CHAPTER 9
Mrs. Kewley led them down a short passage illuminated by the soft glow of a single candle, "This way, if you please."
She led them down a short passage, the polished floorboards creaking gently beneath their footsteps. Stopping before the final door, she smiled with quiet satisfaction, "I've prepared the owner's chamber for you."
She pushed the door open. The room was larger than Elizabeth had expected, plainly the principal bedchamber of the cottage.
A handsome four-post bed stood against the far wall, its white curtains neatly tied back and fresh linen turned down in welcome.
A cheerful fire burned upon the hearth, chasing away the dampness carried in from the sea, while a polished mahogany chest, a broad dressing table, and two comfortable armchairs completed the room.
Though modest by the standards of a great estate, every article had been carefully maintained, and the chamber possessed the unmistakable character of a room intended not for occasional guests but for the owners themselves.
Mrs. Kewley crossed to another door, nearly concealed within the oak paneling, "And through here is the gentleman's chamber."
She opened it to show an adjoining room that was considerably smaller, furnished with a narrow bed, a writing desk beneath the window, and a tall wardrobe. A second fire had been laid there as well, though it had not yet been lit.
"My husband always called it the master's room," she said with a fond smile. "The gentlemen liked a place to dress, read, or retire when they wished not to disturb their wives. The rooms have always communicated."
Elizabeth looked from one chamber to the other, as Mrs. Kewley continued, entirely unaware of the effect her words produced. "Of course, each room has its own entrance from the passage as well, but most couples find the communicating door the more convenient."
Mr. Darcy felt the warmth rise to his own cheeks, "That is...very thoughtful, Mrs. Kewley, thank you."
"We hoped you would be comfortable," Mrs. Kewley replied. "One does not often receive the master of the cottage and his lady."
Darcy inclined his head, "You have anticipated every comfort, Mrs. Kewley."
"It is only as it ought to be, sir."
She glanced approvingly about the room, straightened a corner of the quilt that scarcely required attention, and then curtsied. "Well then, I shall leave you to settle yourselves. Sleep well, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy."
The door closed softly behind her, and silence descended at once. Neither Elizabeth nor Darcy moved, as Elizabeth's eyes rested upon the great bed. It had suddenly seemed far larger than before.
Darcy, with equal determination, fixed his attention upon the communicating door leading into the smaller chamber, and finally, at length he spoke, "You shall, of course, have this room, and I shall occupy the gentleman's chamber."
She followed his gaze toward the adjoining room. Though considerably smaller, it appeared perfectly comfortable.
Elizabeth looked at the side room, and spoke honestly, "I fear I have displaced you from the better accommodation."
"Not at all." His expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Indeed, I suspect the arrangement was designed with precisely such circumstances in mind."
A faint smile escaped her before she could prevent it, "I cannot imagine the original owners anticipated circumstances quite like ours."
"No," he admitted, the corner of his mouth threatening the slightest smile in return. "I believe they expected an actual husband and wife."
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows with increasing insistence, carrying with it the distant, unceasing roar of the sea. Neither yet realized that before another sunrise, that same sea would rise with a violence not witnessed upon the Isle of Man in nearly a century.
Inside, however, the awkwardness was unlike anything Elizabeth had ever experienced. They had once argued with uncommon spirit. They had wounded one another with painful frankness. And now, when only ordinary conversation was required, words seemed strangely unequal to the occasion.
At length Darcy gathered his valise, and said, with a brief nod, "I shall retire.
" He crossed into the adjoining room, pausing beside the communicating door.
"If the wind should worsen during the night, there is no cause for alarm.
These cottages were built to withstand far rougher weather than most." Before he closed the connecting door, he offered the slightest inclination of his head, "I wish you a peaceful night's rest."
Elizabeth tried to offer a sincere smile, "And you as well."
He paused, staring at her a moment longer before saying, "Good night, Miss Bennet."
She could not explain why hearing him address her so felt unexpectedly comforting and intimate. Before she let her thoughts run away from her, Elizabeth replied, "Good night, Mr. Darcy."
With that, he gently closed the communicating door, and she heard the quiet click of the latch echoing across her room.
***
Elizabeth busied herself with the ordinary rituals of retiring, grateful for occupations that required no thought.
She loosened her bonnet, brushed the salt from her travelling dress, and arranged the garments she would need in the morning; these simple acts helped somewhat to ease her agitated spirits.
After she had completed her evening rituals, she looked around the chamber once more.
It was an inviting and warm space. Someone, Mrs. Kewley, no doubt, she imagined, had placed fresh lavender upon the dressing table, its fragrance mingling pleasantly with the scent of burning oak.
