Chapter 3
The heat in New Orleans sat upon the shoulders of men like a heavy woolen coat, damp, and smelling of the river.
Darcy adjusted his cravat as he walked beside Thomas Ashford, who moved with the ease of one long accustomed to the climate.
They were in the Marigny, where the scent of river mud mingled with the perfumes of nearby gardens.
The houses here were small and painted in colors that would have scandalized a London street: yellows like egg-yolk and blues like the sky before a storm.
"The French heart of the city," Thomas said. "They built with the intention of staying, unlike the merchants across the canal who pack their bags the moment the market shifts."
They turned a corner where the cottages sat low, their porches shaded by overhanging roofs.
Thomas stopped before a house with shutters the color of a bruised plum.
The garden was a riot of green things struggling for dominance; large, waxy leaves crowded the fence, and vines climbed the posts with predatory intent.
"Mr. Bennet is a Fellow of the Royal Society," Thomas said. "He came for the flora and stayed for the isolation. I think he finds the Mississippi far more predictable than the House of Commons."
"A wise preference."
The door was opened by a woman of color whose dress was as crisp as the air was heavy.
She led them through a hallway that smelled of drying herbs and old paper.
Darcy's eyes moved habitually to the framing of the windows and the thickness of the walls.
A wooden house was a temporary thing, easily breached.
He noted two exits and a staircase leading to a sleeping loft.
The floorboards creaked, making a silent entry impossible.
He caught himself and looked away. The reflex to map a house like a fortification was a remnant of his training that he found difficult to suppress.
He saw the world in sightlines and vulnerabilities, a habit born of years spent with men who regarded every door as a problem to be solved.
There was a particular shame in it; he was a guest, invited by a man who saw in him only a lonely countryman.
They were shown into a room that served as library, laboratory, and parlor.
Books were piled on every surface, their bindings cracked by the humidity.
Glass jars filled with specimens lined the shelves, containing parts of plants suspended in yellowish fluid.
The air was thick with rubbing alcohol and damp soil.
At a desk near the window, a man with spectacles pushed up onto his forehead was peering at a dried leaf. He looked as though he had been carved out of dry wood, all sharp angles and weathered skin.
"Mr. Bennet," Thomas said. "I have brought the gentleman I mentioned."
The man looked up, his eyes sharp. "Ah, the trader. Or is it the envoy? It is difficult to keep the distinctions straight in this city."
"Mr. Darcy." Darcy bowed.
"Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet repeated. He stood and waved a hand at a chair piled with papers. "Do sit, if you can find the furniture. Elizabeth has a system for the correspondence, but my plants do not respect alphabetization."
"I would not wish to disturb your work, sir. Thomas has spoken highly of your studies of the delta flora."
"Thomas is a romantic. He thinks botany is a noble pursuit. In truth, it is a way to avoid the company of men. But come, you are from London. Has the Royal Society finally admitted that the Americans are beating us in the classification of ferns?"
"I believe they are still occupied with the Channel."
A door opened, and a woman entered. She was not the mystery Darcy had heard on the levee; she was a creature of practical intent.
Her hair was pulled back with a severity that did nothing to hide the intelligence of her face, and her apron was stained with ink.
In her hand, she held a ledger that had seen hard service.
"The shipment from the Red River was three crates short, Papa," she said, before noticing the guests.
"Elizabeth, this is Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet said. "He has come to assess our botanical trade. Mr. Darcy, my daughter, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
Elizabeth curtsied, her eyes fixed on Darcy with a directness that made him feel as though his internal map had just been read aloud. "Mr. Darcy. I hope you do not mind a house that smells of alcohol and mud. We are preparing a collection for an apothecary on Chartres Street."
"Not at all. Thomas has informed me of your success in managing your father's concern."
"Success is a generous word. We manage to keep the specimens from rotting and the creditors from the door. In New Orleans, that is considered a victory."
She set the ledger down and turned to Thomas. "Cécile is in the kitchen with a question about the cinchona bark. She says the last batch was too bitter even for a Creole fever."
Thomas grinned. "I will go and defend my reputation."
He left the room. Mr. Bennet returned to his leaf, but his attention was split.
