Chapter 25 Into the Fire #2
“You will be sore for a time,” she said. “The heat draws it out, but it leaves the body weary. Best take the draught the doctor left, miss. Only a spoon. It will settle you.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then inclined her head. The pain in her side had returned, sharp beneath the linen. Mrs Evans poured the measure with practised care and handed it to her. The liquid’s sweetness burned her tongue, leaving the faint, cloying taste she remembered from the night before.
“There now,” Mrs Evans said, gathering her basin. “Sleep if you can. The worst is past.” She curtsied and withdrew.
Elizabeth sank back into the chair by the fire, the laudanum already softening the edges of pain.
Everything about the room spoke of another’s care.
The folded linen, the quiet fire, even the clean shift had been arranged for her before she woke.
Major Darcy’s doing, she was certain of it.
He had thought of everything, shaping her safety as neatly as any order of battle.
It should have unsettled her, this power he held, yet the knowledge only steadied her.
Through his will, she had come out of it safe.
She turned to the glass. The face that met her was both familiar and strange.
Her hair hung damp and heavy about her shoulders, darker than she remembered, her face sharper, her eyes too old for her years.
Her hands, clean now, rested on the table’s edge, the nails short and uneven, the knuckles reddened by work and weather.
They were no longer a lady’s hands, yet they were her own.
She lifted a hand to her reflection, touching a damp strand that clung to her neck. For the first time since she had cut and tied her hair as the men did, she saw herself as she was. Not Thomas, not a boy in borrowed boots, but Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. A stranger, and yet herself.
Her breath caught. To be dressed thus was to admit the truth. Thomas was gone. She could never wear that name again.
And yet Major Darcy had known her even so. He had seen the torn shirt, the truth laid bare, and his hand had only closed more firmly over hers. His words still echoed in her heart. You will live. Miss Elizabeth Bennet will live.
A tremor ran through her. He had loved Christopher, as he thought, a boy bold and foolish. What would he feel for Elizabeth? Relief, shame, indifference? Or the same fierce protectiveness she had glimpsed in his eyes.
She touched her reflection again, as though she might find the answer there, but the mirror gave nothing back, only a woman she scarcely recognised and the memory of a man who had not turned away.
How long she stood there in her shift looking at herself in the mirror she knew not. The laudanum softened her thoughts until the world seemed to shimmer, half real, half dream.
The latch turned. She looked up sharply, her heart leaping. Jane entered, pale with worry, her cloak dusted with frost, her eyes bright with tears. Elizabeth rose too quickly, clutching the chair for balance, and in the next moment her sister’s arms were about her.
“Lizzy,” Jane whispered, holding her close. “Thank God. You are safe.”
Elizabeth clung to her, overwhelmed by relief. Whatever awaited, she was Elizabeth again, and Jane was here.
Jane drew back at last, her eyes scanning her sister with anxious tenderness. “You look pale. Sit, dearest. Let me help you.”
Elizabeth obeyed, sinking once more onto the chair. Jane set down the small valise she carried, opening it with practised hands. Stockings, stays, a gown, all familiar, all hers. The sight of them after so many weeks of coarse wool and camp linen nearly undid her.
“My own things,” she breathed, fingers trembling as she touched the folded muslin.
“Of course,” Jane said with a faint smile. “I kept them with me.”
“How are you here so quickly?” Elizabeth asked in wonder.
“It was Fletcher who brought the news. Major Darcy sent him at once to fetch me,” Jane said softly.
“He reached the White Hart near midnight, saying you were safe but weak, and that I must come as soon as it was light enough for the carriage. He told us that our cousin, Thomas had fallen at Kingston, and that you, my sister, had been hurt but would live. The others heard only that Lieutenant Bennet had died, and that my sister Elizabeth—who was on her way to join us—had been injured.”
She asked no more. She bent to her task, helping Elizabeth draw on each piece, fastening ribbons and tying laces with the same quiet diligence she had shown since they were children.
Elizabeth’s breath caught more than once as the stays pressed against her bandaged ribs, but Jane’s hands were gentle, her voice steady. “There. It is not perfect, but you look yourself again.”
Elizabeth rose slowly, turning to the glass. A woman gazed back, pale, weary, her hair still damp, arranged in a simpler style than she would once have chosen, but recognisably Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.
“Myself,” she whispered. Yet in her heart lingered the memory of Major Darcy’s hand upon hers, his voice certain in the half light. You will live. Miss Elizabeth Bennet will live.
They left within the hour. Jane helped her into the carriage, urging her to lean against the cushions and rest. Elizabeth obeyed, though her gaze strayed always to the window.
How strange to be in a carriage again rather than on horseback, and how unpractical a lady’s clothing seemed after all she had worn.
The road was busy, soldiers striding beside the wheels, townsfolk still in flight, carts creaking beneath the weight of their burdens. Beyond the hedgerows the winter fields stretched pale and endless.
At first all seemed ordinary. Yet Elizabeth’s eye, sharpened by weeks in the camp, caught what others did not.
Ahead on the road a small knot of men moved eastward.
Their caps were pulled low, coats patched and muddy, as though they were no more than weary labourers.
But their step was too even, their shoulders too square, their muskets borne not as burdens but as arms.
French. In disguise. Heading for London.
Her breath faltered. She could not cry out. If Jane saw, if the soldiers saw, the alarm would scatter the men before they could be stopped. London would never know until it was too late.
She caught Jane’s hand, holding fast. “You must get to the army, to Major Darcy, and tell him the river did not take them all,” she whispered, urgent but low. “Do not look. They must not know I saw. Do not speak of it to anyone but the Major.”
Jane’s eyes widened, stricken. “Lizzy.”
“Please.” Elizabeth’s grip tightened. “Trust me. I will see you again soon.”
The carriage jolted to a halt at her command. She slipped down before Jane could stop her, pain searing through her ribs, but she did not falter. Around the side of the inn yard stable, he waited, Wicked, restless, stamping, as though he had known she would come.
Elizabeth pressed her hand against his neck, steadying her breath, his nose already seeking an apple. “Then it is you and I,” she murmured. With one fierce effort she hauled herself into the saddle, biting back a cry as her ribs protested.
Behind her Jane’s voice carried faintly from the carriage, calling her name. Elizabeth turned only long enough to lift a hand, a promise, a farewell, then wheeled Wicked eastward. The horse surged beneath her, eager for the chase.
Thomas Bennet was dead. Elizabeth Bennet rode into the fire.