“Thornton!” Darcy hailed his batman whose dark head rose above a throng of soldiers exiting the brewery that had been converted to a bathhouse.
“Sorry for the delay, sir.” The man who could have passed for his brother plopped Darcy’s kitbag on the ground and saluted. “Your tunic was held up at the de-lousing station, and a loose button needed securing.”
“I take it you’ve had a bath as well?”
“If that is what you call a three minute dunk in a brewery tub in the company of a dozen men. But at least a clean uniform affords a few hours relief from trench vermin.”
Darcy chuckled. “On leave I spent an inordinate amount of time in the hot water of my new bathtub at Pemberley so I wouldn’t forget the experience.”
“Perhaps your next assignment will allow some comforts of home. Do you know where you are going?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s telegram only stated that a car would pick me up here this afternoon—any minute, I expect.”
“I wish you well, sir. It’s been a privilege serving you at the signalling headquarters and in the trenches. I would be honoured to do so again should the occasion arise and...”
...should we both survive. Darcy nodded acknowledging he understood the unspoken words. “You’re a good man, Thornton. Are you sure you’re not interested in a promotion? The army needs good leaders.”
“I’m content to remain a private, sir. I had my fill leading men in Milton.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.” Darcy extended his palm. “Goodbye, Thornton.”
Thornton shook the outstretched hand. “Goodbye, sir.”
Darcy released a sigh as his faithful batman disappeared into the crowd. He had maintained a comfortable distance from his men over their months in the trenches, but remaining aloof from Thornton had been a challenge. Despite the mill owner being a man of trade, Darcy liked him. Both possessed a reserved temperament and generally preferred books to crowds.
Did they also share the loss of a woman? On more than one occasion, he caught Thornton staring at a worn photograph of a young woman, though she was never mentioned. It didn’t matter now. They were going their separate ways, and he didn’t expect to see his batman again.
A lusty cockney accent rising from a group of muddied soldiers standing at the brewery’s entrance turned his attention.
“...so the capt’n hung the loaf of bread from the trench roof. Next fin’ yer know, a rat the bloomin’ size of a this and that launches from ‘is shoulder an’ make fer the bleedin’ stash! ‘e’d ‘ave got it, but the bloody capt’ns quick shot killed ‘im dead!”
His comrades roared. Darcy chuckled under his breath but shook his head at the butchered English. He scanned the crowd to pick out the London commoner, but they all looked essentially the same in their grimy uniforms. Nothing about their appearance hinted which were cultured like Thornton, and which were unrefined louts like the cockney jester.
The exit door on the opposite side of the brewery burst open, and a wave of freshly bathed soldiers poured out. The clean khaki figures looked much like the dirty ones—only they’d been given an opportunity to exchange their offensive condition for a more desirable one.
He startled, stunned as if struck by a bolt of lightening. All men were the same—equal in the sense that they all had two arms and two legs. What truly differentiated one man from another was opportunity and character. The rest were merely superficial presentations—like money and manners.
What if he’d grown up in a house with cockney parents and no opportunity for education? Would he now be crude and unpolished instead of well mannered and cultured? Was Thornton really less respectable because he’d owned a mill instead of an estate? Did being Pemberley’s master really make Darcy better than others?
He tilted his head, and his standing in the world repositioned with his thoughts. He was no more distinguished than a tiny grain of sand on an endless beach.
“Captain?” A voice beckoned him back to the present. “Are you ready to depart?”
“Y-yes.” Darcy pressed a smile at the driver standing beside him. “What’s our destination?”
“A French chateau an hour’s drive south, sir. Home of General Pommier.” The driver hoisted the kitbag, then opened the car door for him.
Trundling along the pocked road, Darcy’s thoughts returned to the revelation. His cousin Richard, a colonel, seemed to instinctively understand this principle of character over outward presentation. That would explain why he so often scorned pretentiousness and possessed an uncanny knack for leadership. He never undervalued a man because of his appearance or position in society. Darcy nodded. In the army, choosing the best man for a task regardless of his station could be the difference in life and death. This was a valuable gem of wisdom indeed.
A flush swept over Darcy as another shocking thought struck him. By society’s standard, Elizabeth was below him in money and station. Yet she possessed all the character qualities he desired in a wife. The problem wasn’t her character or education, it was the appalling behaviour of her mother and younger sisters. She was tainted merely by association. He released his breath like a heavy weight. No wonder he’d felt so torn over her.
