Page 15 of To India with Mr. Darcy

T he distance between him and Elizabeth Bennet was exactly what he had wanted. At least, that was what Darcy told himself.

Four days into the return voyage, he had received precisely what he had sought. Elizabeth had withdrawn from him entirely, her demeanour as cool and distant as the sea stretching endlessly beyond the ship’s railings. No more playful remarks, no more teasing glances, no more laughter spilling into the spaces between them. The easy familiarity they had forged over the past months had vanished, replaced with a polite indifference that, truth be told, he found rather sad.

He should have been relieved, he knew that. But instead, he was bothered by it, and he found himself ruminating over it.

Darcy sat in his cabin, his chair drawn up to the small writing desk, though the papers spread before him lay untouched. A book sat at his elbow, unopened. Even the brandy at his side, poured with the intention of steadying his thoughts, remained barely sipped. The steady creak of the ship’s timbers filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional distant sound of footsteps above deck.

He had done the right thing. He knew it. The conversation with Bingley had been necessary—a reminder that sentiment was dangerous, that attachment could not be indulged without careful consideration. The world operated on rules, and he was not exempt from them. It had been, objectively, the right thing to do.

Elizabeth was not for him. That was the simple truth of it. And yet…

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers against his brow. It should not matter that she barely looked at him when they passed one another at meals. It should not matter that her voice, once so expressive in his presence, was now composed, empty of warmth. It should not matter that he had seen her walking the deck in the mornings, her gaze fixed on the horizon as though she found it infinitely more interesting than acknowledging him.

It should not matter. But it did.

Fool.

Darcy stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk with more force than necessary. The walls of the cabin felt smaller than they ought to, the air close and stifling. He needed to step outside, to clear his mind, to breathe.

Snatching up his coat, he made his way towards the door, determined to rid himself of this ridiculous unrest. Soon, this voyage would end, and life would resume its rightful course. And Elizabeth would be nothing more than a memory.

Won’t she?

Darcy stepped onto the deck, inhaling deeply as the bracing sea air met him. The midday sun shone high above, its light glinting off the gently rolling waves, but the warmth did little to dispel the tension coiling in his chest.

And then he saw her. The very woman who haunted his thoughts.

She was walking alone along the far side of the deck, the hem of her gown lifting slightly in the breeze, her bonnet tied loosely at her chin. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, her expression calm as she looked out at the endless stretch of water. She looked peaceful, and yet not at ease. As though she had something weighing upon her mind, just as he had.

Darcy hesitated. He could turn back. Should turn back. He should avoid her. Let her continue pretending he did not exist. But something in him resisted the thought. No. He would not be so easily cast aside. He was determined to know what had changed.

He adjusted his coat and strode forward, quickening his pace to fall in step beside her.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice measured, his tone as neutral as he could manage.

She did not startle, nor did she turn towards him, making him believe she was already aware of his presence and had chosen to say nothing. Instead, she merely glanced ahead, as though she had expected him. “Mr Darcy.”

It was polite. Distant. Entirely unlike her.

Darcy cleared his throat. “It is a fine afternoon.”

“Yes.”

A single word. No elaboration. No teasing remark about the ship or the sea.

He furrowed his brow. “I see you have returned to your walks. You always seemed to enjoy them.”

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together as if she were debating whether to answer at all. Then, after a pause, she said, “Yes, I do find them agreeable.”

Darcy frowned. This was wrong. He knew her, knew the way she spoke, the way she filled silences with wit and warmth. And yet here she was, speaking to him as though he were some distant acquaintance, some nameless passenger who had merely asked about the weather.

He exhaled sharply, keeping his pace alongside hers. “It seems I have displeased you, Miss Bennet.”

At that, she did turn, her eyes darkening towards him for the first time. “Not at all, Mr Darcy. Is there some reason why I should be displeased?”

He studied her, his pulse quickening at the steely calm in her gaze. There was something there—something restrained, something unresolved. Had he somehow done something wrong?

“If I have caused you offence,” he said carefully, “I would rather you tell me than leave me to wonder.”

Elizabeth let out a soft, humourless laugh, shaking her head. “You presume much, sir.”

Darcy’s jaw tensed. This conversation was going nowhere. “Then I am mistaken.”

“It would seem so.”

She was being deliberately vague, deliberately unreadable, and it infuriated him. Not because she was cold—he had endured coldness from women before, from those eager to slight him for his perceived arrogance—but because this was her. This was Elizabeth. And the absence of her usual fire, her usual candour, left him unsettled in a way he did not care to admit.

A gust of wind whipped between them, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed wood. Darcy pressed on.

“You have been... distant,” he said at last.

Elizabeth arched a brow, though she did not slow her step. “Have I?”

“Yes.” He had not meant to sound so clipped, but the word came out sharper than intended.

