Weakness
Elizabeth limped beside William as the recruits filed back toward their tents. Her shoulder ached with every step, and her palms stung from the reins, but it was her pride that smarted most of all.
“He thinks me a weakling,” she muttered at last, keeping her voice low lest the others overhear. “Every time I fell, I could feel his eyes upon me, cold as stone. Major Darcy will never believe I belong here.”
William glanced at her, his expression guarded but not unkind. “He is harsh with all of us, Thomas. That stallion has thrown better riders than you, and he knows it. No one held their seat today.”
“But it was different with me,” Elizabeth insisted. “He looked at me as though I were a child. He must wonder why I am here at all.”
William shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “He wonders that of every man under his command, I think. It is his way. He breaks us down to see what remains standing. And you stood longer than most.”
A knot of recruits passed them, speaking low but not so low that their words could not be heard.
“Thought he would break him in half,” one muttered.
Another snorted. “If the General had not stopped him, the Major would have ridden Bennet into the ground. A weakling will never last.”
Laughter followed them, sharp as the morning air.
Elizabeth’s face burned, though she kept her eyes fixed ahead. Every word pressed against her pride like a bruise. She forced her step to remain even, her shoulders square, though inside she felt small and shaken.
Her throat ached. The memory of Major Darcy’s unyielding gaze would not leave her, nor the sharp order ringing in her ears. Again. Always again. Had the General not spoken, she knew the Major would have driven her to mount until she could rise no more.
“He would have broken me,” she whispered.
William shook his head firmly. “He would have broken all of us, Thomas. That is why the General stopped him. Do not imagine it was only you who failed. We all did, and the fault lay with the beast, not the rider.”
“He thinks as they do,” she whispered. “That I am not fit for this. That I am wasting his time.”
William’s hand brushed her arm, quick and steady, the only comfort he dared. “He thinks you must be tested, Thomas, as we all must. The Major looks for what lies beneath failure, not what is shown in the first attempt. Do not give him reason to believe them.”
“I will prove him wrong,” she said at last, her voice low but certain. “If I fall ten times, I will rise eleven.”
William nodded, his expression softening. “That is the soldier’s way.”
A faint, weary smile touched his mouth. “Charlotte writes that Henry is restless, still dreaming of joining the colours,” he added quietly. “At least he dreams from a safe distance.”
Elizabeth’s answering smile was brief. “Let him keep to his dreams,” she murmured.
The wind had dropped, and the camp lay hushed save for the clatter of distant pots and the low murmur of voices. They walked the last few yards in silence, each lost in thought.
As the men drifted past, Sergeant Barrow jerked his chin at her. “You hear when a file wanders. Keep that to yourself and tell Lucas quiet. Some men never hear it.”
They reached the tents at last. Elizabeth ducked inside and sank onto her cot, her limbs trembling with weariness.
She pulled off her gloves, staring at the raw patches across her palms where the reins had rubbed her skin raw.
Mud streaked her coat, and when she raised a hand to her face she felt the grit still clinging to her cheek.
The others spoke and laughed beyond the canvas, but she sat in silence.
She unfastened her coat; bound her hair more tightly beneath her cap, and pressed a cold cloth to her bruised shoulder.
Her pride still smarted, sharper than any ache of the flesh, yet she held fast to the words she had spoken on the march.
She would endure. However many times she was thrown down, she would rise again.
Elizabeth sat stiffly on her cot, her coat still heavy with mud, her shoulder throbbing each time she moved. William stretched out opposite her, silent, though she could see the concern he tried to mask.
The canvas flap stirred and Jane slipped inside with a small basket. “You need not sit and stew in here, Thomas,” she said gently. “Come, take a short walk with me. It will ease the ache.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded. Walking had always cleared her thoughts. She rose carefully, biting back a wince, and followed her sister out into the cool air.
They moved past the shadowed tents until the noise of the camp dulled behind them. Jane slowed her step, her arm brushing Elizabeth’s. “Tell me,” she urged softly. “What weighs on you?”
