Elizabeth steepled her finely gloved fingers and moved them upward to touch the visible breath she exhaled. She filled her lungs again and raised up her boot to continue on the path. If one could hear them, her steps might be described as strident. By the flying of the wool and linen around her legs, her activity could at the least be considered agitated. Given the smallness of the yard, she felt as if penned in a paddock, bridled under bonnet and stamping under harnessed skirts.
Their party was leaving within the quarter hour.
Leaving England.
Leaving as carelessly and easily as if traveling on the sea from one kingdom to another was as simple as leaving Longbourn to trek across the easy distance of the fields and lanes to Lucas Lodge.
Excitement might be her sole focus if only her anxiety would abate. Elizabeth had complete awareness she was just enough of her mother's daughter to know the frisson which bounded in her middle was not just the hope of seeing new landscapes she never imagined seeing, but rather… nerves – not just the benign ones which plagued her mother, but ones which were born of real fear:
A fear for their safety – a fear for being trapped on a boat with no place to go but cold, watery depths, and an even less acknowledged fear of an endless horizon – no point of reference but the sun and stars pointing their direction to ventures unknown.
Elizabeth looked up seeing the last of those night gems fading as a greyish light overtook their home in the heavens. Oh… she would not wish; she could not; she should not. Natural practicality and a logical mind prevented her. Wishing was too much like wanting. She would not stand for her wants to be denied. No, the heavens and the desires of her heart were not to be trusted.
Perhaps for our fate, the captain at least shall have better luck navigating those stars.
Her inner longing was interrupted by someone calling after her. She turned to see a man who had become something of a friend. He had ever-knowing eyes and rarely an open smile, but on the occasion, it was just he and his new mistress, a gentle smirk surrounded by the fine brushstrokes of age would be especially reserved just for her. And while she appreciated his service and even more so, his generous spirit towards her, his presence opened a well-placed shadow on her heart and deepened the acute ache born of missing the acceptance only her family provided. Her father had similar wise eyes, and even when she felt chastised by them, they held affirmation. She looked up at the man whose hair matched the western sky where the stars still struggled against the opposing dawn.
"Good morning, Mr. Johnson. Have you come to fetch me?"
He stopped and gave her the courtesy she was due. "Aye, Mrs. Darcy. We are ready to depart shortly. Your husband has settled with the inn and is checking the preparedness as is his wont."
There was just enough inflection at the end of his words for Elizabeth's brow to arch in response.
They both knew what was left unsaid. Her husband could be quite particular, and it seemed a trait inflamed by travel. She had been too preoccupied to notice on their trip to Somerdale, but the more she spent with him travelling on the cold roads and over their time at Ffion, she had discovered a little more of his nature: he took much upon himself. No doubt for even the short trip to the docks he had already spent ample time this morning accounting for every piece of luggage… for a second time… and adjusting the girths and traces of the carriage horses until they felt just right under his experienced hand. He was a man who did not overlook details if he deemed something worth his attention nor did he leave those details to others when he could be satisfied by his own eye.
The valet's expression did not crack under Elizabeth's acknowledgment of her husband's newly understood compulsive nature, yet they both turned their heads to the carriage house.
Elizabeth looked to her husband's servant and folded her hands against her fluttering belly. "I suppose if it is time, then we must away. There is no sense in delay any longer."
Mr. Johnson nodded, bowed, and turned. Two steps later he turned his head and lost a little formality as he walked back to Elizabeth. Her feet, even with all their energy, stayed rooted to the spot unwilling to follow.
He gave a gentle smile and despite his position, held out his arm. "Mrs. Darcy, I think there is a time for a turn or two around this garden. Your conversation would do much in the way of putting this old man at ease before we set-off this morning. Come now, madam."
Mr. Johnson came closer with his arm extended. Elizabeth knew if she took it, he would lead her on and right into the carriage. It was time to go anyhow; with resignation, she placed her hand on the man's sleeve.
His other gloved, fatherly hand briefly patted hers. "Ah, that'll be a good lass."
Elizabeth giggled, actually giggled, at something so Scottish and informal coming from a man who normally commanded such elocution of the King's English. If a servant could be stately, Mr. Johnson qualified. It was really rather impressive and curious how refined the valet was. If one were to cross his path unknowing his employ, one might mistake him for a gentleman instead of a gentleman's gentleman.
He smiled down at her, his teeth still white through age. "We shall be in Scotland in no time, Madam; you will see. And there you shall be a lass, no doubt. Have you been to Scotland, Mrs. Darcy?"
"No, Mr. Johnson, I have not had the pleasure." Despite her brief amusement, her words were tauter than she intended. "Please do not think I am not looking forward to our travels or ungrateful for the trip. It is only… it is just that I seem to have a bit of anxiety this morning." She suspected he already knew such and though proclaiming some for himself, it was all for her benefit.
He turned her to continue past the gate instead of through and continued to walk with her in the yard. "I take it you have never sailed the open water, ma'am?"
She gave a shake to her head rolling her eyes at her own timidity.
"Ah, and therein lies our concern this morning?"
"I think you have found me out."
He patted her hand again. "Take it from a man who has seen more than his share of open seas, you will be whole and hale this time next week and on Scottish ground. However, it is only fair to warn you, you should be prepared to earn your sea legs, but most likely by the second or third day in good weather, any of that unpleasantness will have passed you by."
Elizabeth stopped them both and stared up silently asking what exactly was required to obtain said sea legs.
