The Gathering Storm #2
Elizabeth shook her head, though she could not help but watch. There were about twenty men in the column; half in dress uniform, half in travel-stained greatcoats. One or two looked barely older than Henry Lucas. Another had the hard jaw and silver hair of a man who had seen more than one campaign.
The recruiting officer was in full voice now. “His Majesty’s Army offers honour, service, and five guineas to any man who volunteers today. A full kit, new boots, and a hot supper await you. Step forward and serve King and country!”
“That supper will not last him long,” Elizabeth murmured.
Jane glanced toward her. “It does feel real now, does it not?”
Elizabeth nodded. The crowd’s mood was electric, part festival, part dread. This was no longer a distant war, fought across the Channel. It was here, playing out in the very heart of Meryton.
A name was called from the front. A local boy, Fred Baker, stepped forward, his shoulders stiff with nerves, and signed his name.
There was a smattering of applause, more uncertain than celebratory.
Elizabeth turned to her sisters. “We have seen enough, I think. Mama sent us for bonnet ribbon, not for war stories.”
“But they might march again soon,” Lydia protested.
“We shall hear them all the way from the draper’s,” Elizabeth said, already steering them away. She paused just long enough to glance back.
The officer had moved on to another speech, and more boys were gathering near the table with parchment and ink.
The war had come to Meryton.
As they moved away from the crowd, Elizabeth noticed a woman seated on an overturned crate near the side of the milliner’s shop, her head bent low and hands clenched in her apron. Jane followed her glance, and they exchanged a quiet look before stepping away from the girls.
“Mrs Baker?” Elizabeth said gently.
The woman looked up; her eyes red-rimmed. “Miss Bennet.” Her voice wavered. “Forgive me. I did not want to cry in front of everyone.”
Jane knelt beside her. “Is it Fred?”
The woman nodded. “He told me this morning, but I did not believe he would actually do it. He is only just one and twenty, last week. Said he did not want to be a burden anymore.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She had known Fredrick Baker since he was a boy who ran errands to Longbourn for eggs and firewood. She had helped him catch frogs once by the stream behind Oakham Mount.
“He could have waited. He could have asked,” the woman whispered. “But what does a boy know of war? All he sees is red coats and shiny buttons.”
Jane took her hand gently. “Perhaps he will be stationed near home. Many are. And he may yet be given time before he marches.”
Mrs Baker shook her head. “They promise anything when they want you to sign. But I have seen the lists. I have seen the letters.”
The distant beat of a drum rolled out again from the green.
Elizabeth rose slowly, her jaw tight. “Come,” she said to Jane. “Let us get the ribbon and return to Mama. We have had enough of war songs and promises for one morning.”
* * *
July 1811
The afternoon sun warmed the windows at Lucas Lodge, though no one sitting inside seemed inclined to enjoy it. Elizabeth perched on the edge of a faded armchair, twisting a thread from her glove. Charlotte sat nearby with her mending in her lap, but she had not taken a stitch in several minutes.
“There was a dreadful row the first night back,” Charlotte said at last, voice low. “William tried to reason with him, but Henry stormed out. He’s more set on enlisting than ever.”
Elizabeth sighed. “And your parents?”
“They are still hoping it is a phase. My mother thinks he will forget all about it when term resumes. My father pretends to agree.” She paused. “I do not think he believes it.”
Outside, the shouts of young boys echoed across the lawn. Robert and Andrew Lucas, deep in some elaborate military campaign. Elizabeth glanced toward the window but did not smile.
Charlotte lowered her voice. “They have raised the number of men each parish must provide. Volunteers have not met expectations, so the pressure is increasing.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “The south is collapsing. Brighton is nearly emptied of soldiers.”
Charlotte nodded. “And now every family is glancing over their shoulders, wondering who might be called upon next.”
A silence fell. Elizabeth did not break it.
“Papa says we are fortunate William is home,” Charlotte offered, though she did not sound reassured. “And Henry… he cannot enlist without consent. Not until his birthday.”
Elizabeth said nothing for a moment, then looked up. “I keep praying that the war ends before Henry turns one and twenty,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “May of 1813 is not far enough away for my liking.”
Charlotte dropped her needle into the basket. “I wish he had never spoken of it. It hangs over everything now. And my mother will not speak of anything else.”
Elizabeth finally stood. “I ought to check on Lydia and Kitty, last I saw, they were loitering near the road trying to catch the officers’ attention. And you might see what your brothers are plotting in the orchard.”
That drew a weak smile from Charlotte. “Robert tied a ribbon to the kettle and declared it artillery.”
As Elizabeth crossed the hall toward the garden, she caught sight of Sir William in his study; head bowed over papers, spectacles perched low on his nose. The whole household had changed since spring. The drums were not in Meryton any more, but the war had not gone away.
It was coming closer.
* * *
That evening, the heat of July had settled over Hertfordshire, pressing down on the countryside like a heavy blanket.
At Longbourn, the windows were flung open in every room, though the air was still and thick with the scent of sun-warmed hay.
Elizabeth was upstairs helping Jane decide between two gowns when the sound of carriage wheels crunching down the lane broke through the stillness.
Downstairs, the sound of Kitty’s giggling joined Lydia’s shrieks of excitement. Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and they both sighed with a mix of fondness and dread.
“You seem quiet,” Jane said gently, as Elizabeth helped her with a hairpin.
Elizabeth hesitated, then said, “I keep thinking about Papa. If things worsen, if they raise the numbers again… what if they start requiring names by household?”
