A Soldier’s Tale (Pride and Prejudice Companion)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

THE SOLDIER AND THE DIAMOND

She was splendid.

From the niche where he stood, all he could see was her, and nothing else mattered.

No matter that she was surrounded by the crème de la crème of society, she shone as if every candle in the room, every glittering crystal droplet on every sparkling chandelier, were lit just for her.

The dandies and debutantes that swirled around her faded like moths before a flame, despite their fashionable garb and the gems that glistened at ears, wrists, and throats.

She was the only one he saw. She was glorious, a jewel. A diamond of the first water.

For now, the soldier remained there, between the fronds of some plant and an overdone statue. He was content to observe; he did not mind the young bucks grovelling at her feet. Let them enjoy her company for a few more moments. He was the one she favoured; he was certain of it.

He let his mind flit to memories of balls past, when she had smiled at him, laughed at his jokes, grabbed his gloved hand as they danced the patterns of the music.

Let the swains take their seconds of glory under her bright light.

He was not a man given to jealousy and was happy in her social success.

She was enough of a treasure, enough the darling of London’s season, that despite his higher rank, their marriage would bring him up in the eyes of society.

Tonight, he would approach her as a beau one more time, and if her eyes shone as they had when he came near, tomorrow he would speak.

His heart fluttered in his chest, a hummingbird whose rapid wings sent strange sensations thrumming through his veins. He would be a married man!

He stood only a moment longer, allowing his eyes to linger on her lovely face, crowned by an elaborate confection of golden hair.

She rivalled the sun in radiance. Fair skin, blue eyes, and features befitting a Greek goddess greeted him.

Her gown was everything elegant and fashionable, of course, but her figure brought the fabric to an advantage seldom seen on another. Yes. Tomorrow he would speak.

At last, his heart full and his shoulders back, the soldier stepped from the alcove and made his way across the floor towards the beautiful Miss Honoria Ingalls.

She was laughing at something one of the young dandies had said—Lord Worthiston, was it?

Due one day to inherit his father’s barony?

—but her whole demeanour changed the moment their eyes met.

In that instant, she ceased laughing and her face transformed, a quiet and very personal smile replacing the exaggerated social expression of bon humeur she had gifted the world only seconds ago.

It was a smile just for him, intimate and profound.

“Major Fitzwilliam.” Her voice, golden-toned like honey, caressed his name. She dropped a deep curtsey, then allowed him to take her hand and press a kiss to its back, her cerulean eyes never leaving his. “How delightful to see you here this evening. I had thought…”

He returned her intimate smile. “Miss Ingalls, the pleasure is mine. I was indeed set for a new posting, but yet again my orders were revoked at the last moment, and I find myself in your enchanting company once more. It is, perhaps, to the detriment of my career, but to the great benefit of my personal satisfaction. May I request a dance?”

She batted her lashes and fussed about with her fan—he must at some point learn what all those silly movements were meant to convey—and tittered back her acceptance.

And for not one, but two sets! He had requested and been granted two sets.

Oh, the joy of it all. His heart was full to bursting.

Three sets were impossible; that would invite gossip, and inviting rumour was foolhardy.

Soon, however, there would be no need to dissemble.

The world would know of their love. The two spoke some minutes longer as the cloud of Miss Ingalls’ admirers dissolved into the surrounding gathering, before social necessity made Richard take his leave until it was time for their first dance.

Oh, she was lovely, and she liked him! Perhaps she tittered a bit much, but what young woman of nineteen summers did not?

He, himself, had at that age not been the sedate man he was now at twenty-eight.

Time would mellow her frivolous nature; it was charming in one so young, after all.

She was, surely, beneath the fluttering butterfly she displayed to the world, a sensible and intelligent woman, the sort a man might love long past when the ephemera of youth and beauty melted into the passing years.

One wished for more in a wife than a pleasing face, no matter how alluring that was. Yes. Tomorrow he would speak!

The remainder of the evening passed most pleasantly.