An hour later his mind was still exploring the revelation when the car’s tyres crunched the gravel before a modest French chateau.
“Here you are, sir. Home of General Pommier.” The driver set the handbrake.
The front door opened, and Darcy stepped to the ground squinting at the vaguely familiar blond officer approaching. Didn’t he know the man?
“William Darcy, is that you?” The young lieutenant peered at him with a cocked head.
“Robert Knightley.” Darcy relaxed and shook the hand of his distant relative, a doctor he hadn’t known existed until a few years ago. “Richard mentioned I’d meet a surprise.”
“Surprise, indeed. I’ve just returned from leave at Donwell Abbey and didn’t anticipate a reassignment from my field ambulance unit.”
“Donwell? I would have expected you to be in Hastings, courting a certain young lady.”
Robert looked away. “It seems she was more interested in my new status as heir to Donwell than who I really am—the orphaned grandson of the black sheep of the Knightley family.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m thankful the truth was revealed before it was too late.” An awkward silence hung between them before Robert continued. “Shall we go in?” He motioned towards the door and fell in step beside Darcy. “I was told to expect Richard within the hour. Apparently the general was delayed and will join us for dinner. Would you like to get settled in your room?”
“I’m fine. If we could summon a glass of wine, I would relish the opportunity to catch up.”
“Certainly.” Robert led the way into a comfortable library and poured two glasses of Bordeaux. “As you can see, the war has left the general slim on servants. I was told to make myself at home.”
“You are looking like a seasoned master already.” Darcy grinned. “Remind me again how you came to be the heir apparent of Donwell.” They settled into a pair of red chairs before a stone mantelpiece.
“My great-grandparents were George and Emma Knightley. Their grandson married Eliza—sister of your Grandmother Fitzwilliam. Eliza’s son George, as you know, is Donwell’s current master and father of Stephen, Cornelia, and Sarah. In short, the Knightley lineage is rather short on males, and when Stephen died, they had to climb way up the family tree to find me.”
“So, how are things with your inherited family? Are they any more accepting of you as the next heir? Cousin Stephen’s been gone nearly four years now.”
Robert lit a cigarette. “The two sisters have been more gracious than Uncle George. The trouble is, the family doesn’t seem to understand that I was quite happy as a doctor in Hastings. The idea of my being heir to Donwell was as shocking to me as it was to them. They seem to believe that only people like them can ever truly be happy.” He pressed out his palm in contrition. “Forgive me—please don’t be offended as you are master of a great estate yourself. But that way of life was foreign to me. Is it unforgivable that I should like to dress myself without the help of a valet, or luncheon without a footman hovering?”
“Certainly not. Your reticence is understandable.”
“Four years ago no one took notice of how I spent my time or with whom I associated. Now everyone seems to have an opinion as to whom I should marry—even the newspapers, for heaven’s sake!” He threw up his hands, leaving a trail of white smoke. “I can no longer attend any sort of social affair without everyone in the room becoming aware of my marital status and financial worth within minutes of my arrival.”
Darcy nodded with a knowing chuckle.
“Every woman I know now seems to consider us the closest of friends. How shall I ever choose a wife and not forever suspect she married me for my position?”
“Great-Aunt Eliza would be happy to remedy your dilemma. Marry one of her granddaughters, and you will have no cause to wonder—you will know you were chosen for your position.”
Robert laughed. “Sarah and I get on well. We had a lovely time together last week.” His focus turned inward. “She’s quite grown up now. Pretty, too. If she wasn’t so hell-bent on escaping estate life, I think I could be happy with her.” He shook his head and returned to the present. “Don’t you think for a minute Eliza doesn’t have her sights set on you, William. Snagging you would be a fine feather in her cap. More importantly, it would give her supreme gloating rights over your Aunt Catherine for thwarting a marriage to your cousin Anne.”
Darcy chuckled. “I’m afraid they shall both be sorely disappointed. I dearly love my cousin Anne, but neither she nor I have any aspirations of a union.” Darcy sipped his wine. “Now that you—or your inheritance—has placed you in the crosshairs of every eligible female, may I pass on some advice my father gave me?”
“Of course.”
