Chapter 16 A Question of Identity
A Question of Identity
The officers’ mess had been raised with practised hands, its canvas walls lit by a scatter of lanterns that cast a golden haze over weary faces. The march had been long, the air damp with October mist, yet forms must be observed.
They had halted only briefly since dawn, and though the hour was nearer evening than noon, the day still carried the weight of endless movement. Major Darcy entered last, his step measured, his countenance calm, though his mind was not.
Captain Bingley was already beside Miss Bennet, his cheer undimmed by mud or fatigue.
He spoke to her with a warmth that made his admiration plain, while Miss Bingley sat beside her, every line of her bearing stiff with discontent.
Darcy took his seat opposite, permitting Fletcher to serve him in silence.
The fare was plain — broth, bread, and a joint cut thin — but Bingley would not let the table fall into gloom. He drew Miss Bennet into conversation, asking after her comfort upon the road, and she replied with the same gentle composure that marked her every motion.
“It is nothing,” she said softly, when Bingley lamented the jolting of the carriage. “The men march heavier miles than I shall ever endure.”
Bingley’s smile warmed at once. “You think of others before yourself, Miss Bennet. That is most admirable.”
Miss Bingley’s lips tightened, her eyes sharp upon her brother. “You are too generous, Charles. Not every lady bears hardship well.” Her glance flicked toward Miss Bennet, then across to Darcy. “Is it not so, Major? War is no place for delicacy.”
Darcy inclined his head, his tone cool. “War spares none who are caught in its path, Miss Bingley. All must endure.”
Caroline coloured faintly but pressed on. “Though some of our company,” she murmured, “are not so gentle as they appear. Connections of a meaner sort will claim more consequence than they have any right.”
Darcy let the words fall without reply, though within he marked them.
Caroline’s disdain was not new, but it was ill-timed.
His gaze shifted, unbidden, to the quiet figure further down the board.
Lieutenant Bennet sat among his fellows, head bent over bread and broth, his dark eyes bright in the lantern glow as he listened to Lucas and Geoffrey Talbot’s jest. Those eyes unsettled Darcy more than he cared to own, defiant, unbowed, unwilling to yield even when the body faltered.
It was folly to notice such things. Folly, and worse.
He had told himself his unease was no more than duty — compassion for a youth untested by war.
Yet the sight of Bennet’s eyes left him raw, his composure slipping beneath questions he dared not frame.
What was it he saw there? Courage? Defiance?
Or something that mirrored the very restlessness he sought to master within himself? It was recognition, and it shamed him.
He forced himself back to the table. “I understand, Miss Bennet, that Lieutenant Bennet is your cousin. May I ask how near that tie runs?”
A faint colour rose in her cheek, but her manner did not falter. “He is the son of our late uncle, Major. Thomas was born in Hertfordshire, and we knew one another as children, though his family removed when we were still young.”
Caroline gave a small laugh, quickly smothered. “Large families breed more pride than prudence. Five daughters in one house, and not a fortune among them.”
Miss Bennet bore it with unshaken calm. “We have had no fortune, Miss Bingley, but we have had care for one another. That is enough.”
Bingley’s hand tightened upon his glass, his eyes bright with admiration.
Darcy studied the exchange in silence. Miss Bennet’s account was mild, offering nothing beyond the fact of birth.
Yet it was enough to prick his mind. He had already written to London, and the rolls would speak more plainly than her gentle words.
And still, his thoughts slid back to the cousin in question.
To the boy who looked younger than his commission should allow, whose arms trembled beneath a musket’s weight, yet whose eyes burned with fire unquenched.
Darcy told himself it was folly, it was unlawful, it was intolerable.
Yet as the talk rose and fell around the table, his gaze strayed once more to Bennet, and his heart gave that unwelcome twist he could not command away.
* * *
The camp woke in one motion. Lanterns flared; men rose with the dull groans of stiff joints and the scrape of boots.
Barrow’s call set the pace — hard and even.
Bread in hand, muskets slung, packs hauled to shoulders.
The baggage wagons creaked into line, wheels crunching frost that edged the ruts.
Jane and the quartermaster closed the last crates; Fletcher, Major Darcy’s batman, checked straps at the officers’ horses with practised care.
Among the ranks, Elizabeth took up her place once more — silent, steady, and watchful beneath her cap.
Two carriages stood ready for the ladies, Jane seated beside Miss Bingley, whose mouth pinched at the very sight of mud.
Elizabeth turned to the gelding allotted to her, a plain but steady beast with kind eyes.
She drew a carrot from her coat, smoothing his neck before offering it.
“Steady now,” she murmured. The animal crunched contentedly beneath her hand.
Across the ground, Major Darcy mounted Wicked with easy command, the stallion’s power controlled by quiet certainty. Captain Bingley joined him, his cheer carrying down the line where Darcy’s silence did not.
“By sections,” Darcy called, his voice clear in the chill morning air. “Forward.”
