Live Another Day
Darcy had slept little. The dismissal of Lieutenant Bennet had seemed necessary, both for the sake of the company and for his own peace of mind.
The boy was too slight, too untrained, and too slow to master even the rudiments of soldiering.
To keep him would weaken the line. It was right that he should be sent home.
Yet even as he thought it, unease pricked at him.
Bennet claimed to be one and twenty, but Darcy doubted it.
The lad could scarce be more than eighteen, perhaps younger still, though pride and stubbornness lent him a man’s bearing.
And that awareness made his own unease all the more troubling.
Bennet had stirred in him a notice he should never have allowed.
The fire in his eyes, the defiance that would not bend even when beaten into the dirt, had caught Darcy unawares.
He had found himself watching, measuring, admiring.
It was dangerous. It was unlawful. It was intolerable.
To remove Bennet from camp was the only safeguard.
Darcy told himself this again as the recruits shifted restlessly under his gaze.
Fletcher entered quietly, carrying Darcy’s coat over one arm. He set it down with care before speaking. “You look worn, sir. The camp is a hard place for any man to find rest.”
Darcy did not look up. “Rest is not required. Discipline is. A commander must keep his mind fixed, whatever the hour.”
Fletcher laid out the waistcoat and brushed the last speck of dust from the dark cloth. “As you say, sir. Yet sometimes the mind presses harder when one is weary. A night’s sleep may soften a judgment made in haste.”
Darcy turned sharply. “There was no haste. Lieutenant Bennet is unfit. The sooner he is sent away, the sooner the company will be strengthened.”
Fletcher inclined his head, his manner deferential though his eyes were thoughtful. “As you say, sir. Yet I could not help but note, when he was dismissed yesterday, that he rose each time he fell. Not every man would do so.”
Darcy pulled on his coat, fastening it with decisive motions. “Rising is of no use if one cannot stand in the line. Perseverance without strength is nothing but folly.”
“Yes, sir,” Fletcher said quietly, handing him his gloves.
Darcy stilled for a moment, the leather tightening over his fingers.
He would not admit it aloud, not even to Fletcher, yet another truth pressed at him.
Bennet had risen. Always risen. That fire in his eyes had burned against every failure.
It was what had caught Darcy unawares. What had drawn him against his own judgment. He would not endure it another day.
By the time Darcy stepped into the chill morning air, the camp was stirring. Sergeant Barrow barked orders, muskets gleamed faintly in the pale light, and the smell of smoke from the cook-fires carried across the ground.
Richard had departed the previous day, leaving Darcy in full command once more.
The absence of his cousin’s counsel was keenly felt, yet Darcy told himself it was for the best. With the General gone, his own authority stood clear and unchallenged.
The men must know discipline, not indulgence. They must be hardened, not coddled.
In more peaceful years, Richard would still be a colonel, his days spent in steady marches and calculated manoeuvrers rather than being hurled from one crisis to the next.
Necessity had made him a general, not time.
And necessity had made Darcy a commandant.
In quieter days, he might have waited another decade for such responsibility.
He crossed toward the parade ground, his boots striking against the firm earth where the dew still clung in silver beads.
The recruits formed their ranks under Barrow’s sharp eye, though some shifted nervously, as if awaiting more than drill.
Darcy’s gaze swept coldly over them. By the next dawn Bennet would be gone, and discipline would be the stronger for it.
A sudden outcry broke the order. Shouts, half fear and half astonishment, rose from the direction of the stables. The line wavered, men craning their necks to see. Another cry followed, louder still.
Darcy strode forward at once, his temper flaring at the breach of discipline. “Hold your ranks,” he commanded, but the recruits scarcely heard. Their eyes were fixed upon the commotion ahead.
He forced his way through the knot of men. The sight that met him was almost beyond belief.
Wicked stood in the open space before the stalls, his black coat gleaming with sweat, his breath rising in clouds against the cool October air. And upon his back, calm and upright, sat Lieutenant Bennet.
The boy’s hands held the reins steady, his shoulders square, his expression composed. Wicked shifted once, tossing his head with restless energy, but he did not throw him. He did not even try. The beast stood contained beneath the slight rider, as though conceding a contest long fought.
A murmur rippled through the men. “He holds him. Bennet holds Wicked.”
Darcy’s steps slowed. He could scarcely credit what he saw.
The youth he had judged too weak for a musket, too young for a commission, now sat astride the most dangerous horse in camp with composure unlooked for.
Bennet’s life was in peril with every violent plunge that might yet come, yet Darcy knew the sharper danger was to his own heart.
A skinny boy had accomplished what none of the polished young ladies of the ton had ever managed. He commanded Darcy’s full and unwilling admiration.
Thomas Bennet, this mud-streaked recruit who refused to bend, had undone him. Darcy told himself it was folly, it was unlawful, it was intolerable. Yet still his gaze lingered, drawn as if against his own will.
“Lieutenant Bennet,” Darcy said at last, his voice cold and commanding. “Dismount.”
The boy obeyed without hesitation. He swung from the saddle with surprising steadiness, his boots striking the earth as Wicked snorted and stamped once before settling. For a heartbeat the camp was silent, every eye fixed upon Bennet.
Darcy let the silence stretch, then spoke with measured severity. “What you have witnessed is not triumph, but lesson. A soldier is not made by daring alone. Spirit may lift a man into the saddle, but it is discipline that keeps him alive in the field. Remember that.”
A murmur ran through the ranks, subdued now, their earlier awe tempered by his words. Darcy turned sharply to Sergeant Barrow. “Form the line. Drill them until the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Barrow barked, setting the men to motion with quick, hard commands.
