Chapter 10 #2
"A lady might find it difficult," Elizabeth said.
"But fortunately, I am a woman with a great deal of sense and a excellent pair of boots.
I am joining your expedition, Mr. Darcy.
Not as a passenger, but as a member of the party.
You require my contacts, and you certainly require my father's knowledge of the terrain. "
Wickham stepped forward, bowing low. "A most sensible suggestion. A bit of beauty to brighten the long nights on the river would be more than welcome. Lieutenant George Wickham, at your service, Miss..."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," she said.
She did not flinch or blush as Wickham took her hand.
She looked at him with a cool, steady gaze that seemed to catch him off guard.
Darcy watched as she studied Wickham's face, and he remembered with a jolt of anxiety that she had mentioned his name before.
She had received a letter from her mother.
"Wickham," Elizabeth said, her voice thoughtful. "The name is familiar. I believe my mother mentions a family of that name in her recent letters. From Derbyshire, was it not?"
Wickham's smile did not falter, but there was a tightening around his eyes. "Indeed. I had the misfortune of being born in a place where the air is as cold as the hearts of the gentry."
"My mother seemed to think the name associated with a great deal of neighbourhood talk," Elizabeth said. "Something about a legacy and a disagreement between gentlemen."
He was relieved, and surprised at the degree of it. She knew. She did not know the details, perhaps, but she was not blinded by Wickham's initial charm. She was looking at him as she might look at a curious specimen of beetle—one that was known to bite.
"Gossip is the only currency in Derbyshire, Miss Bennet," Wickham said. "Moving to the colonies was the only way to find a place where a man is judged by what he can do, not by who his father happened to serve."
"A noble sentiment," Elizabeth said. "I look forward to seeing what you can do."
She turned back to Darcy. "Will you have us, or must we hire our own boat and follow you like a pair of persistent ghosts?"
Darcy looked at Mr. Bennet. "Sir, are you truly in agreement with this?"
"I have long since given up the illusion of control over my household, Mr. Darcy," Mr. Bennet said.
"If I do not go, she will go alone. If I go, I might at least ensure she does not marry a bear or a Frenchman.
Besides, the air in the city is becoming quite intolerable.
The politics are louder than the cicadas. "
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. She stood her ground, her chin tilted up, her eyes bright with a challenge.
He thought of the dangers ahead—the fever, the rapids, the possibility of war.
But he also thought of the long weeks on the river, the chance to see her every day, to hear her voice, to watch her move through the world with that same fearless spirit.
Though he prized order and safety above all else, in that moment he welcomed the risk.
"Very well," Darcy said. "But you will follow my instructions without question. We depart at noon."
"I would have it no other way," Elizabeth said.
As they began the process of loading the Bennets' modest luggage, another pair joined the assembly.
Thomas returned from the boat, leading Cécile by the hand.
Cécile was dressed in a traveling habit of dark blue, a wide-brimmed hat shielding her face from the sun.
She looked remarkably calm for a woman who was about to leave the only home she had ever known.
"The boat is ready, Darcy," Thomas said. "And Cécile's father has given his blessing. He says if we are to be married, we might as well learn to survive a storm together."
"Is everyone in New Orleans joining us?" Darcy asked.
"Only those with a taste for adventure and a lack of common sense," Cécile said.
She embraced Elizabeth, the two women sharing a look of understanding.
It was a mirror of their own relationship, Darcy realized.
Thomas and Cécile found in each other a simplicity that he and Elizabeth could never share.
Theirs was a match of hearts; his was a complicated dance of duty, secrets, and a reluctant, overwhelming attraction.
The final hour was a blur of activity. The last of the horses were led onto a separate barge that would be towed behind the keelboat.
The crew, a mix of rugged Americans and French-speaking voyageurs, began to take their places.
They were men of the river, their skin tanned to the color of old leather, their voices carrying the rough songs of the wilderness.
At precisely noon, the order was given to cast off.
The Heron's Wing crept away from the levee.
The men used long poles to push the heavy vessel into the current, their muscles straining under the sun.
