Chapter 18
Gracechurch Street
The morning had been one of those rare London gifts: the sky a pale blue, and the park all bustle and brightness.
Her young cousins had wearied themselves at last in a contest of who could leap the furthest across the grass, and, gratefully, Elizabeth ushered them back to her aunt and uncle’s house.
She was greeted by the murmur of conversation from the parlour and a hush that fell abruptly as she entered.
Her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, was seated by the window, a newspaper open in her lap; her uncle stood nearby, his brow furrowed.
Both looked up as Elizabeth entered, and Mrs. Gardiner, with a glance at her husband, gave a little sigh of relief, as though Elizabeth’s presence alone might bring comfort or explanation.
“My dear Lizzy,” said Mr. Gardiner, his tone most grave, “you are returned at last. I hope the children have not overtired you?”
Elizabeth smiled, shaking her head. “No more than usual. All is well. But you look as if the world is ending, Uncle. Is there news from Longbourn?”
“Not from Longbourn,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “but there is—oh, Lizzy, there is something in the paper, and it is so very strange—I do not know what to make of it.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded. She crossed the room and sat beside her aunt, taking her hand. “What has happened? You look quite pained.”
“It is this article,” Mrs. Gardiner replied, holding out the Morning Post, “from their correspondent in Spain. It concerns—well, it concerns a Miss E.B. of Hertfordshire, and I cannot help but believe—”
“Read it to her, my dear,” said Mr. Gardiner, who had been pacing the carpet in agitation.
Mrs. Gardiner complied, her voice trembling as she began: “From our own correspondent, Mr. Williams, writing from Madrid—’Rumours have reached our camp of the most astonishing nature, concerning the recent events at León.
It is alleged that a certain Miss E.B., a young lady of Hertfordshire, England, did, while in company with her sister Miss L.B.
, assist the French in abducting a Miss G.D.
from Brighton, subsequently taking her forcibly to Asturias.
Subsequently, Miss E.B. is said to have entered the French camp at León, where her charms proved irresistible to a Colonel Dumoustier, whom she seduced, and to whom she is believed to have betrayed the movements of the British army.
Fortunately, disaster was averted only by the superior skill of Lord Wellington, whose victory at Salamanca has saved the campaign from ruin.
Meanwhile, Miss L.B. is well known for her fraternisation with foreign persons of dubious loyalty, and is reputed to be the mistress of Don M.
, a supposed partisan, who is widely suspected of being an afrancesado—in the pay of the enemy. ’”
Mrs. Gardiner’s voice faltered at the close of this recital, and Elizabeth, who had listened at first with incredulity, now sat in stunned silence, her colour gone and her hands cold. She tried to speak, but for a moment she could not.
“As you know, Miss G.D.,” she managed at length, her voice unsteady, “must be meant for Georgiana Darcy, surely! And Miss L.B.—oh, Lydia!”
“My dear Lizzy,” said her uncle, hastening to her side, “you must not distress yourself. Of course, we know of the abduction—you were a victim, not the perpetrator. But I cannot believe that knowledge of that is known in Spain, certainly it was not widely spread. For Lord Wellington agreed to keep it close—to protect Lydia, Miss Darcy, and your reputations. Commodore Collier, a very decent man, refused to include your names in his dispatch to the Admiralty. But the other? It is the wildest fabrication—I am sure of it. But we could not help but be alarmed, seeing your initials and those of Lydia so cruelly misused.”
Her aunt pressed her hand. “I do not know, dearest. It is the most shocking invention. But the world is full of mischief-makers—and newspapers must have their stories.”
Elizabeth tried to recover her composure, but she found herself shaken in a way she had not expected.
It was one thing to be the subject of local gossip, another entirely to find herself the object of such accusations in a London paper.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door, the familiar step in the hall.
In another moment, the servant entered to announce, “Mr. Darcy, ma’am. ”
Elizabeth started; Mrs. Gardiner rose to greet him. Darcy took in Elizabeth’s pale face, the countenances of her aunt and uncle, usually so welcoming, now strained and serious.
“Good God! What is the matter?” he cried, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “My apologies, I have come with my sister, who awaits in the carriage, for our engagement at the gallery. Miss Bennet, are you quite well?”
Elizabeth hesitated, torn between the desire to conceal her distress and the impossibility of doing so. “We have just read something in the paper, Mr. Darcy, that has—well, it has distressed us all.”
Darcy stepped forward, his expression grave. “May I ask what it is?”
There was a short silence. Mr. Gardiner, seeing the impossibility of concealment, produced the Morning Post and handed it to Darcy, whose brow darkened as he read.