"I take it Master Fitzwilliam has not bothered to discuss the finer points of travel by ship?"
"You assume correctly."
He resumed their walking. "It is not so bad, Mrs. Darcy. There is much efficiency in traveling by way of open water, especially in these modern vessels. It is just the human anatomy takes time to adjust to the movement of the water and a changing horizon. Mal de Mer it is called. It is a blessed person who never experiences it. If I may speak plainly, Madam," here he continued at her small nod, "it is a feeling of nausea that may be no more than mild discomfort… or it may be something as wretched as eating a very bad pudding which had been stored in a larder much, much too long. However, for most, it is over soon enough and then you will be able to enjoy the stars like you might otherwise never see on the hilly British landscape – on the tremulous water they stretch and gleam all around. On a perfectly calm and moonless night, it as if you are on a bed of them. Come now, it will do you no good to worry, but I would not have you be taken unaware, nor Miss Harris. I can discuss it with her if you would like."
Elizabeth kept her feet moving in time to Mr. Johnson's boot falls. They were coming upon the open gate again, and she breathed in relief that he passed it. She wished to keep her legs on the solid English soil for a few minutes more.
"I thank you for your forthright warning." She meant it. It might be strange to some to have such a conversation with a servant, but she was glad to hear it from him in his no-nonsense, impeccable speech which left no room for embarrassment. "I shall discuss this with Tabitha at the first possible moment. It would not do for her to be taken unaware either. Does my husband know what to expect?"
"Master Fitzwilliam?" Mr. Johnson stared above her bonnet and clearly into a memory. He gave his head a shake to dislodge the history. "Believe me, your husband is a fortunate one who can walk bow to stern on a chalk line with a pirate's swagger, but then again, he has seafaring in his blood. His first time aboard a ship he was no more than a newly-breeched lad. Poor Lady Anne almost fainted when her son escaped his nurse and attempted the shrouds on the main mast while in his short coat. He made it a good way up before anyone took note. But, no worries, I think his behavior now some five and twenty years later has quite subdued. I have not seen him try it since."
Elizabeth was dumbfounded. Seafaring? Climbing shrouds? This did not seem likely. "Are you quite sure we are speaking of the same gentleman?"
"Yes, of course. I was there. That boy took a full company of handlers. Your husband was a hallion as soon as he stood on his own two feet… as was his father… as a young man, of course."
"Well." This was all interesting. It seemed Mr. Johnson might be a treasure trove full of tales and anecdotes which might give her a broader understanding of exactly just who this husband of hers was. There were so many questions now in her mind. "So, William's father? What do you mean when you referred to him as seafaring? Their family – they travelled by ship often? It seems as perhaps it is not the safest thing to do with one's young child and that at a time of unrest no less?" She still wondered how safe it was even now.
Her companion, not concerned at all for the impropriety himself, a mere valet, escorting his mistress around an inn's dormant garden, led her past the gate again. The dawn now fully illuminated the sky, and he gave a small thought to keeping his silence, but she was asking, and he was inclined to share with her. He thought Elizabeth Darcy a charming young woman. If he had a daughter who lived, he would hope her to be just like this lady with a generous and innocent heart. Mrs. Darcy reminded him of the one he knew long ago, and he knew if Fitzwilliam would open his soul, then he too would know the happiness to be found in such a woman… a happiness which could sustain over thirty years and prevail even after being violently ripped away. Even the smallest of blink of knowing the true, unadulterated bliss found in the heart of a woman like his Rebecca, or like Fitzwilliam's Mrs. Darcy, was worth all the risks of losing it. It was a lesson which could not be taught but rather must be learned by experience.
Mr. Johnson sighed, audibly so, for probably the first time in a score of years. "Well, Mrs. Darcy. No, the family did not venture abroad extensively while Fitzwilliam was young, but there certainly was some travel. We were well protected anyhow by plenty of guns if needed and more than that, an experienced group of men who had been proven to victor over any situation. You see, my previous employer, your husband's father and… my truest friend... was also once a Captain. Before there was Mr. George Darcy of Pemberley, there was Captain Darcy of His Majesty's Royal Navy, a second son who never imagined nor wished to inherit, nor was he ever prepared to do so. He is also the man who once saved my life, and my debt is still yet to be discharged."
Elizabeth was astonished. She had heard none of this nor had any inclination. "How incredible. No one has mentioned such a history." She also wished to know more about this debt but did not wish to pry.
"There is a not reason for most to make mention of it I suppose. Not many are still among us who might have known much about it. It is the same story that any second son may have, and George did not marry his Lady Anne until his brother had been gone two years; Fitzwilliam was not born for another three. Do not misunderstand, George Darcy was proud of his naval history and quick succession through the ranks for one so young, but he only spoke of it to the men who were there with him. Somethings are too painful to broach, and my friend did not retreat to the gentry so easily. Lady Anne, of course, knew his history, but I do not even know how much Fitzwilliam knows of his own father's life during the times he was away from Pemberley. He does know his father was a second son and there was some military career, but I believe that is the extent of it. He does not have his father's journals, and there is no one else now to speak of it at all."
A groom was spotted in the distance, and so she reined in most of her curiosity. She hoped Mr. Johnson would not be offended if she sought him out on their trip north.
