A Flower Among the Reeds
The riding lesson was an unmitigated disaster.
Elizabeth stood by the horse, its large frame towering over her.
She could feel the weight of the stares from the other recruits, all of them already mounted and waiting.
Her hands gripped the reins far too tightly, fingers cramping with the effort to hold on, though she had no idea how to control the beast before her.
“Ready to mount, Bennet?” Sergeant Barrow’s gruff voice cut through the murmurs of the group.
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She had never been a horsewoman, and it seemed the world had conspired to remind her of that now. She had heard of cavalrymen back home, their graceful poise, but it was a skill she had never thought necessary.
She missed the stirrup once, then twice, before finally managing to scramble up with the help of mane and saddle.
Her weight unsettled the horse; she nearly pitched sideways before clutching the reins to right herself.
The animal shifted, and she pulled too sharply, jerking it to one side. Snickers rippled through the ranks.
“Careful,” Sergeant Barrow barked. “Get it together, Bennet.”
She sat stiffly, shoulders locked, her heart hammering. When she tried to nudge the horse forward, it refused to move. She kicked again, harder; still it stood. The Sergeant Barrow’s sigh cut sharper than his words.
The other recruits, men who had been trained since childhood in riding, watched her with a mix of curiosity and amusement. A few snickers floated through the group, making her cheeks burn.
Sergeant Barrow’s patience was thinning. “Right, Bennet, you will need to move it forward, get the horse going.”
She nudged the horse with her heels, but it barely moved, as if mocking her awkwardness. The horse remained still, and the instructor’s sigh echoed in her ears.
“Do you know how to ride at all?” he asked, his tone dismissive.
Elizabeth felt the weight of his words, the heat of shame rising in her chest. She shifted, trying to sit up straighter, but the saddle felt entirely foreign beneath her.
Her heart pounded as she tried again, giving the horse another nudge with her heels.
The animal shifted forward with reluctance, barely a step before halting again.
“Move it, Bennet.” Sergeant Barrow’s voice was sharp. “Get him walking.”
She felt her stomach knot as the others watched, waiting for her to succeed or fail. Her hands were slick on the reins, her posture stiff. She kicked the horse once more, but it refused to budge.
“I cannot,” she muttered under her breath, but the words fell silent against the noise of the camp.
After what felt like an eternity, Sergeant Barrow gave a harsh, frustrated grunt and stepped toward her. “Enough. We will deal with this later. You are holding up the rest of the men.”
Across the yard Major Darcy had halted. He did not speak. His attention rested on her a fraction too long, then shifted on as if it had never stopped. When he turned, his gloved hand creased hard at the fingers before he smoothed it flat.
She dismounted quickly, her knees trembling. The whispers of the men were deafening, though none of them spoke directly to her. They had seen her fail. And the shame of it all was a weight she could not shake.
Sergeant Barrow tossed her a battered firelock. “At least see to the flint.”
Then Elizabeth checked the screw, turned the stone a hair, and tapped the edge with the back of her knife until it caught the lantern light clean. She primed the pan, shut the frizzen, and handed it back.
Sergeant Barrow snapped it. Sparks flew bright and even. He looked at her properly for the first time.
“Who taught you that, Bennet?”
“My uncle kept pistols, sergeant.”
“Hnh. Keep your seat poor if you must. Keep your firelock sound.”
Sergeant Barrow moved on.
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye across the camp and went to her. “Cousin, walk with me,” she said in a low voice.
Jane lifted her basket without hesitation and fell into step. Once they were clear of the path, Elizabeth said quietly, “I need cloth.”
“Mrs Hensley has set the women to sewing by the hour,” Jane said, smiling faintly. “It keeps them busy, and it keeps me from worrying quite so much.”
Jane’s hand slipped into her basket at once. “I thought as much,” she replied with a faint smile. “It is my time as well. We shall contrive together.” She pressed a neat folded parcel into Elizabeth’s palm. “And I brought willow bark.”
Elizabeth’s relief was immediate. “You think of everything.”
“Not everything,” Jane said gently, “but enough to keep you safe. Go and set yourself in order. I will stand guard. If anyone asks, I have sent you for bread.”
