Page 5 of To India with Mr. Darcy

“Y ou abandon me yet again,” Darcy said dryly, folding his arms as Bingley straightened his cuffs. They were three and a half weeks into the voyage by now, the ship just passing Madeira, where it stopped to restock supplies. The air had turned warmer, an intensity of heat slowly building, but the atmosphere aboard the ship remained bright and hopeful.

“Only for an hour or so,” Bingley replied, unbothered. “Mr Gardiner has some business matters to discuss, and I thought it wise to accompany him. If this new association between us is to work, I feel it necessary to guide the man.”

Darcy exhaled sharply. “Yes, of course. And where does that leave me?”

“Left to your own devices,” Bingley said cheerfully, reaching for his hat. “As you so often prefer.” He left the room, letting the door close behind him.

Darcy scowled but followed, catching the door before it closed completely. “The company on this ship is limited, Bingley. Do not expect me to find another means of diversion.”

They were out onto the main deck within moments, the air warm in the bright sunshine. The deck was alive with activity, the afternoon’s meetings and activities in full swing. Couples promenaded around the deck, others sat talking or playing cards, soaking in the brightness of the day.

It all looked so inconsequential to Darcy, so pointless, and with Bingley’s time so fully consumed, he found himself again at a loss. He had joined Bingley as a favour, persuaded by his friend’s buoyant enthusiasm, but he found himself often wishing to be back in his study, poring over ledgers and dealing with business matters.

“Oh, but look,” Bingley said, gesturing towards the benches that ran along one side of the deck, facing out at the glittering water. “Perhaps you might entertain yourself with our new friend instead.”

Darcy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Bingley inclined his head once more, and Darcy followed his gaze. There, seated on a bench, was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Darcy stopped in his tracks, unable to pull his eyes away. She was fully engrossed in what she was doing, absorbed in the book in her hands. The sun bounced off her dark hair, and her chest rose and fell gently. He had not once considered her handsome before, but somehow, there in the sunlight, her mind lost to the words on the page, there was something endlessly appealing about her.

“See? There you are,” Bingley said with a grin. “You need not be so neglected after all.”

Darcy cast him a withering look. “I hardly think Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s purpose in life is to entertain me.”

“Perhaps not,” Bingley agreed. “But I daresay she would be better company than your own brooding thoughts.”

With that, he clapped Darcy once on the shoulder and disappeared through the door, leaving him alone.

Darcy let out a slow breath, turning reluctantly back to the deck. Spending more time with her might, he supposed, be better than nothing. He had joined her on a number of evenings since they departed from England, their strolls along the deck in the starlight becoming something of a habit a few times a week. And the secret truth was, he found himself enjoying it.

He watched her in silence for a long moment. Strands of hair had come loose from their pins, shifting with the breeze, but she seemed unbothered. The pages of her book fluttered as she turned them, her fingers light and deft, moving with the ease of someone well acquainted with the words before her.

Darcy’s steps slowed, and without thinking, he paused. Should he interrupt her when she was so clearly immersed in her reading material? He should not even be watching her.

And yet, he did.

She was unlike any woman he had ever known. She was not the sort he would have sought out in London, nor one he would have looked for at a ball. She was too free, too unconventional. Unrestrained in manner, too quick to speak her mind, too unconcerned with society’s rigid expectations. On dry land, such a woman would never have captured his attention, and yet—here, at sea, away from all the rules that governed his world—he found himself caught by her, nonetheless.

Had he already been changed by travelling?

He had enjoyed their conversation the night before. More than he ought to have. She had drawn him in so easily, with her laughter, her lightness, her way of making everything seem new. And worst of all, he had let her. He would never admit it, of course, but he had left their interaction feeling a good deal lighter than he had felt when it began.

Even now, standing here, watching her read, he felt something stir—a reluctant curiosity, an interest he could not quite explain and certainly did not welcome.

He clenched his jaw.

He would not approach her.

He would not speak.

He would—

His eyes caught the title on the worn leather cover in her hands.

The Tempest.

A storm. A shipwreck. A world turned upside down. A strange choice to read aboard a ship, indeed. He wondered why she would select such a book. His hesitation wavered. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a measured step forward.

“You appear rather intent upon your book, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of the waves.

Elizabeth glanced up, blinking as if emerging from another world. Darcy knew that feeling well, but her expression shifted instantly to one of amusement. “Mr Darcy,” she said, closing the book around her finger to mark her place. “I had not realised I was under such close observation—again!”

Darcy stiffened, suddenly flustered with embarrassment. Had he said the wrong thing? He cleared his throat. “I assure you, I had no intention of disturbing you. I was not… I mean to say, I simply came upon you. I did not seek you out as such, and neither did—”

“And yet,” she said, tilting her head as she interrupted him, “here you are. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were following me.”

“No… I…” He cleared his throat, trying to put his thoughts in order. This confounding woman seemed to tie his mind in knots, and that was something he had never before experienced.

She giggled, the sound bright against the crashing of the waves against the hull. “I am teasing you, Mr Darcy. You need not take everything so seriously. I don’t doubt that, housed on a ship together, we will see one another often.”

