and blocked her path.

Elizabeth stared at him. ‘Mr Darcy! Are
you well?’

‘Where is that—fiend?’

She recoiled. ‘How dare you accost me
so!’

‘I asked you a question, madam.’

‘Which I refuse to answer, until you
approach me in a more gentlemanlike manner.’

He flinched at hearing again a phrase
that had haunted him, and struggled to control his voice. ‘Pardon me. I am not
myself. I beg you Elizabeth, where is he?’

‘Mr Wickham has just left.’

Darcy screwed up his face in distaste.
‘Just like him to take the coward’s way out.’

She rolled her eyes contemptuously. ‘The
coward
of whom you speak is re-joining his regiment to fight a battle in
which he will quite probably be injured, or worse.’

‘What could possibly have come over you?
Why agree to dance with a scoundrel who has wronged your sister and mine, and
cost me a fortune correcting his misdeeds and clearing his debts?’

Elizabeth held up a palm, glancing at a
party nearby. ‘If you are determined to shout at me, can we seek a more private
spot?’

He lowered his voice. ‘That is
unnecessary.’

‘I think not: after all, I am dealing
with a man who
dare not vouch for his temper
!’ She turned with a toss of
the head and set off towards an open window at the back.

‘That’s better.’ She breathed deeply.
‘The ballroom has become so hot.’

‘My question stands, Elizabeth.’

She sighed. ‘I am not going to accept
any more abuse, Mr Darcy, but if you try to calm down I will explain what
happened. Of course I had no idea that Mr Wickham was here. We met by chance
during the first dance of the last set. As you presumably know, he is an ensign
in a northern regiment; in consequence he is now encamped outside Brussels and
expecting any day to move against the French. You can imagine my shock on
bumping into him. When he asked to dance, my first impulse, naturally, was to
refuse. But somehow I could not. After all,
the reason we are here
is to
provide solace and entertainment to our soldiers before their ordeal. What is
more, like it or not, we are now kin: he is husband of my sister.’

‘So you agreed to dance the waltz.’

‘In my confusion I forgot which dance
came next.’ She threw up her hands. ‘Even so, what harm was done?’

‘You could have warned me.’

‘I did not wish to disturb you.’

‘Be honest, Elizabeth. You knew your
decision would anger me, and hoped to conceal it.’

She looked up, eyes flashing. ‘Certainly
I feared an intemperate reaction, and with good reason.’

‘To see that devil smirk with
satisfaction as you shared that most intimate of dances.’ Darcy looked away,
unable to meet her eye. ‘I cannot believe you would do this to me.’

‘It is done, and I have nothing further
to say.’

She whirled round and returned to her
seat.

Darcy remained at the window,
welcoming the opportunity to collect his thoughts. The fresh air cleared his
head, and as his anger receded he noticed a buzz in the ballroom. People were
huddling in groups, whispering excitedly; a woman nearby wailed openly in dismay.

He hurried back to the alcove, where
Elizabeth was talking earnestly with Mademoiselle de Crécy. Colonel Fitzwilliam
jumped up and drew him aside.

‘Rumours of a French advance are
confirmed. The Duchess of Richmond’s daughter asked Wellington openly and he
said yes, our army would be marching tomorrow. Or today, since it has now gone
midnight. Some officers have already left, with instructions to return to their
camps by three o’clock in the morning.’

Darcy frowned, recalling his ill-advised
comment on Wickham’s departure. Perhaps Wickham had been
ordered
to
leave, in which case cowardice had nothing to do with it—quite the
contrary.

‘Has Wellington also left?’

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled. ‘Not
him—he prides himself on his insouciance, and continues dancing and
talking to the ladies to show his contempt for the enemy.’

‘And so the ball goes on.’

‘As it should: there can be no immediate
threat.’

The supper dance was called, and Darcy
uneasily approached Elizabeth.

‘Shall we take the floor?’

She whispered a final word to
Mademoiselle de Crécy and rose wearily to join him.

‘We could sit it out if you are tired.’

‘No. I will come.’

Their eyes met, and he realised she was
more sad than angry. ‘Miss Bennet, not for the first time, I owe you an
apology.’

‘The famous Darcy temper.’ She forced a
smile. ‘If we could only set you before Bonaparte’s troops they would take
fright and scuttle back to France.’

‘Have you heard that men are already
leaving, in case they have to march tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ Her face clouded over. ‘It is
truly horrible. I fear for your cousin, and for Mr Wickham too, whatever we may
think of him.’

‘You are right. May fortune protect them
both.’

Couples were forming up in a ring, and
Elizabeth said, ‘This is unexpected. The
gallopade
usually comes last.’

‘A signal, perhaps, that there will be
no more dancing after supper. Are you familiar with the steps?’

‘I tried it once in Venice. Similar to a
waltz, but in two time rather than three.’

Elizabeth held out her right hand, and
he held it gently as he placed his own right hand above her waist. She rested her
left hand on his arm, looking up with a challenging grin, and as he smiled back
he recalled a couplet from Byron’s satire on the waltz as a mutual embrace:
Hands
which may freely range in public sight where ne’er before …

The dancers circled, slowly at first.
Always light on her feet, Elizabeth guided him gracefully through the gallop
phases and the turns.
Endearing waltz, to thy more melting tune.
Not a
waltz exactly, but the phrase still applied, and he did feel his limbs melt at
the intimacy of their clinch.