Elizabeth bent her head. “He thinks me a weakling. I saw it in his eyes. The others laughed, and I could not silence them. The Major would have driven me until I broke, had the General not spoken.”
Jane caught her hand and squeezed. “You rose each time you fell. That is not weakness, Thomas, but strength. Do not let their laughter blind you to what you achieved. Even Captain Bingley said you showed spirit in the attempt, and he is not one to flatter idly.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Captain Bingley spoke of me?”
Jane coloured faintly. “Only a word, in kindness. He remarked upon your perseverance.”
Elizabeth’s brow arched. “And you happened to hear it?”
Jane turned her face slightly away, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a smile. “He was near when we were gathering supplies. He speaks freely with everyone. It was nothing.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved despite herself. “Nothing, you say, yet you blush to repeat it. Jane, are you certain it is nothing?”
Her sister shook her head quickly, though her eyes softened. “It is too soon to speak of such things. The Captain is amiable, but we are only acquainted.”
Elizabeth gave her hand a final squeeze. “Acquainted today, perhaps. Tomorrow may tell another tale.”
They walked on a little further before Jane paused. “I must return. Will you come?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not yet.”
Jane studied her for a moment, then kissed her brow lightly before turning back toward the tents.
For a moment, she longed for Longbourn, for quiet fields where no one judged her strength. The thought shamed her. She had chosen this path, and she would not retreat.
Elizabeth lingered near the stables. From within came the restless snort of a horse and the heavy stamp of hooves. Wicked tossed his head, his dark eyes glinting faintly in the shadows.
Elizabeth reached into her coat and drew out an apple she had saved from supper. Her hand trembled as she held it through the bars, yet she kept it steady. The stallion hesitated, then stepped forward. With a sudden snap of teeth, the apple was gone, his breath warm against her palm.
Elizabeth laughed softly, relief easing her chest. She drew another from her pocket and offered it. This time Wicked came without pause, fierce and unyielding, yet willing to take what she gave.
“You are not so wicked as they think,” she whispered. “Only proud. I know what it is to be proud.”
The horse crunched noisily, and for the first time that day her heart eased. She leaned her brow against the cold wood of the stall. “They may call me weak, but I will prove them wrong. I will not yield.”
Elizabeth lingered a moment longer by the stall, her palm tingling where Wicked’s warm breath had touched it.
The sound of a trumpet carried across the camp, sharp in the cold night air.
She started, remembering herself. The evening meal.
If she did not appear with the others, questions would be asked.
She slipped the last bite of apple to the stallion, then turned back toward the lines. The ground was hard beneath her boots, churned with hoofmarks and footprints, the air alive with the mingled scents of smoke, hay, and damp earth.
The mess tent glowed ahead, lanterns swaying at its entrance. Already the recruits pressed inside, their voices raised in laughter and complaint. Elizabeth squared her shoulders and joined them.
The chill of evening deepened as the recruits filed toward the mess tent.
Lanterns swung from the poles, casting long shadows across the trampled ground, and the smell of smoke and stewed meat hung heavy in the air.
Elizabeth followed in step with William, her limbs stiff and her shoulder sore, though her hunger was sharp enough to drive her forward.
Inside, the tent was crowded with noise and bodies.
Men jostled for place at the long boards, voices raised in laughter or complaint, the clatter of trenchers and mugs filling the space.
Elizabeth took her seat beside William, gripping her spoon with raw hands as a steaming bowl of broth was set before her.
She forced herself to eat. The bread was coarse, the meat stringy, yet she swallowed each bite with care.
At Longbourn such a portion would have been more than enough; here it was scarcely a beginning.
Around her the men devoured double and triple helpings, their bowls scraped clean before she had managed half.
Between drills they kept what food they could from the morning rations—apples, bread, or cheese, simple fare—to quiet their hunger through the long hours of work.
Elizabeth ate more slowly, unaccustomed to such appetites, yet aware that strength was measured here by endurance as much as by skill.
