Chapter 11 #2
“I did. I simply cannot wait to put it to good use.” Elizabeth chuckled. Leaning closer, she whispered, “I do understand the need for formality, Prudence, but I feel a delightful freedom here. As if being casual is more appropriate.”
Prudence grinned. “Welcome to the wonderful world of travel, Elizabeth.” She turned to Mr. Bennet and drew his attention to a picturesque inn with a lovely flower garden dotted with tables shaded by bright umbrellas.
“Would you choose to continue with us, or would your preference be to enjoy respite beneath one of those umbrellas?”
“The garden is for me.”
After seeing him comfortably settled, Prudence wrapped her arm through Elizabeth’s. “Come along. Senhora Rosa makes the finest caldo verde this side of Lisbon, and she has agreed to show a curious young lady her secrets.”
They wound through narrow streets past buildings whose faded paint told stories of countless seasons.
Prudence led her into a tiny kitchen filled with the fragrance of garlic and olive oil.
The elderly woman, her silver hair pinned beneath a worn kerchief, welcomed them with kindness that transcended language barriers.
Elizabeth was fascinated as Senhora Rosa’s gnarled hands moved, first peeling potatoes and chopping onions with ease. The woman gestured enthusiastically as she explained each step, her rapid Portuguese interrupted by Prudence’s translations and Elizabeth’s careful notes.
“Caldo verde, green broth,” Elizabeth wrote in her journal, sketching the preparation.
Senhora Rosa demonstrated the precise technique, rolling the dark green leaves like cigars and slicing them into impossibly fine strips.
The elderly cook beamed when Elizabeth attempted to repeat “couve galega,” her pronunciation earning gentle corrections and encouraging nods.
“Our cook will find this easy to attempt,” Elizabeth murmured, noting the final details.
“We have plenty of kale in our kitchen garden, and I am certain she could substitute our own sausages for the Portuguese chourico.”
Prudence chuckled. “Aye, miss. Bringing a bit of the world home with you is the spirit of travel.” Despite Senhora Rosa’s protest, they pressed a few coins into her possession.
Next, the two strolled through the marketplace to a small square where a young man sat beneath a flowering tree, his fingers dancing across a piece of rough paper with fragments of colored chalk.
“Ah, Miguel!” Prudence called. “This young lady has an appreciation for art, and I believe you two might strike a bargain.”
He looked up with curious dark eyes, taking in Elizabeth’s travel gown and the journal clutched close. When Prudence explained what they sought, he gestured to the blank space Elizabeth had left in the journal above and below her Portugal entries.
She nodded eagerly. “The Mary Catherine,” she said, pointing toward the harbor where their ship’s masts rose above the port buildings.
Miguel’s pencils and chalk moved with swift, sure strokes, as the ship took shape.
He drew the vessel not as she sat at anchor but as she would appear at sea―sails billowing with the wind, spray dancing at her bow.
He captured the elegant lines of her hull, the complex rigging, and even the small figures of sailors working the deck.
Her father wandered over to observe the proceedings.
“Papa, look! The Mary Catherine is flying across the waves.”
He peered over her shoulder. “Remarkable!”
Upon completing his drawing of the ship, Miguel placed a square of tissue between the pages to not smear the chalk.
Then he turned to another page and began sketching the port itself with its colorful buildings, the forest of masts in the harbor, and the distinctive bell tower that marked Porto’s prospect.
Page after page, his chalk captured the play of light on water and the busy movement of dockworkers.
He gestured for Elizabeth and her father to pose before the restaurant’s garden, where spring flowers cascaded over stone walls in brilliant profusion.
She had sat for a formal portrait before, a stiff affair in Longbourn’s drawing room, but this was a different experience.
Miguel worked quickly, his attention moving between them and the paper.
Elizabeth stared at the finished drawing in amazement. There they were, the two of them, surrounded by oleander and early roses, alive with curiosity and pleasure, the very spirit of this perfect morning.
“Allow me to give you this,” Elizabeth said, reaching into a leather satchel Prudence loaned her for a set of fine chalk pastels.
Miguel received the wooden box with reverence. He opened it carefully, running his fingers over the pristine sticks of color. “Obrigado,” he said.
He then added a few words in rapid Portuguese that made Prudence smile. “He says you have given him the colors of dreams,” she translated. “And that your journal will always carry a piece of Porto’s soul. Of his soul.”
As they walked back to the harbor, Elizabeth clutched her journal close, already knowing that these pages, filled with the artist’s vibrant work, would become some of her most prized possessions.