“Be intentional about your association with ladies. You wouldn’t want to find yourself forced into marriage by a careless indiscretion. I’ve made it my policy not to even kiss a woman unless I have every intention of marrying her.”
“Easier said than done.”
“True, but it also works to filter the gems from the gold diggers.”
“Assuming we live long enough to work through this filtration process.”
Their gaze lingered as the spectre of their mortality hovered between them. Robert flicked the ashes from his Gold Flake and changed the subject. “I hear Sarah has been talking to your sister about becoming a VAD.”
“Yes, though I’m not sure I approve. Georgiana is very young and naïve.”
Robert chuckled. “Perhaps we have all been naïve in thinking the world of footmen, gardeners, and hunting parties will last forever. The war has changed everything.”
“It has.” Darcy picked up his drink. “We’d better embrace the changes if our estates are to remain lucrative.”
“Mmm. For men like Uncle George, a different way of life is almost unfathomable. But I’d say the trenches have exercised us in a different way of life, wouldn’t you?”
Darcy huffed a laugh. “They’ve certainly made me appreciate dry feet and a warm bed.”
Robert gestured with his fag. “I heard you spent a few months commanding a signalling headquarters. It appears your childhood fancy with telegraphy has become more than a plaything.”
“As a child, Richard was obsessed with codes and telegraphy. Of course, he insisted we all learn. Did Cornelia tell you she played with Stephen and me as well?”
“She did, but it’s hard for me to imagine Cornelia participating in such boyish games.”
“I assure you she did, though it was only for a summer or two.” Darcy swirled his wine.
“That’s Richard for you. So persuasive he could convince a tortoise to give up its shell.”
Darcy laughed.
“It appears his charm wasn’t lost on Sarah, young as she was. She’s become determined to master the dots and dashes of Morse code.”
“Perhaps Richard’s roguish coercion hasn’t all been negative.”
Robert chuckled. “I suppose it is one of the qualities that makes him an excellent colonel.”
“Did I hear someone calling my name?” The voice and gait of uneven boots on the oaken floor preceded the colonel’s appearance in the doorway.
“Richard, you rascal.” Robert sprang from the chair and pumped the hand of the strapping officer with a prominent scar across the corner of his right eye.
“Hello, Robert. Darcy!” His cousin turned to him. “You made it. What did you think of my surprise?” He motioned to Robert.
“It’s good to see him. How are you, Richard?”
“I’ll be better after I’ve had a drink.” He shot a glance over his shoulder to the clanging in the entry. “Make that two drinks,” he whispered, leaning forward with a devilish grin before the figure drew up behind him. “Gentlemen, meet Dr. Cowart, lieutenant in the French Army.” He stepped aside to reveal a soldier covered in all manner of military accoutrements.
“Dr. Ernest Cowart, at your service.” The officer’s paraphernalia jangled as he clicked his heels with a salute. “Raised in France, schooled in Scotland, here to purge Flanders from its traitors.”
Darcy shook the hand of the young man with thinning hair. The doctor looked ridiculous in his blue uniform draped with field glasses, compass, bandolier, dangling sword, revolver, and kitbag complete with spade.
“You boys have nothing to worry about. Fluent in French and Dutch, I was hand-picked by my uncle for this special assignment in the heart of my old stamping grounds. Britain begged me to sign on as a Tommy, but I felt a duty to my native countrymen to don the Poilu blues.”
As the buffoon prattled on showing off his medals and bragging of his military expertise, Darcy sniggered with déjà-vu of Mr. Collins. Robert darted his eyes in Darcy’s direction and coughed over a smile. Darcy pressed his lips together and dared not make eye contact, afraid they would both chuckle aloud.
“Lieutenant,” Richard patted the shoulder of the babbling doctor, “forgive the interruption, but my men have not yet been briefed on the assignment. We’ll discuss it over dinner. Why don’t you relinquish your equipment upstairs and rest after your long journey.”
“Yes, sir!” After a brisk salute, he clambered up the stairs.
Richard sank into a chair shaking his head. “If I’d known my new position coordinating with French intelligence would involve working with the likes of Cowart, I would have turned down the promotion. If he wasn’t the nephew of General Pommier, I’d demand someone with a grain of sense.”
Darcy handed him a glass of wine. “So, Richard, what brings us here?”
