Chapter 9
By nightfall, Darcy threw off the rough wool blanket as another wave of nausea rolled through him.
The irony was not lost on him. He had always prided himself on his excellent health, routinely enduring long days in the saddle without complaint.
Yet here he was, reduced to a pale shadow of himself by the Meridian’s relentless swaying motion.
Above, the colonel’s voice carried over the wind as he spoke with the captain on deck. The sound of Richard’s hearty laughter drifted down through the open porthole. Darcy closed his eyes in misery.
“Here, Cousin.” Richard entered their cabin soon after, carrying a tin cup. “Cook gave me some weak tea and a biscuit to help settle your stomach.”
The effort to sit up sent Darcy’s head spinning and his stomach roiling. “I cannot, Richard. The very thought…” He swallowed hard, fighting another wave of sickness.
The colonel settled on the edge of Darcy’s bunk. “It might help to go up on deck. From there, you can keep your eyes on the land until you are stable.”
“I cannot move.” Darcy hated the weakness in his voice. “How long before we reach calmer waters? Will the Mediterranean be any better, or must I endure this torment for the entire voyage?”
“I regret, but we are still on the Thames. It will not get much smoother than this for a while.”
A sudden gust filled the sails, and the ship lurched violently starboard. Darcy wedged himself deeper into the bunk. At least his lack of appetite would save him from having to eat the questionable food typically served aboard merchant vessels.
“Richard,” he managed between labored breaths. “Did you confirm with the Port Authority that the Mary Catherine departed yesterday?”
“Yes, I did. And yes, they did.”
Darcy saw Elizabeth’s lovely face in his mind, so vibrant, so alive. What would she think when she saw him like this? Pale, weak, barely able to stand? He had imagined meeting her in an exotic port, presenting himself as her protector, not as an invalid who could not manage a sea voyage.
“Fortunately, Captain Shanklin plans to stop in Porto for a few days before Gibraltar. As it so happens, the Mary Catherine is doing the same.” Richard was sympathetic.
“Darcy, seasickness is usually temporary. Your character is not. When we reach port, you will be yourself again. Concentrate on that.”
“What if we do not catch them in Portugal? What if Wickham reaches her first?”
“We will deal with that if it happens.” His cousin spoke with calm authority. “Tormenting yourself over what may or may not lie ahead serves no purpose. Rest now and regain your strength.”
When Richard left the cabin, Darcy stared at the bunk above, listening to the creak of the rigging and the endless rush of water against the hull.
Somewhere ahead on the Mary Catherine, Elizabeth was being tossed about in these same waves.
Would he catch up with her soon? And when he did, would she even recognize the man this cursed voyage had made of him?
When Darcy had made his travel arrangements, he learned the Meridian was not the only ship setting sail for Gibraltar that day.
Since Wickham had been on the docks, he might have booked passage on the other ship, and if it were a faster vessel, he would reach port ahead of them.
The man who had once been his childhood friend was now his greatest enemy, and Elizabeth was caught between them. Despite Richard’s words, Darcy worried.
He closed his eyes and tried to summon the strength he would need for the battles ahead. First, he had to survive long enough to reach calmer seas. Then he would protect the woman he loved from a man who sought to destroy him.
Four days into their voyage, Elizabeth remained in the cabin with her father, who was beginning to find his sea legs. Only on rare occasions did she depart. Even then, she rarely saw anyone except Tommy.
An urgent shout from the crow’s nest shattered the relative calm of the morning. “French battleship off the port bow! Three-decker, by the look of her!”
Her father, finally able to sit upright without retching, looked at her imploringly. “We should inquire…” he began, but Elizabeth was already moving toward the cabin door.
On deck, the Mary Catherine’s crew burst into frantic motion.
She found Captain Morrison standing rigidly at the wheel, his weathered face carved from stone as he studied the distant ship through his spyglass.
The French vessel appeared to her as a dark smudge against the gray horizon.
She could make out the distinctive three rows of gunports that marked it as a ship of the line.
