Chapter 36
Four days passed without incident. Mr Darcy had apparently called a halt to all contests of any sort. Also, he had put away their chessboard, never asking her to finish the game. Plainly, she had been correct; it had been the thrill of the connexion of their minds, the challenge of playing against another of uncommon skill. She remembered the board exactly as they left it, and she feared she was doomed to replay it in her mind, guessing at his next moves, forever.
At least chess game rehearsal was not so discomfiting as remembering his kisses. During the days, she did her best to avoid her host; but kissing Mr Darcy had been a new world of its own, and her nights were full of a new and bitter restlessness.
Avoiding him was too easily done; she was seated nearly as far as possible away from him at formal meals, and Miss Lushington was still near his side. He appeared perfectly polite to Elizabeth’s eyes, but although she detected nothing else, she could not help watching, however unobtrusively, for it to change. She almost hated the relief she felt each night it had not.
It will someday, she reminded herself. One day, he will be seated beside a young lady who would interest him. It was awful, imagining it—and torturing herself with the idea.
You did the right thing, she told the dark circles beneath her eyes after another poor night’s slumber. The only thing you could have done in the face of his momentary impulse. Better to suffer now than to witness the realisation upon his face once morning came and he was faced with dishonour or a commitment he could not have wanted, not truly.
At least Jane and Mr Bingley seemed to be still enjoying one another’s company. Elizabeth was certain that Miss Bingley was doing her best to discourage the match, but as Jane was so perfectly mannered, she would not find much to criticise. Elizabeth hoped that something came of it, she truly did—but for herself, she wanted nothing more than to return to London. Surely, once she was safely back in Gracechurch Street, she would feel a renewed strength of purpose, the same one that had carried her through every horrible thing that had happened since she had foolishly agreed to a marriage she had never wanted.
“Richard,come with me to the Tippling Footman. Everyone there has known you for years, and your presence will not be much remarked upon.” Darcy heard the impatience in his voice, but he could hardly retract it.
“Why are you in such a lather this afternoon?”
Because the woman he loved was staying in his home, and she would not look at him, nor give any indication at all that she might appreciate a renewal of those sentiments he had importuned her with the other night. If he came into a room where she was, she either moved within a cluster of young ladies or else she left it entirely Absolutely nothing in her manner told him she would welcome a return of his addresses; possibly, even, he had disgusted her with them.
But a chessboard was set in his bedroom, positioned exactly to be the first thing he saw in the morning and last thing at night, a game in progress, and a constant reminder of an almost magical moment of connexion, of what love could be like. He could not bear to let it go.
Instead of answering, Darcy grunted an expletive. “Why do you hide in this house instead of joining a perfectly amiable young lady who just happens to stroll in the gardens, alone, about this hour every day? We are a fine pair, are we not? Let us go elsewhere.”
He had made the offer in a fit of frustrated aggravation, but he was astonished when Richard shrugged and agreed. “I suppose I will go with you, then.”
Riding to the village with his cousin by his side, as they had not done for over two years, relieved a bit of the ache in his heart. The villagers were used to seeing Pemberley’s master appear—he made it a point to take an ale regularly, as his father had before him, to be generous with his commerce. Folks tipped their hats as they rode past. To his relief, he saw no one turn away from Richard’s scarred visage.
They seated themselves at a table in sight of the long, polished bar; it seemed natural that Ben Saunders, who had ruled here for at least twenty years, came round to pound his cousin on the back and personally welcome him. In fact, everyone who entered seemed to include them both in all salutations—although he knew Richard was ill at ease with all the notice. Darcy was proud of him—he did his best to pretend this was a usual event, instead of the first time he had purposely allowed himself to be seen in public since his injury. The other patrons gave nods and made gestures of respect but—as was usual when Darcy brought a guest—left them alone. They managed to carry on an ordinary conversation about the month’s shooting, as well as whether the rain predicted with reliable accuracy by Perkins would begin before sundown. After thirty minutes or so, Darcy thought it probably time to suggest they leave—this seemed a long enough outing for Richard’s initial foray.
“Shall we take the long way back, and give the horses an airing?”
“A capital—” but Richard was interrupted, even as he scraped back his chair.
An elderly man stood before them, leaning heavily on a rough-hewn cane. His face was lined and grizzled, his cap ragged, his clothing worn but sturdy. His voice, when he spoke, was raspy with age—but his faded blue eyes were keen, still.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“No longer,” Richard said abruptly, plainly taken aback. “Just Fitzwilliam, Richard Fitzwilliam.”
The man gave a sharp nod. “Cyrus Brown, Twentieth Foot. Battle o’ Minden, in ’59. Came out of it without a scratch on me. Didn’t have a decent night’s sleep for twenty years after, at least. Dreams.” He nodded to himself. Then he raised a trembling arm into a shaky military salute, held it for a few seconds, nodded again and limped away.