Elizabeth knew her time was up as the groom closed in on the garden gate. Their journey was ready to commence. That strange and irritating fear bunched up in her insides again, and she quickly looked up to the older man beside her. Knowing she would at least be with an experienced sailor, she might surely feel some peace. "So, Mr. Johnson, you served under Fitzwilliam's father?"
"My dear Mrs. Darcy, I did and more than that, I served in His Majesty's Royal Navy for over a decade. You have nothing to fear in sailing. This is a good crew, and the Louisa, she is a good ship. Your husband and Miss Harris will see you are well. And as always, should you have any concerns, I am at your service." He patted her hand for a final time and gave her the warmest expression an old, battle-seasoned Warrant Officer could muster before he inclined his head. Theodore Johnson had seen fear in the young lads who came aboard the ships for the first time; he recalled his own fear the first time he walked the gangway, so he knew good and well what was behind her eyes.
Relieved for knowing Mr. Johnson's care and experience, she gave him a grateful smile before dropping her arm. Pulling her chin up, she walked calmly to meet the groom who was now before them explaining the carriage was prepared to see them on their way. Elizabeth was now determined to embrace her new adventure.
Darcy was alternating between pacing within the stern outside his wife's quarters and pacing the full length of the gun deck for the foregoing four hours. Night had settled over them as the gales picked up their tune. Squally rains still pounded the decks above as the belly of the ship churned.
The weather and the endless listing were of no consequence to Darcy's apprehension; he could not be rattled by a slight storm. His faith rested great with the strong timber and the capable crew; no, his worry was not wasted on such a small concern, because it was captured elsewhere. He was all anxiety for his wife and how quickly her tolerance for sailing diminished in direct inverse to the waves as they towered as tall as half the buildings of London.
Early in the day, Elizabeth climbed the gangway with great wonder and only a mild look of fear in her face. He was proud of her courage and took pleasure in affording her an opportunity for a novel acquaintance with sailing. She marveled at the riggings, the cannons, and even the precious consignment in the holds after she demanded to be shown all aspects and crannies of the Louisa. She was fascinated as the winds and waves picked up and scuttled the ship about in conciliation. She said she felt like a seed on the breeze as they moved far enough out in the water to no longer see the shaving of England left on the horizon. The fog had cleared early after dawn, and their first day was spent pleasantly. The captain was utterly enchanted by Elizabeth's astute inquires and gentle concerns for the keeping of the men aboard who saw to their safe passage.
As Darcy walked his wife along the main deck through the maze of ropes, through the salty wafts of the Irish Sea, and in the company of the winter's sun, Elizabeth had squeezed his arm and asked after his own experiences in sailing.
"Tell me Fitzwilliam, on how many occasions have you had chance to travel by ship? This seems no evil to you; you are quite comfortable on deck compared to my feeble steps."
To prove her point and before he could respond, her boot caught a plank and they were both grateful for his tight hold, now upon both her arms, as he prevented her tumble to the rough wood where they trod.
"Well, and there you are, a fine example," she said laughingly. Once her boot was struggled free, she charmingly looked up to smirk at him and then down again as she kicked her boot from under her skirts testing it in the air before she bore her weight down again. "As much as this sailing business is a more pleasing experience than I comprehended, it would seem I have forgotten how to walk."
He looked down between them to see the dark leather disappear under her skirts, and with her so close, had a pang of jealousy for the shoe. He gulped, dislodging the thought, and raised his head in time with hers as a gust roared from an opposite direction knocking her bonnet down her back. He stifled the impulse to untie the ribbon bracing against her porcelain neck and let it all float away on the Irish current.
Somewhere above there were shouts of "Ready about!" and "Lee ho!"
Just before sails bloomed and their course changed, the sun alit Elizabeth's uncovered eyes as she gave him a bright smile. It was all he could do to refrain from the impulse to hoist her up into his arms and kiss her before all the crew to see. It was nigh a fortnight of torture since last tasting her laugh.
Snaps of canvas above a chorus of men interceded, and no longer was he the sole center of her attentions – Elizabeth was transfixed as altogether everything around her pitched at once on the command of men, the ship conquering nature's impulse and turning itself to take the advantage. She clasped her hands together and took a step back under the flush of full sails.
His own smile was now small but content. He said, "A marvelous feat is it not? Though humanity has been traversing the oceans for far more years than you and I can imagine. I too am amazed at the technique and skill to be had on a ship like this one."
He felt her hand rest upon his arm. "It is marvelous. Thank you for showing me, Fitzwilliam."
He met her eyes and saw true gratitude. There was something else, and it was surely that she was just taken in with all the ropes and riggings as he was – he had always loved sailing.
With enthusiasm, she looked up. "Shall we continue? I am sure there is still much I have yet to see."
He still recalled the slight squeeze he felt just under his shoulder and over the thick wool of his coat as she bade them to continue around the ship.
"If you are not yet cold, then I am at your service."
They walked for an hour, and at her questioning, he told her of some of his travels – all for business of some kind, mostly to Scotland and Ireland, a trip occasionally to the continent in times of relative peace. Since he was a young man and unless at school for term, he was rarely in one place except for when he could manage to remain at Pemberley for a month or two at a time.
She teased him for thinking his excursions were of little consequence as if traveling from the bowels to borders of England and into the seas beyond was as easy as loading a cart and team for a jaunt down a country lane. Half-annoyed and mostly charmed at first, he deliberated her point inwardly questioning if he should feel contrition for the natural entitlement in his life.
