Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 (27 page)

"But you will be together," I finished for her. "That is all that really matters."

I am so very happy for Ruth--for her and Giles both. And I will be thoroughly sick of myself if I sit here weeping over my own diary like the heroine of a gothic melodrama. It's just that I can not help hoping--praying, with every part of me--that Ruth and Giles' happiness is a sign. A sign that I may yet somehow manage to reach Edward behind the walls he has put up between himself and the world.

Thursday 6 July 1815

It hardly felt at first like an answer to prayer when I heard Edward cry out in the middle of the night tonight. I knew it was a nightmare. He had them last year, too--before he even had to go back to war. And I know he has had them in these last two weeks since the battle. But every time I ask him about it or go to his room, he either denies dreaming at all or pretends to be asleep until I leave him again.

I had almost given up on even trying to get him to speak to me of the dreams.

Tonight, though--I suppose it was seeing Ruth and Giles together that made me get out of my own bed and go to Edward's door at the sound of his ragged, wordless cry. I did not knock--that would only have given Edward the chance to send me away--just turned the doorknob and went in.

Madame Duvalle must have left a small lamp burning when she had brought Edward his supper tray, so that I could see the room clearly: Edward's coat, lying atop the wooden clothes press. The collection of medicine bottles on the bedside table from when he had been ill. And Edward, lying on the bed. He still wore breeches and a wrinkled shirt, open at the neck. His skin was drenched with sweat, and his chest heaved as though he had been running.

"Ed--" I bit my lip before I could finish saying his name. Because he plainly was not aware of me; I wasn't even sure whether he was yet awake or still lost in the nightmare. His eyes were open, but he hadn't even turned his head or reacted at the noise of my opening the door.

So instead I crossed to the bed, moving as quietly as I could. I hesitated--then sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly touched Edward's cheek. "Edward." I said his name again, but in a barely audible murmur. Still, the response was immediate: one of his hands flew up to seize my wrist and he sat bolt upright with a wrenching gasp.

"Edward, it's all right." I sat very still. "You were dreaming, that's all."

Edward was still breathing hard. But he shook his head as though trying to physically break free of whatever dream had gripped him, then rubbed his eyes. "Georgiana. What--"

"I heard you call out. So I came in."

I started to gently loosen Edward's grip on my wrist. And Edward started and swore, letting go his hold on me so quickly I nearly lost my balance and fell off the bed. His blind eyes looked past me, of course unseeing--but his face was stony hard. "Please tell me I didn't hurt you."

"This?" My wrist was reddened where his fingers had gripped, but nothing more. "It's nothing, Edward. You won't even be able to see it in the morning."

The next second I could have bitten my tongue out for my choice of words, because Edward gave a harsh, humourless sound that was almost a laugh and said, "
I
won't be able to see it. That's entirely true."

His shirt was nearly plastered to his skin, and when he moved I could see the pull of the muscles in his arms and shoulders. The jagged line of the scar on his shoulder, mark of the wound he took at Toulouse last spring.

"Edward, I didn't mean--" I stopped, unsure of what I could find to say. I suppose it was cowardly in a way, but I was still afraid of saying something that would only make matters worse. So instead I asked, "Do you ... would it help to tell me what you were dreaming about?"

I thought at first Edward was going to refuse to speak to me again, or to say only that he didn't remember and that I ought to go back to my room. But then a change--a kind of ruthless determination--seemed to come over his face, and he said, "War. Battle. I still don't remember much about the fighting at Waterloo. But that doesn't mean I haven't plenty of other material for my mind to obligingly dredge up in nightmares. Tonight it was the time I lost two of my ensigns on the same day. They were right beside me, both of them--standing close together, just before we charged. And a French cannonball struck the spot where they were standing. Afterward, you could barely sort out the pieces of them--what belonged to which man."

None of the tension had gone out of Edward's frame as he spoke. If anything, his muscles looked more rigid than ever, his lean face grimmer still as he spoke in a flat, determined tone.