She tilted her head and frowned at him. “How strange. I could say the same of you.”

Darcy exhaled through his nose. That much was true. “You know very well that is not the same thing.”

She finally came to a stop, turning fully to face him, her hands tightening around the folds of her gown. “And what, precisely, do you mean by that, Mr Darcy?”

His fingers twitched at his sides. He had come out here for air, for clarity, and yet all he had found was more confusion.

“You are…” He stopped, inhaling deeply, choosing his words with care. “You are not yourself.”

Elizabeth let out a sharp breath of laughter, though there was more incredulity than amusement in it. “Not myself?” She shook her head. “On the contrary, I believe I have never been more myself, Mr Darcy. And if I have been distant, it is because I no longer feel the need to force a familiarity that no longer exists.”

Darcy flinched at that. A familiarity that no longer exists. He could not have struck more deeply if he had tried.

She turned swiftly, as if to resume her walk, but he reached out—hesitated—then let his hand drop. He would not detain her. Would not press where he was clearly unwelcome.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice lower now, almost imploring.

She stopped but did not turn.

“I—” He hesitated again. He did not know what he meant to say. He only knew that he wanted to keep her here, wanted to demand what had changed between them, to know why she was so intent on treating him as though he were nothing to her.

But she saved him the trouble.

“Good day, Mr Darcy,” she said simply.

And with that, she walked away.

Darcy stood rooted to the deck, his pulse thrumming, his mind warring between indignation and regret. He had wanted distance, convinced himself it was necessary. So why did it now feel like a mistake?

With a deep sigh, he descended below deck. He strode with long, purposeful strides, his jaw tight, his pulse uneven. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, but it was not the sea air that burned in his throat—it was the words she had left him with.

A familiarity that no longer exists.

As he moved through the dim corridors towards the small lounge where drinks were served, he could not shake the gnawing frustration that clawed at his ribs.

He reached the quiet, candlelit room and nodded brusquely to the steward behind the polished wooden bar. “Brandy.”

The steward, a middle-aged man with a weathered face, his hands deftly polishing a glass, did not blink at the abrupt request. He turned, poured a generous measure of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, and slid it across the counter without a word.

Darcy took it and drank it back in an instant.

It burned. Good.

“Another.”

The steward raised a brow but obliged without comment. Darcy gripped the fresh glass, rolling it between his fingers before taking a slower sip this time, allowing the warmth to settle in his chest.

He exhaled heavily, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He was being absurd. Utterly absurd. He had navigated far greater difficulties in life—matters of estate, of business, of duty. And yet here he was, sitting in a dimly lit room on a swaying ship, drinking himself into contemplation over a woman who should not— could not —matter to him.

A woman who now wanted nothing to do with him regardless, so it mattered not.

He stared into his glass, his reflection distorted by the rippling liquid. He had always prided himself on his self-command. His ability to think rationally, to make decisions rooted in logic rather than sentiment. And yet, Elizabeth Bennet had the astonishing ability to unravel all of it.

He had felt something shift in India, had known even then that he was in dangerous waters. But it was in these past four days, with her coldness, her indifference, that he had come to the realisation in full.

He missed her.

Not the lively conversation alone, not the challenge of their debates, not the way she tested his patience and his wit in equal measure. He missed her presence, the way she filled a room, the way her laughter could chase away the dullest of moments.

And he had ruined it.

Darcy exhaled sharply, setting his glass down harder than he’d meant to.

The steward, who had been wiping down the counter, looked up at the sound. “Another, sir?”

Darcy hesitated, tempted. Then shook his head. “No, thank you.”

The steward gave a knowing nod. “A wise choice. The sea is not kind to those who have taken too much.”

Darcy huffed a humourless chuckle. “Nor is it kind to those who think too much.”

The steward leaned on the bar, setting his rag aside. “A restless mind is often the greatest enemy of peace, sir.”

Darcy scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Peace,” he muttered. “An elusive thing.”

The steward nodded sagely. “If I may say, sir… you look as if you’ve encountered some trouble. A friend, perhaps?”

Darcy exhaled, his grip tightening around the glass. “I would not say a friend.”

The steward gave him a look, unimpressed. “And yet you drink over it.”

Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line, though he didn’t reply.

The steward leaned in slightly. “A good friendship is a rare thing, sir. When it is lost, it is not easily replaced.”

Darcy swallowed. His throat felt dry despite the brandy.

The steward tilted his head. “And a friendship that might have been something more? Now that is a thing a man will regret if he lets it slip away.”

Darcy went still. He didn’t want to discuss this matter—and with a steward, of all people. A muscle in his jaw twitched. This man had read him far too easily. Read things that Darcy had spent months trying to deny.

He downed the rest of his drink in one motion, set the glass down with finality, and pushed back from the bar.