With her sardonic tone that he both revered and dreaded, she said, "Of course, where money is no consideration, a man like yourself may go on about as he pleases without a care to inconvenience of any kind, not that I am not grateful to come along in this instance. I am delighted with it all, I assure you; however, you must give me at least leave to wonder at it all."
Further, she supposed, with a sparkle in her eye which he immediately guarded himself against after a subtle edge he regarded in her previous words, "As you proclaim you are always going hither and thither for the sake of your financial interests, and knowing you a little better, I suppose you are most likely too buried in letters of information from your solicitors and are most likely to be found at your riveted desk pouring over accounts until the numbers increase. Satisfied, you take in all around you without a thought of fancy and move on to the next query, conquer that, and continue onward to the next success."
She appraised him knowingly, "To me, it does not seem as if you take enough time to properly enjoy what your travel affords. Excepting a few occasions on our journey thus far, like this one, you have unceasingly had a great deal to see to. Truly, I am surprised at you staying in Netherfield for leisure as you did or us staying in London for a month complete considering all you must personally look after. I am surprised you found the time to be so settled."
He responded what he thought was in kind… or rather it was that he did not take kindly to her assumptions, "I assure you, time spent both at Netherfield and in London, and even at Somerdale, was borne of duty more so than pleasure. Despite the personal upheaval and distraction which do neither of us credit to discuss, I made gains and concluded business where needed. My first duty is and always will be stewarding my legacy. I have been raised to it. But, my dear, I am grateful you can take idle pleasure in our trip where duty to my concerns is foremost in my mind. And as such, I do have some correspondence to review. Thank you for reminding me so." Fitzwilliam detached her arm from his and turned her by the elbow. "You would do well to dress for dinner. The captain as asked us to dine with him this evening."
He was silent and unhappy as he guided Elizabeth to her maid who was across deck. Now, in hindsight, the image of her disappointed face flashed in his mind. They talked at cross-purposes just as often as they did not.
Sadly though, her suppositions were mostly accurate, and he did not really appreciate the reminder of an oft lonely life where his closest friends were his ledgers, books, servants, and letters from the few who cared for Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man. However, indulging in personal correspondence usually always gave way to the matters of import and management for which ultimately rested upon his shoulders. He was thankful for his cousins, sister, and the few friends, like Bingley, who remained steadfast even in the instances where he had only small portions of his time to give them.
Darcy had been fortunate in devoting as much of his time as he had managed to in lingering at Netherfield. There were certainly more pressing concerns which in any other instance would have called him away, yet he attended them best he could over post while giving priority to friendship. The undertaking of a new estate was not for a novice, and Darcy sought to repay Bingley's loyalty over the years by offering his expertise. Yes, it had been a great sacrifice of his time, as arrogant as the thought was, but it was done with the best of intentions in service of a friend. Bingley knew it and thanked Darcy profusely despite knowing that Darcy, perhaps for the first time, was also making the sacrifice of his time selfishly on behalf of his own feelings.
Bingley was no fool and knew his friend well enough to see where his interests rested… not even three miles down the lane.
Darcy slid a hand through his hair at becoming so transparent. Bingley saw through him, as he suspected Mr. Bennet had as well very early on, and his Aunt Ellen understood it from a single letter before he even knew what he was about.
If anything, Darcy should have thanked Bingley for providing enough formal excuses to stay in Hertfordshire, thus sparing him the mortification of having to own to all his associates he was tethered to a slip of a country maiden. No, he could not explain to anyone how he would not be headed off anywhere without her in tow.
After the night he first took Elizabeth in his arms in Netherfield's library, Darcy drew out every reason to assist with the estate and indulge Bingley's hospitality. His presence was requested in other directions, and instead, he held fast to staying exactly where he was just to win her hand. And, indeed, win her hand I have… on the worst terms imaginable.
Darcy held the railing of the quarter-deck tightly as the sun was setting. He had not gone to review letters or ledgers; instead, he left Elizabeth with Miss Harris and retreated higher on the ship to review his mind and the progress made with his wife since leaving Somerdale.
Looking to pink and orange ripples which were growing in height as the sky opposite the setting sun grew ominous in the distance, he pushed away from the lingering resentment her teasing caused. He had tried to tell her of his life and answer her inquisition, and yet she could not resist accusing him, though not directly, of being only concerned for his growing coffers and taking for granted his privilege.
Yes, he was entitled, entitled and required to steward his estates for generations he would never know… generations, he was now afraid, might never come. If they did not, it might be his greatest failure.
The ship pitched as it crested the waves which were growing at the moment. A pebble knocked into his boot. Bending down to collect it in his hand, he rubbed his thumb over the smooth shape as he stood to grasp the rail again with his other hand, knuckles white.
He closed his eyes and cast the stone as far as he could.
He hardly saw as it disappeared down into the now shadowed sea.
Even dark and rolling, and as much as he hated his emotions reflected in it, he loved the sea.
If he ever had a boyhood dream – a small, secret inclination of long-ago – to embrace the sailor's life of living freely, climbing the ratlines, and enjoying the simple pleasures of a duty-free life, he would not admit to now it when his lot was already cast and there was nothing to do but trudge forward in duty. Now, as a man, his only inclination was for a small piece of happiness along his way.
How he wished to tell her, but could never, of his inner thoughts and desires, of how sometimes his duty was too much and he just wished for the easy joy of an unadorned life enriched more by those he was closest to as opposed to being enriched by extensive lands and padded accounts. He wished to tell her that his current journey and pursuit, while cloaked in estate matters, was much pleasanter and less forlorn than any other in the previous years of his reflection, and most consequential… had the highest stake yet of all.