“Captain Morrison.” She approached him on unsteady legs, her voice higher than intended. “Are we in danger?”
He lowered his glass. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool morning air. “Depends on their intentions, miss. The French Navy’s been active in these waters since the peace ended.”
Elizabeth drew comfort from her uncle’s description of Morrison. He was a self-made man who had risen from common sailor through wit and determination. He knew these waters well, and his crew would follow him into hell itself. Now, his legendary composure cracked around the edges.
“What are our options?” She knotted her fingers in her skirt. “My father would like to know.”
“Well, miss, we could run for the open sea, but she’d catch us before nightfall. French seventy-fours got twice our sail and many times our guns.” He gestured toward their current heading. “Or we hold our course and act like honest merchants with nothing to hide.”
“But surely if they board us…” The words stuck in her throat.
“Aye, that’s the rub of it.” Morrison wiped his palms on his coat. “They’ll want what we’re carrying, no mistake. But running would only confirm their suspicions.” He raised the spyglass again. “Better to play the part and hope they’ve bigger fish to catch.”
Throughout the long day, the battleship maintained its distance, a dark presence that never quite disappeared from view. Elizabeth was at the porthole every few minutes, her breath fogging the glass as she pressed close. She could not make herself look away for long.
When Tommy brought the evening meal, the tray shook so badly that the plates rattled against each other.
“Will they attack us in the night?” Elizabeth whispered.
The boy’s eyes darted toward the door before he leaned close.
“Cap’n Morrison says the French Navy ain’t pirates, miss.
They mostly follow the rules of war.” His voice dropped further.
“But the lads say we be carryin’ enough powder an’ shot to supply half a’ Gibraltar.
Ye might want to speak with Mrs. Bell. She’s in the galley.
She’s sailed these seas an’ faced pirates an’ the French… . knows more’n I do.”
Leaving her father to attempt his meal, Elizabeth moved past Tommy to the common room and found a lovely woman of about thirty years reading a novel at one of the tables. Her facial muscles were relaxed, and she held the book lightly. With no one to introduce them, Elizabeth performed the task.
Mrs. Bell’s smile broke wide and warm. “Welcome aboard the Mary Catherine. Mr. Gardiner tells me you are his favorite niece. Tommy speaks well of you. I admit that your constant care for your father over the last four days is admirable. I only saw you in passing. But I can see you are concerned about the French. Well, we all should be. They would have much to gain by taking this ship. With that said, they would also be aware that we have a few loaded cannons they would not want. I suspect the commandant is even now calculating the odds of whether it would be worth his effort.”
Elizabeth slid onto the bench across from her and tried to emulate her companion’s easiness. “You have been in this situation before, then?”
“Too often to count. My late husband was Captain Morrison’s nephew.
Once he was given a ship, I often sailed with him.
Sadly, I lost him at Trafalgar,” Mrs. Bell said wistfully.
She added more brightly, “I am fortunate that your uncle is such a good and fair man. He pays me to be a companion of sorts to female passengers, saving me from a life of servitude to my family. I make one or two trips a year. This keeps me from dying of ennui and fills my coffers until I shall never need to lift a needle and thread for anyone but myself.”
Her light brown hair was braided and then wound into a knot. Her gown was clean and unadorned with ruffles or lace. It was her knowing green eyes and serenity that brought a measure of calm to Elizabeth.
“How wonderful to be so pleased with your situation in life. My uncle attempted to prepare my father and me for the challenges of this journey, but I could not imagine anything other than adventure.”
Mrs. Bell’s laugh lightened her heart. “Then you and I are more alike than we are different. Without the element of danger, the joys would not seem so bright.” She reached over and patted the back of Elizabeth’s hand.
“We shall get on well, I believe. For now, I suggest you find a book that might occupy your mind. I trust Captain Morrison implicitly. In time, you will as well.”
As the sun set, painting the Channel waters the color of blood, the predatory shadow continued to cut a black wound against the sky. Elizabeth set her book on the table, unable to look away from the small window.