The sequence was soon learned: four bars
in the waltz hold; change sides and repeat; separate and face; join right hands
and spin; return to the waltz hold and gallop. It was if a barrier had dissolved;
two had become one. Their eyes met and he saw that she too was relaxed and immersed
in the dance.

As the wheel of couples turned at a
stately pace, Darcy observed the intensity of feeling on the dance floor. Men
in red coats danced with wives in the knowledge that they would shortly be
parted, and might never see one another again. There was little jollity, more a
quiet tenderness, a savouring of these last precious moments.

The orchestra picked up the beat, and the
melancholy mood dispelled as the dance became a romp. Some couples collided;
others, unable to keep up, left the circle. Elizabeth’s embrace tightened in
the turns; she whooped as they finally parted.

‘Wonderful! I am quite out of breath.’

He guided her to a seat. ‘I cannot
recall enjoying a dance more. And yet how tinged with sadness.’

‘I know. Look—’ She pointed to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was partnering Mademoiselle de Crécy. ‘Your cousin is
waving.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed to Elizabeth
before drawing Darcy aside.

‘More news, not good. During the
gallopade a message arrived for the Prince of Orange. The French have advanced
faster than expected, engaged the Prussian armies near Charleroi, and forced
them to retreat. Field Marshall Wellesley is remaining for the supper, but the
Prince and his entourage have left for his headquarters.’

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and
Mademoiselle de Crécy who had edged across to hear. ‘Have you received orders for
tonight?’

‘We can stay for the supper. After that
I should return to my office at the Viscount’s home, ready to leave early in
the morning.’

Darcy shook his head in wonder. ‘So we
must make merry while these grave events are unfolding just a two-hour ride
away.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged. ‘It is our
custom. Drake finishing his game of bowls …’

At the supper, Darcy had a good
view of the Field Marshall, seated on an opposite table beside the Duchess’s
daughter. On the other side sat a woman he had met earlier in the evening,
accompanying her husband who was a lieutenant in the 9th Dragoons. Around him
people chatted inconsequentially, in a poignant effort to stay cheerful in the
teeth of anxiety.

‘So what happened to the
timetable
?’
Elizabeth asked. ‘I thought it had been agreed that hostilities would not start
until July.’

Darcy smiled. ‘It seems Bonaparte has
opted for a pre-emptive strike against his most dangerous adversary. Perhaps it
was naive of the coalition to expect anything else.’ He brushed Elizabeth’s arm
and pointed discreetly at the opposite table. ‘You recall my schooldays at
Harrow?’

‘Don’t tell me you fagged for the Field
Marshall?’

‘No, but I knew the lieutenant on his
left, James Webster. The lady sitting next to Wellington is Sir James’s wife Lady
Frances.’

‘How beautiful she looks.’

‘Many have thought so.’ He lowered his
voice. ‘James was in Byron’s set, a renowned fighter and gambler proud of his
nickname
Bold Webster
. The union is said to be one of convenience. Lady
Frances married him aged but 17 to escape her family; he was glad to wed the
daughter of an earl.’

Elizabeth smiled. ‘I see what you are
about, Mr Darcy. You wish to educate me in the realities of matrimony.’

‘They seem happy in their way. James has
always been interested in promoting prize-fighters. He loves to attend bouts
and bet on the outcome.’

‘And Lady Frances?’

‘I don’t know her well, but it is said
she has cultivated
close friendships
with Lord Byron and others.’

‘She appears on close terms with the
Field Marshal.’

‘Indeed.’ Darcy turned as Colonel
Fitzwilliam tapped his arm and pointed to a tall man in black and gold striding
to the main table.

‘The Prince of Orange is back!’

The man leaned over Wellington,
whispering, and the Field Marshal sat up with a jerk as if taken by surprise.

‘Urgent news!’ Colonel Fitzwilliam
hissed.

Wellington withdrew for a private
conference with the Prince, but returned to the table and concluded his conversation
with Lady Frances before announcing that he would retire to bed. The room hushed
as he leaned across to the Duke of Richmond, asked to see a map, then followed his
host into the house.

‘What can this signify?’ Elizabeth said.

‘I don’t know, but I mean to find out.’

Darcy jumped up, rounded the table, and
kneeled beside Sir James Webster. ‘What did you hear?’

‘The French are nearly at Quatre Bras,’
Sir James said. ‘A crossroads less than 20 miles away.’

Darcy hastened back to Colonel
Fitzwilliam, who was in conversation with another officer, and whispered the
news.

Colonel Fitzwilliam extended an arm to his
companion. ‘Captain Bowles here has spoken with the Duke of Richmond. Wellington
admits Bonaparte has tricked him. He will try to stop the French at Quatre
Bras, but failing that, plans to retreat to a town further along the road to
Brussels. It is called Waterloo.’

They stood beside their
seats in the alcove, preparing to leave. The news had gone round; there would
be no more dancing. Elizabeth, shivering, held his arm as they stared at the
extraordinary scene. All around the ballroom people stood in groups saying
farewell to their friends and kin. Mothers and wives wept unashamedly as they
parted with their menfolk; all jollity had gone, replaced by grief and dread.

The Viscount joined them. ‘
Mes amis
,
we must go now and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning I will rise early, and we will
make plans.’

Darcy’s mind raced as they walked over
the cobbles towards their carriage. What
plans
did the Viscount have in
mind? Elizabeth and the other ladies would have to flee Brussels—that
much was obvious. But himself? His instinct, of course, was to remain with
Elizabeth, but as an Englishman, and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s cousin, other
responsibilities had to be considered.

He sighed wearily. First they must sleep.