“Eat faster, Bennet,” one called across the board, grinning through a mouthful of bread. “Or you will go hungry.”
Laughter rippled along the table. Elizabeth pressed her lips together and lifted another spoonful, though her stomach already sat heavy. William leaned close, his voice low. “Do not mind them. They have stomachs like oxen and the manners to match.”
Elizabeth gave a faint nod, though her pride stung afresh. Even here, she was set apart.
* * *
The officers’ tent stood apart, canvas stretched taut and lanterns burning bright within. The table was laid with plain fare: stewed beef, coarse bread, a dish of cheese. The warmth of the brazier and the company gave it a dignity the recruits’ mess could never claim.
General Fitzwilliam sat at the head, his cloak cast aside, his manner calm but commanding. Captain Bingley took the place at his right, cheerful and eager, while Major Darcy sat opposite, every line of his figure composed and precise.
“You had the men at Wicked today,” Richard began, tearing a piece of bread. His eyes gleamed with dry amusement. “That horse would throw Alexander the Great, and still you set him against raw recruits.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, though his tone remained even. “They must learn that discipline alone holds a man in his seat. Every stumble now spared a coffin later.” He would rather see a man broken in training than buried for want of it.
Richard raised a brow. “There is a difference between hardening men and breaking them. I trust you will not confuse the two.”
Bingley, eager to smooth the air, leaned forward. “They spoke of it at the supply lines, General. Even after being thrown, Lieutenant Bennet rose at once and tried again. That kind of spirit ought not to be dismissed.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked to the table. “Spirit is of little use if a man cannot keep his seat.”
“Perhaps,” Bingley replied gently, “but I have seen spirit carry men further than strength alone.” His smile softened. “Miss Bennet would tell you the same, I think. She believes…” He stopped himself, a faint flush rising to his cheek. “That is to say, her good sense is plain.”
Richard’s eyes gleamed as he watched him. “Is this your latest ladylove, Captain? You are ever quick to admire.”
Bingley flushed deeper, though his smile did not falter. “You mistake me, General. Miss Bennet is all goodness and sense. I would not presume to speak more than that.”
Darcy’s expression remained unreadable, his hand curling once upon the table before he stilled it.
The meal continued in quieter turns until Richard set down his knife.
“I had word from London before I left, and it is grave. The French have crossed. They hold ground near Birling Gap, along the Sussex coast. Villages lie in ashes, and the militia has been scattered. The Admiralty scrambles to contain them, but the enemy does not retreat.”
The tent fell utterly still. Bingley’s easy cheer drained away. “They are here…already?”
Richard’s gaze was hard. “Here, and not yet driven back. If reinforcements cross, the south will not hold without every regiment England can muster. We may be called at a day’s notice.”
Darcy’s eyes were steady. “Then we must waste no hour. The men must be soldiers now, not later. Whatever they suffer in training will spare lives when the call comes.”
Richard studied him for a long moment, then lifted his cup. “To England, and to the day we drive them into the sea.”
Bingley raised his glass with grave resolve. “To England.”
Darcy drank in silence. He told himself it was no more than duty to weigh the measure of his officers, and yet his thoughts lingered not on the wine, nor the war, but on the mud-streaked figure who had risen each time he fell.
Others broke, Bennet rose. Again and again.
It was intolerable that he should notice.
Had times been different, had peace held, he might never have met the lad at all. Richard would not be a general, nor would Darcy be here at Baldham. He would have been at Pemberley, among books and ledgers, tenants and fields. Instead, war had swept them both into roles they had never sought.
When the camp settled at last into silence, Darcy sat alone with lamp and paper.
His words were brief, yet each stroke of the pen pressed harder than it need.
He requested confirmation of Lieutenant Bennet’s commission, the particulars of his age and station, and any record of his family.
Fletcher, setting aside his coat and boots, glanced once toward the page but asked no question.
Darcy sealed it with a hand that did not shake, though his thoughts were less steady.
The letter would ride with the dawn courier.
Until an answer returned, he must wait. And watching Bennet would be peril enough.