Richard shook his head, brow furrowed. “What the devil was that about?”
He addressed Darcy, but Ben Saunders remarked, “Ye be a famous one now, Colonel—er, Mr Fitzwilliam. Mr Pennywithers only said what everyone thinks but never speaks aloud. I tell ye, ye’ll never again pay for a drink at the Tippling, and that’s a promise.”
“Mr who? What the?—”
But Darcy interrupted, knowing the man would at least put his own drink on Pemberley’s tab, and hurried them both out the door.
“What is he talking of, Darcy?”
“I do not know—but I know where to find out.” Darcy subscribed to the major London papers, although he pointedly avoided the gossip columns. He allowed the household to have them when he had finished, but he was certain that if he asked Mrs Reynolds to bring him the latest column by Mr Pennywithers, she would promptly provide it. He did not fail to notice, as they rode out of the village, the number of salutations received—gestures he had believed were directed solely at him. He now understood, somehow, they were all for his cousin.
Half an hour later, he and Richard stood over a copy of the London Herald, spread out upon the desk in his study. “Here it is,” Darcy said, pointing, and was silent as he read the latest edition of ‘Mr Pennywithers Reports’.
With my master, I had the privilege of attending a Wakes Week in the lovely town of Lambton. Perhaps many have yet to visit this jewel at the edge of the Peak District, but I assure you, from the marvellous views at its limestone escarpments to the hearty fare sold most reasonably by a pub quaintly named The Tippling Footman it is well worth the journey.
Whilst there I had, with a few thousand other souls, the opportunity of watching a curricle race between three ladies of the ton—not one of them worth less than thirty thousand—for a prize I could never determine.
We shall likely never know what over-confidence or incompetence inspired the losers of said contest to both turn their vehicles directly into the winner’s path; we can only bemoan the ineptitude causing one of them to lose control of her ponies until it shied and reared, instigating mayhem amongst the teams. All we could see for certain was that the winner emerged from the confusion suddenly finding herself in a race for her own survival. The field was not large enough for those ponies to run until they tired, nor wide enough to take turns at full speed, especially with crowds of people dashing about, making every effort, or so it seemed, to get in the way.
Suddenly however, as those beasts careened towards a treacherous end, a man shot from the woods directly into the curricle’s path—and instead of veering aside, lunged for the traces.
Some way—and I still cannot fathom the ‘how’ of it, although I watched it happen—that one man managed to grab on, to climb onto the back of one of the crazed horses, to induce the team to slow and finally, to halt. The driver, a young lady of obvious mettle, walked away without a scratch, to claim whatever foolish award incited her to race in the first place.
The hero of the day, I learnt, is a former colonel in His Majesty’s army, returned home from Portugal with a ruined face, and, it is said, a ruined heart—or at least, he shows himself no longer amongst his neighbours. (Except, of course, when one of them is facing a tragic demise without his direct intervention.)
I think we can assume the colonel did not enter his final battle in Portugal for glory, honour, or ambition. He was a man with a job to do, and he did it. His job just happened to be the saving of several thousand of the King’s Army from certain death or capture by the French, at the river C?a. Because he did it, most of our soldiers who fought there will come home. Because he ordered it done, most of his men are buried on foreign soil, never to see fair England again.
I saw his face—and his scars. We all did. I can understand why he avoids us. When one sees scars like his—brutal, ugly—we cannot hide from the war that produced them. We cannot hide from the pain of it, the cost of it, and go along our merry, ignorant ways without at least acknowledging its existence, as well as the ceaseless agony borne by the men who must fight them. We look away, not knowing what to say or do. Our instinct is to turn away, that we might resume our fragile oblivion as quickly as possible.
There is nothing we can do for the colonel, not really. We have no claim on his attention. And yet— today he saw a foolish young lady in a runaway curricle and he saved her life. To him, I suppose it was just another job that needed doing, scars notwithstanding.
I am no courageous soldier. I am only a valet. I have never seen any world beyond this British soil. I, too, have scars—small, private ones, my own griefs, my own anguish. I believe most of us do. And I, too, have jobs to perform. Nothing heroic, of course, although my master believes the knot of my Osbaldeston Tie to be the closest thing he has ever witnessed to a miracle.
I, too, shall keep moving forward, one cravat at a time, one day at a time, scars notwithstanding. But if I ever again come face to face with Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, I shall offer him a small salute, I think.
If he can bear his scars, then I can certainly bear mine.
Darcy read it through rapidly, then again more carefully. He looked over at his cousin, not knowing what to say.
It turned out words were unnecessary. Richard turned on his heel and quit the room.