Chapter 14
Oviedo
Elizabeth wished to cry, to scream at the world that this was so unfair—all she had agreed to was to accompany Lydia to Brighton, to chaperone her and Harriet around the town.
Had she ever wished to visit Spain? Not that she could remember.
She knew where it was, having snuck a look in her father’s precious atlas, and seen maps sketched in newspapers, describing some naval victory over the French.
And here she was, walking the Camino de San Salvador, an ancient Spanish pilgrim route.
Once, she would have gloried to visit the Cathedral at Oviedo to see the Santo Sudario, the shroud that covered the head of Jesus after his crucifixion.
Now, she just wished to curl up and cry.
She laughed wryly, feeling so desperately sorry for herself.
“Miss Bennet, can I assist you?” Darcy stepped closer to the lady—she was worn, near the end of her endurance.
“Mr. Darcy, I was letting myself succumb to self-misery. I was recalling a passage my father once read from a book by Joseph Townsend, A Journey Through Spain—’To travel commodiously in Spain, a man should have a good constitution, two good servants, letters of credit for the principal cities, and a proper introduction to the best families.
’ He also warned travellers of delicate pride that they might be forced to accept the demeaning necessity of riding upon an ass.
Do we have an ass, sir? For certainly my pride is no longer so delicate as to forgo such pleasure!
I trust you have appropriate letters of credit, and that Don Mateo is of excellent family. ”
Elizabeth burst into tears. “Oh, for shame. Please ignore me, sir. I must see to Georgiana and Lydia.” She hurried away, sure in her distress that he disdained her tears and weakness.
Elizabeth trudged through the mud. She glanced behind her, where two makeshift litters bounced over the ruts and roots.
Lydia, her face pale and lips parted, her chest rising and falling beneath a rough blanket.
Georgiana looked worse, her eyes closed, her breath shallow.
The sight of them—so broken and battered—made Elizabeth’s own aches seem petty.
She put one foot ahead of the other and kept her complaints to herself.
Ahead, the path wound upward, following the ancient stones of the pilgrim trail.
Don Mateo led the way, his boots silent on the moss.
He moved with a purpose that brooked no dissent, glancing back every so often to check the company’s progress.
Beside him strode Colonel Fitzwilliam, sword at his hip, his keen eyes scanning the trees.
Fitzwilliam had the look of a man who had not slept for days and did not intend to, not while his charges were at risk.
Darcy walked behind Elizabeth, the muscles in his jaw bunched with worry. He did not speak unless spoken to, but Elizabeth knew he watched her, measuring every stumble, every wince. She found herself grateful for his silence. Words, just now, would be an extravagance.
The riflemen, green-jacketed and mud-spattered, moved in a loose column behind the litters.
Will Goulding directed them with quiet authority.
He had the knack of making men obey without raising his voice, and Elizabeth, watching him, sensed he would go far if he lived long enough.
The other men were hard-eyed and lean, their faces tanned and scored by the sun and wind.
They looked like men who had marched a thousand miles and would march a thousand more if the order came.
A second partisan joined them, carrying a bundle of clothing.
He was young, cheerful, whistling a snatch of some local tune as he handed Elizabeth a woollen skirt and linen shirt to replace her torn muslins ruined beyond repair.
Elizabeth muttered her thanks in halting Asturian, and the man grinned, showing a mouthful of broken teeth.
The new woollen skirt itched her calves, but she was grateful for the warmth.
The linen blouse clung to her back, sticky with sweat, and her hair was tied in a makeshift knot, not for fashion but to keep it free of the thorns and trailing branches that crowded the path.
The morning passed in a blur of footsteps and whispered warnings.
The trail skirted the edge of a ruined village, its church spire broken, the houses blackened by old fire.
Fitzwilliam signalled for silence, and the company moved past in a hush, the only sound the scrape of boots and the creak of the litter poles.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered. She had never seen the aftermath of war before—living in the safe green fields of Hertfordshire.
But this—ever so close—real. Here, the air itself tasted of fear.
They stopped at midday in a hollow, screened from the road by a stand of holm oaks.
Goulding sent Donnelly and Simms ahead to scout, and another pair disappeared into the trees behind, watching for French patrols.
Fitzwilliam knelt beside the litters, checking Lydia’s pulse, then Georgiana’s.
