Page 22 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)

Chapter 22

South Atlantic

D arcy caught himself just before the pitch of the ship rolled him out of his bed again. Rough seas tonight, but mercifully that had not been the norm. Not that it mattered, for he had not slept for a week, anyway.

He lay sightless in the dark, gazing up at the black ceiling above him and wondering if it was worth trying to close his eyes once more. The ship pitched and rolled again, making his decision for him. With a groan and heave, he tossed his feet out of bed and dressed, then went out to walk the lower decks. Nightmares had begun to plague him, a thing he had never complained of in all his twenty-eight years. Memories tormented him, frightful visions dancing upon his thoughts. But it was nothing he could account for, nothing that could possibly make sense except as a symptom of delusion.

It was as if he could see and remember his cousin’s last battle—struggling in the dark against an invisible foe, crying out for comrades either dead or dying. His hands even felt sticky and slick, the sweat would bead from his brow, and then the ghastly agony, somehow felt and heard—a bullet out of nowhere, and the pain of the last moment, knowing there would be no more tomorrows.

That was one of the less horrific examples. Worse were the nights when Darcy awoke in a cold sweat, having thrown off every blanket and nearly every scrap of clothing in some semblance of fever. The thirst and lethargy of imagined sickness would finally drive him from his bed in search of relief, but the last thought to lance through his brain in that moment of unconsciousness, no matter the nightmare, was the name that must have died on Richard’s lips with his final breath.

“I must be going mad,” he told himself, gripping the railing against the heaving of the ship, and hanging his head to shake the cobwebs from his thoughts. “Stark raving mad. They will dose me with so much laudanum when I get home that I will be fit for nothing but a lunatic’s cell. And a straitjacket too, no doubt.”

“What’s that, sohr?”

Darcy nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice of a sailor behind him.

“You ken to something, sohr?” the man asked, leaning on his swab, and pushing his cap back on his brow.

“No—no never mind. I was thinking out loud.”

The sailor lifted his shoulders and continued on with his swab. “Suit yorself, sohr.”

After he had gone, Darcy removed his hat and swept a palm over his face. This was madness. He considered reopening that brandy bottle, but another comfort seemed more fitting for the moment. He felt his pocket—yes, the letters were all still there. He paced the deck for a little longer, relishing the cool of the night breeze, then went below and lit his lantern.

He was mortified when he read his last letter to Richard. The na?ve suppositions, the faceless hopes he had written all smacked of hollow speculations. Of course, he had known what the possibilities were—everyone did. It was a truth known to all who sent their own off to war, but who did not in their way nurse some wilful obtuseness, some refusal to face the whole truth of it? Those who waved farewell to such men did so with as much simple hope as real understanding, else they would never have stood so stoically on the dock when that ship sailed away.

His own words failing to turn his more morbid thoughts, Darcy looked over the old earl’s letter. Perhaps a man of age and experience would have more wisdom to write to his son, but when Darcy read his words, he found no better assurances there than his own. That left Elizabeth’s letter.

If anyone could speak reason and comfort across an ocean, it would be Elizabeth. He tapped the edge of the envelope on his little table. Hang it all, Richard would not mind… especially not now. What had ever remained secret between them?

Had Richard lived, he would have come back to England full of tales of his wife, and would have cornered Darcy to regale him with her merits until no one could possibly deny that he had found a woman like no other. But what of Elizabeth? He was less sure of her. She might be glad of someone to hear her heart, someone who could share equally with her in her grief… or she might count him a faithless intruder.

He would repent of it later, he was sure of it, but the letter burned his very fingers. Before another complaint could pass through his mind, he unfolded it and read.

Dear Richard,

I never thought to be sending you such a letter, but here I am. I am in very great trouble, and I am afraid I must ask for help wherever I can find it.

You said once that if I had any need, I should write to you. Well, as you have doubtless already discovered, I am writing you from New York. I cannot go back home. The worst came, despite everything you and my father did to prevent it. If I value my life, I can never see my family again, and I do not know where to go now.

Jane has come with me, and so has Billy, “to ensure my safety.” That is the only laughable matter in a storm of misery. I am quite lost. I feel so selfish and foolish even writing this to you—you stepped in only to do a noble deed and then marched off to war! How can I even ask this of you?

I am putting my faith in your kindness, in hopes that you meant at least some part of what you said. Our ship departs for London tomorrow morning. I have the addresses you gave me for your mother and your cousin Mr Darcy. All I can think to do is throw myself on their mercy, but I hesitate to claim a relationship they probably know nothing about.

You never spoke of another love, so I assume you have none, but I do not wish to complicate your natural life and the world you left behind. I know you would like to return to it one day, and it was never really intended that I would be there waiting for you. I shall present myself as Elizabeth Bennet, and then, if I gain a kindly ear, I shall confess more.

You did say that Mr Darcy might be generous, but I do not think I can tell even such a person everything. I am in such agony of spirit right now; I cannot think clearly enough to know what I can safely share and how much would be deception if I kept it to myself. They say my crossing will be just over a week, so I will use that time to think and pray for guidance.

Richard, one thing troubles me more than all else. I would not ask you to devote the rest of your years to me. You acted kindly, but if I could think of anyone else to turn to, I would not trouble you. But there is no one else I trust so completely. If this—if I—am not what you want, please send word somehow. If possible, I will be discreet about our relationship until I hear, not wishing to complicate your life. I would ask only some reference, someplace to begin again. I can work. You know I am happy to work, and I will take almost anything. Perhaps by and by, I might even find a way to repay you for all you have done for me.

Thanks to my uncle, Jane and Billy have enough put by for a return ticket once I am settled, so it is only I who will remain. If you do come back to London and if you do think you might not like to be alone, I will fulfil the vows I made. I will honour you, and I will make you a good wife—or as “good” as I am capable of being! I do not know if that counts for much where you come from, but it is all I have.

I pray nightly for your safety and that one day you will be restored to the arms of your family, and perhaps even to me.

In hope,

Elizabeth

Darcy folded the letter again with trembling fingers. A glass of brandy was beginning to sound like a rather soothing idea, after all.

He flung himself back on his pillow, a sliver of the rich wine to warm his lips and a shaft of moonlight through the window as his only illumination. The letter had unveiled so much, yet cast more shadows than it lifted. That the woman possessed secrets was no revelation to him—he had suspected from the first that much remained in her past that she had not spoken. She had alluded to that fact herself, had she not?

Nor was it a surprise to him that she had not married Richard for love… not really. She had told him this much as well, but he had—wrongly—ascribed a bit more marital felicity to the union than was apparently warranted. That moment, in their first meeting, when she had collapsed at the news of Richard—was that the dismay of a loving wife, or merely the shock of a woman who had lost her last hope?

Darcy’s thoughts festered for better than an hour as he sipped away at his glass—merely wetting his lips, really, and savouring the aroma on his tongue. Had Elizabeth deliberately deceived him? Surely, she had committed the sin of omission, but judging by her letter, some black fear gripped her. Something tragic had torn her life apart, and Richard had married her hoping to patch things up again for her. The only notion to come to his mind was an attack of some kind, of the sort that might result in a babe out of wedlock.

But no such babe had come. Even if it had, why would she be forced to leave her home because of it? More questions raised their heads than answers, but one thing he knew. He meant to have the whole of it, just as soon as he returned to Derbyshire. And after that…

He swallowed the last of his brandy and tucked the glass away, then stretched out on his bed. After he knew everything, what then? It seemed she required a new place in the world, and Derbyshire was probably not the right one.