Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Valletta did not appear gradually. It arrived all at once: honey-coloured stone rising from the harbour, fortifications climbing in high tiers, and the dome of a cathedral catching the morning sun.
The city was remarkably solid, populated with people walking on streets and buying bread.
After six weeks on the island, the simple sight of civilisation struck Darcy with an overwhelming force.
There were hundreds of people on the harbour walls, on the docks, and in boats. They were speaking, shouting, and laughing. The aggregate sound of human voices hit him like a physical blow, a sudden wall of noise after six weeks where the loudest sound had been the sea.
Elizabeth stood beside him at the railing. She held his hand tightly — her grip had not loosened since the rescue — and looked at Valletta with an expression of disbelief, as though the world she had given up reaching had miraculously come to her.
“There are buildings,” she breathed.
“Yes.”
“Stone buildings with intact roofs,” she continued, her voice filled with wonder. “Roofs that were not desperately repaired with flat stones and mud.”
“The roofs of Valletta are, I believe, properly constructed.”
“Proper construction,” she whispered. “The concept is almost too beautiful to bear.”
The Santa Chiara smoothly docked. Rossi's crew handled the mooring with efficient indifference, but Darcy found every moment remarkable.
The rope hit the bollard, the gangplank was lowered, and he stepped onto the dock.
His feet touched the solid stone of a city filled with people who had not been stranded, people who moved about their lives without a second thought for their survival.
Elizabeth stepped onto the dock in bare feet, for the sailor's wife had possessed no spare shoes. The ancient stone under her feet was warm from the morning sun. She stood perfectly still, looking at the city, tears spilling silently over her smiling cheeks.
Darcy quickly dealt with Captain Rossi. He arranged payment for their passage through a letter of credit drawn on his London bank.
The captain accepted Darcy's signature with pragmatic trust, correctly judging that an English gentleman of Darcy's bearing was good for his debts.
Darcy made the amount exceedingly generous.
“The British consul,” Darcy said.
Rossi gave him swift directions. The consulate was on Merchants Street, a ten-minute walk across cobblestones.
Darcy's borrowed shoes could manage the stones, but Elizabeth's bare feet could not.
The problem was immediately solved by Rossi's wife, Maria.
She appeared from below decks with a pair of leather slippers that were two sizes too large.
Elizabeth accepted them with a gratitude that nearly undid her composure.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, in the Italian that Darcy had been teaching her on the island, the pronunciation adequate and the sincerity unmistakable.
Maria said something rapid and warm in Maltese. Neither of them understood the words, but the kind, wishing tone was unmistakable.
The British consul was a tall, thin man named Harrington. He had the measured manner of a career diplomat, and his efficient gaze had thoroughly assessed them before they had even finished taking their seats.
Darcy clearly related the facts: the pirate attack, the shipwreck, and their six weeks stranded upon the island. He provided his name and estate, and then named Elizabeth, along with the Gardiners who had been aboard the Adeona.
Harrington listened carefully, taking precise notes. He asked relevant questions, omitting the one obvious question burning in his gaze: What exactly happened on that island?
That question could wait.
“The Gardiners,” Darcy said. “Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner, of Gracechurch Street, London. They were aboard the Adeona when it was taken. Do you have any record of their survival?”
Harrington silently consulted his files. It took only four minutes, but to Elizabeth, the wait was an agony rivalled only by the fever. She sat perfectly still in her chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, waiting for the answer she had desperately sought for six weeks.
“Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner arrived in Naples six weeks ago,” Harrington said.
“Carried there by the merchant vessel Prosperità, which recovered survivors from the wreck. They have been in contact with this office, enquiring about two persons: a Miss Elizabeth Bennet and a Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, both believed lost.”
Elizabeth's hands moved, her palms pressing flat against her thighs. She absorbed the impossible information.
“They are alive,” she said.
“They are well and in good health, by the last correspondence. I can have a message sent by the next packet.”
“Send it immediately.” Darcy's voice was utterly calm; it was the voice of a man accustomed to authority.
“I will pay for an express. The Gardiners must know that Miss Bennet is alive and safe. The message should also be forwarded to Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire, and to my own household at Pemberley.”
