Page 14 of To India with Mr. Darcy
I t felt as if they’d been in India mere days rather than an entire month before they found themselves boarding the ship once more in preparation for their return to England. The gangplank creaked beneath their feet as Elizabeth stepped onto the deck of the Belmont , the familiar scent of salt and sea air wrapping around her like an old acquaintance.
The ship rocked gently beneath her, not yet fully adrift but already reminding her of the long weeks ahead. She had thought she might dread returning to this confined world, but as she turned her gaze to the vast, open horizon, she felt something else entirely—a peculiar sort of fondness.
Behind her, Jane let out a long breath. “I do hope the waters are calmer for our return journey.” Her voice held an air of quiet trepidation though she attempted to smile through it. “As much as I long for home, I worry my poor stomach will take no more.”
Mrs Gardiner, ever the voice of reassurance, patted her arm. “I am certain you will find your sea legs much sooner this time, my dear. You have experience now, after all.” She turned her eyes to the horizon, where the afternoon sun glowed against the gently rolling waves. “And, if we are lucky, this voyage will be rather less eventful than the last.”
“Less eventful, yes,” Mr Gardiner chuckled, shifting his grip on the strap of his satchel. “There was never a dull moment, was there?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, leaning into her aunt with familiar comfort, “and we don’t want you getting sick again either. It was a terrible worry.”
“It wasn’t very pleasant for me, either,” Mrs Gardiner said with an amused twist of the lips.
“Still,” Mr Gardiner said, “I daresay we shall be home before we know it, and all shall be well.”
Home.
The word settled in Elizabeth’s chest with unexpected heaviness. Home had seemed so distant before—an idea rather than a place. And yet, as she stood on the deck, she felt something close to reluctance at the thought of leaving this world behind. Not so much India herself, but sea travel instead.
The ship had become familiar to her, more so than she ever could have anticipated. Its narrow corridors, its creaking boards, the steady lull of the waves—it had all become a part of her, a part she would never forget. And with it, the long walks she had taken upon these very decks, the endless stretch of sea as her only witness.
She glanced instinctively to the far end of the deck, where she had so often found herself accompanied, despite her best intentions, by the endlessly enigmatic Mr Darcy. She had walked with him more times than she could count, their conversations drifting from cool civility to something bordering on familiarity, something almost—no, she would not call it friendship. That would be absurd. And yet, she had grown accustomed to him, to his quiet presence, to the unexpected warmth beneath his carefully measured words.
She had come to truly enjoy his company.
Elizabeth frowned at the thought. It was nonsense. Pure nonsense. And yet, as the sea breeze lifted the stray strands of her hair, as the sun reflected off the shifting waves in a thousand glimmering shards, she could not deny the strange ache of nostalgia that lingered beneath the excitement of returning home.
How very unexpected.
“Well,” Mr Gardiner said, clapping his hands together, “shall we see if our cabins are as comfortable as we left them?”
Elizabeth gathered herself, pushing the thoughts aside. She was being ridiculous. Of course she was glad to return home. England was waiting, and with it, her life. Her family. Everything she had known before this strange adventure had begun.
She turned to Jane with a reassuring smile, looping their arms together. “Come now, dearest. If you begin to feel unwell, I shall take it upon myself to distract you with tales of England’s finest fashions. That ought to either comfort you or bore you so terribly that you forget your seasickness entirely.”
Jane let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I suppose I must take my chances.”
And with that, they moved towards the staircase, Elizabeth brushing away the lingering thoughts of past walks and conversations, determined not to let herself dwell on a certain gentleman’s absence.
Indeed, she didn’t think of him again until much later that day. Not until dinner, when all the passengers of the ship came together once more, their conversation a racket mingled with the clatter of silverware. Elizabeth noted a dulling of excitement, the feeling of returning home, tired and full of tales of faraway lands, somewhat more subdued than the anticipation of an adventure ahead. It mattered not that they still had some months before they touched English soil. Everyone was tired and ready to go home.
Elizabeth entered the dining room with Jane and the Gardiners, the scent of spiced lamb and roasted vegetables filling the air. The ship’s cook, it seemed, had made an effort with the newly acquired Indian spices tonight. Thin slices of curried lamb lay atop fragrant rice, garnished with fresh coriander. Alongside it, bowls of stewed lentils and flatbreads were placed at intervals across the table, accompanied by a fragrant chutney that hinted at sweet mango and warming spices.
“Goodness,” Mrs Gardiner said with a teasing voice upon seeing the meal. “We really have taken on board the Indian way, haven’t we?”
“I do hope there is something a little less exotic for those of us who prefer the more traditional fare,” Jane said.
As they talked, Elizabeth slid into her usual seat beside Jane, across from Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley, who had arrived only a few moments before them. Mr Bingley, ever affable, greeted them with an easy smile, but Mr Darcy’s expression was unreadable, his posture rigid. He had always carried himself with a measure of restraint, but tonight there was something colder about it—something withdrawn.