A happiness which rested with her. A happiness with his wife.
Others had it: his parents had found it; his aunt and uncle, his cousin, his friends. Bingley had it in droves; it was almost too much to bear to read the letters of his friend's joy in marriage.
Why should it be elusive to him? Should he not content himself with all he had? Perhaps a man should not have it all, and he should be grateful for the blessings and the requisitions bestowed upon him as son to George Darcy.
Fitzwilliam's mind absently wondered back further to a small parish church near Kympton, to a time as young boy when he was ignorant of his future cares, to a moment when he sat next to his father in a polished mahogany pew.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor…
"And, I certainly do," he said aloud to the heaps of iron pointed port and starboard. He listened for his father's voice to reach out and admonish his petulance. Alas, the only other sound was the storm receding bashfully from its earlier relentless attack.
…It profiteth me nothing.
The mess of his mind adjusted to the present as he now walked past the last cannon of the gun deck in almost complete darkness. He reached for the flask nestled in his overcoat and took a small drink.
Unbidden, a vision of grace and loveliness shined briefly through his mind: Miss Elizabeth Bennet cloaked in a white muslin gown which he imagined was created for the sole purpose of slaying every gentlemanly thought. It was not even two months earlier, the night of Bingley's ball, in a darkened library where there was just enough light to see the outline of her womanly curves and the striking vehemence in her eyes.
Her voice travelled across the room and bore upon him. "I implore you, do not be jealous of their joy. It is an insult to your character. Seek your own."
Another voice entered his muddled mind, the one from his childhood: …envieth not.
Elizabeth had taken not even a half-dozen steps down the stairs that night after leaving the library before he took her sound advice and followed her. They were engaged the next day.
Joy. Happiness.
Both truly denied thus far, and yet he would blindly still seek it – a nonsensical business to be sure. He was not so optimistic to think he would attain it anytime soon, and he now had the humility to know she may never grant it to him were he soon to gather his courage to ask it of her. But, seek he foolishly would. He would not give up hope. He would have faith.
Faith; Hope;
His paces quickened along the rough sawn planks.
…rejoiceth in the truth.
He desperately loved his wife.
And, she was suffering. It was the cause to his pacing. He was waiting for news from her maid.
He was selfishly sulking while she was in torment.
When I became a man…
…seeketh not her own.
He was pitying himself and his poor wife now lay in her quarters feeling the wrath of the sea on an untested body. Elizabeth had taken ill and never arrived to dine with him and the Captain. His concern was immediate as soon as Mr. Johnson discreetly relayed the message from Miss Harris, yet Darcy was relegated to either the corridor outside her quarters or one of those decks which were clear of men and goods. He was not even allowed aloft to assist the crew in weathering the storm.
He abided the dictates to leave the more accomplished men to care for the boat and to leave his ill wife in privacy, so he took to stewing in his own troubles… of course, it was not that he did not concern himself for Elizabeth's health and the misery which descended upon her shortly after the sun disappeared, but it was that his brooding thoughts for himself had been just as keen.
He took another drink, just a small one to quell his tremble. It was that voice again from so long ago, but it was his father's: When I became a man, I put away childish things.
Resolve overcame him in an instant. He could stay from her side no longer while he knew her to suffer. He was determined to provide any comfort she would accept.
Though the storm was lessening its fight, it gave quick rally as he reached her door. Bracing himself in the frame, he knocked quietly knowing it was now late.
Afraid he was too quiet and not heard above the rain pelting away at the strakes, he lifted his hand again. Before he could make a sound, Miss Harris appeared before him.
He could not make out much beyond the maid.
She started to dip into something like a rather vexed curtsey, but he stilled her with his hand. If he could comprehend any other thought than for his wife, he might have pondered why Elizabeth's maid was never truly pleasant to him. But alas, that was a thought he would not consider until a time later in their travels.
"Sir, may I help – "
"How is she?"
The impatience and concern of her master's voice briefly won over Miss Harris. She stepped away from the door and out of the room.
"Sir, she is currently sleeping."
"Is she resting comfortably then?"
"Well… not precisely. However, Mrs. Darcy is better than a few hours previous."
Darcy did not wish to be kept from Elizabeth's side any longer but was unsure how to dispatch the servant before him. This was his wife's maid and other than pay her wage, he had naught to do with her. He did not know her well, and the young woman's loyalty was clearly not to himself. A loyal servant deserved his appreciation, and so he tried a more charitable tact.
"Miss Harris, how are you faring? Thank you to seeing so diligently to Elizabeth, but it cannot be good for you to not have any rest. I accept responsibility for not assuring you would have relief on our trip by bringing another maid, so I insist you retire. I will see to my wife." He half-smiled while he gave a nod of dismissal and moved toward Elizabeth's door.
"While it is kind of you Mr. Darcy, my mistress would not like it. She is not well enough to be attended to by any other than me."
The maid's face was determined, but she showed signs of exhaustion. Though not always being skilled at determining it in himself, he most always saw the weakness in others and sought the advantage; it was to her own benefit anyhow. "Miss Harris, your dedication commends you. However, you are clearly tired, and it is late. Our journey has only started, and Elizabeth will need your care in the morning and possibly until we reach Scotland if she does not find herself better until we see land. How will you care for her if you are not rested? It is only you and I who aboard who can tend her, and you cannot do it through the day and the night. Please, I beseech you to accept my assistance while you recuperate."