Jane turned; concern written plainly on her face. “You do not think they would ask him to go?”
“No,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Not truly. But pressure has a way of trickling down. And the officers must be wondering where else they can find men.”
Jane reached out and took her hand. “Papa is no soldier any more. Everyone knows that.”
“I know,” Elizabeth replied. “But I still worry.”
Jane squeezed her fingers gently. “So do I.”
“It seems the peace of summer is well and truly over,” Elizabeth said, adjusting the fall of Jane’s sleeve.
“I hope you will at least try to enjoy yourself,” Jane replied gently.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Only if you will, dearest.”
By the time they arrived at the Meryton Assembly that evening, the atmosphere in the hall was as thick as the summer air.
Lanterns had been strung along the rafters, and the musicians were already tuning their instruments.
Neighbours, acquaintances, and strangers alike milled about in various stages of conversation, speculation, and appraisal.
Elizabeth entered with her sisters, Mama resplendent in new ribbons and already scanning the crowd for the wealthiest prospects.
Charlotte Lucas was just ahead of them with her parents, nodding politely at familiar faces.
The Lucases had arrived earlier, but William and Henry had only just returned to the neighbourhood a few days before.
Their presence added fuel to the evening’s interest.
The musicians struck up the opening set, and Elizabeth found herself in steady demand.
With so many officers present, the floor was crowded with eager young men in scarlet.
She accepted partners with composure, but her eyes often strayed, watching Jane move with quiet grace, and catching fleeting glimpses of Kitty and Lydia weaving between their partners, their faces bright with excitement.
Henry Lucas was surrounded by a small knot of eager admirers, his easy smile and youthful enthusiasm making him a favourite among the younger ladies. William stood more reservedly nearby, speaking to his father and several older gentlemen.
Charlotte made her way to Elizabeth’s side during a pause in the music. “He promised not to speak of it tonight,” she said quietly, her gaze on Henry.
Elizabeth arched a brow. “And has he kept that promise?”
“So far,” Charlotte replied. “But the evening is not over.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze. Henry was laughing at something a red-haired girl had just said. For tonight, at least, he looked like any other young man enjoying the summer.
But the drums still echoed, just beyond the edge of the music.
Later, William Lucas approached and asked Elizabeth for a set.
She smiled and accepted, enjoying his calm manner and steady hand.
As they danced, their conversation drifted from the music to the shifting mood in the parish.
William asked gently after her father, and Elizabeth returned the question with a glance toward the Lucases’ own situation.
There was no need to speak Henry’s name aloud, it hung unspoken between them.
Their steps were smooth, their words quiet, but beneath it ran a shared unease neither wished to name in such a public space.
Not long after, Henry himself arrived to claim a set. He grinned as he led her to the floor; though his energy was more exuberant than his brother’s, he danced well. Elizabeth found herself laughing despite her worries.
“You have improved since last winter,” she teased.
Henry mock-groaned. “Do not sound so surprised.”
“I am,” she said, still smiling.
Henry leaned a little closer as the figures of the dance brought them side by side again. “Tonight is just dancing. Nothing else.”
Elizabeth held his gaze a moment. “Then let us make it a good one.”
And for that brief time, they did.
As the music ended and the dancers applauded, Henry offered his arm.
“Shall I fetch you some punch?” he asked, already steering her toward the refreshment table.
“Only if you promise not to spill it again,” she replied with a teasing glance.
He gave a sheepish smile. “I make no promises.”
They were nearly to the table when a pair of young men brushed past, talking in low, hurried tones.
“-heard they are considering a draft, if the numbers do not improve-”
“Not officially, but my cousin in town said the lists are being drawn up, just in case-”
Elizabeth slowed, the words pricking her like a sudden chill. Henry heard them too; she felt it in the way his arm tensed beneath her hand.
Their eyes met, the laughter fading from both their faces.
“I am sure it is only talk,” he said after a beat, too lightly.
Elizabeth said nothing at first. Then, quietly: “Talk has a way of turning real, these days.”
They stood in silence for a moment as the murmur of conversation and clinking glasses rose around them once more.
* * *
Later, when the house had gone quiet and the last echo of the musicians’ tune had faded, Elizabeth found herself in the attic, lantern in hand. The heat still clung to the air, heavy and motionless.
She had come looking for something, she told herself it was only an old shawl, but her steps brought her instead to the trunk near the back wall. The latch stuck, as always, but gave way with a firm tug.
Inside, wrapped in an old linen cloth, was her father’s uniform.
The red coat, dulled now by time, still bore its brass buttons and faded braid.
She touched it carefully, brushing dust from the collar.
Then, on a sudden impulse, she lifted it and pressed it to herself, the weight of it folding awkwardly over her bodice.
She pulled her hair loose from its pins and tied it back at the nape of her neck, just as she had seen soldiers do it. The curls resisted, as they always did, but she twisted them into a tail and tied it off with a strip of muslin torn from an old shift.
It was not perfect. But it was enough.
The weight shifted differently down her back. Lighter. Stranger. She touched the knot, then reached again for the coat.
Standing there in the half-light, with her hair bound like a recruit and her father’s coat draped across her arms, Elizabeth Bennet disappeared, and Thomas Bennet took his first breath.
In the dimness, she stood a moment longer, coat in her arms, hair tied back like the men she had watched from a distance, and from across rooms, and in dances where war stayed politely outside the hall. But it was no longer distant.
And she would not let it take her father. Or Henry. Not if she could help it.