29
Four days later, Brussels
The afternoon was warm, a reminder of normal summers. They had reserved rooms at the Metropole, leaving the servants to unpack essentials while they walked eagerly to the Bureau de Poste. The ride from Luxembourg had been flat, past forest and pasture, with indifferent inns along the way. But the mood in their group had changed. Georgiana was relaxed in Elizabeth’s company. They spoke no longer about the crisis in Vienna. There remained the question of Lydia, but here too Elizabeth was calm. They would try the address they had, and see what could be learned.
Queueing at the post office it was a relief to hear people talking French, and a reminder of the closeness of home: another day should see them to Antwerp, from where ships sailed to the Kent coast. It was for this reason that they had advised their correspondents to address letters to Brussels. Routes through France were unsafe as the country came to terms with the defeat of Bonaparte and the restoration of the monarchy.
They reached the counter, and after a brief search were rewarded with three bundles which they took back to the hotel to read. Jane had written twice, responding to letters posted in Cologne and Prague; the first ran thus:
Dear Lizzy, I can’t be sure this will reach you so I will be brief. Everyone well here, except that it keeps raining. How remarkable that you met Mr Darcy’s party! It must have been difficult for you, but I hope you felt able to forgive that gentleman, as I have tried to forgive his friend, whom I hope is happily settled. By the way, I have taken your advice as regards Mr Browne, so it seems I’m destined to be an old maid! Dear Lizzy, I hope the Darcys will keep to their original plan, so that you can enjoy your journey without being distracted by painful memories.
The second marvelled at Elizabeth’s encounter with Wickham. Always eager to think the best about people, Jane had hoped Wickham would stand by Lydia and perhaps marry her. Her shock at the extent of Wickham’s infamy covered several sheets.
Further letters had been sent by Mary and Mrs Gardiner, with similar reactions and news. Elizabeth was setting them aside when Darcy joined her on the divan.
‘All well?’
‘Much as usual.’
‘They have not heard …’
She shook her head, and he continued, ‘I have learned one point relevant to our enquiries. Colonel Fitzwilliam has questioned the War Office over the fate of Mullins.’ A sigh. ‘The lieutenant is missing, assumed dead. Which means he has not returned home, nor written to his family, even though there is no actual record of his death.’
Elizabeth grimaced. ‘The same could be said of Lydia.’
‘Yes, but in the chaos after Waterloo, bodies were buried near the battlefield without identification. It is too early to give up.’
‘Other news?’
‘My steward is anxious about the harvest.’
‘You were right to take the quick route back.’ Elizabeth touched his arm. ‘Just one day searching for my sister?’
The address was in Rue des Moineaux, which Darcy translated as Sparrow Street. It was narrow, with tenements on both sides, so they left the carriage at the opening, and proceeded on foot. Georgiana had preferred to remain at the Metropole.
A maid answered and called Madame Renard, who received them in the parlour. She was a widow in her sixties, spry, with delicate features. After introductions, Elizabeth began to explain their quest.
‘Connaissez-vous le lieutenant Mullins? Do you know …’
It turned out that Madame Renard parlait un peu anglais, and they managed in a mixture of the two languages. Yes, she supplemented her income by taking a lodger. Mullins had stayed until the battle a year before.
‘Did he have a friend named Lydia? Bennet or Preston?’
‘I met her not …’
‘He never spoke of her?’
Madame Renard shook her head. ‘Je suis désolé.’
Darcy said, ‘Perhaps you recall other friends who visited the lieutenant?’
She smiled. ‘He was, how do you say, a man who liked the ladies. La préférée , the preferred one, was a nurse. At the Minimes.’
‘You recall her name?’ Elizabeth asked.
Madame Renard squinted into the distance. ‘Mademoiselle Courtois. Amélie.’ She sighed fondly. ‘Elle était jolie, respectable, gentille. She came here, after the battle, to ask if I had news.’
‘You know her address?’ Darcy asked.
A shake of the head. ‘You could try the hospital.’
Rue de Minimes was a ten-minute ride, a cobbled street not far from their hotel. The hospital was run mainly by nuns, in starched white habits and conical wimples called cornettes. At the entrance a receptionist listened calmly to their enquiry. Yes, she knew of a nurse named Courtois. Not a sister. She asked at another desk, and returned with a smile.
‘Not here now.’ Her English was practised—unsurprisingly, Elizabeth thought, after coping with such an influx of wounded British soldiers after the battle. ‘She comes in during the night.’
‘Have you an address?’ Darcy asked.
‘It would be best if you came here.’
Elizabeth nodded: the nurse would need to rest before working. ‘When do you suggest?’
‘Vers minuit. Midnight.’
In the carriage Elizabeth took Darcy’s arm, aware that he was being put to much trouble on her behalf.
‘What should we do?’
He shrugged. ‘Burgess can take us at half past eleven.’
‘You’re not tired?’
‘We can rest beforehand.’
‘It will be a wild goose chase, won’t it?’
‘We must try.’