The quilt, laid across the large bed was plainly handmade, but it felt soft beneath her hand, and she wanted as the fire cast danced shadows across the ceiling beams.
It ought to have been comforting, but instead, everything reminded her that she occupied a room she had no right to be in.
She was not Mrs. Darcy, and she should not be in this space.
Elizabeth extinguished all but the bedside candle before kneeling briefly in prayer.
Rising again, she drew the curtains, though little could be seen beyond the dark outline of the sea.
She could see that the wind had strengthened; it moaned now, moving around the cottage, and worked to set the casement to tremble within its frame.
Mrs. Kewley had said the weather often changed without warning, she reflected. With a final glance around the room, Elizabeth walked over to the bedside table, and extinguished the candle. Darkness settled over the chamber.
***
In the adjoining room, Darcy's preparations were even shorter.
He removed his coat, folded it neatly across the chair, and placed his pocket watch on the little writing desk.
The room afforded scarcely enough space for more than the narrow bed and a small hearth, but it was warm and dry, which was all he could want for.
Indeed, he preferred it, as the smaller chamber spared Elizabeth every possible embarrassment, while also allowing them to preserve the appearance expected by their unsuspecting steward and wife.
He lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress was firmer than that he was used to, and its blankets considerably plainer, but after the fatigue of the day he could not have wished for greater comfort.
Darcy had extinguished his candle, but noticed Elizabeth had not, as the outline of a candle flame snuck under his door frame.
He lay upon his back, listening. Aside from the soft hearth and a dying fire, beyond the wall, he could hear Elizabeth moving around in her bedchamber.
Elizabeth, he supposed, was beginning to prepare to retire.
The thought ought to have brought him peace to know she was safe, but it only reminded him of how extraordinary their circumstances had become.
Only a few months before, he had stood before her at Hunsford and asked her to become his wife.
She had refused him with a frankness he now acknowledged he had richly deserved.
Although, at the time, he had been furious at her refusal, and poured his sour feelings into a letter that, upon reflection, he hoped she had burned.
His lovely Elizabeth, to be so close to her, sleeping under the same roof, was a mixture of bliss and torture.
She, though perhaps unwillingly, entrusted herself under his protection, and unknown to every soul on the island, the same she now held, was the very one she had vehemently declined to bear.
It was a fiction, he said to himself, and it must remain one. And yet, Darcy could not deny that hearing others call her Mrs. Darcy had awakened feelings he had tried to forever bury, as he knew they were beyond his reach.
He closed his eyes. No, he must remember why the deception existed. It wasn’t for his comfort, or his hopes, but for her safety.
***
Sleep, however, refused them both. Separated by little more than a paneled wall, Elizabeth and Darcy lay awake in silence, staring into the darkness, each acutely conscious of the other's unseen presence.
At one point, Elizabeth wondered whether he slept, and Darcy wondered the same of her. Neither imagined the other wakeful, and neither guessed that the thoughts occupying them were remarkably alike.
While inside, the pairs thoughts stirred constantly to what the other was doing or thinking, outside, the wind gathered strength.
What had begun as an uneasy breeze became a steady gale sweeping in from the Irish Sea.
It drove itself against the cliffs with mounting fury, sending great plumes of spray high into the night air.
The cottage shuddered almost imperceptibly, its ancient timbers answering each gust with a familiar groan.
Far beyond the sheltered harbor, the sea had ceased to resemble the gentle waters that had borne the Liverpool packet boat safely to shore only hours before.
Towering swells marched out of the darkness, one after another, lifting anchored vessels until their mooring lines strained like drawn bowstrings.
Rain arrived in violent sheets, obliterating every trace of moonlight, while the barometer fell with alarming speed.
In cottages scattered along the coast, old fishermen were roused from their beds. Several dressed without a word and made for the harbor, lanterns swinging wildly in the wind.
They had seen storms before, many storms. But never one that pushed itself forward quite like this.
An old harbor master stood upon the quay, his cloak snapping violently behind him as he peered into the blackness beyond the breakwater.
"Sea’s angry tonight," he muttered. Another shook his head.
"Nah,” His weathered face had gone pale. "Tis’nt angry." He watched another enormous wave explode against the outer rocks, sending shattered water higher than the harbor beacon. "Tis’ at war that."
Before dawn, the storm would batter the Isle of Man with a violence no living resident had ever witnessed. Piers would splinter beneath the relentless surf, merchant vessels would be driven aground, and every packet bound for England would remain imprisoned in harbor.
When morning came, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy would awaken believing themselves ready to depart back to England.
However, they would soon learn that the sea had other intentions.
For the first time in nearly a century, the Isle of Man would stand almost entirely cut off from the outside world, and there would be no leaving for a long time.
And, if some present inhabitants had their way, perhaps longer.