Page 11 of To India with Mr. Darcy

T he ship had slowed long before they reached the docks, but now, at last, the great sails had been drawn in, and the Belmont sat idle upon the water. Calcutta stretched before them in a sprawl of unfamiliar shapes and colours, its bustling port alive with movement. Darcy stood at the railing, observing as goods were loaded and unloaded, men shouting to one another in languages he could not understand.

It was not so different from the port in England. And yet it was entirely different. The air was thick with the scent of spices, smoke, and something vaguely metallic. But most of all, there was the heat.

It was staggering.

The moment the sea breeze no longer touched his skin, the warmth of the Indian sun wrapped around him like a vice. The months at sea had been warm—more so as they passed through the tropics—but this was something else entirely. It was a different kind of heat, unrelenting and close, pressing down upon him with an almost tangible weight. The thick, humid air settled against his skin, heavy in his lungs. He did not move, did not fan himself as so many of the passengers were doing. He merely squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and bore it.

His dark coat and waistcoat, so proper and essential in England, suddenly felt suffocating. Yet he would not remove them. He had always prided himself on control, on maintaining his composure in all circumstances. He would not be undone by mere heat.

Beside him, Bingley let out a low whistle. “Good God, Darcy. How do you live in that coat? I’m sweating through my shirt already.”

Darcy did not turn his head. “I see no reason to abandon propriety simply because the climate is unpleasant.”

Bingley laughed, tugging at the collar of his much lighter linen jacket. “Well, then, prepare to be the only proper Englishman left standing. I daresay you’ll bake within the hour.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, willing himself to adjust.

It had been four months since they had left England. Four months since he had stepped onto the Belmont believing this journey to be nothing more than a necessary business excursion, a simple accompaniment to his friend. Yet, as he stood there, staring at the city ahead, he realised that he did not feel quite as indifferent as he had expected.

Perhaps it was the oppressive heat warping his senses. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

In the weeks since Mrs Gardiner’s illness, life aboard the ship had settled into a comfortable routine. He and Miss Bennet had continued their walks on deck, speaking civilly, amiably, as though they had always been accustomed to one another’s company. No more barbed words, no more biting retorts—or, at least, not quite as many. There was a lightness between them now, a careful ease, albeit polite and constructed.

It was, dare he say it, pleasant. Perhaps too pleasant.

Some part of him missed what had come before—the raw honesty of their conversations in the sickroom, the way she had looked at him with something akin to trust. They had not spoken of it since, nor had there been an opportunity to fall into that same familiar rhythm. He was both relieved and regretful for it.

And now they were here, and whatever tentative understanding they had formed at sea would surely fade against the backdrop of solid ground. Would it not?

Darcy swallowed against the thought, straightening his spine. He was not a man who dwelled on foolish sentiments, and he wasn’t entirely certain why he should care. There were matters to attend to, business to conduct. His time in Calcutta would be spent in meetings and negotiations, ensuring that the partnership between Bingley and Gardiner was not only profitable but properly conducted.

This was why he had come, was it not?

And yet, as he prepared to disembark, he found his gaze drawn across the deck to where Elizabeth Bennet stood, her dark eyes bright with curiosity beneath her sun hat as she took in the unfamiliar world before her.

“Here we go,” Bingley declared, pulling Darcy’s attention back to him. “The gangplank’s down! It’s time for us to step onto foreign soil, my friend.”

Darcy looked over to where already people were queueing to leave, and he merely grunted, following Bingley quietly. His boots were steady against the wooden planks as he stepped carefully down, despite the chaos unfolding around them.

As they stepped down onto the dock, the ground firm beneath his feet for the first time in months, he turned to find that Elizabeth and her party had disembarked just behind them. Despite the sweat dampening her temples and the way the fabric of her dress clung to her frame in the humidity, she looked invigorated. She was ready for adventure in every way that he himself was not.

She caught him staring and smirked. He quickly looked away.

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he kept his gaze on the bright sky. “Well, Miss Bennet, I suppose this is where we part ways.”

Elizabeth blinked, then tilted her head, a slow smile forming on her lips. “Is it?”

Darcy frowned, turning back to her. “Well… yes. Our journey has ended. You will have much to occupy you now. Your family will wish to settle in, and Bingley and I have business to attend to.”

Her eyes twinkled with something suspiciously close to amusement. “Mr Darcy,” she said, her voice light, “you do recall that we are staying in the same residence, do you not?”

Darcy went completely still. For a horrifying moment, his mind supplied no response at all.

Of course they were staying in the same place. The Gardiners were lodging in a spacious home arranged by their business contacts, and naturally, Bingley had thought it most convenient for them to stay there as well. Darcy himself had agreed to it! How could he have been so foolish to have forgotten?

Elizabeth watched him expectantly, mischief written across her features.

Darcy stiffened, his posture straightening. “Yes, of course,” he said stiffly. “I… merely meant that our pursuits will be quite separate. You will be occupied with—ah—your excursions, no doubt.”

