Page 19 of To India with Mr. Darcy

F or one long, horrifying moment, Darcy stared at the space Elizabeth had left behind. His face felt too hot, the world too much. And then, suddenly mortified, he scuttled away, dashing across the deck to the door.

He descended the stairwell two steps at a time, not caring who might see him or how undignified he must appear. What had he done? How could he have been so foolish? His heart thundered in his chest, and the air felt too thick to breathe, as though it clung to him, heavy with shame and disbelief. The sting of rejection rang loudly in his ears.

If you expected me to be flattered, Mr Darcy, I am afraid you have miscalculated quite spectacularly.

The words echoed like cannon fire, reverberating through his skull with merciless precision. How had he made such a drastic miscalculation? He reached his cabin and shut the door behind him more forcefully than necessary, his emotion driving the energy behind it. The latch clicked into place, but he remained there, one hand braced against the wood, the other clenched at his side. He bowed his head and drew in a shaky breath, but it did nothing to steady him. He had not prepared himself for this outcome at all. Not in the slightest.

She had said no. Not only that, but she had been furious, as if it were the most ridiculous, most far-fetched thing she had ever heard in her life. She called him arrogant, self-important, insufferable. She had made him feel the smallest and least capable that he had ever felt, looking at him with something far worse than disdain. She looked at him as though he had wounded her.

How did I get it so terribly wrong?

Darcy pushed off the door and paced the narrow length of the cabin, unable to sit, unable to stand still, unable to stop the vicious replay of the conversation that had just unfolded on deck. He had thought—had genuinely believed—that what he offered her was honest. He had not come to her with poetry or empty flattery. He had come with the truth. With feeling, even if he had delivered it in the only way he knew how. He had genuinely believed that she would have found his offer appealing.

He had been wrong. So utterly, miserably wrong.

I have resisted them with every ounce of my reason … The words he’d said—planned to say—sounded absurd to him now. What had he been thinking? That such a confession would charm her? That she would somehow see past the insult to the sentiment behind it?

Darcy sank heavily onto the edge of his narrow berth, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He saw again her face. Her eyes flashing with anger, cheeks flushed with fury, the tremble in her voice as she had demanded to know whether he truly expected her to feel grateful.

Grateful .

He winced at the word. God, he sounded as though he pitied her. As though he had condescended to love her despite all the reasons he should not, and that it was a hardship for him.

He hadn’t meant it that way. Not at all. But in his effort to be practical, to acknowledge the obstacles that weighed on him, he had trampled every bit of her dignity. Of course she was angry. She had every right to be.

And then, worse than the anger, was the hurt.

She had looked hurt, and that in turn pained him so much. He wished he could take it away from her, or at least never to have caused it in the first place.

He swallowed hard, his hands falling to his lap. He had seen the hurt. Just before her fury overtook her, there had been a flicker of something in her expression, a wounded surprise or disappointment, as though he had taken something she might have cherished and crushed it beneath his boot.

That was the cut that lingered deepest. He had only wanted her to know his truth—that he loved her beyond what he ever truly thought possible. He’d wanted her to know that, despite everything—every sensible objection, every warning in his mind—he could not help what he felt for her. Her presence had reshaped the very way he viewed the world, and he wanted her to know that.

But she only heard insult, and now, she hated him, perhaps rightly so.

Darcy drew in another breath and let it out slowly, dragging his hand down his face. He felt like a fool. A hopeless, heartsick fool. And he had no one to blame but himself.

A knock at the door interrupted the silence, startling him out of his reverie. Darcy stiffened where he sat, scrubbing the remnants of his humiliation from his expression before calling, “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and Bingley stepped inside without waiting for further invitation. His hair was tousled from the sea breeze, and he wore his usual expression of good humour, though it was tinged now with a glimmer of curiosity that Darcy knew spelled trouble.

“There you are,” Bingley said. “I had a feeling I’d find you sulking down here.”

“I am not sulking,” Darcy replied, too quickly. “Why would I be sulking?”

Bingley threw him a disbelieving look. “No? Then what are you doing, sitting alone in a darkened cabin in the middle of the afternoon with the expression of a man recently robbed of his fortune?”

Darcy rose to his feet, straightening his coat with deliberate precision. “I am simply taking a moment’s peace. Is that too much to ask of the world?”

“Peace,” Bingley echoed, leaning against the doorframe. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Darcy sighed and turned away, crossing to the small porthole and staring out at the rolling waves beyond. “Is there a reason for your visit, or are you simply determined to pester me?”

“I’ve come to rescue you,” Bingley said brightly. “From your own company, which I imagine has been insufferable.”

Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself. “You would know, I suppose.”

“Indeed. And in that spirit, I’ve come to persuade you to join me in the card room. The Gardiners are playing this evening, and I believe Miss Bennet is in need of a partner.”

Darcy’s spine tensed at the mention of Miss Bennet, but he quickly composed himself. “I have no interest in cards.”

“You never do,” Bingley replied, undeterred. “And yet, you play. Badly, I might add, but with enough skill to avoid utter ruin.”

Darcy turned back to face him, arms folding across his chest. “Why the sudden campaign? You do not usually require an audience.”

Bingley shrugged. “It’s not about me. You looked like a man who needed rescuing from his own thoughts, and I consider myself a charitable soul.”

“There is nothing wrong,” Darcy said flatly.

