Count No Evil （Incremental） #4
Neither spoke as the colonel reached for another piece, while Charlotte reached for another section to reassemble.
By four o’clock, the box was halfway repaired, and two diligent workers had yet to say a word to each other.
By five o’clock, the box was fully assembled; Barrow had even managed to cleverly repair a hinge Charlotte had assumed beyond hope, or requiring a specialist.
By six o’clock, still without a word, the last surviving piece was attached.
All the needles had been cleaned thoroughly with gin, and there was indication that a reasonable portion of the spirit had been used for that purpose.
All the pins, needles, thread, and other items were neatly organised in the box, just as they had been for nearly the previous twenty years.
Both diligent workers stood up, looked at the box with a certain amount of pride, and then nodded to each other in tacit understanding. Without words, they expressed their basic agreement:
“I will try.’
‘I will not give up on you.’
~~~
No one would ever know whether applying the colonel’s head to a box full of needles, to the bosom of a pretty woman, or merely a few hours of real sleep was what he needed; but either way, the corner was turned that day.
He had pushed his caretaker to her absolute limit, and something inside him either broke, repaired itself, or finally became exhausted.
Perhaps he finally realised that if he drove away the most sensible and patient woman in England, he would end his life as a mad old man, sitting by the fire with a pack of old dogs, telling them of his former greatness.
The survivor of so many battles, in the end, was not quite as enamoured with the idea of yielding to difficulty as his previous behaviour might have indicated.
There were no more midnight visits, clandestine or otherwise. The healing that required the colonel to return to an earlier point in his life and begin anew was done; now, metaphorically, he had only to grow up again.
The first day of repair in the box was the only one completely devoid of conversation.
After that, they gradually became able to speak of small, unimportant things—servants’ tasks, dinner, observations of the weather.
Difficult subjects such as Darcy or Jane Bingley were embargoed by mutual, unspoken agreement—perhaps for a while, more likely forever.
Gradually the relationship deepened, and eventually Charlotte managed to pry from the man some small account of what happened in Spain, much to her horror.
She knew he downplayed his experience, but the tiny portion of the tale he shared made her spirit wish to curl inward and weep.
She had believed she could carry a portion of the load, but in truth, she was astonished by how heavy a burden the colonel bore.
~~~
Finally, a day came in early spring when Charlotte judged it time for the conversation. They walked around the small lake abutting the hunting cottage. The water teemed with waterfowl, and they both displayed their knowledge by identifying various creatures, plants, and other items of interest.
The colonel sheepishly offered his arm at the walk’s commencement, and Charlotte sheepishly took it. They were well used to communicating with small gestures, and this one held a specific meaning: an acknowledgement that they were both very nearly indifferent acquaintances.
Through many more letters to the matron, Charlotte had learned that she possessed a fine instinct for action.
She needed the best advice of the best men and women, but in the end, there was always something that must differ, a necessity to take a chance.
Her climbing into the colonel’s bed had been the turning point that transformed a failed campaign into at least a draw, with the possibility of victory.
She had not repeated that event, and in fact did not think she could while retaining any modest semblance of her original task.
Should she repeat it but once, her interactions with the colonel would take on an entirely new complexion, benefiting neither.
On this morning, she deemed it time to throw down her final gauntlet.
“Colonel, do you feel you have recovered your soul?”
He regarded her carefully, almost fearfully. “I am not certain.”
“It is time to be.”
“How is it done?”
Charlotte laughed softly. “Remember this is only an analogy, but it is very much like when a couple marries. They do not know everything. In fact, they may know little of each other, and most of what they think they know is likely wrong. But a time comes when they must decide. They must choose to stand before their friends and family and declare themselves united for life…that is a decision.”
She studied him to ensure he did not misinterpret her. She could have devised analogies less… volatile, but would they have been as useful?
“Today, you must decide. I shall return to the house; you go to the stable. Saddle your horse and ride towards the peaks as hard as you can. Ride until the beast nearly founders, and you find both man and horse near your limits. After that, slow slightly and ride further. Ride to the very top of the highest cliff you can find.”
“And the object of this ride?”
“When you reach that point, it is time. Climb down from your horse but do not tie him up. Walk directly to the edge. Walk to the very limit, where your toes hang over. Lift your arms like a statue, feel the wind in your hair, feel the weight of the Earth under you, think about everything that has happened in your life, good or bad, and decide—front or back!”
“Meaning?”
“Either go forward over the cliff and end this charade today—or walk back, get on your horse, return, and start living. Those are your choices. If you decide on the former, ensure your horse does not suffer your fate. But make no mistake—if you return, I expect you to return a man… not the shadow of the man who first came here. Your time as a patient is over. It is time to decide. Are we understood, sir?”
The colonel stared at the lady for quite some time. He had no notion what he would decide when the moment of decision came, but by God, this was a woman. This was a woman worthy of backing away from the cliff for. She had given him instructions, so he would follow them to the letter.
~~~
Darcy sat in the comfortable breakfast parlour with Miss Lucas reading while she worked.
She marvelled at how well her broken box had been restored, hoping her broken soldier might do the same.
Mr Darcy offered to have a master craftsman make a new one exactly like the original if she preferred.
She knew that if she wanted a different box, he would procure the best box in England, but he did not expect her to make that choice, and she did not expect to make it.
Nothing would ever take the place of this particular box.
After six hours, the colonel returned with a glorious sunset at his back and a decision in his heart.
“Have you decided?” Darcy asked.
“I have!”
“Are you ready for a challenge?”
The colonel looked at his cousin sceptically.
Up to that point, since the moment he tried to end his life, just surviving one more day, or even a few more hours, had seemed a great challenge.
Darcy implied something larger. Perhaps he was to return to duty, or return to a duty where he only trained soldiers or occupied a post where he was unlikely to get a score of other men killed.
Perhaps Darcy wanted him to manage some small estate.
They had talked about it over time, and Darcy had offered it any number of times.
“I believe I am ready. What is the task?”
“We will discuss that when we arrive,” Darcy evaded.
“I will go along for the nonce, but where is ‘there’?”
“We leave at first light tomorrow. You will know in a couple of days. I will not explain the plan more than once, so we need to get to the place where the rest of the participants are.”
Everybody looked surprised at this new-found plan of Darcy the Mad. Charlotte, feeling her task complete, started thinking of what came next.
“We need you as well, Miss Lucas,” Darcy forestalled her. “Now more than ever. Might you indulge me for a little longer?”
Perhaps there was some woman in England who would turn down an earnest request from Fitzwilliam Darcy, but Charlotte Lucas was certainly not she.
“It would be my pleasure.”