“I trust you.” He threw back the contents of his glass and held it out to Robert. “The French have reason to believe a British casualty clearing station just inside the Belgian border near Ypres is a base for enemy operatives. It will be your job to sniff them out.”
Darcy exchanged a dubious glance with Robert.
“This particular CCS has two locations—a surgical ward at a chateau and a secondary one nearby at a converted boys’ school for those with less serious injuries. Robert, you are going in as part of the routine rotation of doctors. You’ll be stationed at the school. Your job is to keep your eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. It’s often a first stop for wounded prisoners. Since there have been numerous escapes from the area in the last two years, it’s likely they received assistance from inside the CCS.”
With a sceptical quirk of his head, Robert handed Richard another glass of wine.
Richard took a drink and continued. “A massive offensive is in the works for the summer. Every clearing station in the Ypres salient will be sent additional supplies and staff, readied to operate at maximum capacity. Darcy, the commanding officer at The Ritz is one of Britain’s finest abdominal surgeons, but Weekes’ management skills are appalling. Headquarters doesn’t trust him to sufficiently organise the preparation. You’ll serve as his assistant—”
“Assistant? I have no medical background! And my only knowledge of the internal workings of a hospital is what little I picked up from requisitioning a facility in Hertfordshire.”
“Then prepare yourself to learn. It can’t be much different than running that large estate of yours. Besides, the assistant’s position is just a cover for your real purpose there.”
“Real purpose?”
“I want you to stick your nose into every corner within a ten mile radius of the place. Get to know the staff and meet the locals as inconspicuously as possible. Sniff out the rat.”
Darcy shook his head. It sounded impossible. “What about Dr. Christmas Tree upstairs? How does he figure into this plan?”
“Cowart is going under the guise of training with Dr. Weekes. I know he is a bellowing idiot, but he knows the area and languages. Apparently understands German as well. He’ll be at the chateau with you, Darcy, to provide another set of eyes and ears amongst the patients and staff.”
“He’s about as inconspicuous as a German’s helmet in a Tommy’s trench.”
“I know, I know.” Richard nodded. “Hopefully he will keep his mouth shut and stay out of your hair. With the French taking the lead in the investigation, I could hardly refuse the General’s nephew.” Richard downed his drink and consulted his watch. “I suggest we retire to dress for dinner. Look sharp. I want to make a good impression on the general so he won’t lend us any more help the likes of Cowart. Meet me in the drawing room in an hour. Don’t be late.”
Forty-five minutes later, Darcy descended the stairs in a fresh uniform, his mind whirring with the revelations of the day. At the bathhouse his whole notion about his position in society had been challenged. Now he was being recast as an intelligence officer.
Rounding the bannister, his gaze swept the adjacent music room and locked on a Victorian portrait of a dark haired young woman, her husband behind. Elizabeth! The affection radiating from the eyes of Elizabeth’s likeness was unmistakable. Loneliness and regret slammed into him. If only he had understood her value apart from her station, he could have declared his love for her at Hunsford without the condescending words that so offended her. ...the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry!
Averting his gaze to soften the blow, he turned on his heel and strode away.
Darcy stifled a yawn and glanced at his watch. It was just after midnight, and General Pommier had covered what seemed like every conceivable angle of the upcoming assignment. Darcy’s gaze strayed to a wall map, and his eyes traced the Western Front from its origin on the coast just inside Belgium, due south for some hundred miles, then eastward across France paralleling the Belgian border before dropping into the northwestern corner of Switzerland. How many more thousands of soldiers would have to offer their lives across that Front in exchange for the war’s end?
At last the portly whiskered general snuffed his cigar and heaved himself up from the upholstered chair. “Well, gentlemen, I believe I’ve covered most of the assignment’s particulars. We’ll conclude in the morning. Get some rest.”
The scuff of boots and hum of mingling voices enlivened the smoke-filled room. “So, what do you think, Darcy?” Richard drew up beside him as the group moved towards the door.
“I’m flattered at your faith in me, but I’m not convinced I’m the man for the job.”
Richard slapped him on the back. “Of course you are. You’ve never failed at anything.”
His mind replayed Elizabeth’s emphatic rejection of him.
“Besides,” he hooked his arm over Darcy’s shoulders, “the scenery there is lovely, and— Oh! An old acquaintance of ours is there. Do you remember Elizabeth Bennet?”