Richard stood by his side. “It’s a fool’s errand, is it not, Darcy?”
“Surely you could have stopped her. She would have listened to you.”
The Colonel turned sad eyes on Darcy, a hand upon his cousin’s back. “It is war. I am a colonel; I must lead men into battle, knowing many will die. Soldiers with whom I laughed and joked but an hour before; toasting the King with a glass of sour Spanish wine. It is duty. My duty is to Wellington, to His Majesty—but, primarily, to the men in the companies and regiments who fight for little reward but pride, and belief in their comrades. I must look out for them, to ensure that as many privates, corporals, sergeants, and ensigns return to enjoy the peace of England as possible. When this accursed war is finally done.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Miss Bennet knows the risks. If she could save one company of men, she would do so. She is the finest of women, Darcy—the very finest!”
Lydia came scrambling down the slope, clutching her skirts, her face red with tears. “Lizzy, where is Lizzy going?”
She collapsed on the ground, watching her sister disappear into a wooded copse further down the hillside.
Gently, the Colonel leant down and assisted her to her feet. Over the past week, the young woman had become a sister to him, as was Georgiana; he held her close, she sobbed into his faded red jacket. “Elizabeth has gone to discover the purpose of the army,” he said. “She will be gone but a day, two at the most.”
“But why? Surely the Spanish can ask the soldiers what their orders are. Oh, it is so unfair. In Meryton, I never knew her. But she is the loveliest sister—she cares, she really cares. But how? How is she to discover what the partisans cannot?”
It was neither the place nor time to dissemble. “She’s to enter the camp,” said the Colonel, “and use her gift to find where the army goes, what their purpose is. ’Tis likely she will find a senior officer—chef de bataillon, chef d’escadron, major, lieutenant-colonel.”
“B—but, she needs to get so very close. I do not understand…” Lydia abruptly stared at Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose eyes were also red-rimmed. “No, she cannot! She cannot—she’ll be ruined—or worse!” Lydia’s sobs grew more intense, until her whole body was shuddering, racked with anguish and fear.
* * *
Had she known, Elizabeth would, perhaps, have been more inquisitive about those books she had found in her father’s library, hidden on a high shelf. At thirteen, she was a curious girl, and had no thought for the privacy of others, particularly when in her father’s library, which even then she considered her own. He had gone to Meryton to speak to the new Mayor, now Sir William Lucas. She had taken the opportunity to take the stepladder and, with a little stretch, reach up and grab her prize:Fanny Hill, Memoirs of A Woman of Pleasure.
Even now she blushed; the copy was illustrated—all she remembered were bare bottoms, and women and men in the most extraordinary positions. She understood nothing of it. The prose was tedious, the words written by a young woman who had gone to London to seek her fortune, then been taken in by a kindly woman. At thirteen, she had found the book boring; after reading the first two pages she returned it to its shelf. Instead, she carefully opened her father’s great atlas of the world, dreaming of far-off places, such as only a young, innocent girl can dream of. Fanny Hill remained on the shelf until, one day, it mysteriously disappeared, and Mrs. Bennet refused to speak to Mr. Bennet for a week. A maid had been overzealous in her spring cleaning, and had decided to dust and varnish the very top shelf.
Oh, how Elizabeth wished she knew more of the ways between men and women. Not that she truly wished it, but only to calm her beating heart.
El Guapo was certainly handsome, the pimp who walked closely beside her. But he had a cruel eye and had been a partisan since his sister had been violated by the French, when Napoleon invaded in ‘08. He had examined Elizabeth as though he was purchasing a brood mare at Tattersalls, spun her around, got her to walk the length of the room, even as she changed into themajadress of the lower classes: a bright yellow, low-cut bodice; a full, calf-length skirt trimmed with red ruffled hems; embroidered stockings; flashy jewellery, large earrings which pinched her ears, a red comb in her hair.
“No, no, señora,” he had cried, “you walk like aDoña Manuela. You must walk like this—” He walked across the room, exaggerating the movement of his hips. He paused, thinking. “No, I am wrong. If you wish to attract the attention of amariscal puchero—a marshal stockpot—then you must be high class, anafrancesada—a woman of quality who collaborates with the French.”
