Chapter 14
Elizabeth stood at the Mary Catherine’s rail in the midday light, observing the bustling activity of Porto’s harbor as dockworkers made the final preparations for their departure.
The tide was turning, and Captain Morrison had made it clear they would catch it whether his passengers were aboard or not.
The ship sat noticeably lower in the water than it had when they had arrived, her hold heavy with the Portuguese goods Uncle Gardiner’s agent had negotiated during their stay.
She suspected port wine was the cargo most desired for their stop in Gibraltar.
The British garrison there would pay handsomely for quality British and Portuguese goods, especially given the uncertain wartime supply lines from home.
According to her aunt’s report, Uncle Gardiner had always possessed an uncanny ability to turn every voyage into a profitable venture. The thought made her happy.
As she waited for the captain’s order to cast off, Elizabeth glimpsed inside one of the other passenger quarters during her morning walk below the deck.
The bunks were covered from one corner to the next with crates stacked upon more crates.
These must contain more of Uncle Gardiner’s trade goods.
It appeared that Elizabeth, her father, and Mrs. Bell were to continue as the Mary Catherine’s only passengers for the next portion of the journey, a prospect that was both lonely and oddly liberating.
“Miss Bennet!”
The cheerful call drew her attention to the dock below, where she spotted the colonel and Mr. Darcy. The colonel was dressed casually, while Mr. Darcy was attired in his customary black.
The sun blazed down on Mr. Darcy's dark hair, catching hidden depths of gold she had never noticed.
He appeared relaxed and content, newly shaved and clean, without the rigid lines of tension that usually marked his face.
He looked open—almost boyish. And when he smiled at her, something inside Elizabeth turned over.
That same gaze that had so often regarded her with cool reserve now burned with an inner fire. Tall and elegantly dressed, he cut a striking figure against the colorful backdrop of Porto’s harbor. Elizabeth stared. Had she never noticed how extraordinarily handsome he was?
Blinking, she willed her focus away from him. “Mr. Darcy. Colonel―ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth leaned over the rail. “How wonderful to see you both looking so well this morning.”
“We could not let you depart without wishing you a safe journey,” Darcy replied.
“I thank you, sir.” Elizabeth’s senses continued to respond to the kindness in his voice. Gone was the stiff formality to which she had grown accustomed. She had steeled herself for Mr. Darcy’s usual polite civility, but his surprising behavior was crumbling her defenses.
“We look forward to seeing you at the British garrison.” His gaze met hers, and Elizabeth’s cheeks heated. She could not look away.
“All hands! Prepare to cast off!” Captain Morrison’s voice boomed across the deck, causing Elizabeth’s heart to lurch in disappointment. “Ready the dock lines fore and aft. Prepare to slip the moorings!”
“Boa viagem,” Mr. Darcy called out, his pronunciation careful but enthusiastic. The simple words sent a shiver down Elizabeth’s spine that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. “Safe travels.”
“Boa viagem, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
As the Mary Catherine began to slip away from the dock, the two figures grew smaller. Porto’s red-tiled roofs faded into the haze, but Elizabeth remained. Whatever she had expected to feel upon leaving the gentlemen behind, this hollow sensation was not it.
She pressed her lips together, trying to understand her flutter of anticipation at the thought of Gibraltar.
What was happening to her ordered opinions?
After all, she hated Mr. Darcy for his previous poor behavior in Hertfordshire and what he had done to Mr. Wickham.
The colonel’s warning, however, had to be respected.
Obviously, there was more to the story she did not know, and it seemed likely to paint Mr. Wickham in an unfavorable light.
Why was she willing to accept this drastic change in her judgment? Was it because she witnessed humility in Mr. Darcy, not only when he got off the Meridian, but when he spoke with her father? His respect―even deference―for Thomas Bennet had been completely unexpected.
What was the truth about Mr. Wickham? Who was this Mr. Darcy? And why did the thought of Mr. Darcy's changed manner unsettle her in such a thoroughly inconvenient way?
Three days later, a storm rose from the western horizon like the wrath of Poseidon himself.
One moment, the Meridian had been sailing smoothly through the Atlantic waters; the next moment, she was fighting for her very existence against towering waves and howling winds that seemed determined to tear her apart piece by piece.
As Darcy lay in the narrow bunk, he braced himself against the cabin wall when the ship pitched violently to starboard, sending everything not nailed down sliding across the floor with a tremendous crash.