And I realised abruptly that his telling me did not mean that he was finally ready to confide in me or come out from behind his walls. Rather the reverse. He was telling me these horrors in an effort to drive me away.

He said in the same tone, "I always wondered why I wasn't killed that day. Now I think it would have been better if I had been."

"Edward, you don't mean that!"

"Don't I?" Edward gave another harsh laugh. At least the stony control had finally started to crack; his voice was no longer flat but angry and taut as wire. "Are you telling me that you still want to marry me? A blind man whom you'll have to lead about by the hand--and who can't get through a single night without falling down a rabbit's hole of memories of blood and gore?"

I did not let myself hesitate. Sergeant Kelly had told me not to push Edward, to be patient, wait and give him time. But if Kitty yesterday had managed to crack some measure of control inside me, Edward's words, the look on his face, had just smashed it entirely.

I was furious, afraid, uncertain--all the emotions churning together in what felt like a thunderstorm under my ribcage. But I leaned forward and kissed Edward, fitting my mouth against his.

It helped, I think, that he wasn't able to see me and anticipate what I was about to do. I felt his breath go out in a rush of surprise and he tried to pull away. But I wrapped my arms around his neck and wouldn't let go--and after a moment he surrendered to the kiss with a half-groan and kissed me back hungrily, his hands sliding up to tangle in my hair.

When he finally did break away, he was breathing hard. I could feel his heart pounding through the thin fabric of his shirt. But he shook his head as though trying to clear it and said, "Georgiana, you don't--you can't--"

I was still angry, I suppose--too angry to try to go carefully or guard what I said. "I can't
what
?" I demanded. "Love you? Yes I can! And
you
, Edward, certainly can't tell me what I can and cannot do."

Edward's jaw dropped open slightly, but I went on, "What if our places were changed? What if it were me that were blind right now? Would you still want to marry me?"

Edward blinked, a furrow appearing between his brows. "Of course, but--"

"But what? But I couldn't possibly love you as much as you love me?"

Edward shook his head. "It's not--"

"It's not the same thing?" I finished for him. "Yes, it is--it's exactly the same! I want to marry
you
, Edward. Not some romanticised, idealised version of Edward Fitzwilliam. I want to marry you exactly as you are now--whether or not your sight ever comes back. Whether or not you ever get over dreaming about your time at war. You are still you--blind or no. And I still love you, and I always will."

He looked as though he were about to argue. But I leaned forward and touched my lips lightly to his neck, then his jaw. I felt him shiver slightly at the touch, and I said, more quietly, "Do you know what I thought when I came in here tonight? The very first thing that came into my mind?"

Wordlessly, Edward shook his head. I shifted again so that I could look up into his face, trailing my fingertips across the lean, hard angle of his temple and cheekbone. "I thought that if only we were already married, I could be in bed with you when you had a nightmare, not all the way across the hall."

I kissed him again, softly, lingeringly.

"Georgiana, I--" Edward's breathing had gone ragged. "I think you're vastly overrating my capacity for self-restraint."

"Good." I caught his hand and held it when he moved to pull away, off the bed. "Because I don't want you to keep shutting me out. And I don't want to wait until we're back in England to marry you. Ruth and Lord Tomalin are going to be married here in Brussels as soon as they can. I think we should be married here, too."

Edward's breath went out, and he said, "All right."

"After all, I'm sure my brother would not--" and then I stopped, abruptly realising what Edward had just said. "Did you just say
all right
?"

Edward laughed at the astonishment in my voice. I hadn't heard him laugh in so long--not since the battle. The sound made my heart seem to turn over.

"I told you you were overestimating my powers of self-control," he said. Our fingers were still interlaced, and he turned my hand and kissed my palm. "Yes, I'll marry you. Tomorrow, if you like." He laughed unevenly again. "Anything to save me from finding you in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning--and having to remember that I'm supposed to be a gentleman."

I laughed, too. And then I looked up at him and said, "Edward, are you ... are you really sure?"