When they rounded the final corner to the dock where the Mary Catherine was moored, they found another vessel tied there. The sleek ship bore the name Meridian painted in bold letters across her bow. Dockworkers bustled about securing lines and transferring cargo.
“Bom dia!” Elizabeth called out to several of them who had paused in their work.
The men responded with delight at hearing the English lady wish them a good day in their own language, gesturing toward the Meridian with obvious pride.
She laughed at their animated accounts as they all spoke over one another, describing how they had sailed from England across the high seas and survived an encounter with the French Navy.
She was still smiling when movement near the Meridian’s railing caught her eye. Two figures approached the ship’s bulwark, their forms silhouetted against the afternoon sun. As they drew closer to disembark, Elizabeth’s cheerful greeting died on her lips.
Mr. Darcy stepped into full view.
She gasped.
His characteristically immaculate appearance was disordered, and his dark hair showed signs of salt air and wind.
His clothing, while still fine, bore the unmistakable marks of a long ocean crossing without proper facilities.
A dark beard covered his face, creating a dramatically altered effect.
Most striking of all was his pallor. His skin held the grayish cast of someone who had been gravely ill, and he moved with the careful, measured steps of a man still recovering his strength.
Beside him, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked equally travel-worn. Despite his unkempt state, however, he was grinning. His hand hovered protectively near his cousin’s elbow, ready to offer support if needed.
“Oh, no!” she murmured, her previous joy evaporating in the face of this unexpected encounter.
“Miss Bennet,” the colonel called out. “What extraordinarily good fortune to find you here!”
Mr. Darcy looked up at the sound of her name. Where she expected his usual reserve, or even displeasure at the unplanned meeting, she saw the tension go out of him all at once—and in its place, real, unguarded relief.
“Miss Bennet,” he said as he and his cousin made their way down the gangplank. His voice was somewhat hoarse. “I cannot express how glad I am to see you…and Mr. Bennet, of course.”
As he drew closer, Elizabeth noticed more evidence of the toll the voyage had taken. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his movements carried the careful deliberation of someone still fighting off illness.
Her natural compassion overrode any awkwardness about meeting him again. “Your crossing must have been particularly difficult.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam answered for his cousin with frank unease. “Darcy has not kept anything down for the better part of ten days. He is stubborn about admitting it, but he would benefit from more rest and proper food.”
Instead of the satisfaction she expected to feel at the sight of Mr. Darcy brought low, Elizabeth experienced a flutter of actual concern.
She reminded herself of all the reasons she should feel indifferent to his plight, but she could not ignore the fact that her new brother, Bingley, held this man in the highest regard, considering him his dearest friend.
She would not stand by as Mr. Darcy suffered when she had the means to help.
She stepped forward with decision. “You cannot continue in such a state. My friend, Mrs. Bell, knows of excellent lodgings nearby where you might rest and partake of nutritious food. There is also a bathing house and laundry. I am certain you would benefit from the use of its facilities, as would your clothing.”
Mr. Darcy absorbed the information. “That is exceedingly kind, Miss Bennet. I would not wish to impose―”
Elizabeth’s practical nature took charge. “You are in need, and it would be unconscionable to ignore you in such a condition.”
“You are very good, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I find myself…grateful for your kindness.”
Elizabeth gestured to Prudence, introduced her to the gentlemen, and then performed the office again, formally making her father known to the colonel.
Prudence pointed. “There is a fine inn up the hill that is clean and respectable. The proprietress makes a healing broth that works wonders for upset stomachs. You will be right as rain in a day or two, sir.”
As they organized this impromptu rescue mission, Mr. Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye repeatedly. Each time, it was as if his weakened condition had stripped away the facade he usually wore.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her father entered the conversation with his usual forthrightness. “My travail with the waves was only slightly better than yours, sir, and Elizabeth is stubbornly determined when she sets her mind to helping someone. I have learned it is futile to argue with her charitable impulses.”
Elizabeth agreed. “You are coming with us, sir. I will accept no argument.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Mr. Darcy smiled. It was slow and genuine, warm and sincere. And Elizabeth found she had no defenses against it whatsoever.
Who is this man?
“I find myself at your mercy, Miss Bennet.” A note in the inflection of his voice suggested that he did not speak merely of his physical condition.
As they helped him navigate the unsteady transition from ship to shore, Elizabeth wondered if she had been too quick to judge Mr. Darcy’s character.
This man accepted help with humble gratitude and exposed his weakness without a hint of arrogance, not at all like the man whose conduct in Hertfordshire had been so objectionable. Yet this was the same man.
There might be more to Mr. Darcy than she had believed possible. The thought intrigued and alarmed her in equal measure.