It was an odd thing to notice, and yet she could not help but notice it. All thoughts of the Indian meal fled from her mind as she tried to decipher this new behaviour. Had she missed something? Or was she perhaps remembering the warmth of their friendship incorrectly?
As the meal began, conversation drifted easily around the table. Mr Gardiner told of an amusing encounter he had had the previous day with a particularly persistent merchant who had tried to sell him an entire crate of saffron, while Jane listened with quiet amusement.
“I daresay you could have made a fine fortune selling it back in England,” Elizabeth teased. “Saffron is worth its weight in gold, is it not?”
“Indeed, it is.” Mr Gardiner chuckled. “But I fear my wife would have objected to an entire crate of it arriving at our doorstep.”
Mrs Gardiner laughed softly. “I should have had no choice but to put it to use in every meal for the next decade.”
“I do not believe I would have minded,” Mr Bingley interjected with a grin. “The dishes here have rather grown on me.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth turned to him with interest. “Are you quite certain? I seem to recall you balking at the sight of that lentil stew the Indians are so fond of the first time it was set before you.”
Mr Bingley chuckled, shaking his head. “Dal, they call it. I confess, I had my doubts. But one must adjust to new experiences, mustn’t one?” His eyes moved smoothly to Jane briefly, as though his words carried some unspoken meaning.
Elizabeth bit back a smile, but before she could remark on it, she found her own gaze shifting—unintentionally, unbidden—towards Mr Darcy.
He had not spoken. Not once. It was unlike him, even at his coldest.
She tilted her head, watching as he methodically cut his food, each movement precise and deliberate, yet entirely disengaged. His usual attentiveness, his sharp observations, even his dry humour—none of it was present tonight. The thought struck her with an odd sort of unease.
She let the conversation continue around her before finally speaking, directing her words towards him. She couldn’t stop herself, and though they’d spent some days together at the beginning of their trip, business had soon taken over, and they had seen little of each other since.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, “I do not believe I have yet asked how you found your time in Calcutta.”
He did not immediately look up. For a moment, she thought he might ignore her entirely. Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke.
“It was productive.” That was all he said. Nothing more.
Elizabeth blinked. “Only productive? No reflections on the people? The sights? The experience of being in such a vastly different place?”
He set down his fork and met her gaze, his expression closed. “It was business, Miss Bennet, as was always the intention.”
She frowned. “And did you not find even a moment for pleasure? Surely there was something that caught your interest.”
“I did not go seeking pleasure,” he said flatly. He didn’t even look at her, instead busying himself with straightening the napkin on the table.
Elizabeth’s brows knit together, a knot of uncertainty tightening in her stomach. The words were spoken with such finality that they left no room for discussion. It was as if the man she had come to know—the one who had sparred with her, challenged her, surprised her—had vanished, leaving behind only this cold, distant figure in his place. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Mr Bingley, sensing the shift in mood, cleared his throat and made some remark about their return to England, but Elizabeth barely heard it. She sat back, watching Mr Darcy as he took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on the table rather than on her.
He was avoiding her, she realised with a flash of horror.
But why?
The rest of the meal passed with little further conversation between them. Elizabeth tried, once or twice, to engage him again, but each attempt was met with the same curt responses, the same clipped tones. It was as though a wall had been erected between them, one she could not see nor understand.
And then, before dessert had even been served, he and Mr Bingley rose to leave.
“If you will excuse us,” Mr Darcy said, his tone polite but distant, “but we have matters to attend to.”
Mr Bingley hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze moving briefly to Jane. “Yes, of course,” he echoed, though there was something almost reluctant in his voice.
Elizabeth sat frozen, confusion prickling at her. Matters to attend to? What matters? The business in Calcutta was complete. They were on their return journey. What could possibly require their attention now?
Yet she said nothing, only watching as they excused themselves and strode from the room, their retreat swift and deliberate. A silence settled at the table.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath and turned to Jane. “Well,” she murmured, forcing a smile, “that was abrupt.”
Jane’s expression was composed, but there was a hint of something in her eyes—something that she felt as uncertain as Elizabeth herself. “Yes,” she said softly. “It was.”
Elizabeth stared at the door they had just exited through, a strange feeling settling in her chest. Something had changed, and she had no idea why.
The absence of Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley lingered long after they had left. The meal had been satisfying, and the conversation pleasant enough, but their sudden departure cast a shadow over the evening that Elizabeth could not ignore.
As the steward cleared away the last of the main course, fresh plates were set before them. Dessert arrived—a fragrant rice pudding lightly sweetened with honey and cardamom. Normally, Elizabeth would have delighted in it. But tonight, her appetite was diminished.
