Standing Taller
The trumpet sounded thin in the mist, its call carrying across the camp with weary familiarity.
Elizabeth stirred at once, her body aching from the bruises of the day before.
Every muscle protested, her shoulders stiff, her palms raw, yet beneath the soreness there burned a strange and steady pride.
She had not been thrown. Wicked had yielded at last.
She pushed aside the coarse blanket and sat upright, binding her hair more tightly beneath her cap. The coat weighed heavily on her shoulders, but it no longer felt like borrowed armour. She stood straighter than she had in many days, her chin lifted as she reached for her boots.
William watched her from his cot, one brow arched in silent amusement. “You carry yourself differently this morning, Thomas,” he remarked at last. “As though the whole world has shifted.”
Elizabeth forced her expression into calm, though her heart quickened. “Perhaps it has.”
Jane slipped through the flap with her lantern in hand, her smile soft despite the early hour. “It is good to see you with colour in your face. You look more yourself today.”
Elizabeth bent to fasten her straps, unwilling to confess the reason for her steadiness.
Yet she felt the truth of it with every breath.
She had endured the beast that had thrown them all, and though no officer had spoken of it, she knew the men had seen.
That knowledge lent her a new strength, even as her arms still trembled when she flexed her fingers.
“Come then,” William said, rising and tugging on his coat. “We shall see what fresh torment Sergeant Barrow has devised. Perhaps today he will find that you are not so easily broken.”
Elizabeth gathered her musket, her gaze steady. “Perhaps.”
Together they stepped out into the pale morning, the mist curling low across the ground, the camp already stirring with voices and movement. For the first time since she had donned her cousin’s name, Elizabeth felt she could meet those voices without dread.
The days that followed passed in a blur of drill and discipline. From dawn to dusk the recruits were driven across the parade ground, muskets in hand, bayonets fixed, packs slung over weary shoulders. The labour did not lessen, but the weight upon Elizabeth’s spirit grew lighter.
The post had arrived with the midday cart; letters passed down the line like treasures. Men tore them open on the spot, some laughing, some turning quietly away.
William unfolded one sealed in a hasty hand. “From Henry,” he said, shaking his head. “He writes that it should have been him in uniform. Calls me a thief of his honour and swears he will march to town himself if I do not come home soon to stop him.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “He sounds as stubborn as ever.”
“More so,” William muttered. “Charlotte writes as well. She is furious that I came, but thankful he did not. Says the house is half-mad with him pacing the halls and boasting that he would make a finer soldier. She threatens to lock up his boots if he speaks of it again.”
He passed another folded paper across to her. “And this, addressed to Lieutenant Thomas Bennet.”
Elizabeth hesitated before breaking the seal. Charlotte’s careful hand filled the page, every line neat and sensible.
I trust you are bearing this madness with your usual composure, it read.
William tells me you have already distinguished yourself by sheer determination, though I cannot approve of the circumstances that placed you there.
Take care of him if he will not take care of himself.
I shall manage things at home as best I may.
He writes as though nothing has changed, but you know as well as I that he would follow you anywhere if you let him.
Elizabeth read it twice before folding it again.
“She sounds herself,” she said quietly.
William nodded. “As ever.” He slipped both letters away. “At least they are safe.”
Afternoon drill resumed soon after, the clatter of muskets and the rhythm of marching boots chasing away the momentary stillness.
Where once she had endured mockery at every stumble, now she found comradeship.
A place was kept for her on the bench at meals, bread was shared without jeer, and when her musket dipped another voice would call quietly, “Steady, Bennet,” without malice.
The laughter that had stung her pride now carried a different note, rough but companionable, as though she were one of them at last.
Her body hardened to the strain. The musket still dragged at her arms, the packs still bit cruelly into her shoulders, yet each day she managed more.
The ache in her limbs became a proof of endurance rather than a mark of failure.
Even Sergeant Barrow, though his tongue was sharp as ever, barked fewer rebukes in her direction.
Captain Bingley was quick to encourage. He spoke readily to the recruits, his cheerful voice carrying across the line.
When Elizabeth completed a march without falter, he praised the whole company for their discipline.
When she struck the dummy clean at last, he declared the rhythm improved.
His words were offered to all, but Elizabeth felt them most keenly, for they lent her strength where Major Darcy’s silence gave none.
Only Major Darcy remained unchanged. His eyes found her often, cold and unreadable. When she met his gaze she felt again the weight of his judgment, as though he waited for her to falter. Yet he spoke no word of dismissal, and that silence was its own strange reprieve.
Elizabeth carried on, day by day, each rise from the dirt a victory, each evening meal a reminder that she had endured once more.
The mess tent was stifling. Lanterns smoked, the air thick with the smell of stewed meat, coarse bread, and unwashed men.
Dozens of voices rang out at once, laughter and jeers tumbling over one another until the canvas itself seemed to shake.
Elizabeth sat with her head bent, the bread heavy in her hand, the broth turning her stomach.
The mingled odours of sweat, leather, and smoke pressed upon her until she could bear no more.
Quietly she set aside her bowl and rose. No one marked her leaving. William’s eyes followed, keen and knowing, and after a moment he pushed back his bench and went after her.
