Chapter 17
An hour later, Richard stood at attention in the sparse office of Admiral Sir Walter Whitmore, the commanding officer of Gibraltar’s garrison.
Whitmore was a weathered man in his late fifties with the bearing of someone who had spent decades managing one of Britain’s most strategically important outposts.
“At ease, Fitzwilliam.” Whitmore gestured to a chair across from his desk. “I received orders from London yesterday, delivered by your Captain Shanklin. The War Office briefed me on your mission―intelligence gathering regarding French naval activities and Ottoman political stability.”
Richard settled into the chair but remained alert.
“Yes, sir. I am traveling as a civilian with a small party that includes two ladies, a respected scholar, and my cousin, who owns a large estate in Derbyshire. We are bound for various ports in the Mediterranean, ostensibly for scholarly research and cultural education.”
The admiral leaned back in his chair, fixing Richard with a measured stare. “Regarding the safety of lady travelers…well, that depends largely on where you are planning to go and how you conduct yourselves.”
“Our first stop is Rome. After that, we may need to stop at additional ports along the way, but that depends upon the results of our research. Our eventual destination is Alexandria.”
“Rome should present no particular difficulties, though I recommend avoiding the southern Italian ports―too much French influence at present. As for Alexandria…” Whitmore consulted a map on his desk, his finger tracing routes across the sea.
“Muhammad Ali Pasha has been consolidating his power in Egypt. Nominally allied with Britain, he is ambitious. Makes him unpredictable. Maintain a low profile and ensure you have proper diplomatic credentials.”
Richard leaned forward. “What about piracy?”
“Less of a concern than a year ago, but still a factor. The Barbary corsairs are mostly contained. There are independent operators, French privateers operating under letters of marque, Spanish bandits, and opportunistic local thieves. Your best protection is to travel on well-armed merchant vessels with experienced captains who know the waters.”
Richard nodded, his mind already cataloging threats and countermeasures. “And French naval activity?”
Whitmore set his pen down with deliberate care.
“Reports say Napoleon is heading northeast to the Russian Empire. I expected the French Navy would retreat from here to join their fight. We are not spotting as many vessels, but there’s still a strong French naval presence, and they are randomly aggressive to our British ships.
They seem to be testing our response times, probing our defenses, and gathering intelligence on Wellington’s army's supply lines. You should also know that French ships are operating out of Toulon and Marseilles, conducting what they claim are ‘routine patrols’ that look suspiciously like reconnaissance missions.”
“Are there any specific threats to civilian shipping?”
Whitmore hesitated, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“Not officially, but…” He lowered his voice.
“Off the record―three British merchant vessels have gone missing in the past two months. Each carried munitions to British fortresses in the Mediterranean. We would have blamed pirates or stormy weather, but that cargo makes it more likely the French. Too much of a coincidence. There have been whispers”―he leaned forward―“whispers of someone sharing information on these cargo manifests with the French, who desperately need military supplies.”
“L’Ombre?”
The admiral instantly paled, as he gave a curt nod.
Richard took his response to heart. Mrs. Bell’s determination settled into the colonel’s mind, followed immediately by thoughts of Miss Bennet.
The idea of the ladies being confronted with such dangers was intolerable.
His breathing grew shallow as he calculated odds and risks.
“Sir, if I may ask, what is your assessment of local loyalty here in Gibraltar? How confident can we be in the discretion of the Spanish population?”
Whitmore studied him carefully, likely noting the tension in Richard’s shoulders.
“Mixed, as you would expect. Most of them depend on British trade for their livelihoods. Gives them practical reasons to support us. But there are always some who could be persuaded to share information with the French for the right price. Why do you ask?”
Richard’s fingers tapped once against his thigh before he stilled them. “I have been developing local sources of information. I want to ensure that I am not inadvertently compromising security.”
“Wise approach. In a place like Gibraltar, everyone has divided loyalties to some degree. Trust carefully. Verify everything. Have an exit strategy planned.”
Richard left the garrison headquarters with a stride that was longer and more purposeful than usual.
His mind was racing, filled with contingencies and preparations.
Underneath the calculations, the helpfulness of Mrs. Bell and the treachery of George Wickham colored his thoughts.
One was welcome. The latter made him wish he carried his sword.
Darcy found Lieutenant King in his usual spot beneath the olive tree. “Lieutenant, if you have the time, I was hoping to commission some additional drawings from you.”
The young man’s posture straightened with pride. He gladly accepted Darcy’s journal. “Of course, sir! What did you have in mind?”
Darcy settled himself on a nearby stone bench, his movements precise, though he betrayed a slight nervousness in the way he adjusted his coat.
“I was wondering if you might be able to create some drawings from memory. Specifically, a portrait of Miss Elizabeth Bennet…as a surprise for my sister, you understand. I believe that once the two meet, they will become fond of each other. I thought a gift might please her.” The explanation came out in a rush.
“Certainly, sir. Miss Bennet has distinctive features. Those expressive eyes…the way she holds her head when she is thinking. Yes, I believe I could capture her likeness accurately.” The lieutenant reached for his pencils.
Then he studied Darcy’s face with an artist’s perceptive gaze.