‘And if we find Lydia?’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Inevitably she will speak of Wickham, in Georgiana’s presence. Perhaps your sister should be told that I already know her secret.’
Darcy frowned. ‘That is certainly a difficulty. But as you say, it will probably not happen. We can decide later.’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘There speaks a man accustomed to responsibility. Whereas I look far into the future and see devils.’
‘As mistress of Pemberley you will acquire responsibilities,’ Darcy said. ‘And you will learn—just as I did ten years ago after my father passed away.’
She nodded, sobered by his tone. ‘A daunting prospect.’
‘You will rise to the challenge, just as you have always done. But it is not so hard. Compare Lord Selborn, who confronts problems of national importance.’
She looked away dreamily. ‘I wonder where they are now.’
As midnight approached they alighted opposite the main hospital entrance, where Darcy rang the bell, and from a small door at the side a nun admitted them.
‘Puis-je vous aider?’
They explained, and the sister nodded. ‘Venez.’
They followed along high bare corridors, quiet and dim in the candlelight. Small sounds echoed: their own footsteps, and coughs and moans from the wards they passed.
‘Attendez.’
The nun opened a door, and returned with a tall thin young lady wearing a uniform, not a habit.
‘Mademoiselle Courtois?’ Elizabeth said.
‘Yes.’ The young lady pointed to a recess further down the corridor. ‘We can go there.’
The recess had a candelabra and comfortable chairs. In fluent English, Mademoiselle Courtois explained that she could give them ten minutes.
‘I am looking for my sister,’ Elizabeth said. ‘A friend, I have been told, of Lieutenant Mullins. Her name is Lydia.’
‘Ah yes!’ The nurse smiled. ‘La pauvre enfant!’
Elizabeth gasped. ‘You know Lydia?’
‘She came with a Mr Preston. They lived for a while as man and wife before he left with Claudette Frossard.’
‘And then?’
‘She was amoureuse, infatuated, with Lieutenant Mullins, but to him she was only a plaything. We felt sorry for her and tried to find people who would pay her for speaking English to their children. It was either that or le bordel.’ She blinked. ‘You understand?’
Darcy nodded, with a glance at Elizabeth, who said, ‘I think so. Bawdy house.’
‘Yes.’ Mademoiselle Courtois shrugged. ‘We tried, but it was difficult because Mademoiselle Lydia did not want to work, only to chase after the officers. Then last year, after the return of Bonaparte, Brussels filled with British soldiers preparing for the invasion of France …’
Elizabeth raised a hand. ‘Pardon, but I’m anxious to have the end of the story first. Where is Lydia now?’
‘Oh.’ Mademoiselle Courtois paused, obviously embarrassed, and for a moment Elizabeth feared the worst. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, I cannot say. You see, we quarrelled, then I began to work nights …’
‘Let’s go back to Waterloo,’ Darcy said.
‘Bien.’ The nurse hesitated again, then recovered her fluency. ‘So the officers came, and Lydia made friends among their wives …’
Elizabeth was open-mouthed. ‘Wives came too?’
‘Yes, even daughters. Not just British, but Prussian and Dutch. Then the battle …’ Mademoiselle Courtois winced. ‘If only you could understand! The French never reached the city. They retreated south, and Wellington’s army pursued them all the way to Paris. But they left thousands of dead, even more wounded, and streets full of displaced soldiers and deserters. Within hours the hospital overflowed. We had to use private houses and train wives, daughters, servants, to help. The injuries were frightening. We worked whole days and nights with no sleep.’
Darcy murmured, ‘Heroism is not only found on the battlefield.’
‘Thank you.’ The nurse sighed. ‘Two days after the end of the battle, Lydia came to the Minimes with a Mrs Gordon who was searching for her husband. He was not here. I noted his name, and begged them to help attend to other patients.’ She met Elizabeth’s eye. ‘This may surprise you, but they spoke English and French and could learn quickly to bathe wounds with camphre, camphor, and apply bandages. Or go into homes and teach these techniques to the servants.’
‘And Lydia did this?’ Elizabeth said.
‘For a while.’ Mademoiselle Courtois wrinkled her nose in contempt. ‘Until she was sent to the house of an officer in the Légion belge. Belgian legion. I forget his name, but he had fought in the cavalry and suffered from sabre cuts and bruising after his horse fell. The injuries were superficial, so Lydia was instructed to move on to another patient. But she refused. The man had taken a fancy to her. His mother too. She claimed he needed her care. I was told to visit and persuade her.’
‘Where?’ Darcy asked.
‘Rue Jardinier. A kilometre from here.’
‘The number?’
‘I forget.’ A sigh. ‘I examined the officer, who was recovering well. His mother was able to look after him. They had a maid who came every morning. It was ridiculous.’
‘Lydia refused to leave?’ Elizabeth said.
Mademoiselle Courtois nodded. ‘Pardon, Madame. She is your sister. But I was exhausted, just as we all were. I lost my temper. I said she had the mind of a small child. She shouted back. I left.’ A shrug. ‘And that was the last time I saw her.’