The Breaking Point #2
The trumpet sounded grey and harsh at dawn. Elizabeth dragged herself upright, her limbs heavy and her eyes burning from want of sleep. She bound her hair more tightly, straightened her coat, and forced her face into calm as she joined William on the march to the ground.
The day’s training began with musket drill. They marched in line, shouldering and lowering arms in rhythm. Elizabeth’s musket weighed like iron in her hands, each motion slower than the last. When Sergeant Barrow barked for pace, she stumbled, throwing the line into disorder.
“Keep your feet, Bennet,” he snapped.
Snickers followed at once. “Perhaps he needs a stick to prop him up,” one recruit whispered loudly enough to be heard.
Heat rushed to Elizabeth’s cheeks, but she bit back any reply. She adjusted her hold and pressed forward, though her arms shook with each step.
Then came the bayonet practice. The recruits thrust in unison against the straw dummies, the rhythm loud and steady, except for hers. Her blade struck weakly, missing the mark more often than not. Laughter rippled down the line.
“He will never pierce a French coat at that rate,” someone called.
Her chest heaved, her palms raw against the wood. She struck again, but the musket wavered and the thrust sagged to the side.
By midday the company moved to endurance drill, officers as well as men bearing their marching kit across the churned ground.
Elizabeth’s shoulders screamed with pain, the straps biting cruelly where her bruises had not yet healed.
Twice she stumbled, once falling hard to her knees.
William slowed to help her rise, but Sergeant Barrow’s shout came swift and sharp.
“Leave him be, Lucas. If Bennet cannot bear even the standard kit, he is no use to the King.”
The recruits pressed on, their boots churning mud, while Elizabeth forced her body upright and staggered back into line. Pride alone kept her moving.
The sun was sinking low when the men were called to the ground for the final drill of the day.
Elizabeth’s arms shook with every motion, her vision blurred, and her steps dragged though she fought to keep pace.
At last Major Darcy strode forward, his expression hard as iron. Silence fell across the line.
“Lieutenant Bennet,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding. “You have been given every chance. Yet you stumble, you falter, and you cannot master the rudiments that every other man here has accomplished. You are unfit for service. At first light you will quit this camp and return home.”
The words struck like a blow. Elizabeth forced her shoulders square, though her chest ached. “Yes, sir.”
Darcy gave no further glance. He turned on his heel, and Sergeant Barrow’s shout set the line moving again. From behind the line Elizabeth heard the mutters meant for her ears. Sent home. Could not last. Weakling.
When they were dismissed, she walked with leaden steps back to her tent.
Her bundle lay ready from the night before.
She tied it once more with shaking hands and sat staring at it in the dim light.
The others laughed and jostled outside, the sounds of camp life continuing as if nothing had altered. Yet for her, the world had ended.
She bowed her head, her throat raw. To return home in disgrace, to face her father, her sisters, and admit she had failed, she could not endure it. Her pride burned hotter than her shame.
Inside the tent, William stretched out upon his cot at once, though his eyes lingered on Elizabeth. “You will see, Thomas,” he said quietly. “The Major is harsh, but you are not the only one he pushes to breaking. He sees more than he says.”
Elizabeth only shook her head. Her throat was too tight for words.
Jane parted from them at the flap, her lantern casting a faint glow across her face. “Rest, Thomas. Tomorrow may be better. You must not let despair blind you to what you have already endured.” She touched Elizabeth’s sleeve lightly, then withdrew to her own quarters.
Elizabeth lowered herself onto her cot, her body aching, her pride raw. William closed his eyes at last, his breathing soon deep and steady, but she lay long awake, staring at the canvas roof above. Their words had been kind, but they could not quiet the echo of Darcy’s judgment in her mind.
When the camp grew quieter, Elizabeth rose. Jane had already retired to the small tent set aside for her duties with the supplies, leaving Elizabeth and William to their own quarters among the recruits. William slept heavily, his arm flung across his blanket, his breath even and untroubled.
Elizabeth stood a moment in the dim light, her bundle packed at her feet. Then, with one last glance at William, she slipped from the tent and made her way to the stables. The night air was sharp, the stars veiled in thin cloud, lantern-light spilling faintly across the yard.
Wicked stood restless in his stall, his black coat gleaming dark in the flicker of the lamp.
He tossed his head as she approached, pawing at the straw.
Elizabeth set the lantern aside and reached for the bridle hanging upon the rail.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted it, but her resolve did not waver.
“If I cannot master you,” she whispered, “then I am lost already.”
The stallion’s breath steamed in the cold air as she slipped the bit gently between his teeth and drew the straps firm beneath his jaw.
She laid her cheek briefly against the curve of his neck, feeling the warmth of him, then took up the saddle and eased it onto his back.
The leather creaked softly as she tightened the girth.
“You are not wicked,” she murmured, her voice low and steady.
“You are only waiting for someone who will not fight you.” She traced her fingers along his mane, untangling a strand where straw had caught.
“I will not pull against you, nor drive you into anger. I will move with you. Will you let me try?”
Wicked’s ears flicked back, then forward again. His great sides rose and fell with a snort, warm air rushing into the chill night. Elizabeth rubbed her palm along his shoulder in slow circles, pressing gently as William had once shown her.
“Tell me what you need,” she whispered. “A steady hand, a firm seat, and a rider who trusts you. I can be that, if you will suffer me.”
The stallion shifted, pawed once at the straw, then stood still beneath her touch. Elizabeth drew a long breath, smoothed her palm once more along his flank, and felt her fear ease.
Only then did she place her foot in the stirrup. She swung into the saddle, her body steady though her heart thundered.
At once, Wicked surged beneath her, his muscles straining, his head tossing high. Elizabeth tightened her knees and set her hands firm upon the reins, but she did not pull hard. Instead she bent low, her voice steady though her heart thundered. “Easy, lad. I am with you. I will not fight you.”
The stallion twisted and reared, his great body heaving, but she pressed close to his neck and let him rise. She stroked his mane with one hand, whispering, “Show me your strength, and I will match it.”
Once she slid, nearly unseated, but she recovered, her legs gripping tighter.
She forced herself to breathe, to move with the horse rather than against him, to give him his head without surrendering her seat.
Slowly her body found the rhythm, her balance steadied, and for a moment the two were as one.
Wicked plunged again, fierce and sudden, but this time she rose with him, her voice low against his ear. “Yes, I feel you. I know you. We are not enemies.” Her legs held firm, her will fiercer even than his power.
At last he stamped, tossed, and stilled, his great body trembling beneath her, his breath loud in the stillness. Elizabeth’s own chest heaved, her hair damp against her brow, but she had not been thrown. She had endured.
She leaned forward, her hand gentle on his neck. “You see,” she whispered, not fierce now but sure, “I will not yield. Not to you, not to anyone.”
For the first time, Wicked stood quiet beneath her touch.
Elizabeth dismounted slowly, her legs trembling, and laid her cheek against the stallion’s warm neck. She had proved herself, though none had witnessed it. Tomorrow would bring judgment, but tonight she knew the truth.
She was no weakling. She would not go home in disgrace.