He frowned, said nothing and rose to confer with Darcy.
Elizabeth knelt beside her sister. Lydia’s eyes fluttered open. “Is it over?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “We’re safe for now,” Elizabeth said, brushing a strand of hair from Lydia’s forehead. “Try to rest, dearest.”
Lydia’s lips twisted in a weak attempt at a smile. “You always say that.”
Elizabeth looked away, her eyes stinging. She busied herself with the blanket, tucking it tighter around Lydia’s shoulders. She could feel Darcy watching her, but she did not look up.
The partisan passed among the men, sharing out hard bread and a little wine. Elizabeth chewed her ration, grateful for the food, though it tasted gritty and stale. She drank sparingly, knowing there was not much to go around.
As they rested, the mist began to lift, revealing the hills in all their ragged beauty. Elizabeth tried to take comfort from the view, but she could not shake the feeling of being hunted. Every crack of a twig, every sudden silence in the birdsong, set her nerves on edge.
Goulding returned from the scouts. “There’s movement on the road to the south, Colonel. Two French dragoons, maybe three. Didn’t see us, but they’re heading this way. Likely an advance party, for they seldom travel in companies of less than twenty.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “We’ll move in ten minutes. No fires, no talking above a whisper.” His gaze swept over the company, lingering on the women. “We’re nearly to Oviedo. If we can make the old monastery by nightfall, we’ll be safe enough till dawn.”
Elizabeth’s legs ached, her feet throbbed, but she nodded. She would walk another twelve miles if it meant safety for Lydia and Georgiana.
They moved out in silence, the riflemen fanning ahead and behind, rifles ready. The partisans led the way, their steps sure and silent. Elizabeth stumbled once, catching her foot on a root, and Darcy’s hand was there, steadying her. She met his eyes, saw his concern, and managed a tired smile.
“I’m quite all right,” she whispered. He nodded, but did not let go until she held her footing.
The afternoon dragged on, the path winding through forests and across meadows studded with wildflowers.
The sun broke through the clouds, bringing a brief warmth, but the company did not pause.
They skirted another ruined hamlet, its well choked with weeds.
In the distance, the faint beat of hooves echoed, and the company pressed themselves into a ditch until the sound faded.
Elizabeth lost all sense of time. She walked, and walked, and walked, her mind empty but for the rhythm of her steps and the weight of her worry. Once, she glanced back and saw Lydia’s eyes on her, full of pain; the girl smiled. The sight gave her strength.
At last, as the sun dipped low, the partisan raised a hand.
They had reached a small copse near a stream, sheltered by a stand of ancient elms and oaks.
Fitzwilliam signalled for a halt, and the riflemen fanned out to set a perimeter.
Goulding directed the men to lift the litters from their shoulders, lowering Lydia and Georgiana gently to the ground.
Elizabeth dropped to her knees, too tired to stand. She watched as Darcy and Fitzwilliam conferred with the partisans, their voices low. The riflemen moved like ghosts among the trees, setting pickets and checking their weapons.
Night fell quickly. The women huddled together, wrapped in their woollen skirts, sharing what warmth they could. Elizabeth listened to the murmur of the stream, the distant call of an owl. She felt the fear recede, replaced by exhaustion.
Darcy knelt beside her, offering a battered tin cup of water. “You should rest,” he said, his voice gentle.
Elizabeth took the cup, her hand shaking. “I will, when I can.”
He smiled, a rare thing, and for a moment she saw the man behind the mask, not the soldier he had become.
She drank, then handed the cup back. “Will we be safe here?”
“For tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow we move again.”
She nodded, drawing her knees to her chest. She watched as Fitzwilliam paced the perimeter. Goulding settled beside the riflemen, speaking quietly. The partisans sat together, sharing a pipe, their faces shadowed in the moonlight.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, listening to the quiet. In her mind, she saw Longbourn’s green lawns, heard the laughter of children. She clung to the memory, letting it warm her against the chill of the night.
She did not know what tomorrow would bring—if the French would find them, if Lydia and Georgiana would recover, if they would ever reach safety. But for now, they were together, and that was enough. She drifted into sleep, the sound of the stream in her ears.
* * *
Elizabeth awoke to the hushed voices of the party, who were quickly gathering their belongings, checking their rifles, and preparing to depart.