Fully alert, the small band plunged into the shelter of a thicket, sliding and stumbling down the far side of the ridge,hearts pounding with the knowledge that at any moment, a musket shot might crack through the air. Darcy pressed onward, assisting Georgiana and Lydia down the steeper slopes.Curse this war,he muttered to himself,curse society, curse theton, curse Elizabeth Bennet!
* * *
Darcy had wished to flee the ball at Netherfield. Now, he wished to flee the León Mountains, the crags, the low mist, their presence always looming over him. For a moment, he wondered whether this was how Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—experienced the world, the minds of those near her always pressing, constricting, choking her very spirit.
The ground grew gentler and the horizon broadened toward the plains west of Benavente. It should have brought relief: easier terrain, mostly downhill towards low ground. Yet, Darcy’s mind wandered into a landscape more like the crags they were leaving behind, than the levelled plain before them.
He walked behind the group, his stride precise, seemingly relaxed with the ease by which he followed the narrow trail. His thoughts were anything but. Georgiana and Lydia Bennet, so different in their natures but now united by circumstance and sisterly affection, moved ahead with increasing energy. Georgiana’s step was cautious and graceful, her hand sometimes extended to Lydia, whose own approach to the landscape was more akin to an impetuous dance—a leap here, a quick laugh there at some misstep, her spirits rebounding from the pain she had known aboard the French sloop.
Will Goulding led his men with an authority that had once seemed unimaginable to Darcy. There was no trace now of the uncertain youth who had blushed and stumbled through the dances at Netherfield; hesitantly approaching Richard to seekadvice as to whether he should enlist in the army. Forged by circumstance, here was a man who listened to his soldiers and was listened to in turn, whose every gesture seemed to command attention. The men followed him with a loyalty that Darcy could neither claim nor fully comprehend.
It was not that Darcy begrudged them their camaraderie, nor that he resented the change in Goulding. Indeed, he admired these qualities in abstract, and yet, he could not help but feel the ache of exclusion. The bonds of shared hardship had drawn these young men together in a manner Darcy had never experienced. For all his lineage and education, Darcy was an outsider—worse, he was superfluous.
His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had departed at León, joining with Don Mateo and, more significantly to Darcy, with Elizabeth Bennet, to warn Wellington of the French advance. Darcy had not seen them go—but he had felt then the first sensations that deepened with every mile: a sense of having been left behind.
The FrenchArmy of the Northwas on the move, its columns stretching southward toward Zamora and Tora, intent on closing a deadly pincer about Wellington’s forces. The Spanish army, under Santocildes, marched as well. The world was in motion, armies converging, destinies being decided—and Darcy, who had once thought himself at the centre of every room, every conversation, now found himself wandering the periphery, unheeded.
What, after all, was he? The master of a great estate, the nephew of an earl—these distinctions, which had so often formed the quiet background of his self-regard, now seemed little more than chimeras. Here, where courage and a willingness to act could alter the fate of countries, what did it signify that he had inherited Pemberley? What use was the knowledge of fine horseflesh, the management of tenants, thecareful balancing of accounts, his skill as a graceful dancer, when the world itself seemed so indifferent as to whether Pemberley was well run, or fell into ruin?
Darcy recalled the death of his father—how, in that moment, the weight of responsibility had settled on his shoulders, how he had believed that the very fate of his family and its legacy depended upon his conduct. He had performed his duties with unwavering diligence. But now he wondered if, in so doing, he had mistaken the means for the end. Was not life to be lived, rather than merely managed? Was not happiness to be sought? Did he know what happiness truly was?
He looked up, his gaze drawn to Georgiana and Lydia. They shared a laugh—Georgiana’s was gentle, Lydia’s, once irrepressible, now restrained—and Darcy felt, with unexpected force, the pang of longing for connection. He was fond of his sister, perhaps more than he let himself show, but some barrier always rose between them, a formality born of his own reserve. And Lydia, for all her erstwhile foolishness, had a warmth about her, a willingness to embrace the present moment, that he could not help but envy.
The riflemen, for their part, moved with a unity that was almost instinctive. Their green jackets blended with the sparse trees, their voices were low, their eyes always on the horizon.
It was a lesson not lost on Darcy, though it did little to ease his troubled mind. The world that had shaped him, that had taught him to value birth and inheritance above all, was being remade before his eyes. He felt, for the first time, the true cost of such an upbringing. Not only the limitations it had imposed on his understanding, but the loneliness it had engendered. He did not know how to be among these men, how to share their jokes or their hardships. He was, in every sense that mattered, alone.
The landscape changed as they descended from the last of the hills. The plains spread out before them, dotted withthe columns of Spanish soldiers. TheArmy of Galicia, under Santocildes, was marching, their drums faint in the distance. Darcy watched them pass, the sunlight glinting on bayonets, their banners streaming in the wind. The sight should have stirred him; it only deepened his sense of isolation.
He recalled, with bitter clarity, the pride he had once felt in his Englishness, in the certainty that his country’s cause was just and that his own place within it was secure. Now, surrounded by strangers in a foreign land, he saw that certainty for what it was: a comfort drawn from circumstance, not from character. There were men here—Goulding among them—who had earned their place, who had proved themselves. Darcy, for all his consequence, had done nothing.
His thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Elizabeth Bennet. He wondered where she was now, whether she was safe, whether she thought of him at all. The prospect of Elizabeth in danger filled him with a dread he could scarcely acknowledge, and yet he knew that she, at least, had a purpose. She was not content to stand aside.
How different she was from the women he had known in England! There, accomplishment was measured in the delicacy of a drawing, the proficiency at the pianoforte, the elegance of a curtsey. Here, in Spain, the world demanded other virtues.
But Elizabeth was lost to him.
For what was virtue in war, was shame and ruin in the drawing rooms and parlours of London. They both, Georgiana and he, must return to that world. Georgiana would be presented at court by his aunt, Lady Matlock; she must make her curtsey to the Queen, unsullied by any hint of scandal. That was the way of it—his world, not that of Spanish wars.
The day wore on. The company pressed southward, skirting the edges of the great plain. Darcy’s thoughts circled endlessly, returning always to the same question: what was he to do? Whatrole was left for a man such as himself, whose only claim to importance was the accident of birth? Yet, he was proud of being a Darcy, a lineage that had lived a life of duty and responsibility for generations. He found, reluctantly perhaps, that he was not strong enough to take another course.
A rifleman came hurrying down the line. “Pardon me, Mr. Darcy, but Mr. Goulding and Eduardo wish to talk to you.”
“Santocildes’ army has already crossed the Esla,” said Eduardo. “They close on Zamora, likely to engage the French.”
“Do we follow?” Lieutenant Goulding looked to Darcy. “There would be the danger of getting caught in a battle. While my men are not afraid to fight; indeed, their rifles have hardly been used, and shootingJohnny Crapaudis what we have been trained for. But I would not wish to risk the ladies.”
“Let us go around, if possible,” said Darcy, glad to be consulted. “I’m sure, Lieutenant, that you will get your share of battle. Colonel Fitzwilliam tells me that Wellington always puts riflemen in the face of the enemy.”
“Si.We can cross the Douro to the west of where the Esla joins it,” agreed Eduardo. “I know of a ferry, worked by partisans. Come, we must hurry. With good fortune we can be across before nightfall.”
* * *
Chapter 15
Salamanca
Mrs. Hurley walked into the parlour. “Elizabeth,” she said, smiling, “guess what I found wandering in the plaza…”