He blinked. “Yes, of course.”

She looked past him for a moment, as though scanning for something. “Where is Mr Bingley? I assumed you two to be inseparable.”

“It seems he has abandoned me to my own devices,” Darcy said dryly.

Elizabeth laughed lightly. “And here I thought you preferred solitude.”

“So everybody seems to think. And yes, generally speaking, I do,” he admitted.

“And yet,” she repeated, her eyes glinting, “here you are.”

Darcy exhaled sharply through his nose, but he could not quite bring himself to be annoyed. Instead, he gestured towards the book in her lap. “You are reading The Tempest .”

Elizabeth brightened. “Indeed I am. And if we are to discuss my literary preferences, why don’t you join me?”

She shifted along the bench, making space for him. He hesitated and then, with careful movements, he sat down next to her. His movements were stiff, his mind turning rapidly, though he fell quiet.

“Tell me, Mr Darcy,” she said after a moment. She removed her finger from between the pages, replacing it with a ribbon and putting the book carefully down on the bench between them. “Are you fond of Shakespeare?”

“Naturally,” he replied, feeling himself relax against the wooden bench a little. “Though I confess, The Tempest is not my favourite of his works. To read of a tempestuous sea seems a little… unusual while aboard a ship, I’d say.”

She placed a hand over her heart in mock offence. “Not your favourite? You wound me, sir.”

“It is a fine play,” Darcy conceded, his words spilling out rapidly, “but I have always preferred Macbeth personally.”

“Ah, of course,” Elizabeth said, her eyes twinkling. “Tragedy and brooding introspection—how very like you.”

Darcy quirked a brow, unsure how to take her teasing. “And The Tempest is more like you, I suppose?”

“Naturally,” she said. “Adventure, mischief, a little magic—it is far more diverting than brooding introspection, wouldn’t you say?”

Darcy opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a voice interrupted them.

“Miss Bennet! Mr Darcy!”

They turned to see Mrs Harcourt, an older lady, who had attempted to engage him in conversation on a number of occasions. She approached with an eager smile, her small terrier trotting at her heels.

“I had the most delightful conversation about books with Mr Jackson just now,” she said brightly, “and I simply must know your opinions on the matter.”

Darcy barely suppressed a sigh. Despite himself he had been enjoying the back and forth of their conversation.

Elizabeth, ever composed and able to handle any interaction, smiled politely. “And what matter would that be, Mrs Harcourt?”

“Why, novels, of course! Mr Jackson tells me he is quite fond of them, though I am not sure whether he was merely being kind. I ask you, Miss Bennet, as a lady of intelligence—should a gentleman be reading novels? I have always been told they are dreadfully frivolous.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled, clearly pleased with having his opinion asked. “Oh, I quite disagree, ma’am. I find novels an excellent means of understanding the human spirit, and is that not something as beneficial for gentlemen as it is for ladies?”

Mrs Harcourt tittered. “And you, Mr Darcy? You are a man of fine taste, are you not? Surely you have more sensible reading habits?”

Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, who was watching him with great amusement, as though challenging him to say the wrong thing.

“I find there is value in all forms of literature,” he said at last. “Be it novels or a political treatise. Each has something to offer the world, I’m sure.”

Mrs Harcourt beamed. “Oh! Well, that is quite diplomatic of you, sir. Now, do excuse me, I must see to my poor little Tibbins.”

She bustled away, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth once again in peace.

Elizabeth turned back to him, biting back laughter. “That was impressively vague, Mr Darcy.”

“I had no desire to continue the conversation.”

She laughed outright this time. “Then I shall consider it my duty to extract your true thoughts on the matter one day.”

“I have no doubt you will try.”

As they continued talking, Darcy felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Elizabeth’s energy and wit were disarming. He even caught himself smiling more often than usual.

He was struck by her confidence, her passion for new experiences—so different from the carefully controlled world he was used to.

“Lizzy?”

Mrs Gardiner’s voice called from the stairs below deck.

Elizabeth turned. “I must go,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet. She hesitated for the briefest second before adding, “Thank you for the conversation, Mr Darcy.”

Darcy remained where he stood, watching as Elizabeth disappeared below deck and wondering once more at their interaction. The warmth of their conversation lingered in the air, unsettling him. He had allowed himself to forget who he was, to be drawn into easy conversation, to smile.

He frowned as he tried to make sense of it, then turned towards the railing, eyes fixed on the shifting horizon as people moved around him. He ought to return to his quarters. He ought to put Miss Elizabeth Bennet from his mind.

And yet, he did not move.

“Fine evening, isn’t it?”

Darcy tensed before turning his head. A man in uniform stood beside him, leaning casually against the railing and smoking a cigarette. It was Mr Harding, the ship’s first mate, a man who had the air of someone accustomed to long voyages and long silences, and one who was seemingly comfortable in talking to the passengers as if they were his equals.

Darcy inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. “It is.”

Harding followed his gaze towards the stairwell where Elizabeth had just vanished. A slow, knowing smile crossed his weathered face.

“Miss Bennet enjoys the deck almost as much as you do, sir,” Harding observed.

“So it would seem.”