Elizabeth’s smile widened. “Ah, yes. My excursions.”

Darcy resisted the urge to tug at his collar. “And I,” he added, “I shall be occupied with business.”

“How very proper of you.”

Darcy exhaled sharply. “Indeed.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Perhaps that is so, but you need not bid me such a dramatic farewell. I expect we shall cross paths often. Perhaps even daily.”

Darcy inclined his head stiffly, doing his best to ignore the tingling creeping up the back of his neck. He rather like the idea of crossing paths with her daily. “Yes. Quite,” he replied simply.

Elizabeth’s smile remained firmly in place, but she took pity on him and gave a small curtsy. “I shall see you soon, Mr Darcy.”

Darcy gave a short nod in response. “Miss Bennet.”

She turned then, falling into step beside her sister and the Gardiners as they began making their way towards their waiting carriage.

Darcy felt a slap on his back as he watched them leave, and he almost stumbled. He turned to find Bingley’s grinning face.

“You will see her soon enough, friend. Worry not.”

Darcy inhaled sharply. “And why should I worry?” he asked. “Surely it is more you who would be bothered, with your fondness for her sister.”

“If you say so,” Bingley replied. “I’ve had our luggage sent ahead with one of my men. Let’s go straight into the city, shall we? I’d like to explore a little, and I’d like to meet Mr Hargreaves, a business acquaintance, before Mr Gardiner joins us.”

“As you wish.”

***

The city pulsed with life.

As Darcy and Bingley navigated the bustling streets of Calcutta, the sheer vibrancy of it all pressed in from every direction. Vendors called out their wares in musical, rapid-fire Bengali, while oxen pulled heavy carts through the winding streets, their drivers shouting warnings to pedestrians who weaved effortlessly between them.

It was unlike anything Darcy had ever experienced before. And it was insufferably, oppressively, mercilessly hot. He had been prepared for discomfort. He had read of the climate, had understood it in the abstract. But mere words had not prepared him for the reality of it—the way the heat clung to him like a second skin, wrapping around his body, seeping through the very fabric of his carefully chosen attire.

“Darcy,” Bingley said, a grin creeping onto his face as he cast him a sideways glance. “Are you quite certain you wouldn’t like to remove—oh, I don’t know—at least one of your eleven layers?”

Darcy exhaled sharply. “You need not mention it again, for I am perfectly comfortable.”

Bingley gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you?”

“Yes.”

Bingley hummed. “Interesting. Because I do believe I just saw that elderly man in the market remove his shawl out of concern for your well-being.”

Darcy shot him a glare. “I assure you, I am—”

“Drenched in sweat?” Bingley interrupted cheerfully.

Darcy’s jaw tensed. “I was going to say acclimating . ”

Bingley chuckled. “Ah, yes. Acclimating.” He gestured vaguely at the beads of sweat forming at Darcy’s brow. “Tell me, do you plan to acclimate before or after you collapse from heat exhaustion?”

Darcy ignored him.

Bingley sighed in faux disappointment. “Very well, suffer in silence if you must. But if you fall over, I shall not be carrying you.”

“I was not expecting you to.”

“Good,” Bingley said brightly. “Because I won’t.”

Darcy rolled his eyes but said nothing.

They arrived at their destination—a well-appointed house near the river, where their meeting was to take place. The home belonged to Mr Hargreaves, a British merchant who had spent the last decade building trade connections in India, and he had invited them to discuss potential partnerships in the import-export business.

As they stepped inside, Darcy silently thanked the architect for having the foresight to design the house with high ceilings and large, shaded windows. The air was still warm, but at least it was not stifling.

A servant guided them to a spacious sitting room where Mr Hargreaves and two other gentlemen were already seated, waiting for them. They rose as the newcomers entered, greetings were exchanged, and soon they were seated around a low wooden table, cool drinks placed before them.

Darcy forced himself to focus. Business was business. No amount of heat would distract him from it. Even if Bingley was still watching him with unmistakable amusement.

***

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Darcy and Bingley arrived at the marketplace, the golden light casting long shadows against the narrow streets. The oppressive midday heat had begun to wane, though the air remained thick and heady with the mingling scents of spice, flowers, and fresh fruit.

Darcy had barely taken in the scene before a familiar voice, laced with unmistakable amusement, reached his ears. She stood casually in her sundress and bonnet, wafting a fan idly to cool herself.

“You see, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth said, turning towards him with a teasing smile. “Only a single day in India, and already we find ourselves in one another’s company again. It seems your dramatic farewell this morning was rather premature.”

Bingley let out a low chuckle beside him.

Darcy, still somewhat vexed with himself for his earlier forgetfulness, pressed his lips together, striving for dignity. “You make it sound as if I sought to avoid you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing.” She placed a hand on her chest, feigning innocence. “I only mean to say that India is rather smaller than you expected.”

Darcy exhaled through his nose, knowing full well that any attempt at defending himself would only amuse her further. Instead, he merely inclined his head. “It would seem so.”