Darcy stood at the stern, watching as the city of New Orleans began to recede.
The spires of the cathedral, the low roofs of the Cabildo, and the crowded masts of the harbor grew smaller and smaller.
They were leaving behind the relative safety of civilization.
They were moving into a territory that was nominally American but in reality remained a contested ground.
The date was the third of June, 1812. In the city they left behind, the newspapers were full of debates about the Orders in Council and the impressment of sailors.
In Washington, the halls of Congress were ringing with the speeches of the War Hawks.
Darcy knew that the peace was a fragile thing, a glass ornament held in a trembling hand.
He did not know that in less than fifteen days, President Madison would sign a declaration of war.
He did not know that the very river he was now traveling would become a highway for armies and a site of bloody conflict.
For now, there was only the river.
Elizabeth came to stand beside him. The wind from the water caught at the ribbons of her bonnet, and for a moment, the distance between them seemed to vanish.
"You look as though you are expecting a storm, Mr. Darcy," she said.
"The sky is clear," he replied.
"The sky, perhaps. But the man is another matter."
"I have a great deal on my mind, Miss Bennet. Leading such a party is a heavy responsibility."
"You need not carry it all yourself," she said. "You have friends. You have allies. Even if some of them were not of your choosing."
She glanced toward the bow, where Wickham was talking with some of the boatmen.
He was gesturing toward the trees that lined the bank, his face animated as he told some story that had the men laughing.
Elizabeth watched him and found herself, despite everything she knew, almost charmed.
Wickham was telling the voyageurs about a bear he had encountered on the Red River—a tale involving a stolen ham, a canoe, and the bear's evident preference for French cuisine.
The men were roaring. Even the taciturn steersman was grinning.
Wickham had the gift of making himself the hero of his own failures, and it was, Elizabeth admitted, genuinely entertaining.
He moved among the crew with an ease that Darcy could never achieve, not because Darcy lacked warmth, but because Wickham understood instinctively that most men wished to be amused rather than led.
It was a dangerous talent. She could see, for the first time, how such a man might win a girl of fifteen—not through force, but through the simple, devastating act of making her laugh.
"Do you trust him?" Darcy asked.
"About as much as I trust a snake not to hiss," Elizabeth said. "But I know how to handle snakes. Do not let his presence haunt you. He is a tool, nothing more."
"A tool can break in the hand," Darcy said.
"Then one must be careful how one grips it."
She looked at him then, a steady, searching look that made him want to tell her everything—about Georgiana, about the letters, about the fear that sat like a stone in his belly. But the habit of silence was too strong. He merely nodded.
"I will try to be careful," he said.
"And I shall hold you to it," she said.
She turned away, going to join Cécile and Thomas near the center of the boat. Darcy remained at the stern, watching the muddy wake of the keelboat as it cut through the water. The heat was still intense, but the movement of the boat created a slight breeze.
The expedition was underway.
They moved past the plantations that lined the river, the fields of sugar cane and cotton stretching out toward the swamps.
The houses were white-walled and grand, a final sign of the wealth that the river provided.
But as the afternoon wore on, the houses became fewer and the trees thicker.
The cypress grew right down to the water's edge, their draped limbs of Spanish moss hanging like grey ghosts in the shadows.
The sounds of the city were gone. There was only the rhythmic thud of the poles, the splash of the water, and the occasional cry of a heron rising from the reeds. It was a world of green and brown, of shadows and light.
The burden of the tasks ahead pressed upon him. He had to keep this disparate group together. He had to manage the politics of the tribes and the hidden agendas of his own government. And he had to do it all while being watched by George Wickham and judged by Elizabeth Bennet.
The sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting long, golden streaks across the water.
The river turned to a sheet of beaten copper, and the air cooled slightly.
It was a moment of singular beauty, yet Darcy could not shake the feeling of impending doom.
Tension hung in the air, the sense of a world on the brink of a great change.
"We will make camp at the next bend," Wickham called out from the bow. "There is a high bank that will keep us out of the worst of the mud."
"Proceed," Darcy said.