Darcy #4
It had all started the day I left Portsmouth.
I had set my course the moment I read Elizabeth’s letter (that is to say—Miss Bennet).
I might have depended on my Aunt Catherine to dissuade me from sailing through hostile waters and a full naval blockade, but she proved unreliable.
She only asked when I intended to leave, and chastised me for any delay.
Perhaps my uncle the Earl of Matlock might have been of assistance, but his opinion was, perhaps for the first time in his life, in accordance with his sister.
Everyone from Jane Bingley, who had originally placed the idea in my head after the incident with Richard, to Charles, to my lunkheaded cousin the colonel to…
well, you comprehend the situation. My fate was sealed.
There was only one real problem with the entire scheme—or perhaps two, if you count the war and the likelihood of ending up dead on the bottom of the Atlantic—which, a week into the trip, actually seemed the best outcome. I had been on a ship before, and I knew what to expect.
I was quite in dread of the trip, knowing full well what was coming and pondering how to avoid the blockade.
I engaged in some correspondence by express with an admiral whom I had saved from difficulties involving the Don of Cambridge, a donkey, and…
but I digress. The man owed me a favour, and possessed useful information.
Apparently, the British Navy outnumbered the American navy by a substantial margin (we had eight hundred ships—they had a dozen), but their ships were better—much better.
While nobody was departing the blockaded harbours, nobody was entering either.
It seemed quite a conundrum, until he suggested the most obvious answer in the world.
The easiest way to pass a British naval blockade was on a ship of the British Navy performing the duty.
The Admiral had a vessel departing for Nova Scotia in only a month.
I managed to trade a berth on the ship for my continued silence on what we called the incident for at least another month, thence Fowler and I departed Portsmouth in good cheer.
I am a man of iron will and discipline, so I simply decided my stomach would not rule my life, and even managed to keep the resolution almost until we lost sight of land.
It turned out that, were it not for bad luck I should have no luck at all, as we were beset by storms that everyone assured me were of significant magnitude, far worse than the usual fare, and they blew us far off course.
Coupled with a broken mast, our trip was delayed by over a fortnight, and we suffered the indignity of stopping on some insignificant island in the middle of the Atlantic that may have had a name, but I could not be bothered to learn it.
We were to delay at least a week to repair the ship, and more likely a fortnight, so I left the vessel.
I was half a stone below my usual weight, quite green in appearance, and entirely disagreeable except for one thing.
I was on dry land… well, it was raining in torrents, but it was technically dry land.
There were a few inns of quality, and Fowler moved with alacrity to get us settled into one.
I vacillated between joy that I was safe and secure, distress that I must board the ship again, and even worse, distress that my meeting with Elizabeth was delayed even further.
It had been well over a year since I had seen her, and several months since I realised that I loved her and always had.
You would think I could endure another week of waiting, but it would make me insane—right after I killed Fowler.
In such confusion, I went to the room, lay down in the bed that steadfastly refused to move, and slept for what Fowler tells me was eighteen hours.
I awoke hungry and still tired, but otherwise seemed to have survived the affair.
The weather had forced a couple of mail packets to dock, and one of them carried correspondence for me.
It was on its way to Nova Scotia, but the postmaster on the ship inquired regarding others trapped on the island.
None of it was critical, but I dealt with it anyway, happy for something to occupy my time.
Once that was done, I set out to see the island. They possessed a surprisingly adequate stable, and I spent most of the afternoon riding and enjoying feeling like myself once again, on the back of a horse that did not sway or swell.
Once I could actually think again, I spent nearly every waking moment asking myself a question over and over.
Elizabeth had breached propriety by writing me, but it was an entirely different thing than writing her.
Everything she received would be read by at least Hopkinson or Anne, and I could not think of anything I could say that I was willing to say so publicly that it might embarrass her or compromise her reputation, if they even worried about such things in Ohio.
She had been the consummate lady, offered her forgiveness unstintingly, wished me all the health and happiness in the world…
exactly as a friend, sister or indifferent acquaintance would. Dare I hope for more?
I finally settled on a few innocuous lines in Lady Catherine’s cyphered message, but I could not say what must be said in a letter. I must travel to Ohio and speak in person.