CHAPTER THIRTY
Despite the bitter cold and cutting wind, Bingley spent much of the journey on the ship’s deck. This was, in part, because his steward became violently seasick within thirty minutes of leaving port and gave no indications that he would improve over the course of the voyage—and he did not. Their landing in Marseille gave Wilshere a first measure of relief, and even persuaded Bingley to take a hotel for two nights out of compassion for his man. Though the journey be slightly delayed, their landing in Naples would still allow ample time to survey the situation and, most hopefully, the opportunity to plan a strike. During their brief respite, Bingley took the chance to be brought to speed by Maitland on the details of Lord and Lady St. John’s trip—their preferences and habits. His lower-class breeding notwithstanding, Bingley was impressed by the young man’s intellect, discretion, and attention to even the smallest details. Wilshere, during this time, recovered remarkably well, though his anxiety regarding the completion to their voyage to the Italian coast caused him grave concern. The ship sailed from its berth in Marseille for a further two and half days before docking in Naples. Unfortunately for Wilshere, the additional sixty or so hours on the sea quite lived up to his worst expectation, as he continued to cast up accounts in utter misery. Dry land was, once more, his saviour.
Though the weather was seasonably cool for the coastal Mediterranean city, it was yet a welcome reprieve for the three travellers who were accustomed to more severe winters in the north. As contemplative and focused as Bingley had been on the daunting task at hand, he struggled to restrain his more vivacious spirits in light of the additional sunshine and warmth. He remarked to Maitland that he felt he had not seen a clear blue sky in well over three months’ time. The party spent their first afternoon on shore locating their lodgings and settling in. Wilshere would order soup to his room and then sleep, while Bingley and Maitland ventured out for forage. Down the lane and around the corner in the direction of the sea, the pair were overwhelmed by the most singular and seductive fragrance.
“My God,” Bingley cried, “what on earth is that smell?”
“It is unlike anything I have ever taken in,” proclaimed Maitland, with his nose in the air.
“It must be nothing short of the aroma of heaven; it is the incense of the gods.”
“The perfume of Venus herself.”
“There!” Bingley exclaimed. “It emanates from that shop down the way.”
They pushed through the throng of passers-by, drawn on by the scent which had them thus enraptured. A crowd was gathered round a large stone oven. There was shouting and laughter and sudden movements and white sheets tossed overhead. Before they knew it, they had been pressed into a sort of makeshift queue and were squeezed ever closer to the fire. The wonderful fragrance enveloped them more and more, until they were nearly drunken on its blissful veil. When they finally reached the front, they were confronted by a man, rather gruffly, in Italian:
“How many?”
“How many what ?” Bingley asked naively in his limited Italian.
“ Slices —how many slices?”
“Slices?” Bingley looked nervously at Maitland and then back at the man. “What is that celestial smell?”
“The smell?” asked the man in disbelief. “The pizza. How many slices do you want?”
“Can I try just one, please?” Bingley inquired.
“Va bene, one slice—and you?”
Maitland pointed his finger at himself and shrugged his shoulders. “I do not speak Italian.”
“Yes, one for him, too, please,” Bingley replied to the oven man.
“Dodici cavalli,” the man stated.
“Oh yes, we must pay,” answered the gentleman as he fished in his pocket for the correct change. “Here you are.”
“Grazie,” came the reply. The man tossed the coins in his own pocket, turned, and then shoved a large wooden plate of sorts into the fire and pulled out two enormous slices of thin, glorious pizza, and served it to the two Englishmen. They walked off with their dinner, leaning their noses in and inhaling every few seconds, making “ah” sounds, and smiling giddy smiles back and forth. Finding a bench near the waterfront, they sat and ate, eyes aglow with ecstasy.
“Never in my entire life have I tasted anything so delectable,” declared Bingley.
“Nor have I,” answered Maitland through a mouthful of cheese. “I do believe this may be the finest meal of my entire life!”
“The very same thought just crossed my mind!”
The two went back to the line and ordered again, and again, eating until they were nearly in pain as the sun faded over the ridge to their west. Even after their last bites were taken and darkness crept in, a sense of euphoria lingered still in the air. Bingley wondered if he should have felt guilt for such enjoyment on such a serious and disagreeable mission.
“We must eat,” said he out of the blue.
“Of course, we must,” replied Maitland.
Bingley nodded. “I need some wine.”
“I need some whiskey.”
The pair set off for the hotel and ordered drinks up to Bingley’s room. Bingley wrote a letter to Darcy and one to his sister, detailing the experience of the journey and in particularly intimate detail, the culinary experience of the evening. During this time, Maitland sat with his legs propped near the fireplace, smoking a cigar, and sipping from a fine crystal glass. He was thinking that he might become accustomed to luxury such as this; then cautioned himself to enjoy the fruits of Mr. Bingley’s generosity with gratefulness and humility.
“Tomorrow,” Bingley began without looking up from his letter, “we shall locate the Cardinal’s residence.”
“Aye, sir,” answered Maitland with a puff of smoke.
“From there, we shall formulate our plan.”
“Are you concerned that Cardinal Endrizzi may also be involved in some way?”
“Endrizzi and St. John are partners in business, that much we do know. What business they conduct together remains to be seen.”
“You must not really suspect that a holy man such as that could be involved in the kinds of evil we are attempting to eradicate, do you?”
“Maitland,” Bingley looked up solemnly, “at this juncture, I do not believe there is anything that would surprise me.”
The young man took the last swig of his drink and placed the glass down gently on the table beside him. “You and I are in accord in that regard.”
“I would suspect as much.”
“Good night, sir,” said Maitland as he rose to his feet. “And thank you… for everything .”
“You are a good man,” Bingley replied. “I will see you at ten in the morning, then.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Goodnight, Maitland.”
With that, the door was closed. By himself in the candlelight, Bingley paused and contemplated writing to Jane Bennet, but his propriety got the better of him. He finished his wine, washed his face, and crawled into bed. He was just enough distracted by the beauty and wonder of this new place that he drifted to sleep easily.