Chapter 24 Out of the Frying Pan #2
Her eyes closed, though her heart beat wildly within her breast. Whatever fate awaited, it was no longer hidden. He knew her. They both knew. And still he had not turned away.
The laudanum tugged at her mind, heavy and slow. She let the darkness take her, trusting the weight of his hand to anchor her as the world receded.
* * *
Darcy lingered a while longer, gaze fixed on her pale face, until he was sure she had fallen back to sleep.
Then he forced himself upright. He could not remain.
His men waited, clamouring for their major, for the one who had led them to victory.
To hide himself away in this room would be to betray the very order she had bought with her blood.
He pressed her hand once, swiftly, and let it go. Lucas bent low again, watchful at her side, and Darcy gave him a single nod before turning.
The stair creaked beneath his boots as he descended. The roar of voices rose at once to meet him, tankards lifted high, the names of Kingston and England shouted until the rafters shook. The men pressed close, eager for his presence and for the comfort of command, even in triumph.
Darcy raised a hand, gave them words of steadiness and pride, and reminded them that the fight was not yet done. Their cheer broke again, loud enough to rattle the shutters. Yet as the ale flowed and the noise mounted, the mood shifted.
Talbot pushed forward, his ruddy face still streaked with soot, his voice rough. “Sir, Bennet. How fares he?”
The cheer faltered into a hush. All eyes turned. Bell, hovering at Talbot’s shoulder, added in a quieter tone, “We would sit with him, if you allow. He should not be alone.”
Darcy’s throat tightened. He set his tankard down with care, willing his voice to steadiness.
“He is gravely wounded, but Doctor Russell tends him. His best chance lies in rest and stillness. To disturb him now would undo the surgeon’s work.
The doctor has allowed only one at his side, and Lucas keeps that vigil. ”
Talbot’s jaw worked, but Bell laid a hand on his arm, restraining him. The disappointment in their eyes was plain, yet so too was their loyalty.
“We only wished to stand guard for him,” Bell said softly.
Darcy inclined his head. “Your loyalty does him honour. When he wakes, I shall tell him of it.”
A silence lingered, heavier than the smoke above the lamps. Then Bingley lifted his cup high, his voice steady and sure. “To Bennet. May he live to see the morning.”
The men echoed at once, tankards thudding against tables, voices rising in rough unison. “To Bennet!”
They drank deep, pride and grief mingling in their eyes. The cheer surged once more, wild and loud, but Darcy’s throat closed around the bitter draught. For them it was simple: a comrade wounded, a hero perhaps dying. For him it was a secret too great to name.
He lifted his cup all the same, the gesture steady, the words measured. “To Bennet,” he echoed. Yet even as the cheer thundered again, he felt the weight of silence pressing in his chest.
They deserved their moment. For one night, he would let them believe their comrade yet lived, let them drink and sing and call him hero. Tomorrow would bring duty, reports, and grief enough. Tonight, after so much death, he could not take this small solace from them.
When the noise had swelled past him, he withdrew to the edge of the room, where the fire’s light thinned and shadows deepened. His men laughed and sang, heedless of tomorrow, but his own thoughts circled like wolves.
Sooner or later, they must be told their comrade was gone. He would have to shape their grief, keep their anger sharp against the enemy, and not turn toward the deception that shielded her. A false death to guard a true life. Could he hold them to it? Could he hold himself?
And then there was London. The army would march in triumph, the streets thronged with cheers.
What place could he make for her there? He longed for Richard’s counsel, but Richard was gone.
He would have to rely on the Earl’s steadier hand, his family’s name to anchor the tale.
The secret must hold, else all of them, Elizabeth most of all, would be ruined.
Yet for all the weight of secrecy and duty, relief washed through him still. The French were broken, swept from the bridge, scattered like leaves on the current. England stood. Perhaps, for a little while, she might even know peace.
Darcy drew a long breath, willing himself to believe it.
Yet beneath all his duty, beneath victory and fear, one thought returned with stubborn force.
Elizabeth Bennet. No longer in a soldier’s coat, no longer hidden by a boy’s name, but in her own person.
What would it be to see her so? To behold her not as comrade or saviour, but as the woman she was, and to stand before her without disguise between them?
The thought struck through him, both torment and hope. He closed his eyes against the din, but her face rose all the clearer in his mind, pale against the pillow, her hand trembling in his.
And still, for the first time since Kingston Bridge, he allowed himself to believe she might yet live to walk beside him.