He read the article once, then again, his lips tightening, his hand gripping the paper so tightly it crumpled in his grasp. Elizabeth watched him anxiously, searching his face for some sign of reassurance or disbelief.
At length, Darcy looked up, his voice low and controlled. “This is serious indeed. How? Who could have found out such a thing?”
Mr. Gardiner looked between Elizabeth and Darcy with confusion. Elizabeth blushed, sank into the cushions on the settee, buried her face in her hands. “It is the most dreadful news; I had thought that Spain was well behind me.”
She burst into tears, and for a few moments could not speak another word. Darcy stood frozen, he was unable even to mutter words of comfort.
“Mr. Darcy, what is this about? I fear you have a greater understanding of the newspaper article than my wife and I.”
Before Darcy could speak, Elizabeth interrupted. “It cannot be concealed from any one. Oh, dearest Aunt and Uncle, I have betrayed you, betrayed my family—we are lost forever.”
Mrs. Gardiner was fixed in astonishment. “Lizzy, whatever do you mean? Surely there cannot be any truth to the article. Please, tell me so!”
Elizabeth looked in anguish at Mr. Darcy. “Oh! Is there nothing to be done? How was such ever discovered? Have we not the smallest hope? It is every way horrible.”
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. “This Williams. Do you know such a man: an acquaintance, family friend, in trade?”
Mr. Gardiner made no answer. He took his wife’s hand. The revelations of the article, he feared, were more damaging than any suit for libel could contain.
Darcy was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy.
Elizabeth looked up at him, and instantly understood.
Her power was sinking; every thing must sink under such disclosure, such assurance of the deepest disgrace.
She could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his restraint brought nothing consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress.
It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
Elizabeth was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of Mr. Darcy, who, in a manner, which though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise, so it seemed to her, of censure—
“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my stay. Would to heaven that any thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer consolation to such distress. But I will not torment you with vain wishes. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the pleasure of seeing you today. ”
He bowed to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, turned once again to look at Elizabeth, then quitted the room.
* * *
Elizabeth saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what her infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business.
Of course, when she had entered the French camp, she had accepted, in an abstract way, that were it known, her action could reflect on her reputation.
But she had justified this by the thought of rescuing the British army from certain annihilation, trapped between three French armies at Salamanca.
It was a gamble which had, indeed, won the day—yet she herself had lost. Was that not always the fate of those who gave their lives so that others might live? Oh, that she had died herself!
Her story came stumbling out, interspersed with tears, with hot tea, with great lamentations.
If Elizabeth had thought to be censured, then she was wrong, for her aunt and uncle could only admire her.
She had, with great danger to herself, both morally and physically, entered the camp of the enemy and discovered intelligence of vital importance.
And then gave all credit to Colonel Fitzwilliam for averting catastrophe.
Lord Wellington had known the truth but had agreed that no one would understand the nature of her gift: it was a truth universally agreed, that there was only one way a woman could learn such intelligence from a man—in war, moral turpitude was necessary, but never acknowledged nor condoned.
Mrs. Gardiner, wiping her own eyes, took Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers.
“My dear girl, you acted with more courage than any officer in His Majesty’s service could boast. Why, to think of you going alone—at such risk!
That the world should see only scandal in it, and not the service you have done your country—oh, it is shameful!
But we know the truth, Lizzy, and so, I dare say, does Mr. Darcy. ”
Elizabeth pressed her hand in silent gratitude, but her heart was still sore.
“I fear it will be no comfort to those who read such things in the papers,” she said, her voice trembling.
“You are very good, Aunt, but what of Georgiana Darcy? What of Lydia? What of Jane and my poor father? The world is not so forgiving as you are.”
Mr. Gardiner, who had been pacing the rug, now spoke with renewed firmness. “We must write at once to Longbourn, to warn your family of what has appeared in print.”
Mrs. Gardiner nodded. “Indeed, I think, Lizzy, you will find friends in places you did not expect. This may yet be set right. The truth has a way of making itself known, even in London.”
There was little comfort in these words for Elizabeth, yet she accepted them as best she could. She rose and composed herself, determined to bear the blow as bravely as she might. “Will you send a note to my father, Uncle? Will you—will you tell him the truth, as I have told it to you?”
“Of course, my dear. And you must not worry for Jane—she is strong. She will stand by you, of that I am certain. Bingley is an honourable man; he will not forsake her.”
Elizabeth managed a wan smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I should do without you both.”
The room fell into a thoughtful hush, broken only by the distant sound of children’s voices in the garden. Elizabeth retired to her room. She had little left but tears; tears for the injustice of the world; tears for her heart.
* * *