Darcy’s gaze lingered one moment longer on Bennet. Mud clung to his coat, his hair was damp with sweat, yet his chin remained high, his eyes alight with something fierce and unbroken. Darcy felt the sharp tug in his chest once more and turned away before it betrayed him.
He told himself it was settled. Bennet would remain under discipline, as all must. The company would march, would drill, and would harden into soldiers. Yet beneath that certainty, another truth pressed close: this boy had unsettled him more than any man had right to do.
Darcy did not immediately dismiss Bennet. Instead he fixed the youth with a level look. “Remain where you are. You will wait until I decide what is to be done with you.”
Bennet bowed his head in stiff obedience, though his jaw was tight. He stood apart, mud still clinging to his coat, while the others were marched off under Sergeant Barrow’s eye.
Darcy turned toward the officers’ tent. “Captain Bingley,” he said curtly.
Bingley followed at once, his expression uncertain, eager to read his friend’s mind. Once inside the canvas shelter, Darcy allowed the flap to fall. He stood a moment in silence, drawing off his gloves with sharp, deliberate movements.
“You saw what he did,” Bingley said quickly. “No man, not even Lucas, has managed it, and yet Bennet held Wicked.
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “He is no soldier. He is slight, poorly trained, and cannot master even the musket. I should send him home at once.”
“But you have seen his spirit,” Bingley pressed, leaning forward. “He rises each time he falls. I have never seen such determination in one so young. Is that not what you yourself value most?”
Darcy paced once, then turned, his voice low. “It is precisely what makes him dangerous. Spirit without discipline is wildfire. And there is more. He claims to be one and twenty, but I do not believe it. Eighteen at best, perhaps less. He should not even be here.”
Bingley frowned, troubled. “Even so, sir, you cannot deny what we witnessed. The men will speak of it for days. If you send him away now, it will look as though you cast him off for proving you wrong.”
Darcy stilled. The words struck deep, though he gave no sign. He folded his gloves and set them upon the table. “Then what would you have me do?”
Bingley’s voice softened. “Test him further. Watch him. If he fails, let him go. But if he endures…”
Darcy cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Enough. I will give the matter thought. For now, he will wait.”
Bingley inclined his head, though his eyes still held quiet appeal. Darcy did not meet them. He had seen too much already.
* * *
Outside the officers’ tent, Elizabeth stood where Major Darcy had ordered her, the chill biting through her damp coat. Her heart still beat fast from the ride, though she forced her face into calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her unease.
The recruits who had once mocked her now glanced her way with something closer to regard. A few offered nods, another clapped her shoulder in passing. “Well held, Bennet,” one said, and there was no jeer in it.
Even Marshall, who had laughed loudest when she fell, muttered, “Never thought I would see Wicked mastered. You proved us wrong.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, though she kept her eyes lowered.
Their sudden goodwill stung almost as sharply as their mockery had done.
Yesterday they had named her weakling. Today they praised her.
She told herself it was the horse they admired, not her, and yet warmth flickered beneath her ribs all the same.
When she dared a glance across the yard, Jane was there with a smile she could not hide, her eyes bright with delight. Beside her, William grinned outright, the rare expression lighting his usually solemn face. He gave her a quick nod, the kind that spoke more than words ever could.
Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, pride swelling in her chest. For the first time since she had entered the camp, the men looked upon her as one of them.
The yard had quieted when the flap of the officers’ tent stirred. Major Darcy stepped out, his expression unreadable, his gaze settling at once on her.
“Lieutenant Bennet,” he said, his voice clear and hard enough to carry. “Inside.”
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath and obeyed. The warmth of the tent struck her after the evening chill, the air close with the smell of smoke and leather. Captain Bingley stood at one side, his face open with concern, while Major Darcy remained by the table, every line of him controlled.
She halted, saluted, and waited.
Major Darcy regarded her in silence for a long moment, as though weighing what he had seen against what he had judged before. At last he spoke. “You disobeyed orders. You mounted a horse without command, and you placed yourself in needless danger. That is not the conduct of a soldier.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze forward. “I sought only to prove, sir, that I was not the weakling they believe me to be.”
His eyes narrowed, though his tone did not rise. “You proved nothing if you cannot hold a musket or march in line. A man may tame a beast one hour and fall in the next. Discipline is measured not in a single act, but in the constancy of every act. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Darcy’s jaw tightened. He had expected defiance, yet the quiet steadiness in her answer unsettled him more than open rebellion. He looked away, unwilling to let his eyes linger upon that mud-streaked face with its unbroken resolve.
“You will return to your cot,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow you will be tested again. If you fail, there will be no second chance. You will leave this camp. Until then, you will keep your head low, your step in line, and your musket steady. Dismissed.”
Elizabeth bowed her head. “Yes, sir.”
She turned to go, her shoulders stiff with pride. Though she kept her gaze ahead, Elizabeth could feel Major Darcy’s eyes upon her, heavy as iron.
* * *
Bennet bowed his head and stepped from the tent. Darcy watched him leave, every line of his figure mud-streaked yet unyielding. The flap fell closed, and silence pressed in around him.
Darcy clasped his hands firmly behind his back, forcing his breath into measure.
He told himself he had spoken rightly, that discipline demanded severity.
And yet, as surely as he lived, the boy’s defiance and fire had lodged itself in his thoughts.
To see Bennet walk away with such pride was perilous to his peace.
Better then that Bingley should keep a close eye upon him, and report back as needed. That would be safest for all concerned.