"You are here on behalf of the cotton interests, I am told," Elizabeth said.
"I am investigating the potential for expanded trade."
"Expanded trade," she repeated. She walked to a table where a bouquet of flowers sat in a vase.
They were waxen and pale, with deep purple throats.
"A very flexible phrase. It covers everything from a warehouse to a change in flag.
I have noticed that English interest grew once the Americans began talking of statehood. "
The air in the room grew thinner. "Trade requires stability, Miss Bennet. It is natural that London would look toward its investments."
"Stability is a luxury of empires. Here, we prefer the storm we know to the one that arrives in a frigate."
"Elizabeth is suspicious of everyone who wears a coat as fine as yours," Mr. Bennet said without looking up. "She thinks that anyone who speaks such precise French must be hiding a darker grammar."
"I am merely observant, Papa."
"Is that why you are staring at the hinges of my father's desk, Mr. Darcy?"
Darcy went still. He had not realized his gaze had drifted. The desk was mahogany, likely Spanish, with brass fittings. The depth of the frame suggested a cavity behind the drawers. He noted the detail and moved on.
"I was admiring the craftsmanship."
"It was made by a man in the islands," she said. "It has three hidden compartments. I would show them to you, but then I should have to kill you, and Thomas would be upset. He has faith in your character."
"Elizabeth, do not threaten the gentleman," Mr. Bennet said. "He is used to a more polite form of interrogation."
"I find the directness refreshing."
"Tell me, Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet said, finally setting his leaf aside. "What do they say of the war in London? The Americans are making a noise about the Chesapeake, and I doubt your Parliament is in a mood for apologies."
"The situation is delicate. There are those who hope for a peaceful resolution, and those who see conflict as inevitable. But New Orleans seems distant from such concerns."
"Distance is an illusion," Elizabeth said. She approached the window. "The river brings everything here eventually. News, disease, and ambition."
She turned back. "Will you walk with us to the market, Mr. Darcy? Papa needs more spirits for his jars, and the air here has become quite stagnant."
"I should be honored."
They left the house, Thomas, and Cécile joining them. Cécile moved with quiet poise. Darcy watched them, noting how Thomas leaned in to catch her words. The streets were narrow, the air a soup of roasting coffee, jasmine, and the metallic breath of the river.
The walking party moved along the Rue Marigny, Darcy staying beside Elizabeth.
"You are silent, Mr. Darcy," she said. "Is the heat finally getting the better of your reserve?"
"I am merely taking in the sights."
"You are mapping. I saw you at the soirée. You do not look at things; you calculate them. You were doing it in our parlor, and you are doing it now. Is it a habit of your profession, or merely your nature?"
"Perhaps both. It is better to understand one's surroundings before one is forced to rely upon them."
"A very soldierly sentiment."
At the market square, they passed a merchant who was offering his opinion on the British embargo with considerable passion and very little accuracy.
Darcy paused and corrected him—not unkindly, but with a precision that left no room for the man's dignity.
He spoke as one accustomed to being right, and as one who considered the instruction of lesser minds a form of public service.
"You might have let the man keep his error," Elizabeth said, when they had moved on. "It was doing no harm."
"Inaccuracy always does harm, Miss Bennet. It is merely a question of when the bill arrives."
"And you are always the one to present it?"
"Someone must."
Elizabeth said nothing further, but she marked the exchange.
There was a particular flavour to his certainty—not malice, but a bone-deep assumption that his understanding of the world was the correct one, and that those who disagreed were simply operating at a disadvantage.
It was the confidence of a man whose name had opened every door he had ever approached, and who had therefore never considered that a door might have its own opinion.
They reached a corner where a group of men gathered outside a tavern. They were rough-looking, their skin burned dark and their clothes stained with tar. One of them, a man with a staggering gait, was arguing loudly. As the party approached, the man pivoted, his arm swinging out in a drunken arc.
He caught sight of Darcy's coat and let out a growl of resentment. He lurched forward, his hand reaching for Darcy's shoulder.
Before the man's fingers could touch the cloth, Darcy had moved.
It was the result of a thousand hours of drill.
He stepped into the man's space, his left hand catching the wrist and forcing it down while his right arm rose to guard his throat.