Harrington wrote as Darcy dictated. Elizabeth sat in her chair with bright eyes and an intact, rigid composure. It was a fiercely controlled performance. Only Darcy, having spent six weeks learning her every expression, could see the violent trembling she was suppressing through stillness.
They left the consulate and walked down Merchants Street. Elizabeth in her oversized slippers and Darcy in his borrowed sailor's clothes attracted many curious glances from the residents of Valletta.
Between a shop selling lace and a shop selling olives, Elizabeth suddenly stopped. She pressed her back against the warm stone wall and breathed deeply.
Darcy stood beside her. He did not touch her, but positioned his body between her and the street, providing the privacy the island had given freely and the world required them to construct.
Her breathing was deliberate and controlled, her hands in tight fists at her sides. The effort of her stillness was visible in the sharp line of her jaw and the rigid set of her shoulders.
The composure held. It cost her, but it held.
“They are alive,” she said.
“They are alive.”
“Jane does not know I am alive.”
“She will know soon. The express will reach England in days.”
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the wall and smoothed her borrowed dress. She lifted her chin with a fierce, familiar pride—the exact gesture he had first seen in a Hertfordshire ballroom.
“We require a clergyman,” she said firmly.
“I will find one.”
“An English clergyman, if one exists in Valletta,” she insisted. “If not, I will accept any denomination that can produce a legal marriage recognised by English law.”
“The consul will have a recommendation,” he assured her.
“Good. We must also send for the Gardiners. If they are in Naples, they must be brought here. My aunt should be present when I marry you. It is not about propriety, Fitzwilliam, it is about love; she is the one person in my family who will truly understand what I have done, and why.”
“I will arrange their passage immediately.”
“You will arrange it, and you will pay for it, and I will not argue with you over the expense,” she declared. “I would rather spend that time being married to you.”
He looked at her. She stood on a foreign street in borrowed shoes, directing the arrangements for her own wedding with unyielding authority.
“You are magnificent,” he said.
“I am merely practical,” she replied, though a small smile touched her lips.
Harrington quickly secured them rooms at a small, modest hotel near the harbour. It was run by an English widow named Mrs Palmer, who assessed their ruined state with a single glance. Within an hour, she had produced a basin of hot water, a bar of lavender soap, a clean shift, and a comb.
Elizabeth stared at the soap, lifting it to her face.
The scent of lavender immediately recalled the gardens at Longbourn.
That simple, domestic smell finally broke her composure.
She had survived the pirate attack, the island, and the shocking news at the consulate, but she could not survive the lavender.
Darcy caught her as she wept. In the small hotel room, with the basin of water cooling on the table, he held her tightly.
It was not the quiet, controlled crying of the island; it was the full, open weeping of a woman who had finally reached safety, and was only now allowing herself to feel the terror of the past six weeks.
He held her exactly as the island had taught him: without speaking, offering only his warm, solid presence.
She wept for a long time. The shaking slowly subsided, and her breathing gradually returned to a steady rhythm.
She pulled back. Her face was wet and her eyes were red. She gratefully accepted the handkerchief he offered.
“Lavender,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“It smells of home. I am apparently not as strong as I believed.”
“You are the strongest woman I have ever known,” he said fiercely. “Tears do not diminish that.”
She gave a wet, rough laugh, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.
He kissed her forehead gently, holding the world at bay while the woman he loved cried over a piece of soap.
“I will go and find a clergyman,” he told her softly.
“Find a good one,” she replied, her voice steadying.
“The wedding will likely be in a small chapel in Valletta, with a borrowed dress and a congregation of two.”
“Then it will be perfect,” she said, looking up at him. “The circumstances do not matter in the slightest.”
He kissed her forehead once more before leaving the room. She listened to his steady, purposeful footsteps descending the stairs.
She picked up the soap again and breathed in the lavender, then washed her hands in the basin.
The hot water, the soap, the solid walls — remarkable luxuries, all of them.
She dried her hands on a soft cotton towel and sat on the bed, feeling the mattress and sheets beneath her, and held the small pink shell in her pocket.
She was ready.