She toyed with her spoon, swirling it absently through the creamy pudding, her thoughts elsewhere.
Jane studied her carefully before speaking. “You are troubled.”
Elizabeth let out a humourless bark of laughter. “Am I so transparent?”
Jane offered her usual gentle smile. “To me, yes.” She paused, then added, “It is Mr Darcy, is it not?”
Elizabeth hesitated, staring at her untouched dessert before sighing. “I do not understand him, and it infuriates him.”
Jane said nothing, allowing Elizabeth to gather her thoughts.
“He was perfectly civil both in India and on the journey there,” Elizabeth continued, frowning. “Dare I say, he was even enjoyable company. But now…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It is as though he has decided that the last few weeks never happened. He barely spoke during dinner, and when he did, he might as well have been speaking to a stranger—and one he didn’t particularly like at that.”
Jane took a sip of wine before setting her glass down. “I have noticed the same with Mr Bingley.”
Elizabeth’s gaze snapped to hers. “Truly?”
Jane nodded. “He is not unkind, but he is different. More distant. He does not linger as he once did, nor seek conversation as readily.”
Elizabeth sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. “And yet, it is clear as day that he adores you.”
Jane’s lips pressed together, her expression composed, but Elizabeth did not miss the flash of uncertainty in her eyes.
“Perhaps,” Jane said at last. “But I cannot help but wonder if something in India troubled them. Perhaps a business matter they have not spoken of?”
Elizabeth frowned, considering this. “It is possible,” she admitted. “They were in meetings we did not attend. And Mr Darcy has always been one to take responsibility far too seriously.”
“That is what I think as well,” Jane said, ever inclined to believe the best of others. “They will return to themselves soon, I am sure of it.”
Elizabeth wished she shared Jane’s certainty. She glanced towards the empty chair where Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley had been seated just moments before, her mind still turning over their sudden departure. It had been deliberate. That much she was sure of.
But why?
She pushed the thought aside and forced a smile for her sister’s sake. “Well, if that is the case, then we ought not to worry ourselves over it. Whatever troubles them, they must sort it out themselves.”
“Exactly,” Jane agreed.
Elizabeth nodded firmly, but deep down, she could not shake the feeling that this was not a passing matter. Something had changed, and she was determined to find out what.
***
Later, as the ship moved steadily through the dark waters, the creaking of the rigging and the rhythmic splash of waves the only sounds to break the stillness, Elizabeth found herself sneaking out of her cabin to get a little fresh sea air.
Elizabeth had not intended to come up on deck so late. She had meant only to take a brief walk, to clear her mind of the evening’s frustrations before retiring for the night. And she certainly had not expected to find herself overhearing a conversation she was never meant to hear.
She had turned a corner, meaning to move towards the railing, when she heard voices, a low murmur of secret conversation coming from the other side of the mast. At first, she thought nothing of it. It was common for passengers to take the air at night. But then, she recognised the voices.
Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley.
Elizabeth froze. Instinct told her to turn away, but something in their tone kept her still. She pressed herself lightly against the wooden beam, listening before she could decide whether to leave or make her presence known.
“…it is simply reality, Bingley,” Mr Darcy was saying, his voice clipped, matter-of-fact. “You cannot allow sentiment to blind you.”
Mr Bingley exhaled, his voice quieter though laced with frustration. “It is not mere sentiment, Darcy. Miss Bennet is… why, she is wonderful. And I do not see why fortune or connections should outweigh—”
Mr Darcy cut him off. “Because they must.” A pause. “You know as well as I do that the Bennets are not in an enviable position. Longbourn is entailed, which means neither Miss Bennet—nor any of her sisters—will inherit a thing. Their portion is modest at best, and their connections are hardly to be called advantageous. Their mother is…” He exhaled sharply. “Well, she is what she is, from what I hear.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, her cheeks warming as she realised they were discussing her situation, and not in a positive light.
Mr Bingley hesitated. “I know all of this.”
“Then consider it carefully,” Mr Darcy pressed. “You have choices, Bingley. You are a man of fortune. You need not settle where there is so little to recommend it.”
Mr Bingley sighed. “And Miss Elizabeth? What of her? I thought the two of you were getting along well.”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched, and she was uncertain whether she wanted to listen at all. Still, she remained put.
Mr Darcy hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was lower, almost inaudible. Almost. “Miss Elizabeth is—” He stopped, then sighed. “She is remarkable in her way, yes. I do not deny it. But that does not change her situation.”
There was a heavy silence. Elizabeth held her breath. When Mr Darcy spoke again, his voice was distant, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Mr Bingley.
“It is regrettable. But it is the truth.”
Elizabeth had heard enough. She stepped back slowly, carefully, ensuring her footsteps made no sound on the wooden deck. Then, when she was safely away, she turned sharply, her pulse hammering, her breath shallow.
How foolish she had been.