Elizabeth smiled as if pleased with his response, then turned her attention back to the bustling marketplace before them.

It was a world unto itself. Stalls of every imaginable colour and fabric lined the narrow streets, their canopies sagging slightly under the weight of embroidered textiles, strings of bright flowers, and great baskets filled with spices—vivid reds, deep yellows, and earthy browns that filled the air with a warm, intoxicating aroma. Merchants called out their wares with enthusiasm, haggling in English, Bengali, Hindi, and a myriad of other languages he could not identify, their voices mingling with the laughter of children darting between stalls, the clatter of clay pots, and the rhythmic sound of weaving looms at work.

Darcy took it all in, cataloguing each sight, each scent, each sound. It was overwhelming, chaotic and at once strangely fascinating. But truthfully, it was Elizabeth Bennet he found himself watching most.

She moved through the market with unabashed delight, pausing to admire a display of silk scarves, then laughing at something a merchant said, her eyes alight with curiosity. When she spotted a stall selling fresh mangoes, she turned to her sister and aunt, eagerly pointing out the fruit as if it were some great treasure to be discovered.

Darcy had seen her in many settings now—across a dinner table, on the deck of a ship, standing defiantly in the face of a storm—but here, surrounded by the colours and scents of the market, she looked utterly at ease.

“Don’t they seem to be enjoying themselves?” Bingley remarked beside him, following Darcy’s gaze.

“They do,” Darcy admitted before he could think better of it.

Bingley arched a brow at him, but thankfully, he chose not to comment further.

They continued walking, stopping at various stalls and admiring trinkets and treasures. After a while, Bingley turned his attention to Jane Bennet, who had stopped at a nearby stall, her fingers skimming over a selection of finely carved wooden boxes.

“What do you think, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

He jumped, turning to face her, then smirked at the sight. She held a rather large and rather ugly feathered fan in front of her face, eyeing him carefully above it.

“Do you think it suits me?” she asked.

Despite himself, he laughed. “It is… exotic,” he replied.

She nodded, folded the fan, and returned it to its rightful place on the stall. “You are correct,” she replied. “Far too fanciful for an Englishwoman. And I daresay the feathers would tickle my cheeks.”

They walked on, discussing the various wares on the stalls, Elizabeth often holding things up to test them—brightly coloured fabrics, peacock feather quills, delicate ivory hair slides. And at each interval, Darcy answered her questions with good humour and grace, feeling secretly thrilled that she had chosen to ask him at all.

The three pairs—himself and Elizabeth, Bingley and Jane, and the Gardiners—had naturally dispersed, each couple drawn to different corners of the market. Mr and Mrs Gardiner stood a short distance away, engaged in what appeared to be a lively discussion with a bookseller, while Bingley murmured something to Jane as she inspected a delicate shawl.

And Elizabeth…

Elizabeth had wandered a little further ahead, her attention caught by a display of hand-painted ceramics. A young vendor gestured animatedly as he spoke, and Elizabeth, though likely unable to understand his words, seemed entirely engrossed.

Darcy hesitated only a moment before following.

He found her lightly running her fingers along the edge of an intricately patterned plate, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. When she noticed his approach, she glanced up, her expression brightening.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, gesturing to the plates. “Have you ever seen such beautiful craftsmanship?”

He studied the delicate patterns—rich blues and deep golds woven into swirling, floral designs. They were undeniably fine work.

“They are remarkable,” he admitted.

Elizabeth grinned, turning back to the vendor. “How much for this one?” she asked, nodding towards a particularly striking plate.

The merchant responded in rapid Bengali, gesticulating with his hands.

She turned to Darcy, brows lifting expectantly.

He blinked. “I do not speak the local language, Miss Bennet.”

She sighed dramatically. “A pity. I was hoping you might translate.”

Darcy shook his head, but before he could reply, the merchant—clearly accustomed to language barriers—held up four fingers.

“Four rupees,” Elizabeth murmured thoughtfully.

She turned back to the plate, considering it for a moment before looking at Darcy. “What do you think?”

He frowned. “Do you require my opinion on the plate’s quality?”

“No,” she said, eyes dancing with amusement. “I meant, should I attempt to haggle?”

Darcy stared at her. “You wish to haggle?”

She laughed. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, “I’d wager you have never haggled before.”

“And you have?”

He hesitated.

Elizabeth smirked. “That is what I thought.”

Still smiling, she turned back to the merchant and, with a confidence that was entirely unfounded, held up two fingers. “Two rupees,” she said firmly.

The merchant let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head.

Elizabeth sighed in mock disappointment. “Well, I tried.”

Darcy exhaled, shaking his head in exasperation. “Miss Bennet, you are a dreadful negotiator.”

She lifted her chin. “I prefer to think of myself as an honest one.”

Darcy rolled his eyes but found himself suppressing a smile all the same.

As they continued through the market, Darcy found himself watching her once again, drawn to her enthusiasm, her unabashed curiosity, the way she delighted in each new discovery.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, this reluctant admiration, but it was one he could not seem to shake.