Chapter 19
Elizabeth was mortified. She crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she had a blanket with which to cover herself, not knowing what to say or how to say it.
Not one clever remark surfaced to save her.
Mr. Darcy already thought her family scandalous, and after Lydia’s elopement—which Elizabeth prayed had ended in a respectable, if not ideal, wedding—he had every right to think so.
And now, for him to see her dressed so indecently….
Alex’s trousers and blouse were made to fit her, not Elizabeth’s taller, rounder figure.
She did not, however, intend to spend all day, every day, inside the cabin. Nor was Elizabeth willing to allow any of the sailors a peek up her skirts every time she took the stairs. She really had no other option. Trousers were more sensible.
Mr. Darcy sucked in a breath. Had he been holding it? Head bowed, he lowered his arm. “It is my fault you are here.” He peeked up at her, his expression so full of remorse, so adorably guilty, Elizabeth could not but forgive him.
“I do not blame you.” She reached out to the nearest furniture to steady herself when the ship rolled and blushed when her hand gripped the foot of the bed.
“I pray you might someday forgive me.” He met her eyes. They were so profoundly dark, so troubled, so meltingly pleading.
Elizabeth’s skin prickled and burned, aware that she ought to look away but too captivated to do so.
Several days of stubble covered Mr. Darcy’s chin.
Rather than appearing unkempt, it made him look …
rugged … dangerous. Sweat and salt curled the hair falling over his forehead, and it was with every ounce of self-possession that Elizabeth clasped her fidgeting fingers together to keep from brushing them through his curls.
She had known his body was strong, but seeing the lines and angles of his form through the thin linen of his open-collared shirt made her throat go dry.
She licked her lips and tried to swallow.
What had he been saying? She tried to focus, but the cabin was small, and getting smaller with every passing second.
This was ridiculous! Forcing her gaze away, she took a deep, shaky breath and summoned what clarity she yet possessed.
An apology. Before his letter, Elizabeth would have basked in the satisfaction of Mr. Darcy’s plea, her prejudices indulged and her own vanity vindicated. And she had accused him of pride!
Rolling her eyes at her own folly, her humor was at last restored.
“Forgive you, Mr. Darcy? Pray tell, for what? For finding Wickham and Lydia? For covering up their foolhardy behavior with a layer of respectability, thereby raising my family out of the clutches of scandal and absolute ruin?” He raised his hand to stop her, but she was not finished.
“Or perhaps you refer to Jane and Mr. Bingley, who I am told has resumed his residence at Netherfield Park? You placed my sister’s happiness above your own pride and placed my family’s reputation above the small fortune you must have settled on that wicked wretch Wickham and my spoiled sister.
How could I deny you forgiveness? Do you believe me so unjust? ”
A sardonic half-smirk, which she found entirely too attractive, lightened his features. “I see you are still determined to misunderstand me.”
She shot back, “And you are determined to think the worst of yourself.”
His smile deepened, then faded. “It is my fault you are here.”
“How exhausting it must be to assume responsibility for everyone and everything.”
“Only for the causes—and people—I care a great deal about.”
Elizabeth could not poke fun at that. He cared for her still. She had hoped as much, seen evidence of it. But to hear him say it … it was perfect.
He looked everywhere but at her, as though searching for the right words.
She took a deep breath and held her impatient foot still, allowing Mr. Darcy time to think.
He cared for her. She dared not dream that he would propose again, but he might ask to court her.
Or was she jumping to conclusions again?
Did he care for her in the same manner he cared for Mr. Bingley?
Was Mr. Darcy trying to tell her that his ardor had cooled into friendship?
Elizabeth tried not to be disappointed, but she felt the blow deeply.
Mr. Darcy did not love her anymore. She tried to take comfort in the certainty that they could still be friends. Friends were nice. Friends were good.
Mr. Darcy’s chest heaved a frustrated sigh, and Elizabeth knew that his inspection of the ceiling, floors, and walls had not revealed what he sought. Determined to prove herself a worthy friend, Elizabeth opened her mouth to voice something flippant and sure to make him laugh.