The column stirred. Boots struck mud, wheels rumbled, hooves rang against the frozen ruts. Breath from men and horses rose in pale clouds that drifted into the brightening sky.
London lay behind. Surrey lay ahead. Between the two, the fate of England waited to be tested.
By midday the sun had broken through the mist, pale but sharp against the damp fields.
They rested only once more before evening, when the order came to halt near a meadow bordered by low hedgerows.
Horses were watered at the stream, and men sank onto the grass with bread and cheese in hand.
Boots were tugged off to ease sore feet, packs slumped beside weary shoulders.
Elizabeth dismounted stiffly, her legs aching from the saddle.
She led her gelding to the shade of a hedgerow and stroked his neck until his breathing steadied.
William, Geoffrey Talbot, and Edward Bell sprawled nearby, tearing their rations and trading jests to disguise fatigue.
Their laughter rang hollow, but it softened the air.
Elizabeth looked once toward the carriages. Miss Bingley stood with arms crossed, frowning at the dust upon her hem while the servants laid out cloth upon the grass. Jane moved more quietly, passing cups of water to soldiers at the trough, her bonnet shading a face calm yet intent.
When Jane’s eyes found hers, Elizabeth gave the smallest nod. She murmured something to the men, then slipped toward her sister under cover of the bustle. They met in the shadow of the carriage, where the guard’s attention was fixed elsewhere.
Jane caught her hand at once. “Lizzy,” she whispered, her voice low. “How do you fare?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “I endure. The road is long, but not longer than my will.”
Jane’s eyes softened, though her grip did not ease. “You are too thin. They drive you too hard.”
“I can bear it. Do not let them see more than you must.” Elizabeth glanced around, but the men were busy with their food, and Miss Bingley’s complaints masked their whispers. She leaned closer. “Tell me of home.”
“Much the same. Papa’s wound plagues him in the damp, though he makes light of it.
Mama frets, Lydia grows restless. Mary writes with her usual care, and she enclosed another note from Kitty — much the same as her last. It seems as though time stands still at Longbourn, even while the rest of the world moves.
Lydia complains that no one remains to admire her. ”
Jane smiled faintly. “Mary bids me remind you: men do not linger over their food. Take what is set before you, cut sparingly, and chew with decision. If you sit, let your shoulders spread, not fold yourself small. She says short answers still serve you best; silence looks more manly than chatter.”
Elizabeth gave a faint smile. “Trust Mary to think of every detail.” Her throat tightened as she added softly, “I miss you, Jane; the comforts of home; and the rest of my dear cousins. But I must play my part. If the French press further, all England must stand.”
Jane squeezed her hand once more, then released it quickly as footsteps drew near. “Take care, Thomas. I shall be watching.”
Elizabeth gave a small nod and stepped back, her face composed once more. She rejoined William and the others, taking her ration of bread as though nothing had passed. Yet her sister’s touch lingered, a warmth she carried with her as surely as the pack upon her shoulders.
* * *
Across the meadow, apart from the noise and talk of the men, Major Darcy sat beneath the oak with a folded packet in hand.
Fletcher brought Wicked to the shade beside him, steady as ever beneath his master’s hand.
Darcy drew the folded packet from his coat. The London seal was still unbroken. He cracked the unbroken London seal, smoothed the sheet upon his knee, and bent to the clerk’s precise script.
“Thomas Bennet, son of Christopher Bennet, late Captain of His Majesty’s service, and his wife Margaret, was baptised at Meryton in 1790.
The family quitted the parish in or about the year 1805.
Captain Bennet was recorded deceased in 1806, the circumstances being a fire.
Thereafter no further record is found. The commission stands entered irregularly upon the rolls, the fee only settled upon the officer’s arrival. ”
Darcy’s eyes lingered on the lines. A baptism at Meryton.
A captain for a father. A death by fire.
A commission irregular upon the rolls. He read on in silence.
The report continued at length, detailing Captain Bennet’s service, his end, the family’s connection to Longbourn, and particulars that shifted the light upon all that Darcy had suspected.
When at last he folded the paper, his face was composed, but his thoughts were not. The matter was not what it seemed. There was more here than the boy declared, more than his defiance and his fire.
Across the meadow Darcy’s gaze found him — Bennet seated with Lucas, Talbot, and Bell, bread in hand, laughter on his lips, his dark eyes alight even in fatigue.
Those eyes struck Darcy more keenly than any line of ink upon the page.
They unsettled him, unbidden and unwelcome, drawing his thoughts where no discipline should allow them to wander.
It was folly. It was unlawful. It was intolerable. Yet the image of Bennet’s face lingered, fierce and unyielding, a brand upon his mind.
Darcy folded the packet again, placed it within his coat, and set his shoulders straight. Tonight he would have answers.
The decision steadied him — yet even as he rose, the doubt remained: did he seek truth, or peace from the thoughts that would not leave him?