Pride, Prejudice & Secrets (28 page)

Chapter
17

“Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century.”

— Mark Twain, American author and humourist

Sunday, June 3, 1812: Plimpton’s Coaching Inn on the road to Derbyshire

The early light of dawn illuminated the small bedchamber as Elizabeth lay next to her new husband, contemplating his sleeping form and engrossed in the wonder of the night and the changes she felt in herself. She could not yet know how William felt, for she wanted to let him sleep though she ached with the desire to talk with him, to caress him, embrace him…and love him once more.

She lay on her side, her bare legs entwined with his, her elbow sunk in the pillow while her hand supported her head. Darcy faced her, his head on his pillow, and his arm thrown around her waist as he breathed slowly and deeply. She studied the details of his face with a concentrated curiosity she had never before known. The curls of his short, dark hair seemed new to her, and she longed to run her fingers through it again. In fact, everything about him on this wonderful morning seemed new, for she was no longer a girl but a married woman. She had loved him many times that night despite the discomfort and pain, and she longed to do so again. But she would wait until he awoke because it was also delicious to be in this bed with him, her arm thrown over his back as she savoured the feel of his skin against hers.

She could see the stubble of hair along his cheeks and chin and upper lip, and her husband’s unshaven face was yet another novelty to her.

In all my life, I never stopped to wonder at men being clean-shaven,
she mused thoughtfully, longing to gently rub her hands aver his cheeks and chin and feel the stiff stubs of hair, but she repressed the urge, not wanting to disturb his sleep.

She stifled a gay laugh as she remembered William’s unsuspected strength when he effortlessly lifted her in his arms. That was after they finally managed to undress each other, the process greatly lengthened by their fumbling and unfamiliarity with the other’s clothing, not to mention the interspersed bouts of giggling and arousing explorations. Then, holding her aloft, he whirled her about until she squealed in mingled laughter and dizziness before laying her gently on the bed.

And then he climbed into bed with me, not even turning down the coverlet, and his fingers began to explore all of me, while his mouth came down on mine, like he did in the lane back home,
she dreamily remembered, closing her eyes to picture again those moments.
And the sensations I found nigh unendurable and irresistible in Hertfordshire were only the beginning…

But never had she imagined the tenderness, the sheer
closeness
, of making love.
It may have hurt at first, but I have never felt such intimacy with another person in my life,
she thought.
I never even imagined I might feel so marvellously close to another person, even my husband. To actually feel him inside me…moving inside me…

She shivered in remembrance, wishing dearly to wake William and love him again, to experience that marvellous closeness again, to have him love her in return. She had to restrain herself from kissing those lips and seeing those dark eyes open and look deeply into her own.

Is it the same for everyone?
she wondered.
I know some men are rakes and scoundrels, taking advantage of women. Surely, such wastrels could not feel what William felt last night — based, at least, on the tenderness of his touches and the endearments he whispered into my ear. Surely, loving each other is special for husbands and wives, perhaps a gift from God…

When she opened her eyes, she found Darcy’s eyes on hers. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said with a tender smile.

“Good morning, William,” she replied, equally softly. Then, without really thinking, her hand moved to his cheeks and gently felt the roughness of his beard.

She giggled at the surprised look on his face. “I could not resist. I never thought how men must shave every day.”

“Sometimes twice a day,” he said ruefully. “There are times when I wish beards would come back into fashion.”

“I think you would look well with a beard,” she said, running her fingertips over his upper lip and then jerking them away when he tried to seize them in his teeth.

“Now, now, none of that, William.”

“I know where you found my teeth more pleasurable,” he said, his face moving closer.

“Then perhaps you should show me again,” she purred, slipping her arm around his waist and pulling herself close, rubbing herself against him like a cat. “My memory is not what it was before you robbed me of all reason.”

“I can deny no request of yours, Elizabeth,” he murmured, and his mouth came down on hers, claiming it once again, and she laughed throatily as his fingers caressed her legs.

I love his fingers,
she thought dreamily as she arched against him.
I believe him when he says his experience is not great, but he has nevertheless learned to play me like a master musician…

But that was one of Elizabeth Darcy’s last coherent thoughts for quite some time indeed…

Monday, June 4, 1812: Plymouth

“This way, sir,” the private said, holding back the flap of the tent, and Lieutenant George Wickham nodded wordlessly and entered, his black shako under his arm. He stopped in front of the desk where a rather burly man of about thirty sat, holding Wickham’s commission. Upon his arrival at the encampment, a bored subaltern had accepted the document and directed this private to take him to a Captain Wilson.

“Lieutenant Wickham reporting, sir,” Wickham said in his best official tone, coming to attention.

“Yes, so I see,” the officer said, his voice even and devoid of emotion. “Please stand at ease, Wickham.”

Wickham did so, moving his feet apart and putting his free hand behind his back while the officer continued to inspect his commission. Finally, the other man leaned back and heaved a great sigh.

“My name is Wilson,” he said finally, his voice bleak and dry as dust. “New officers are always difficult to deal with, Wickham, even in an established company.”

