“And—?” asked the colonel, still with vehemence.
“And this is a bottle from France. Do you suppose Jean-Louis Fargeon distributes in England, in time of war, bottles which bear the boast that he supplies the wife of Napoleon?”
Only then did the colonel perceive that Darcy had brought objects from Miss Henry’s chamber. He started violently. “What have you done? Were you in her room? Where is Emmeline?”
He spoke like a man beside himself, and again Elizabeth feared that the interview might end in violence. He seemed about to rush to his mistress’s apartments when Darcy thundered forth, reading from a paper: “Fourteen Martello towers were raised along the western shore of Pevensey Bay, extending as far as Tower seventy-three. They are forty feet in height, with two floors, and a garrison of one officer and fifteen to five-and-twenty men. Their round form and massive masonry render them proof against cannon; their height makes them fitplatforms for a single heavy gun, turned upon the flat roof, and capable of sweeping a complete circle. Nine towers possess moats or additional works for greater defence.”
The colonel stood as if turned to stone. He snatched the paper from Darcy’s hand, read it, then seized another from the pile. There were maps with the positions of the towers and particulars of each.
“Where did you discover these?” His voice was hoarse, and Elizabeth, alarmed, drew nearer and seated herself beside him. His hands trembled; large drops of sweat stood upon his brow. She laid her pale hand upon his sunburnt ones to still their shaking.
“In Mrs Avery’s room.”
“Then her aunt is guilty,” he said, with effort, yet with a flicker of hope.
“Stop, Richard,” Darcy replied, his voice softened. He was once more the brother, the anxious, compassionate friend. He allowed Elizabeth to join in his entreaty.
“Yes—pray, Colonel, listen to Mr Darcy.”
“Even if she is not directly guilty, she must have known what passed among those closest to her. Perhaps this Mrs Avery collected and arranged the intelligence, but it was Miss Henry’s charge to entrap you. The letter proves her knowledge. She undertook the duty laid upon her by her parents, or by this Mrs Avery.”
The colonel breathed with great difficulty, his eyes often returning to the papers in his hands. They bore particulars of his mission—facts known only to himself. He remembered how frequently Mrs Avery—pretending indisposition—remained in her room while they ate dinner or breakfast. His room was heavily secured, yet in such circumstances it would have been easy to steal the keys both to his chamber and to the desk within.
“This is treason; she copied the documents that are kept in the cabinet of my study,” he said. He cast the papers upon the floor and sank into a posture of such despair that tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. She laid her hand upon his back, whispering words heard only by him.
Darcy’s countenance was a mask of pain. He reproached himself for not having been more vigilant with a woman he had disliked from the first. Yet what had he been able to censure but her coquetries and questionable morals? Since his unhappy interference in Bingley’s affair had cost him Elizabeth’s hand, he had grown cautious in offering counsel. He had disliked Miss Henry’s conduct at the assemblies after Kent, or at the dinners in Matlock House.
By then, he had compared every woman with Elizabeth, who delighted in reasoning rather than in flirtation, and who, though unlike the rest, was as pure as the morning mist. Miss Henry, by contrast, understood too well how to please. Skilled in the arts of desire, she was no temptation to him; one dance sufficed for him to recognise the fragrance his cousin carried, unwittingly, each morning to Lady Catherine’s table. That she yielded to the colonel’s advances was not in itself blameworthy, since he wished to marry her; yet her look, bestowed on every man, betrayed her. Once, he would have warned his cousin; now, he had refrained. She was handsome, she appeared to have a fortune, and his cousin was plainly enamoured.
A mistake—an enormous one.
“Where are…they?” the colonel asked, referring to Miss Henry and Mrs Avery.
“With Mr Gardiner, and my men.”
Suddenly, Elizabeth was seized with dread for her uncle’s safety. “Where?” she cried, and Darcy saw her anguish.
“Fear not, my dear, Winston has his men with him.”
“You knew!” exclaimed the colonel, looking at Darcy with a shade of reproach.
“I did not know; we suspected. We have learned a great deal in these last weeks. Before that…I merely disliked her.”
“I was aware of it—neither you nor my mother approved. Yet I was not alarmed. She was different, and that was the very reason I—”
But he looked then at Elizabeth and understood that a wife must be different indeed: different in the manner of Elizabeth, not one who gave herself within the first month.
“I shall inform my General,” he said, defeated.
“Stop—pray stop. Recover yourself. Let us deliberate,” Darcy urged. “You may not preserve your honour intact.”
“Everything here concerns England, my friend. My destiny does not count!” the colonel replied with dignity, showing the papers on the floor. Darcy trembled with pride, for never had he esteemed his cousin more. He was prepared to sacrifice his honour for the safety of his country.
“I know, and I agree, but let us recover our composure and reflect.”
“Fitzwilliam is right,” Elizabeth said, and for the first time in an hour, the colonel smiled faintly. “'Fitzwilliam’? Is there something I am not told?”
Darcy inclined his head. “Elizabeth has agreed to be my wife.”
