Elizabeth watched out the porthole as the sailors cast off and the ship pulled away from dock. The incessant rocking made her faintly queasy, but she shoved the feeling down as she considered her situation.
Married to Mr. Darcy! She regarded the idea with abhorrence. But there seemed to be no escape. From the moment he laid his hands on her in the rectory drawing room that morning, the arrogant man had taken all decisions out of her hands.
She jumped up and began to pace the room.
How could he not have accepted her refusal? It brought Mr. Collins's proposal to mind, how the stupid wretch turned every protestation into a teasing request for more ardent declarations. Indeed, the reflection of Mr. Collins's stubbornness in Mr. Darcy's words was one of the things that had fueled the vehemence of her refusal. Both men had run on, venting their own emotions without regard to her own. Stupid, selfish men, she thought in anger. Each had spoken as if airing their every disagreeable thought would reconcile her to their many personal failings.
She returned to the porthole and stared at the slowly dwindling port. Was there any hope of escape? Was there any point to escape? As Darcy had so cruelly pointed out, Mr. Collins would ensure that word of their elopement made its way swiftly. Was her mother already taken to her bed with shame? Or, she blushed to think, taken with elation at the fine match? And her poor father, what would he think after all her abuse of Mr. Darcy? Would he think her a perfect hypocrite? She was mortified at the thought of his quiet but pained disappointment.
Then her mind turned toward their journey's end. She knew nothing of Guernsey save that it was a small isle quite close to France. And of course, like Scotland, it was exempt from the Marriage Law.
Darcy ignored the view of the coast that his porthole afforded and lent his attention instead to his rapidly dwindling pile of business letters. Some part of his mind knew that when they were done, he would have to turn his attention to Elizabeth, their elopement and how he would explain the situation to Georgiana, to Fitzwilliam, to Lady Catherine, to Bingley and his sisters. He derived a certain grim satisfaction from contemplating how Miss Caroline Bingley would receive the news.
He firmly pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind until, with one last, careful signature, he was at the end of his papers. He waved it dry and stacked it with the others under a paperweight, then pushed back from the writing desk and began to pace the small room, ducking his head to avoid the timbers.
Newbury was right, what madness was this? It had been a shock to learn her true opinion of him. He had been so careful, during their meetings, to cultivate friendliness with her. He had believed she was softening toward him, and that his honest confession of love for her would complete the job. How could she not see his effort, be not moved by the difficulty of his plight?
He turned his decision again over in his head. Was this truly the best course? Could he expect her to face him every day, to welcome him as a wife should a husband, after his actions? And yet now it was impossible that they not marry. Elizabeth's reputation would be ruined, and without his protection, God know what fate would befall her. His only course was the one he had set — elopement — but how could it lead to aught but a lifetime of resentment?
Darcy collapsed into a chair and put his face in his hands. It could not.
A knock at her cabin door drew her from a deep, disturbed reverie. She wiped tears from her eyes and stood, straightening her dress. She opened to door to a midshipman holding a tray. He nervously offered it to her.
"Here you go, ma'am. If your stomach be up to it and all. Only you don't look seasick."
She took the tray of tea and sandwiches and thanked him. He backed away as soon as she took it and made for the deck. Elizabeth let the door swing closed.
She poured herself a cup and sipped it, returning to her thoughts. Darcy would doubtless be as watchful at St. Peter's Port as he was on the road to Portsmouth. She would have no chance to get away before they arrived at the church. No, he would see to it that they were wed. She frowned and set down her cup. The words tolled in her head: married to Mr. Darcy. She would be Mrs. Darcy, mistress of a fine estate, and niece to Lady Catherine De Bourgh. She shuddered slightly at the thought of that imperious lady.
Had Darcy actually wrote Bingley urging him to court Jane once again? The thought was amazing after Col. Fitzwilliam's revelation. She suspected that if it was, it was a part of Darcy's plan to cloak their elopement. If Bingley wed her sister, it would lend credence to his own union and distract attention from it, all at once. His transformation on the subject was abrupt. He had been all righteous heat as he had defended his actions to her, then, only hours later, to write to his friend, urging him on a similar, reckless course to the one he had taken. It made her head spin. But the thought of her elder sister happily wed took some of the bitterness away from her own situation.
She was glad that Jane was not with her. If she was, her habit of unburdening herself to her older sister would surely assert itself, and Elizabeth hated to think of how disturbed Jane would be of Elizabeth's account of Darcy's actions. No, she swore to herself that Jane would never know. She must protect her sister from the sad reality of her marriage. Horror swelled in her as she contemplated what that would mean. She lowered her head to the table and sobbed quietly, dreary images of years of quiet hostility with Mr. Darcy coursing through her mind.