Wickham’s ears pricked up at that, and he must have shown some expression since Wilson nodded sagely. “I see you did not know that you were joining a wartime recruitment company. Second Battalion of the Thirtieth has been weakened by battle to the point that the powers that be decided to combine the available men from three weak companies and disband them. To bring the battalion back up to strength, three replacement companies were authorized and recruited, but — and here is the salient point — they are not yet trained.”

Wickham had thought he was joining an established battalion, where he could basically blend in rather anonymously until he learned what he needed, as he had in the militia. This was going to be a more difficult task!

“Since you wear a militia uniform, I assume you know the rudiments of drill,” Captain Wilson said, and he again must have detected the sudden alarm that swept through Wickham because he paused, his look hard and penetrating.

“Or do I suddenly detect a militia officer who never did much except strut around in his red coat for the ladies?” Wilson said icily, his voice gone stony and almost hissing between his teeth. “Am I correct, Wickham?”

Wickham was angered by the disparaging tone of the captain’s voice, but an inner caution made him suppress his emotion. Hurriedly, he considered how to respond, but his hesitation was only momentary. There was nothing to do now but tell the truth.

“I am afraid you are mostly correct, sir.” He tried to sound as emotionless as the captain. “I was with the militia more than half a year, but we were in winter quarters and did not do much drill.”

“Probably trying to stay warm, I would imagine.”

“Yes, sir. The regiment was supposed to train when we went to Brighton.”

The burly captain snorted in mingled contempt and amusement, and without thinking, Wickham heard himself say, “I thought I was joining an established battalion, sir, and I could learn from the experienced officers.”

“Hah! You did not look too closely when you purchased your commission, did you?” Wilson said, and there was real amusement this time — harsh amusement but still real.

“Actually, my uncle purchased it as a wedding present when I married his niece, sir,” Wickham replied, skirting between truth and falsehood. “But you are correct. I did not look too carefully.”

“And now you are stuck with the lot of us. Well, let me outline my problem, Lieutenant. And you should take it as given that
my
problems are
your
problems. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Wickham said, unthinkingly coming back to the position of attention.

“Right. Now, my primary problem is to get my men trained when I am the only experienced officer in the company. And if it helps soothe your pride, I was a mere lieutenant not too long ago, and I gave as little thought of being promoted to command a new company as you gave to your commission. But your experience with the militia is something at least — you must have absorbed the basic idea of military organization even if you have no conception of what waits for us on the Peninsula. But I recommend you have that militia uniform altered as soon as you can.”

The Peninsula?
Wickham thought in alarm.
What in the world is he talking about? I thought the regiment was staying here at Plymouth!

He made himself rein in his alarm and his voice was passably calm as he asked, “The Peninsula, sir?”

“The Peninsula, Wickham,” Wilson said brusquely. “Portugal first, then on to Spain. The Second Battalion was getting a bit thin on men after almost three years on the Peninsula, so three companies were disbanded and their men used to bring the other companies up to strength while three new companies — the Second, Eighth, and Ninth — were recruited. The Beau needs reinforcements — British reinforcements. Those provided by our Portuguese and Spanish allies are sometimes a bit wanting, both in discipline and fighting spirit.”

“The Beau, sir?” Wickham asked, and then could have kicked himself for once again displaying his ignorance.

“General Wellesley. Or Wellington, now,” Wilson said negligently. “But the troops call him The Beau since he dresses immaculately. You will understand when you see him.”

Wickham felt his stomach turn over at this casual reference. General Wellesley had been fighting in Portugal and Spain for years; he was Britain’s most famed soldier, but Wickham had no desire to share that fame. What had that devil Noskov got him into?

“How long will it be before these three companies join the regiment, sir?”

“Not the whole regiment, Wickham — only the Second Battalion. The First Battalion is in India; has been for years. I would guess that your time in the militia did not acquaint you with the fact that the battalions of regiments seldom serve together?”

“No, sir. That seems to be yet one more item to catch me unaware.”

“There will be more, Wickham. Trust me on that. So, back to
my
problem. I command the Second Company, and I now have my complement of two lieutenants. I had hoped for a gentleman volunteer for at least one lieutenancy, but instead I have a militia officer with little experience, and Stinson, who was at Cambridge until last week and is completely inexperienced. One of my sergeants was a corporal last week, the other was promoted from private, and my three corporals were raised from privates. All are veterans, which is helpful, but they hardly know their new jobs better than you. And the rankers are virtually all recruited from civilians and know nothing of loading a musket or even standing in formation, much less moving as a unit, all of which is essential to keeping you, me, and them alive when we have to face experienced French infantry!”

The unsmiling officer’s voice had been getting louder and harsher as he spoke, and Wickham remained at attention. “So perhaps you have an inkling of just how daunting are the tasks we face and why I am more than slightly overwhelmed by the demands of my duties. And, since my problems are your problems, you likely suspect what will be demanded of you. Hampton!”

The flap of the tent was thrown back, and the private stood braced to attention and barked, “Sir!”