Soon after, as if by some unspoken decision, the battleship turned away and sailed toward the French coast. Elizabeth’s breath rushed out in a gasp of relief, and her muscles turned to water, forcing her to grip the edge of the table in front of her for balance.
Mrs. Bell again patted her knuckles. “Seems they had other business after all.”
“We are safe, then?”
“For now. This is a mere taste of what lies ahead. The Mediterranean is crawling with French ships, pirates, and who knows what else.” She studied Elizabeth, who was undoubtedly pale. “Are you still eager for your adventure?”
The terror had been real, more intense than anything she had ever experienced. For hours, she had been imagining capture, imprisonment, death. But beneath her fear, resolve emerged. Unbreakable. “More than ever.”
Upon returning to her cabin, Elizabeth sank onto the stool. Her heart continued to beat in a wild rhythm that gradually slowed until she could safely hold her journal.
It was time to make her first substantial entry since entering the Channel. The reality of her situation had become clear: they were traveling through waters where the stakes were life and death. And she had made a new friend. Gratefully, she was no longer alone.
Darcy struggled to his feet as the boom of a cannon echoed across the water.
His weakened legs almost failed to support him at the Meridian’s shudder in repercussion from the shot across her bow.
Through the porthole of his cabin, he could see the white splash perilously close to their vessel where the French ball landed.
He gripped the cabin wall for support. The seasickness that had plagued him for days now seemed insignificant compared to the terror coursing through his veins.
Another thunderous volley from the French echoed across the water.
Darcy’s jaw clenched as helpless frustration washed over him.
Above deck, he could hear Captain Shanklin’s calm, measured responses, his Winchester-educated accent carrying easily over the wind.
The man’s voice betrayed no panic, but Darcy knew the gravity of their situation.
This is intolerable. Every fiber of his being screamed against his inability to help.
At Pemberley, he managed thousands of acres and hundreds of lives.
In London, his word carried weight in drawing rooms and counting houses alike.
But here, confined to this narrow cabin while facing mortal danger, he was utterly powerless.
He paced the small space like a caged animal—three steps to the porthole, three steps back to the door. I should be up there. I should do something. But what could he do against a warship? He had no naval experience, no knowledge of seamanship beyond what he had read.
The sound of running feet on deck made his stomach lurch.
Were they preparing for battle? Surrendering?
Not knowing was agony. He looked out the porthole, seeing the massive French vessel through the spray-streaked glass as it approached close enough that he could recognize the French sailors if he ever saw them again.
Captain Shanklin knows these waters, he told himself, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cabin’s chill.
Richard had spoken highly of the captain’s experience.
Shanklin was reported to be methodical and respected by his crew for competence rather than bluster.
However, competence would matter little if the French boarded them.
Oh, lord! Richard’s uniform! Just as the thought of yet another pressing reason to pray the French would stay away crossed his mind, another boom split the air, and Darcy’s heart seemed to stop. Fortunately, this time it was the sound of the ship’s signal cannon instead of another warning shot.
Time slowed. Eventually, the massive warship began to turn away, its business apparently concluded.
The relief hit him like a jolt. His already weakened legs gave out, and he collapsed onto his bunk. The encounter had lasted around forty minutes, but it had felt like a lifetime.
Richard burst through the door. “Darcy, we are clear of present danger, though I am afraid this encounter serves as a sobering reminder of the waters we are entering.”
“What did they want?” Darcy asked, rising on limbs that were marginally steadier.
“Primarily, to make their presence known. A show of force.” Richard’s tone carried respect for the captain. “Shanklin showed them the ship’s papers and cargo manifest. They seemed satisfied that we posed no threat to their interests.”
Darcy thought of all the ways this journey could go wrong.
“Cousin,” Richard said, “Should we consider returning to England?”
Darcy knew that the colonel saw the pallor and weakened frame of a generally robust man.
“We continue,” he said. “Elizabeth is in these same waters. She could already have encountered a similar threat. In the moments when I anticipated our capture, one thought burned clear and constant beneath my fear: Elizabeth. I will move heaven and earth to reach her.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Yes.”