Fear clawed at him with icy fingers. The storm had been raging for nearly twelve hours, and he could hear the ominous sounds of the ship’s timbers groaning under its relentless assault.
Vital equipment had given way in the rigging hours ago.
He had heard the sharp crack followed by shouts from the crew.
Afterwards, the Meridian’s motion had grown increasingly erratic.
Richard appeared in the doorway, soaked to the skin and gripping the frame for support as the ship lurched again. Water streamed from his coat.
“How bad is it?” Darcy asked.
“Bad enough. We’ve lost the mizzen topsail and part of the rigging. Captain Shanklin is doing his best to keep us off the rocks, but…” He shook his head, water droplets flying from his sodden hair.
Standing, Darcy could see nothing but a wall of gray water and driving rain through the small window.
Somewhere in this maritime hell, the Mary Catherine was sailing.
The thought of Elizabeth facing these same mountainous seas made his blood run cold.
Had they been fortunate enough to reach Gibraltar before the storm struck?
Or were they, too, fighting for survival somewhere in these treacherous waters?
The image of her trapped in a cabin like this one, terrified and helpless as the elements battered her ship, filled him with anguish.
If anything happened to her, if he never had the chance to tell her how deeply he loved her, how sorry he was for his past pride…
The storm raged on through the night and well into the following day, each hour stretching into an eternity.
Darcy stayed in their room, not wanting to get in the way of the crew and grateful there were no witnesses to his sickness from the violent motion.
His thoughts were consumed with Elizabeth.
Her safety. Her fear. The possibility that he might never see her bright eyes or hear her laugh again.
When the winds began to subside and the waves gradually grew less restless, the Meridian limped toward Gibraltar like a wounded animal seeking shelter.
Darcy’s first glimpse of the famous Rock informed him more than words that they had accomplished a monumental task.
As they drew closer to the harbor and he came up to the deck, he surveyed the damage to their vessel with alarm.
The mast hung at a drunken angle, supported only by a tangle of rope and canvas.
The railings were smashed in several places, and he could see crew members working desperately to pump water from the hold.
“She will need extensive repairs,” Captain Shanklin informed them as they made fast to the harbor wall. “Could be weeks before she’s seaworthy again.”
The comment hit Darcy like a physical blow. There would be weeks of delay while Elizabeth and her father continued without them―weeks stranded in Gibraltar while the woman he loved sailed farther from his reach.
First, he had to know if she was safe.
Once the gangway was secured, Darcy went ashore, his legs unsteady from days of violent motion. Despite his shakiness, his attention immediately sought the Mary Catherine.
His cousin followed, looking as battered and exhausted as Darcy. “There.” Richard pointed toward the far side of the harbor. “Is that not her?”
Darcy’s heart leapt at the sight of the familiar vessel but then immediately plummeted.
The Mary Catherine showed clear signs of storm damage.
Her foremast was shorter than it should be, and her hull bore the scars of her battle with the elements.
She had not escaped the storm after all, but she was here.
“At least the ship made it to port.” He was desperate to see Elizabeth. To offer comfort from any lingering fears.
The British garrison was a welcome sight after their ordeal.
The two men hurriedly made their way through Gibraltar’s bustling streets, knowing that British officers and civilians would be gathered there to exchange news and seek assistance.
Richard spotted an officer he knew and lingered behind while Darcy continued forward, searching for a glimpse of Elizabeth’s distinctive figure.
At last, he found her in the main courtyard. Seeing her alive and apparently unharmed sent a wave of relief through him. She was speaking animatedly with a group of officers and a gentleman, her cheeks pink with excitement as she recounted what was undoubtedly the tale of their storm-tossed voyage.
When Darcy moved closer, his relief gave way to deep concern hedged with fear.
Standing beside Elizabeth, reaching for her arm, was George Wickham.
The sight of the man who had tried to elope with Georgiana and brought nothing but pain and scandal to everyone he touched, standing so close to Elizabeth, filled Darcy with cold rage. He certainly is not a gentleman!
As he stood frozen in shock and fury, Wickham looked up, and their gazes locked.
The scoundrel’s smile became predatory and triumphant, making it apparent that this meeting was no coincidence.
In the space of a few short days, somehow Wickham had positioned himself where he could do the most damage.
The storm at sea had been terrifying, but this—Elizabeth under Wickham’s influence, his enemy’s calculated charm working its venom—this was infinitely worse. He strode toward Wickham with purpose.