Miss Harris did not immediately respond as she considered his words. As much as he knew he could order her away, he knew it would gain him no favor with Elizabeth or her maid.
…Charity suffereth long… Darcy refrained from rolling his eyes and banishing aloud the voice of reproach in his head.
"Sir, I suppose your argument has some reason."
He thought it absolutely ridiculous a servant should be considering his request as an argument at all and not an order, but he appreciated the young woman's pluck. No wonder Elizabeth liked the maid as much as she did. They had the same mettle.
"Miss Harris, you and I both know you will be useless if you stay awake all night. I can rest in the morning for a while. Please show me how to care for Elizabeth and then see to yourself."
Instead of saying another word, Miss Harris turned to the door and left it open for him to follow.
As he gained the dark quarters, lit only by a small lamp in the corner, he turned to see his wife tossing in her bed, her brow furled in sleep and perspiration on her face. He was immediately drawn and then stopped when an arm fell into his path.
He looked to the maid as she gave a shake of her head and then nodded to the corner of the room where he followed.
"Mr. Darcy. She has just fallen asleep again. She has been in and out of rest for several hours. There is water here and a cloth. You will need to gently mop her face and chest."
He was surprised the maid did not blush at the prospect. His ears went red as soon as she said the words, but she continued, "Mrs. Darcy will likely be sick again soon. Excuse me for saying, but you will see it for yourself anyhow since you insist to remain – Mrs. Darcy has been sick at the stomach several times. The captain has sent a man to come every hour with fresh buckets and water. There is already a clean bucket by the bed for the next bout. After she is sick, place it outside the door, and make your wife drink water. It is imperative she drinks, and you must remove the bucket to keep the room as fresh as possible. There are clean gowns in the trunk should she need it though I suspect she will prefer to see to that herself."
Darcy could only nod at what he was there to undertake.
Miss Harris looked at him appraisingly, and he was not sure he passed muster. So, he stood taller.
"Sir, are you sure you wish to do a maid's work? I will manage just – "
Darcy held his hand up to stop her whispered speech. "I vowed to keep her in sickness and in health. I will manage. Thank you for your service, but I require you to rest so you are available to Mrs. Darcy in the morning."
Miss Harris stood and narrowed her eyes as much as a servant could toward her master. Slowly she dipped a fresh cloth in a bucket of water, wrung it out, folded it, and placed it in his hands. It still dripped in his palm.
"Sir, I do not expect my mistress to be pleased to see you when she awakens and is ill; please give her my apologies. I do thank you though, and it gladdens me to see you care for her."
Incredulous, Darcy stepped back. What the maid did not say, but alluded to, stung every honorable feeling. It was not her place to insinuate caring for her was a singular occurrence. Any other servant he would have directly dismissed. He could feel the glower settle upon his face, and as he opened his mouth the speak, a painful moan came from the direction of the bed.
They both looked, and each took a step. This time it was Darcy who lifted his arm to stay the maid. He looked away from Elizabeth in time to catch the low curtsey of Miss Harris.
She gave a look of concern toward the bed and then turned to him with a sympathetic smile – the first he had seen from the likes of her. "My apologies, Sir. I trust Mrs. Darcy is in good hands. Please do not hesitate to send for me should you need me. I will return after a few hours of sleep. Good night, Sir."
He nodded and went to the chair to be near his wife. Comprehending her misery as she writhed in it, Darcy could not hear the door close.
He sat there, a little at a loss as to what he should do. He did not have much experience with the sick. He, himself, hardly was ever ill. When his sister took sick on occasion, she had a contingent of maids to see to her care.
Elizabeth lay on a bed which did not boast of any great size; it was smaller than his own. He damned the Captain for not providing his wife the better accommodations. Though, by the bottle of smuggled Champagne and the hand-written note from Bingley expounding felicitations – both left in a basket on the floor near the secured bed which Darcy found as he entered his larger quarters earlier in the day, perhaps the Captain assumed as a newly wedded couple, that they might most likely reside together during the evening.
…In the overly large and empty bed which would see him no rest.
Darcy rubbed his chin and studied his wife as she quietened. The bed covers were strewn about, and he saw her leg from the calf down uncovered and pulled up to her side. One arm rested above her head and the other lay tucked below her breast, clutched; several of the buttons on her nightgown splayed open though she was not exactly indecent. Her brows her still furled in anguish and her lips were pinched but slightly parted. Her skin was pale and unnatural. Long, dark curls had come away from her plait; one was plastered along her forehead and hanging below her eyes.
She looked to be the same woman he spied sleeping in his own bed at Somerdale, yet she was not herself.
He had never seen her not charmingly put together, even when it was unintentional, even when he had seen her in her dressing gown, she always looked so perfect. Even all blowsy after a walk in the autumn wind, she had the look of the wild and the sublime. Now observing her, he could see how ill and disarrayed she was. He strongly desired to scoop her up into his arms and rock her like he might a child.
Shifting focus to the cloth in his hand, he collected his courage. Pulling his chair closer, he tentatively reached out his fingertips to find her clammy skin. She was not warm as if feverish, and he allowed a sigh of relief to whoosh out of his chest. Though he knew in his mind she was just sick from the motion of the waves and miserable enough, he did not want to find her any more ill than arriving safely on solid land could cure.