But with rushed urgency, in a manner so unusual to Mr. Darcy as to be shocking, he blurted, “I was overheard saying your name … while I slept. In my dreams.”
Elizabeth’s heart soared. “Oh!” She bit her tongue to contain her laughter.
What a fool she was! Convincing herself she was nothing more than a friend to Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—when she could not have been more wrong.
It was heady stuff for a maiden to know she occupied a special place in the dreams of the man she loved and had thought was forever lost. It made her bold.
“You think of me, then?” She cringed. She was bold, but not that bold.
“Sometimes?” she added, as though the qualifier made her any less impertinent.
“As often as I blink.” His voice cracked.
Did there exist a greater happiness than what she felt at that moment? Elizabeth’s heart swelled and swayed. She reached out to steady herself, her thoughts swirling around one, singular, wonderful thought—Fitzwilliam loved her still.
He stepped forward, extending his arm to her once again, ever the gentleman. “It gets better.”
Elizabeth looked up at him questioningly.
“The rocking,” he explained. “Learning to move with the ship.”
Oh, that! Elizabeth was happy to blame her lack of balance on the ship … and not on her own wobbling knees. “That is reassuring.” She smiled. If he wished to move on to lighter topics, she would oblige. For now.
“Would you like to stroll along the walkway? The sunset is striking … and … we have a great deal to discuss.”
Elizabeth delighted in the firmness of his arm under her hand. She knew she ought to be afraid—she had been kidnapped by pirates, for heaven’s sake!—but she was not. Not with Fitzwilliam at her side.
The walkway opened up to the deck, allowing a splendid view of the sunset. Red accented with hints of purple, orange, and gold streaks dotted with small, puffy clouds. The sky was on fire. “It is spectacular,” she whispered in awe.
“It is humbling to feel our own insignificance in the vastness of the heavens, the power of the water.” Fitzwilliam turned to her, eyes pensive, mouth open to speak.
“Red sky at night, sailors’ delight,” remarked a rough voice behind them. He wore an eye patch. “We be blessed with fair weather and smooth seas.”
Fitzwilliam nodded at the man. “Thank you, Bauer.” Elizabeth heard the impatience in his tone.
Another man walked behind them. “Ye and yer lady be blessed with strong stomachs. Maybe the sea be in yer blood? Most folks hang over the rails retching their first week.”
Bauer punched the man in the shoulder. “Like yer first week, Cotton.”
“And yer first two,” Cotton retorted, hanging behind to continue insulting his crew mate.
Fitzwilliam cast her such an apologetic look, Elizabeth sucked in her cheeks to stifle a giggle. She could not fail to appreciate how these rough men treated him, with a sense of camaraderie and respect.
Another man joined them on the upper deck, an opened bottle in his hand. Fitzwilliam introduced the wine-wielding man as the ship’s cook, Jean-Christophe.
“You two, shoo! Adieu!” he barked at the sailors. Gesturing openly at the endless sky, he said, “There are few clouds; the sea is as smooth as glass. Can you not see it is a night for lovers?”
Bauer scurried down the steps to the main deck, but Cotton stayed where he was.
Turning to Elizabeth, Jean-Christophe added, “Mr. Darcy is not so bad in the kitchen, is he, mademoiselle? I will say this in his favor: he learns very fast.”
She smiled at the Frenchman. “Thanks, without a doubt, to his teacher, I should think.”
Fitzwilliam looked as though he wished the sea would swallow him whole. While Elizabeth wished to spare him embarrassment, his inability to hide his vulnerability made him ever more dear to her.
Jean-Christophe laughed heartily, nudging Fitzwilliam with his elbow. “I like this one. You do too, eh?” Wiggling his eyebrows, he then turned to Elizabeth. Taking her hand, he bowed over it. “Good food makes the heart happy, but the love of a good woman … ah … now, that makes for a happy life.”
“Females be trouble. Ye can keep ‘em so long as ye keep the weevils out of me biscuits,” Cotton grumbled.
Jean-Christophe waved his bottle at Cotton’s head, and the two of them continued arguing while Mr. Darcy steered her away.