They came to the gate. El Guapo was well known, and easily passed through—Elizabeth noticed a small bundle passed to the guard.
“A piece of pig,” El Guapo explained. “We take the Frenchmen’s silver, but food is more valuable to them. The man is a fool, but also a man with wants and desires. He certainly desires you, Señora Isabella—I know that look. Hunger. We should do well. But do not look at theGabachos; they are beneath your contempt. Do you see ahead, the pennant flying above that large tent—that is where the Colonel of this regiment sits.” El Guapo spat. “From a serjeant, I know he keeps amistress in Burgos—he has been without a woman too long; none of the officers were allowed to bring their women.”
Elizabeth forced a laugh, her long chestnut hair cascading down her back. Inside, fear had enveloped her very soul. But it was too late to turn back—oh, the folly to think that she could enter the camp without ruin, without discovery. Her mind wandered—visiting Aunt Phillips, taking tea with Lady Lucas, choosing a book in the lending library in Meryton—anything other than walking through a stinking French camp, enduring the leers of the unkempt soldiers. They turned to stare—she was an uncommon beauty. As she walked by, her gift plucked at them, ensorcelled beyond the obvious charms of a common whore.
“Good, you are showing disdain.” El Guapo smiled, his eyes feral. “You make a finecortejana. Mayhap Colonel Dumoustier will wish to take you back to Burgos, and throw away his current mistress—she would bring me a fortune, though not as much as you.”
* * *
Elizabeth hesitated at the threshold of the tent, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Flickering sunlight filtering through thin clouds threw uncertain shadows on the canvas walls. Her yellow blouse—the very shade of a Spanish daffodil—was cut indecently at the shoulder, the laces untied showing more décolletage than the Empress Joséphine. Her skirt swung about her ankles, drawing the eye of the soldier guarding the tent with every movement. Her hair—purposefully unladylike, a torrent of chestnut, tumbling loose down her back.
She’d had no time to rehearse her part. It was not the sort of knowledge a gentlewoman ought to possess, but then, gentlewomen did not often find themselves in the midst of aFrench encampment in Spain, nor did they usually conspire to seduce a French Colonel. Dumoustier, El Guapo had told her, was a man of appetites, or so his mistress had said.
Elizabeth raised her head. An image of Miss Bingley flashed in her mind—conceited, disdainful, self-centred. She entered the tent with the air of a woman accustomed to such intimate assignations: head high, smile bold, and eyes lowered just enough to suggest both modesty and mischief. The Colonel, seated behind a makeshift desk littered with maps and a half-finished bottle of brandy, looked up, his features sharpening with interest. Elizabeth partially relaxed—he was not immune to the glamour of her gift, caught by an allure of which he was unaware.
“Ah! Voilà, la belle Espagnole!” he exclaimed, rising with a flourish that was only slightly ridiculous given the battered state of his boots. “You are even lovelier than I was led to believe.”
Elizabeth dropped a curtsy, the movement awkward only because she was unused to managing so many ruffles. “Monsieur le Colonel flatters me,” she murmured, affecting an accent thick enough to mask her polished schoolgirl vowels. “I am my mother’s daughter—and I am here as you wished.”
He came forward, the gold braid on his uniform catching sunlight from gaps in the tent. He was not a tall man, but what he lacked in height he made up for in self-importance. His gaze travelled from her exposed shoulder, down the length of her arm, lingering on her bosom with proprietary insolence. Elizabeth forced herself not to recoil.
“You will pardon my presumption,” he said, “but I am a connoisseur of beauty, and you, my dear, are a masterpiece. Sit, sit! You must try the brandy—it is from my own private stock, not the swill we give the men.”
She allowed him to pour a measure into a chipped cup, pretending to sip while she gathered her wits. The tent was closeand hot, thick with the smell of tallow and tobacco. Outside, the camp was alive with the sounds of soldiers at their revels—the clatter of dice, the occasional shout. Somewhere, not far off, El Guapo would be waiting, his patience as legendary as his knife-work.
The Colonel set aside the brandy and moved to stand beside her. “You are very quiet, my little bird. Are you afraid? There is no need. I am not a brute.”
