Chapter 10
Darcy’s discomfort increased the greater Alex’s satisfaction grew. She was like a wolf that smelled fear, a shark smelling fresh blood.
“Ye want to learn the ways of a sailor? Ye’ll start as the ship’s boy, and ye’ll start where all the ship boys do, helpin’ Cook in the galley.”
Darcy tried to contain his relief. Alex could gloat all she liked. He did not care. Any skill he could learn might mean his life—his freedom. No task was too low for him if it meant he could return to shore. To Elizabeth.
He left, finding Bauer swabbing the deck by the dining hall.
“Good day, Bauer. I trust you slept well?”
Bauer looked at him with a blank expression. Clearly, social niceties were lost on this lot. “Perhaps you would direct me to the galley?”
Laying his mop down at the edge of the walkway, Bauer grunted, “This be the way.” He took Darcy to the back of the ship, and down several steps, where there were fewer sailors. “Careful with the cap’n. She be a clever one.”
Darcy understood the warning. Alex had not tried to kill him yet that day, and he supposed he ought to count it as a blessing.
It seemed out of character, though. Was she merely moody, or was she scheming something more than using him to secure Nick’s affection?
Darcy did not know if Bauer knew, but it was worth asking. “Why is she being more agreeable?”
Bauer scratched his head. “The way I see it, she found a use for ye. Or she saw how quickly ye won over the crew and she be playin’ nice.”
“What does it matter if her crew sympathizes with her prisoner?”
Shaking his head, Bauer said, “Ye don’t know much about our kind, do ye? We may not abide by the laws of the land, but every pirate adheres to our code. Cap’ns be elected.”
“Rule by crew? A democracy?” Darcy could not believe it.
Bauer shrugged. “How else? On a ship full of murderers, bandits, and thieves, we’d never agree on anything. So, we vote. The sailor with the most wins the post.”
Darcy’s plan to gain the favor of the crew now had a solid motive. If he could turn them against Alexandra… But what hold did she have over them? “How did she come to be captain?”
“Cap’n be a good commander, quick to decide a course and confident to carry it out.”
She was controlling. Bossy.
Continuing, Bauer added, “She be a first-rate navigator, and she be mighty handy with a knife, sword, and pistol.”
Darcy was well aware of that.
“She keeps her head in battle. Many a skirmish she’s gained the upper hand.
Nerves of steel, she has. Stronger than most men.
Has to be.” Bauer shrugged. “Can’t expect anything less from a Lafitte.
The sea be all she’s ever known.” He stepped aside to allow Darcy through a narrow space that opened into the galley.
Barrels and crates lined the walls. An oven hovered over the tin-covered floor, swinging from chains attached to large hooks in the ceiling.
“Plus, she keeps us in good food.” Nodding at the man cracking eggs into a large bowl, Bauer said in a low tone, “Jean-Christophe used to cook fer the royal family. Or so they say.”
“Then what is he doing on the Fancy? Is he another one of your captain’s prisoners?”
Bauer leaned closer. “Word be he poisoned a Lord of Parliament. He never goes ashore. Best stay on his good side … just to be safe.”
Darcy nodded his thanks and Bauer departed, leaving him alone with the deadly chef.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my galley?” The cook had an accent the years had faded.
Swallowing his pride, Darcy presented himself. “I am the new ship boy.”
The man guffawed. “You are very tall to be a ship boy, but I will forgive you this if you can peel those potatoes.” He pointed at a mound of dirty potatoes in a crate that reached Darcy’s knees.
He prayed there was straw on the bottom.
There were so many, and Darcy had never peeled a potato in his life.
But how hard could it be?
Jean-Christophe sharpened a knife and handed it to him. “Keep the peel thin, or I will make you cut the onions.”
Taking a seat on the wooden stool, Darcy grabbed a potato, holding the knife in his other hand. Slowly, he cut into the potato and dragged the knife across the bulk of the vegetable until a chunk fell at his feet with a thud.