Looking up at the tall pole, Mr. Darcy examined the ladder stretching up to a platform at the top.
Elizabeth knew what he was thinking, and she delighted in his surprise when she placed her hands on the wooden rungs and began to climb.
It was no worse than the trees she had climbed as a child at Longbourn, only much easier without her skirts wrapping around her feet.
Or so she thought until she was part-way to the platform and made the mistake of looking down.
The trees she had climbed were half this pole’s height, and they did not swing about.
Clinging to the rungs, bolstering her resolve to gain the platform, she yelped when a sliver pierced through her palm.
Fitzwilliam climbed behind her faster than she could turn her palm for a look, then replaced it when she decided her grip on the rung was more important than removing the wooden fragment.
His body was warm and solid and had they not been hanging perilously high, she would have been more tempted than she presently was to lean against him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, pressing against her, lending her his strength and addling her thoroughly.
“It is only a sliver.” Her voice sounded breathy in her own ears.
“Let us get to the foretop, and we shall have a look.”
Slowly, quietly, they inched their way upward, every shift of her weight brushing against Fitzwilliam and sending tingles bursting through her limbs.
The pole they climbed was called the foremast, Fitzwilliam explained to her, pointing out and naming the different parts of the ship and its sails until they reached the platform and Elizabeth forgot her brief bout of fear.
She had almost forgotten her sliver, too, until he reached for her hand and plucked it out.
It amazed Elizabeth that Fitzwilliam’s large, calloused hands could turn her palm so gently.
And when he tenderly blew against her skin, her heart flipped in her chest. “Is that better?” he asked.
She nodded. So much better.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. There was much to say, but neither of them were in a hurry to speak. They watched the golden red sun dip into the ocean’s horizon and observed the first stars twinkle.
A sailor played the flute below, and several others shuffled, stomped, and clapped. The more agile of the motley bunch did all three. It was getting darker, and Elizabeth only saw the outlines of their forms. “Why do they not light candles?” she asked.
“Candles are not allowed after dark. It is one way they avoid discovery, and it prevents the men from setting the ship on fire when they are in their cups.”
She tilted her chin to see him better. “Jean-Christophe was right. You have learned a great deal in the short time you have been aboard this ship.”
“Elizabeth,” he whispered her name softly, his breath caressing her cheek. “I am sorry I expressed myself so poorly at Hunsford.”
She had been prepared to relay every detail she could remember of his and her family’s efforts to find him, of the colonel’s exertions on his behalf to see Lydia and Wickham married, to tell him that his sister would soon arrive at London.
She had not expected another apology. This must be the night for them, and she would rather get them out of the way. “I spoke in ignorance.”
“I insulted your family.”
“I insulted your character.”
“I said I loved you despite my better judgment.”
She could do better than that. “And I professed that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”
“I called you barely tolerable in your hearing when I found you very attractive, indeed. It was a boldfaced lie.”
Elizabeth’s humor stopped her tongue before she attempted to best Fitzwilliam’s offenses against her. “Are we really willing to waste such a perfect night competing over who insulted whom the worst?”
His lips twitched. “We can both agree I deserve that prize.”
She laughed. “I shall not admit defeat so easily.”
“I deserved everything you said to me. I was haughty and condescending and so certain of a favorable reply, I gave no consideration to how my words must have made you feel. For that, I am truly sorry. Not a day goes by that I do not regret it.”
“As do I. We are even.”
“You forgive me?”
“Fully. Can you forgive me?”
His shoulders relaxed. “I already did. Months ago.”
The remorse Elizabeth had been clinging on to for months lifted from her, a wonderful, welcome release.
Their silence did not last long. They had too much to discuss.
Elizabeth told him everything she knew had transpired since his disappearance.
In turn, Fitzwilliam regaled her with an entertaining account of his time aboard the ship.
She teasingly accused him of embellishing certain details, which they both knew he would never do.
He asked what it was like to grow up with so many sisters, and he rewarded her with stories of him and his cousins making mischief at Pemberley.
They talked and laughed like trusted friends for hours, enveloped with a blanket of stars sparkling off the glassy ocean surface.