“Would you prefer a formal portrait, or a drawing more characteristic of her personality?”
“The latter, I think. Miss Bennet is not one for formality.”
He attempted to appear casual but kept leaning forward to watch as the artist began sketching.
Elizabeth’s features took shape on the page.
First, the curve of her cheek. Then the arch of her eyebrow.
The distinctive tilt of her chin when she was amused.
His fingers gripped the edge of the stone bench until his knuckles showed white.
“She is lovely.” Lieutenant King’s pencil moved in rapidly across the page. “There is such life in her, such warmth. Your sister will be fortunate to have her as a friend.”
“Yes, she will be pleased.”
“If I may say so, sir―and please forgive me if I am speaking out of turn―but you seem genuinely fond of Miss Bennet yourself. Or am I wrong?”
He looked away quickly, but not before the officer noticed. “I hold her in the highest regard, yes.”
“Ah.” With a small grin, Lieutenant King continued sketching.
“Then would you like me to create another drawing? One of you and Miss Bennet together? I could work from my memory of your interactions yesterday―capturing that moment when she took your arm in the courtyard. From my observation, it seemed as though the gesture had some special significance, if you do not mind my saying so.”
Darcy’s head snapped up. “Could you do such a thing?”
“I believe so, sir. Because I study my subjects so closely, I cannot help but recognize the emotions behind different body positions and gestures―the way people stand near each other, how they incline toward one another. These things tell stories.” The lieutenant grew more confident as he spoke of his craft.
“I noticed how Miss Bennet regarded you. The relief that came over you when she chose to trust you. It would be my pleasure to capture that moment.”
Darcy stood abruptly, paced a few steps, and then sat back down. “Then please do proceed. Though you might focus more on Miss Bennet than on myself.”
The artist was happy to comply, his manner conveying complete understanding of the request. He worked steadily, occasionally asking Darcy to describe particular details from his perspective.
The process transported Darcy’s mind back to that extraordinary second in time. His hand rose unconsciously to his arm, where Elizabeth had touched him. If the lieutenant were to draw him now, his expression would be reverent.
“There,” the young man said, holding up the book with obvious pride. “What do you think?”
Darcy’s breath left him in a rush. Unable to form a sentence, he reached toward the drawing but stopped short of touching it, as if afraid he might damage something precious. “It is perfect,” he whispered. “I thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir. I hope you will not mind, but may I offer a bit of advice?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow, though his gaze remained fixed on the drawing.
“Do not wait too long to tell her how you feel, sir. Any man would be proud to claim such a lovely woman as his own. Some moments, once lost, never come again.”
“I will heed your advice.” After passing a handful of coins to the lieutenant, Darcy carefully placed a piece of thin protective vellum between the pages before taking hold of the journal.
He returned to the rooms that he rented next to the Bennets and set himself to the task of writing in his journal about the events since he had left London. Finishing took far longer than it should have, as he frequently turned to admire the pages covered with the portraits.
On the day Elizabeth had departed on the Mary Catherine, Darcy had believed he could never love her more.
How mistaken he had been. What he felt now was beyond what he ever could have imagined.
The young artist’s advice echoed what Richard had attempted to tell him earlier, and Darcy was resolved to follow it.
That evening, Richard found Darcy pacing in their shared rooms like a caged animal, his journal open on the small table. His usually immaculate cravat hung loose around his neck.
“The drawings are remarkable,” Richard observed, studying the portraits. “Lieutenant King has quite a talent. Though I am curious…why would you commission so many of Miss Bennet but not even one of me?”
Darcy stopped mid-pace directly. “I see you all the time. Why would I want a picture of you when I flip through my travel journal?”
“Because I am traveling with you?” Richard found a certain joy in provoking his cousin. “You commissioned five separate portraits of Elizabeth Bennet.”
“As you are already aware, I am hopelessly in love with her. I think about her every second of every day. The thought of being on the same ship with her for weeks on end both invigorates and terrifies me.”
The colonel settled into one of the chairs, his easy manner fading as he witnessed his cousin’s agitation. “For the first time in your life, you are in love.”
“I know what I want, but I struggle to know how to achieve it. I can plan for spring planting with little effort, but when it comes to romance, I am adrift. Elizabeth showed me a measure of trust yesterday, and I know that is a positive sign. But that was because of the situation with Wickham―an instance where she needed to choose sides. Deciding that she no longer believes him does not mean her poor opinion of me has changed.”
Richard crossed the room and placed a firm hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Based on what I observed yesterday, I do not think rejection is as likely as you fear.”
Before Darcy could respond, a sharp knock sounded at their door. A messenger from Admiral Whitmore appeared requesting Richard’s immediate presence at the garrison headquarters.
“Go.” Darcy waved him away. “There is nothing more to say here, anyway.”
As Richard made his way through Gibraltar’s evening shadows, he reflected upon what intelligence might await and whether the admiral might have discovered a clue of some significance.
He turned a corner and saw Mrs. Bell in the distance. The memory of her brief touch on his sleeve made him warm in a way that had nothing to do with the climate. If he were not careful, he would be in the same sad shape as Darcy.