His weight shifted, his center of gravity dropping until he was as solid as a stone wall.
The drunk froze, staring into Darcy's eyes. Darcy did not strike him, but the man realized he was inches away from a violent conclusion. Darcy's face was a mask of cold intent.
Thomas stepped forward, placing a hand on the drunk's chest. "Easy, friend. The gentleman is just passing through."
The man blinked, his aggression draining away. He shuffled back toward the tavern.
Darcy stepped back, smoothing his coat. He could feel the heat rising in his neck. He had revealed too much.
Elizabeth was watching him. Her eyes were wide, but she did not look afraid. She looked at him with an expression he could not read. Beside her, Thomas was also quiet, his gaze moving from Darcy to the retreating man.
"A very impressive display of expanded trade," Elizabeth said.
"I apologize if I startled you. It was a reflexive movement."
"Indeed. Reflexes are the most honest part of a man. They tell us what he expects from the world."
They continued toward the market, the silence filled with tension. Mr. Bennet had caught up with them, having been distracted by a flowering hedge.
"Did I miss a revolution?" he asked.
"Only a minor skirmish, Papa. Mr. Darcy has demonstrated that he is capable of taking care of himself."
They reached the market, where Elizabeth negotiated for the high-proof alcohol. She was a shrewd bargainer, her French as fluent as any Creole's. When she had finished, they passed a stall selling orchids. The plants were strange, their roots clinging to bark.
Mr. Bennet stopped, pointing at an elaborate specimen with pale cream petals and a dark center. "That is a Caladenia. It produces no nectar of its own, so it must trick insects into visiting it by mimicking others."
He looked at Darcy. "It is beautiful, complicated, and almost certainly parasitic."
Recognition jolted through him. He let out a short, sharp laugh. "I have been called many things, much to my chagrin, but never an orchid."
"It was meant as a compliment. Parasites are the most successful organisms in the forest. They take what they need and let the stronger thing carry the weight."
They returned to the cottage. The sun was dipping, casting long shadows. Thomas and Cécile stayed on the porch for a moment as the others went inside.
Darcy, lingering at the door, saw Thomas lean down and say something in Cécile's ear.
She laughed—a warm, easy sound—and reached up to touch his cheek.
There was a domestic ease in the gesture, a lack of performance that made something tighten in Darcy's chest. He looked away before the feeling could settle and busied himself with the latch of the garden gate.
They were not mapping each other. They were simply there.
It was not something he could afford to want.
Inside, Elizabeth was already back at her ledger. The lamp on her desk cast a pool of light over the wood.
"Will we see you at the Governor's dinner on Tuesday, Mr. Darcy?" she asked without looking up.
"I believe I am expected."
"Then I shall look forward to it. I should like to see how those reflexes of yours handle a room full of politicians."
"I shall do my best to remain seated."
He walked back toward the American sector later, the humidity having broken. But the disquiet remained. He had come to New Orleans to assess a territory, but the territory was assessing him. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet, it seemed, had a lengthy memory for shadows.
Thomas walked in silence for a while, the only sound the rhythmic tap of their boots. "She is very like her father," he said eventually.
"She is," Darcy agreed.
"But more dangerous. Mr. Bennet sees specimens. Elizabeth sees motives. You would do well to remember that."
"I have already been categorized as a parasite, Thomas. I doubt I can fall much lower."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Thomas said, a grin tugging at his mouth. "She didn't categorize you as a weed. That is a beginning."
That evening, Elizabeth sat at her small desk with the shutters open to the garden and the sound of the cicadas pressing in through the warm air. She took up her pen and held it above the paper for some time before she wrote.
Dearest Jane,
I have met a man who looks at buildings the way Papa looks at orchids—as though they might reveal something essential if only he stared long enough.
He is proud, certainly, but there is a carefulness to him that I find difficult to dismiss.
Do not read more into this than I intend. I am merely reporting the local fauna.
Your loving sister,
Elizabeth
She folded the letter and set it aside for the morning post. The ink dried slowly in the humid air.
Darcy looked toward the river, where the masts were silhouetted against the light. The Bennet problem was no longer a line in a dispatch. It was a person with eyes that saw too much, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that his own maps were about to be redrawn.