Elizabeth went behind the hedgerow, her heart easing even as her body ached. At Longbourn their courses had often come together, a trial endured without secrecy. Here, amid muskets and mud, it felt a danger. Yet Jane’s foresight steadied her.
When she returned, Jane was arranging her basket as though nothing were amiss. She passed her a small paper twist. “For later,” she said lightly.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
Jane’s smile was serene. “We are family, Thomas. Always.”
* * *
From the edge of the ring, Darcy watched in silence.
Bennet had mounted at last, but sat the horse like a man astride a barrel, stiff and graceless, every movement forced.
His grip was white upon the reins, his jaw locked in silence.
A gentleman might lack polish, but he did not ride so poorly.
Instinct should have steadied him; instinct was absent.
Darcy’s mouth hardened. Spirit was not enough.
Better a man break here than falter under fire.
Later, as the camp settled into its rhythm, Darcy’s thoughts returned to the name he had overheard on the first day.
Bennet had a cousin among the ladies of the camp, one of the party who moved between the tents with baskets and quiet purpose.
Perhaps that explained why the lad lingered so persistently in his mind.
Kinship left an impression, and where one cousin served, the other might naturally draw attention.
Still, he was not content with second-hand observation.
If he was to understand the measure of this recruit, he ought to see more of those connected to him.
The ladies attached to the camp were not his usual sphere, yet a commander could not remain entirely aloof.
He would take occasion to observe them, and if possible to speak with them.
In such ways a man often learned more of his soldiers than drill or parade could ever show.
Even so, when his gaze returned to the recruits’ tents, he felt no clearer. Bennet was a problem, and problems demanded resolution. Whether he endured or broke would soon be proven, and Darcy would see it settled before the regiment was called to the field.
* * *
In the dim light of the barracks, one recruit grumbled as he rubbed his bruised shoulder. “Kent is on edge, or so I heard. They have doubled the militia there. Best pray the French stay to their side of the water.”
Elizabeth caught the words and felt a chill, though she held her tongue.
The camp, despite its gruelling demands, had a few moments of levity, though for Elizabeth, they often felt like brief interruptions to the relentless pace of training. But Jane, ever composed and graceful, seemed to effortlessly bring light to the harsh environment.
Miss Bingley had arrived with her brother and was now installed among the ladies attached to the camp.
Her gowns, once bright, were already dulled with dust, and her manner betrayed little relish for the coarse fare or the smoke of the fires.
She affected the air of one enduring noble hardship, though it was plain enough that her true purpose was to remain near Major Darcy.
Where Jane lent herself with quiet diligence to the work of counting rations or carrying bread, Miss Bingley moved only to cast disdainful glances at the mud, the men, and the company she was obliged to keep.
At the morning roll call, when Elizabeth and the other recruits were lined up for drill, Jane had been sent to assist with the camp’s relief efforts, distributing supplies, organising the men’s tents, helping with anything needed for camp life.
It was here, away from the drill grounds, that Jane seemed to truly shine.
Other ladies had been brought with the officers’ households, but where they found cause to complain of smoke or mud, Jane bent herself to every useful task.
As Jane moved through the camp, her demeanour soft yet purposeful, several officers, particularly Captain Bingley, watched her with clear interest. They would stop mid-conversation, caught by the way Jane seemed to glide, calm and serene amid the chaos of the military world.
She handled herself with an ease that made her seem almost untouchable.
Elizabeth, under the guise of “Thomas,” noticed this with quiet frustration. She saw the way Captain Bingley and the other officers exchanged glances when Jane passed by. They found her captivating, and even more so when they learned that she was Bennet’s cousin.
Later that evening, as Elizabeth walked back to her tent, she overheard the officers discussing Jane. They had been speaking of her in hushed tones as they gathered around the campfire.
“She is different from the others,” Captain Bingley remarked, his voice quieter than usual. “Her grace is undeniable. It is as though she doesn’t quite belong here, in the midst of all this.”
A younger officer, not yet a lieutenant, agreed. “I have never seen anyone move so smoothly in this place. It is like she knows how to handle the chaos without losing herself.”
“She is certainly captivating,” Captain Bingley added, his eyes lingering on Jane as she spoke to one of the men in the distance. “I must speak to her soon, when the chance arises.”