“Show this lieutenant to his tent and make sure he is introduced to Lieutenant Stinson. Listen to Stinson, Wickham; inexperienced as he is, he has been here a week and is almost a veteran by comparison. Learn from him; we start loading drill at nine o’clock sharp, and it is now five minutes after eight. You will have to depend on your sergeants and corporals, of course, but you have much to learn also. Your responsibility will be to oversee the drill of your two sections until their response is automatic. You will drill them today, tomorrow, and every day this week! Learn well, Wickham, because if you embarrass me or the battalion, I will personally chew you up and spit you out! Dismissed!”

The rest of the day was one bad dream piled on top of another as Wickham and his sergeants struggled to drill the untrained men, many of whom were still clad in ordinary clothing. Seemingly, every mistake he made throughout the day was punctuated by Captain Wilson’s brusque whisper in his ear informing him of what a worthless excuse for an officer he was and what he should have done. Even though the words could not be heard by the men in ranks, every one cut Wickham to the quick, and he did not think he had ever felt as low as when the sun finally touched the horizon and he was released from duty.

On his walk through streets teeming with officers to his rented rooms and the evening meal he hoped his wife had ordered, Wickham had additional evidence of the cleverness of his devious uncle as he spied several men dressed in the rough clothing of merchant seamen lounging about, seemingly with nothing to do but lean against a wall or a tree and watch him with beady, intent eyes.

Watchers,
he thought dismally, just as Noskov promised. First, he buys me a commission in a battalion being sent to the Peninsula to replace troops buried in that dusty and arid soil. And his watchers make sure I cannot flee. They make no pretence of doing anything else, likely instructed in just this manner — which implies the presence of others who are more discreet, just in case I might be tempted to evade the more obvious ones.

It was a relief to enter his rooms and surrender to the attentions of his new wife. Those attentions had begun to wear on him during their journey back from Scotland, just as usually happened, but now Mary’s openly expressed affections were like solace to his wounded pride and dispirited manner. She proudly exhibited the first of his newly altered uniforms, delivered during the day and ready for tomorrow, and oversaw the serving of his meal by their single servant. Later, he made no protest as Mary virtually undressed him and poured hot water over him in the tub as he washed the layers of field dust from his body. And afterward, when she tenderly made love to him, the feel of her bare skin against his was another poultice to the unseen wounds he had taken during the day.

Day followed day, each one seeing more of his men clad in regimentals appropriate to the Thirtieth. He became more versed in the training demanded of his captain, whose searing imprecations into his ear lessened. But it was still as if the man had magical powers to always be directly behind him whenever he or one of his men made a mistake, such as forgetting to remove the ramming rod before firing his musket, which resulted in a mortifying “whoop, whoop, whoop” as the fishtailing rod flew downrange.

He was so swamped by his duties that he hardly thought about escaping his predicament. He was thwarted by his complete naiveté in expecting his new battalion to remain at Plymouth or anywhere within England. In wartime, the militia, poorly trained as they were, were expected to perform functions normally expected of the regular Army, such as maintaining order and quelling sedition. The regulars had more important and far more dangerous duties.

Thus it was that Lieutenant George Wickham, desperate but out of options, boarded a ship three weeks later with the three replacement companies, bound for the Peninsula and resigned to the certainty he was going to die there. Mary clearly felt similarly, judging by the frantic way she made love to him again and again the previous night. And now he could see her weeping bitterly as she waited with the other wives behind the line of sentries while his longboat shoved off from the pier and the sweeps were unlimbered. The boat pitched alarmingly, but the shoreline gradually receded until he could no longer make out her form, though he fancied he could still discern a waving handkerchief. Finally, even that disappeared, and he felt strangely forlorn as the boat pulled to the side of the transport and he ungracefully clambered up the ladder.

As his transport raised sails, he watched the shoreline disappear into the mist. As an officer, he was able to remain at the ship’s rail while the men were restricted to the holds, but he was certain he would never see his homeland again. Having been able for most of his life to evade the consequences of his actions, he had been ensnared by a fiend so far his superior in the arts of deceit and conspiracy that there had been no possibility of escape.

Soon, he and the rest of the men were so seasick that survival became a notion of mere academic interest, for nothing existed beside the misery of his body. By the time he landed in Portugal, even the idea of fighting the French had lost its terror. Anything, even death, was better than remaining on that pitching, lurching ship with the horizon moving about and the reek of men’s vomit and diarrhoea in his nostrils, permeating his very soul.

Monday, June 4, 1812: Hurst Townhouse, London

“So that is how it ended,” Caroline Bingley said to her sister in the privacy of Louisa’s sitting room adjacent to her bedchamber. “It took all my self-control not to administer a stinging set-down to that penniless, conceited oaf, but I was able, with difficulty, to keep my silence.”

“I see,” Louisa Hurst said carefully, taking a sip of her tea to disguise her irritation with her sister. “So you just let him walk away?”

“What else could I do? He might be the son of an earl, but that does not give him the right to criticize my behaviour as he did. Why, the sheer cheek of the man was so staggering it almost took my breath away! Silence was the best choice, I believe.”