The chef glowered at him. “Much too thick.” Grabbing the knife and potato from Darcy’s hands, Jean-Christophe turned the blade to face him, pulling it toward his thumb. Raising the thin ribbon of peel, he waved it in front of Darcy’s eyes. “You see? Like this? Thin.”
Feeling like he was back in the schoolroom, Darcy set his jaw and held the knife as the Frenchman had shown him.
Carefully, he drew the blade toward his thumb.
It was just like carving. His father’s valet had taught him how to cut figurines into soft wood.
He raised the peel for the chef to approve, proud of his quick improvement.
Jean-Christophe tsked. “Thinner!” he demanded.
It took several more potatoes before Darcy mastered the technique. By the bottom of the crate (which did not have straw at the bottom), the peels at his feet were paper thin.
Knuckle-sore, back aching, Darcy stood from the stool, too tired to celebrate his triumph. When he made it back to shore, he would raise the wages of his kitchen staff. And he would remove potatoes from the menu for the foreseeable future.
“You waste too much. Chop the onions,” Jean-Christophe said, still cross.
One onion later, and with a dozen more to go, tears ran down Darcy’s cheeks.
This was a whole new kind of torture. The pungent odor burned his eyes, soaking through the cloth tied over his palm with a vicious sting.
He did not know which was worse: keelhauling, chopping onions, or the horrors awaiting him over the next twenty-five days.
The following day brought no relief to the Gardiner household.
Still full of nervous energy, Elizabeth was grateful when Aunt suggested they leave Lydia under the maid’s charge to take the children for a stroll in the park.
They walked along the nearby paths while the nurse supervised the children. They ran and skipped as though they had no care in the world.
Elizabeth searched the pavements for signs of Mr. Darcy. It was a vain search, she knew. With so many people unable to find him, he was unlikely to be discovered strolling leisurely through a park.
Aunt took her hand. “You are not as averse to Mr. Darcy as you led us to believe, are you, dear?” It was more a statement of fact than a question.
“No.” Elizabeth would not deny it. Aunt could not have helped but overhear her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam the day prior. Elizabeth’s throat swelled and she could say nothing more.
Aunt tucked her hand against her side and resumed walking slowly. “I suspected as much while we were at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth heated at the memory. “I was mortified to see him. H-he offered for me last spring,” she admitted.
“And?”
“And I refused him—most resolutely.”
Aunt raised her eyebrows, her lips curling. “Did you, now? Mr. Darcy certainly knows how to inspire strong feelings in you.”
“I was very passionate,” Elizabeth mumbled.
“A quality most men desire in a wife, dear. It seemed to me that Colonel Fitzwilliam gave you reason to hope.”
“He did. But all the reassurances in the world mean nothing if Mr. Darcy is—” She could not say it. Could not think it. “I would give anything to know he is alive. And well.” And willing to give her another chance.
Aunt squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and bunched her lips. She would not make a promise she could not keep, no matter how badly Elizabeth wanted to hear it.
That night, Elizabeth dreamed of walking London’s streets. Swarms of tall gentlemen with silk hats whisked past her, their faces blurred.
One man looked over his shoulder. It was him! She ran, calling out, but Mr. Darcy could not hear her. Or maybe he chose to ignore her.
It did not matter. He needed her help. She ran and ran. Someone pulled her from behind, and she twisted free.
Then a rough hand covered her eyes, blinding her. She flailed out, trying to break free, but stronger hands pulled her back, lifting her off the ground.
She screamed, kicked, and lashed, startling herself awake. Sitting in bed, her chest heaving, Elizabeth looked about the dark room and sensed Lydia’s figure curled up beside her. It was only a bad dream.
Pulling the covers down where she held them over her head, Lydia whined, “Oy! I know you are cross with me, Lizzy, but pummeling me in my sleep is beneath you!” She took a pillow (one of Elizabeth’s) and made a show of placing it between them.
Within minutes, her breathing fell into the soft rhythm of sleep.
Elizabeth tried to rest. If only she knew Mr. Darcy was alive.