He drew his thumb across her forehead and under the wayward, matted tendril. He pushed it back into her hair. Drawing himself off the chair, he got onto his knees and as close to her as he could. With one hand, he lightly caressed the hair behind her ear and the with the other he brushed the cloth across her brow, under her eyes, and down her jaw to the base of her neck.
She bore it well, moaning softly but remaining asleep.
Darcy wished more than anything he could take away her discomfort. He felt a powerful feeling of protection and awfulness in his chest. He very much hated she was so afflicted.
He studied her still delicate features as he caressed them with the soft, wet linen. He always marveled at the daintiness of her nose and chin. His hand came from behind her ear and cupped her cheek and jaw as she leaned closer unknowingly into him. One more swipe of her brow and he involuntarily moved in a wish to make her better. He leaned forward and laid his lips at the corner of her eye willing her to know he considered it a privilege to satisfy his vow to keep her in sickness.
He pulled back and took in the sweeping lashes which no longer rested upon her cheek as they usually did. Her eyes tightened, and then she opened them.
He drew back and dropped the cloth.
Her eyes were wide and then crushed shut again. It came out as a whisper as she edged closer to the bed and drew her arms toward something on the floor. "Bucket. Move."
In all his life, Darcy could not have prepared himself for the sight of his wife retching. He had seen other men become ill from too much drink, seen them toss their head overboard from the rocking of a ship, and once he vaguely recalled Georgiana becoming ill in the carriage. But, this… this was awful. He could not stand to see her laid so low.
In truth, his shock lasted no more than the smallest fragment of time, and then next he reached out to support her. He draped an arm around her back and loosely under her side to stabilize her from falling further from the bed. He used the other hand to pull back the loose hairs from her face. Soothing words naturally flowed through his lips though he did not grasp exactly what it was he was saying. He felt pained with her, and she had all his sympathies, all his feeling, and his words softly apologizing over and over.
The retching paused; her voice was weak and rough, "What are you doing here?" She again retched until he heard her breath form again a word. "Water." Once more she involuntarily hurled herself into the bucket, and then Elizabeth went limp under his arms dangling halfway off the bed yet not removing her grasp from what she held to her head.
Panic was prompt as he felt her body slacken. "Lizzy!" He sank back on his haunches and started to feel for her face to pull her up as gently as he could manage.
He was abruptly knocked away… with quite a lot of force for someone who, sick as a cushion, vomited and heaved for a full five minutes. "Water."
Darcy scrambled up and went to retrieve a glass and pitcher.
He barely heard her from across the room; "I need a wet cloth. Please." He grabbed at some of the linen which was folded and stacked upon the table. Most of the neat stack fell to the ground, but he managed, arms full, and he rushed back to where his wife still rested over the side of the bed.
"Here. Let me assist you. I am so sorry, Elizabeth." He poured the glass of requested water and attempted to hand it to her even in her prone position, but instead, she pushed him back again, more gently this time, and grabbed the cloth and glass from his hand. She dipped it in the fresh water before bringing it to her face.
Elizabeth then carelessly reached into a basket beside the bed and opened a jar of what must have been tooth powder. He sat next to her and tried to look away as she was still leaned over the bed with her head turned away from him. She then took a drink from the glass, and he saw her spat it out.
He heard less of her breathing, as before it had been too ragged not to hear her struggle, and his heart slowed as her body was again at rest. His surroundings and sense washed over him. Miss Harris said he was promptly to remove the bucket if his wife fell ill to keep the room fresh. He now realized why that was a good idea as his own stomach, usually steely and stern, was becoming slightly nauseated.
"Lizzy," he gently said to her, "allow me to take the bucket if you are ready." With tenderness, he reached out and tucked the wisps of her hair behind her ear again.
Elizabeth, miserly creature that she must be at that moment, turned her cheek into his hand and looked up at him as her weight dropped through her arm and to into her hand which now rested on the floor to support herself.
He saw the tears in her eyes as she looked at him in abject suffering. It was only a mere second before the bucket was momentarily forgotten and this time he acceded to caprice, scooping her up and arranging her on the bed. But, for that very small span of hardly a pulse... as she looked at him, as she was at her worst and most vulnerable, he did not think he had the capacity to love her anymore. There was no pity. It was the true, sacrificing feeling of wishing to take all her sickness upon himself, needing to gather all of her worries and pain, requiring himself to claim every unpleasant thing in her life and replace it with only that which was agreeable and comforting to her.
For now we see through glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
He settled her on the bed, pulled the covers around her, and soothed the wet cloth over her forehead and back into her hair. They did not speak, and Elizabeth closed her eyes. When he had wiped her face, he stood and removed the soiled bucket outside the door. He was pleased to find a new, clean empty pail and fresh water waiting for him to retrieve.
Moments later he was back at the bedside of his wife pressing a clean cup of water into her hands. "You must drink this."
She swung her head from side to side in small sweeps keeping her eyes closed. He reached out to draw his fingers over her brow again. "Just drink some; you know you must."
She opened her eyes and met his concerning gaze without the repentance for being so sickly before him as might be foolishly dictated to a lady of good breading. He was thankful; he could not bear it if he would have caused even more discomfort by his presence.
"Fitzwilliam, where is my maid?"
He tried to hide his frown. "I sent her to bed; she needed to rest. Drink, madam."
Elizabeth took a sip of her water and looked at him from under her lashes with a hint of admonishment. "Can I presume she went unwillingly?"