“Ah,” Bingley said, pushing off the doorframe. “Then you will not mind if I tell you what I’ve observed.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Bingley—”

“You’ve been pacing the deck like a man condemned,” Bingley went on, holding up one finger. “You skipped tea.” Two fingers. “You practically fled from Miss Bennet this morning as though she were brandishing a pistol.” Three. He paused. “And now, here you are. Alone, moody, and scowling at the wall. If nothing is wrong, then I am forced to conclude that you have developed a sudden and urgent fondness for self-inflicted misery.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “You are mistaken.”

“I doubt that,” Bingley said cheerfully. “But I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

He crossed the small space and clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Come and play a round with me. One round. You can glower into your cards and pretend you’re enjoying yourself. And if you do, I’ll even stop asking what’s put you in such a foul mood.”

Darcy hesitated. Every part of him wanted to say no. He wanted to stay hidden, lick his wounds in private, and avoid Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes for the rest of the voyage. But the alternative—sitting here, replaying her words again and again until they consumed him—was equally intolerable.

He cleared his throat. “Very well. I will play one round—with you—but do we really need to sit with the Gardiners and Bennets again? Sometimes it feels as if our whole trip is about them.”

“Ah,” Bingley said with a knowing smile. “I see where your malaise stems from now. But I’m afraid it’s too late. I’ve already told Gardiner that we’ll be joining them. Come along, then, before someone else claims the good chair!”

He turned on his heels to make his way out. Darcy groaned then followed reluctantly. He would not speak of it. He would not allow Bingley—or anyone, for that matter—to see the mess he had made of things. He intended for his humiliation to remain his secret forever.

***

The corridor to the communal rooms was bright with sunshine, the unlit gas lanterns swaying gently with the motion of the ship. Darcy walked in silence behind Bingley, each footstep an echo of dread. He had agreed to come, yes, but now, with each step drawing him closer to the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again, his resolve began to crack.

He both longed for and feared the sight of her, his own mind thrown into a confusion he had never previously known, and he stepped tentatively through the door after Bingley.

The card room was quieter than usual. Most passengers had retired early, the voyage’s monotony dulling even the most energetic spirits. Only one table was occupied, its occupants brightly lit by the sun pouring in through the porthole behind them.

Darcy’s heart gave a sharp, involuntary jolt. He’d secretly hoped she’d feigned a headache or something, but no. Elizabeth was present.

She sat between Mrs Gardiner and Jane, her posture straight, her expression unreadable as she sorted through her hand of cards. Mr Gardiner sat opposite, chuckling over some remark Mrs Gardiner had made, the mood at the table warm and intimate. Elizabeth, however, did not laugh. She didn’t even smile.

She did, however, glance up the moment the door creaked open. Their eyes met. It was only for a second, but it was enough. Her gaze, sharp and bright, cut through him like a blade. Then, mercilessly, she looked away, returning to her hand as if he were nothing more than another shadow in the room.

Darcy hesitated at the threshold, his feet heavy with indecision, his heart wanting to run away.

“Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley,” Mr Gardiner called cheerfully. “You are just in time. We have a seat if either of you would like to join us.”

Bingley brightened, grinning at Darcy. “How excellent. Darcy?”

Darcy took a half step, then stopped. He couldn’t move, not with her sitting there, refusing even to look at him. Not with his every nerve still raw from what he had said and done.

He forced a polite bow. “Mr Gardiner. Thank you, but I shall merely observe, for now.”

Mr Gardiner tilted his head curiously but said nothing. Elizabeth, for her part, did not even flinch. Not a glance or a twitch in his direction. She dismissed him utterly, as if he were a stranger or worse—didn’t exist at all.

Darcy remained near the back wall, stiff and silent, pretending to examine a bookshelf while Bingley moved forward to join the table, taking the offered seat beside Jane. He watched his friend from the corner of his eye as he made a light remark and drew a quiet smile from her. The kind of smile that made Darcy’s stomach twist.

He had ruined that, too.

“Are you quite certain you don’t wish to play?” Bingley asked suddenly, glancing back at him. “I thought perhaps one hand?”

Darcy shook his head. “I am certain. Perhaps later.”

“Suit yourself,” Bingley replied with the faintest huff.

Darcy stepped a little further into the corner, partially shadowed now by the bookshelf, pleased to be out of the ring of light that the porthole produced. He had hoped, irrationally, for something from her. He’d didn’t know what, of course, but something . A smile, a glance, some sign that her anger had cooled, or that perhaps she didn’t hate him entirely.

But she wouldn’t even look at him, and that, perhaps, was worse than fury. His heart ached for the simpler times of their outward journey. It seemed he’d made such a mess of everything.

Still, he watched as they played. He saw the way Elizabeth kept her gaze carefully on her cards, never once letting it stray towards him. Until she did. It was only once, while her sister was focused on her bid and Mr Gardiner was gathering the next round of tricks, Elizabeth glanced up.

It lasted barely a second, but Darcy knew it wasn’t an accident or a careless glance. It was deliberate, and something in it made his breath hitch, his thoughts begin to race once more.

What was it? Contempt? Curiosity? Pity? He couldn’t—wouldn’t—flatter himself by believing it was anything kinder, not after the fool he’d made of himself that morning. Darcy looked away, his hands folding behind his back. He had done enough damage. He had said too much. She had made her feelings unmistakably clear.

And so he stood in silence, watching her from afar, and made himself a quiet vow. He would not approach her again. He would not impose himself upon her. He would respect her wishes, even if it tore him in two. If she wanted nothing to do with him, then so be it.