Richard danced his two dances with the Diamond, ate good food, drank fine wine, and engaged in stimulating conversations with men and women of his acquaintance, and exchanged those secret smiles with Miss Ingalls at every occasion when their eyes met.

His smile, he believed, would never leave his face.

It was far later than he expected, therefore, when he floated back to his cousin’s house, where he was wont to stay whilst in London. Somewhere a church bell tolled three as a sleepy footman opened the door to his rap and let him inside. The house was dark, but not entirely so.

“Mr Darcy requests your company in the library,” the liveried servant greeted him with a swallowed yawn. “Shall I show you…?”

“No, no, get your sleep. I can see my own way.”

The footman bowed, and after taking Richard’s outerwear, disappeared towards his long-missed bed.

“Darcy?”

Richard nudged open the library door. A single lamp pushed out feeble beams, illuminating little but the table on which it sat and the young man in the chair beside it.

The fire in the hearth produced more heat than light, and Richard encouraged the flames by stirring the coals as he spoke to his cousin.

“You are awake late. You wanted to speak?”

“Richard, I wondered when you would be back! Yes, if you are not too tired, I have matters on my mind and would have your counsel. I have scarcely seen you these last several days with your duties and my matters of business. Shall I call for tea, or would you prefer it in the morning?”

This was Darcy! Through the gold-soaked haze of the ball, Richard wrestled his attention from memories of Miss Ingalls and towards his cousin.

Two years younger than himself, at the age of twenty-six, Fitzwilliam Darcy seemed by far the older of the two.

Thrust too young into a position of great responsibility, both by necessity and his own serious nature, Darcy had cast off all the trappings of youth and become an old man long before his time.

Richard’s days were spent at his military duties, his evenings at his social ones; Darcy’s days and nights alike were spent learning and working to manage his estate and the burden that such wealth carried with it.

No matter that he had a competent steward, or that Pemberley lay far to the north in Derbyshire, Darcy felt a personal responsibility to his land and his tenants and lost many hours to his obligations.

If Darcy were still awake, this must be important.

“Tea, or perhaps a brandy?” Richard replied. “I am not so tired that one glass will send me to dreamland.”

The two were like brothers rather than cousins, and the closest of friends. If Darcy wished to speak, Richard would hear him.

A few minutes later, both settled around the golden glow of the fireplace, Darcy cleared his throat, his baritone voice filling the quiet corners of the room.

“I had a letter today from Mrs North.” Richard furrowed his brow, trying to recall whence he had heard that name.

His cousin noted the confusion and supplied, “The headmistress of Georgie’s school. ”

Ah, right! Richard’s cousin—Darcy’s younger sister—ought to have been more present in his mind.

But as much as he adored her as a cousin should, a soldier of eight-and-twenty had other things to think of than a girl of fourteen, even one over whom he shared guardianship, and as long as the lass was fed and clothed to the standards of her station, and provided with a fine education as befitting a lady, the details of her education demanded little of his attention.

When Darcy had assumed control of Pemberley upon his father’s passing three years past, the governess had suggested that Georgiana might benefit from being with other young ladies of her own age, rather than be sequestered in some attic in Pemberley, far removed from companions and the experiences she might enjoy in some large town or city.

A lady’s glory was her mastery of manners and ease in society, after all, and for that, one required the society of one’s peers.

As Darcy himself was so often in London, he agreed immediately and enrolled his sister in school. Richard had concurred with his whole heart. But now, from the scowl on Darcy’s brow, it seemed there was a problem.

“What does Mrs North write?” Richard settled back into his chair and watched the firelight play with the droplets of brandy in his glass.

Darcy’s head fell against the tall back of his chair, and his eyes flickered closed as he exhaled. “Georgie is unhappy. She has made no friends and is looked down upon for not having a title—”

“Despite being wealthier than most earls? Do her schoolmates understand that she will, in all likelihood, one day marry one of their brothers and outrank them?”

“Indeed! But for now, she is merely Miss Darcy and not Lady Anything. Were she more open in her character, more gregarious, perhaps…”

“Like her favourite cousin?”