"Something of the sort. Is she always so difficult? I do not think –"
"No, she is always most wonderful. But, thank you. It relieves me to know she will rest a few hours. I just wish I were not so ill." He watched as Elizabeth settled back into her pillows as comfortably as she could.
"I wish too you were not so ill. I should have thought better of it when I planned our wedding trip. I cannot tell you how it pains me to see you like this."
Elizabeth, though clearly feeling wretched and perhaps a little too insensible to grasp his worried speech, turned the corners up of her lips. "I am sure it does pain you to see your wife so intolerable. Not so tempting when I am retching, am I?" She laughed quietly to herself. "My vanity has now come to a cruel end, Fitzwilliam. I cannot tell you how it pains me that you must see me like this. Truly, I am not the best at being sick. You should see Jane. She is lovely when she is sick. She can cast up her accounts into a small wine glass and make it look everything graceful. I, I on the other hand; I am appalling. No husband should see his wife thus; if I were not feeling so horrid, I might even have the strength to be embarrassed, but I am feel too much like death to have any cares that you are here to witness me at present. I promise, I will be properly mortified tomorrow from being such a uncouth creature, and – "
"Lizzy, stop. I beg you."
"Oh, very well." He watched a haphazard smile come to Elizabeth's lips as she lay still. "Perhaps, I shall be ill more often, and then you shall have a more obliging wife. See how easy I did exactly as you commanded?"
Darcy gave a little laugh now of his own and retrieved the wet cloth to clean her face where she did not complete the task well enough herself.
"But, you are still talking. And, though I wish you more obliging at times, I would rather you be exactly as you are – even impertinent and obstinate, vanity and all. I think I might like you less if you were so did everything just as I asked."
"You are a strange man."
Did not he know it.
Elizabeth brought her hand from under the covers and grasped his wrist as he drew the cool cloth into her hair. "I am sorry."
His breath hitched, and before he could say anything, she continued. "I am sorry for how we parted this afternoon. I did not mean for my teasing to take an offensive turn or make light of your duty. I hope to be a good wife and lighten your load if you will allow it, perhaps after we leave this awful ship." She took a ragged breath, clearly forcing her apology through her physical discomfort. "I have made good progress with Mrs. Ellis in London, and I promise you to be a good mistress of your estates. Forgive me for my abominable speech earlier today? I did not truly intend to wound."
He took up her hand and kissed her wrist to show she was pardoned. "Of course, you are forgiven, that is if you also pardon me."
She smiled meekly and nodded.
"Now, you should sleep. You need rest and strength, Elizabeth."
She reached out for a book secured on the adjacent desk. "Will you read to me for a bit? I know you read French." The hint of her beguiling smile was not lost upon him.
Those words pulled him to a memory he should not think of while sitting upon her sick bed, but he took up the book from her hand. Though it belonged to her, he lifted it to show her the title and challenged her with a faint raise in his expression.
She lifted her arm just a little and waved her hand about and she rested her eyes. "Oh, I think it rubbish too. But, I am fascinated with the story. I think it is my father's idea of a joke. He finds entertainment in a generation of young men plagued with Mal du siècle… and despises the prose-mongers to the point he tortures himself in amusement." She opened one eye to peer at him. "Do not worry, I do not believe he attributes those sentiments to you."
"Well, I should hope not."
"So, will you read? Just a little?"
"As distasteful as I find the subjects of René, I will humor you, but only because you are half-asleep and quite too miserable for me to deny." He gave her a whimsical smile and opened her book only to have several little stalks of pressed trefoils fall into his lap.
He gathered them up and laid them to the side along with his want to tease her for using something so romantic as flowers to mark the words in a most banal work of literature. Instead, he quietly read in flawlessly coherent French.
Despite the words being utterly ridiculous and selfishly dramatic, the accented timber of his voice lulled his wife into sleep within minutes. He heard her murmur of thanks before he closed the book and studied her fingers which she had slipped over his knee. He took them up and kissed them with reverence before returning the little flowers into the book. He slipped again into the chair to watch over her as she began to toss.
Not ten minutes later when his wife seemed to have a brief reprieve in her slumber, Darcy pulled the book from the table again and opened it up to the page which was marked.
She loved the flowers and plants which grew so wild in the country hills. He knew how much time she spent in the still room in their London home, and he had even spied her once in the kitchens at Ffion sorting through baskets of dried herbs and flowering plants which were unique to the Welsh countryside.
Elizabeth was a unique woman, creating her potions and emollients. She read everything she came across, and she debated with skill. Her tastes and knowledge seemed to far outstrip his own in some respects. Though a lady with pleasing manners, truly conforming was not her nature. She was just as untamed as the flowers which she collected and pressed into her book.
He took up a single stalk, so neatly flat, and wrapped it up in his handkerchief.
Darcy spent half his night watching Elizabeth as she slept fitfully and the other half shoring her against the surviving traces of the storm which took its toll for the passage to their destination.
When Miss Harris returned just before the sun, he eased his thumb over his wife's brow one last time as she finally slept in some semblance of peace. He gathered his jacket, and with it, he carefully took the folded cloth from the table by the bed.
A/N: My apologies for this taking so long. Also, in my impatience to post, I have not given my beta time to review. So, I'm sure a later version of this will be much better. Thank you for your reviews and sticking with me.
Maybe 7 chapters + epilogue to go? Darcy is now *selflessly* in love with her. Elizabeth will be next.