"Am I sure?" Edward pulled me towards him and into his arms, burying his face against the crook of my neck. His voice was soft with regret as he whispered, "God, I wish ... I wish that I could see your face again." But before I could answer he exhaled an unsteady breath and said, "Georgiana, I know I have a long way to go before I'm all right--I don't know that I ever will be entirely all right, or able to talk about any of this easily. All I can promise you is that I will try--I
will
try. But am I sure that I want to marry you?" I felt his chest shake as he gave another half-laugh. "God, you have no idea how sure I am."

Saturday 8 July 1815

I am going to write it all down exactly as it happened. I will never believe that it really
did
happen otherwise.

Edward and I spoke this evening to the elderly clergyman of the
Eglise protestante du Musee de Bruxelles
--the only Protestant church in Brussels, as it happens, since the country is almost exclusively of the Roman Catholic faith.

Not that I would have cared especially--if a village witch could legally marry Edward and me, I would kiss her on both cheeks and let her perform the ceremony with my sincere thanks. But a Catholic priest would refuse to marry us on the grounds that we are neither of us Catholic. So it is just as well that we found Father Jean-Pierre Charlier. Who is very nearsighted, very kind--and has consented to marry us by special license in two days' time.

Two days. That seems incredible, even now. Though it shouldn't--not after tonight.

Edward and I were coming home from the church. Night was beginning to fall; the air was smudged with purple shadows, and the shopkeepers were closing their shutters and locking their shops.

It was the furthest Edward has been from the Forsters' house since Sergeant Kelly carried him inside two weeks ago, and we walked slowly, my hand in his to guide him around the other pedestrians or over any broken or muddied patches of the streets.

I was afraid that might bother him, bring home the reality of his condition more sharply still. But Edward only asked me quietly to describe to him as much as I could of what I saw.

It was hard not to edit my account. The streets are still so full of all the reminders of the battle. Broken supply wagons. Wounded and recovering soldiers--pale and drawn-looking, many missing legs or arms and hobbling on crutches or canes. One poor man had lost both his legs and was dragging himself along on a kind of wheeled cart.

But if Edward could accept having to ask me to be his eyes, the least I could do was serve as honest ones. So I told him everything.

We were passing through a narrow, cobbled lane when it happened--so fast I hadn't even time to scream. A man came looming up at us out of the shadows of one of the doorways, launched himself at Edward and knocked him to the ground.

I heard Edward's head strike the pavement--I think I did scream, then. But the next moment I froze, my whole body turning cold as the light from a shop lantern fell across the attacker's face. It was George Wickham.

I do not know, still, what he intended. Mischief, certainly. Perhaps robbery, likely coupled with revenge--for my having refused to give him the money he wanted to flee from town. I cannot believe, whatever George Wickham's faults, that he intended anything more sinister. Though he did have a knife. I saw the blade flash in the glow of the lamplight.

Edward, though, reacted instantly, even as he lay sprawled on the pavement. Wickham had fallen almost on top of him, and Edward executed some kind of a lightning-quick scissor manoeuvre that sent Wickham flying over his head and landing with a crash on the cobblestones. I heard Wickham groan as he thrashed on the dirty cobbles, trying to rise.

Edward was already on his feet, though, hauling Wickham up, as well. I don't know how he managed, without being able to see--I suppose by touch and sound.

Edward grabbed Wickham by his collar, drew back and delivered a blow to Wickham's jaw that sent him reeling again.

The rest of the fight was a blur. I think Wickham might have managed to land one or two glancing blows. But he was off balance from Edward's punches, unsteady--and they were grappling at such close quarters that Edward hadn't really any need of being able to see. The end result was that Wickham turned tail and ran off, limping and swearing.

"Was that--" Edward began, when the sound of his footsteps died away.

"George Wickham." I was still so stunned that my voice sounded far off and tinny in my own ears.

"I thought so." Edward wiped blood from his lip. "I recognised his voice."

I nodded. "He came a few days ago--to ask for money. He--"