Outside, the evening air was a blessed change, cool against her heated skin though the day had been unseasonably warm for October.
Elizabeth kept her pace quick, boots soft on the trampled earth, until the noise of the camp dulled behind her.
The river glimmered in the fading light, its surface rippling beneath the breeze.
She cast off her coat, unlaced her collar, and waded in.
The cold shocked her body at first, but as the current closed over her shoulders the ache of her muscles eased.
For the first time in days, she felt almost clean.
This was not the camp’s usual bathing, a bucket of cold water dashed over the head in haste, shared in turns among men who scarcely seemed to notice their own smell.
At Longbourn she had known basins of fresh water, soap, and linen towels.
Here the air was thick with the odour of bodies pressed too close, of leather stiff with sweat, of broth spilled across the tables.
She had longed to escape it, and the river was her only chance.
William stood guard upon the bank, arms folded. “Be quick, Thomas,” he said low. “They will not linger over their stew for long.”
Elizabeth ducked beneath the surface, the cold sweeping back her hair and stinging her eyes.
She came up gasping, shivering but steadier.
She swam a few strokes against the current, close to the bank where the reeds swayed, never straying far from William’s watchful figure.
Her limbs burned with the effort, but the pain was clean, unlike the bruises of drill.
For a breath she let herself imagine she was home again, walking beside the brook at Longbourn with Jane at her side, the world untouched by war.
The ache of that thought tightened her throat, yet the water carried it away.
The river closed cool around her again, washing away sweat and dust. For the first time in weeks Elizabeth felt almost herself again, the weight of uniform and musket left on the bank.
She struck out into deeper water, letting her limbs stretch and pull, the current sliding smoothly against her skin.
Yet even as she floated she was aware of what was missing.
By now her courses should have returned.
Each morning she had braced for the familiar ache, yet each morning there was nothing.
At first she thought the strain of drill, the hunger, the bruises might have delayed it.
But the days had passed, and still nothing.
She ducked beneath the surface, enjoying the shock of cold on her face, then rose again with a gasp. The river flowed on, steady, unbroken. Her own body, by contrast, held itself in silence.
At Longbourn she would have whispered it to Jane and thought no more of it. Here she dared not. The risk of discovery was too great. A soldier could not afford such confidences. And yet the knowledge lingered, a silence heavier than armour.
She struck back toward the bank with renewed vigour, forcing her thoughts into her strokes. Whatever the cause, she would endure. She must.
The sound of voices reached her then, sharp across the field.
William’s head turned at once. “They are coming.”
Elizabeth’s heart lurched. She pressed herself lower, water lapping at her chin. From the path beyond came the cheerful tones of Captain Bingley, with Geoffrey Talbot and Edward Bell loud behind him, a dozen recruits spilling down the bank with laughter and rough good humour.
Geoffrey Talbot tugged off his shirt with a careless laugh, Edward Bell casting his aside at once, and soon the others followed.
Boots, coats, breeches, all were discarded with little thought, bare limbs flashing pale in the fading light.
Elizabeth caught her breath, heat rushing to her cheeks as she realised in sudden horror that nothing was left to the imagination.
She had never beheld such things, never dreamed men could be so unguarded, so unashamed before one another.
The river rang with laughter as they plunged in, their shouts echoing across the water.
Elizabeth turned sharply away, sinking low until the current lapped at her chin, her heart thundering.
She prayed they would not notice her flaming cheeks or the way her hands shook as she edged toward the bank.
The light was low, the river dark as ink.
So long as she remained within its embrace, her secret was safe.
In the water she was merely another man, free to enjoy its cool relief.
“Too fine to sweat at drill, Bennet?” Geoffrey Talbot called when he spied her in the stream. “Or did you mean to claim the river for yourself?”
Elizabeth froze, but William spoke swiftly. “He was here before the lot of you. Swam out further than any of you dare.”
Edward Bell cupped his hands to his mouth. “Ho, Bennet! Race us, if you can keep those long arms from sinking you.”
A chorus of shouts followed. Their voices were bright with mirth but not with cruelty. Elizabeth forced her lips into a smile. “I will not yield the river so easily,” she called back, her voice steadier than she felt.
Then Geoffrey Talbot turned his shout to the bank. “And what of Lucas still standing dry as a parson? Will he only watch like a nursemaid?”
Edward Bell laughed. “Perhaps the cold will spoil his fine curls.”
William gave a wry smile, pulling off his boots. “Very well, since you will not rest until I prove myself.” He waded in with long strides, plunging beneath the water to a cheer from the men.
As they crowded around him, splashing and jeering, Elizabeth took her chance. She slipped from the river, water streaming from her hair, and pulled her coat about her shoulders. The chill set her shivering, yet her heart was lighter than it had been in many days.
When at last the men staggered from the water, dripping and shivering, Geoffrey Talbot clapped her shoulder with a grin. “Not so frail after all, Bennet. You swim better than you march.”
Edward Bell shook water from his hair. “Aye, give him a musket shaped like an oar and he will conquer France himself.”
Their laughter rang out again, but the sting was gone. Elizabeth drew her coat tight about her shoulders, her heart racing with more than the cold. For a moment, she had been no weakling, no outcast. She had been one of them.