Page 8 of To India with Mr. Darcy

A s the days passed, so the air grew thicker and heavier, the warmth of the day lingering in a way it had not before. The cool, crisp breezes of their early voyage had been replaced by a dense, almost stifling humidity as they approached the tropics, and being stuck in the cabin with her aunt helped none of them.

As Elizabeth stepped onto the deck, she inhaled deeply, tasting the salt and moisture that clung to the air. The change was unmistakable. She could feel it in the weight of the night, the charge in the air, the eerie stillness that settled over the ship like an unspoken warning.

She had missed her nightly walks—the solitude, the quiet, the sheer openness of the sea stretching endlessly before her. The past few days had been filled with hushed voices, damp cloths, and worried glances as she and Jane had fussed over their aunt. Mrs Gardiner was improving, certainly, but Elizabeth had felt caged in, restless, like a bird with clipped wings. She had needed this, and she appreciated Jane’s offer to stay indoors to allow her the time.

She moved towards the railing, resting her arms upon the worn wood, and tilted her face up to the vast sky. The stars stretched out in an infinite map of silver and fire, blinking down at her as if sharing some secret only the night could know. The moon was low and round, its glow casting a shimmering path across the undulating water—a path to nowhere, to everywhere.

A faint rumble sounded in the distance. Elizabeth lowered her gaze from the heavens and turned her eyes to the horizon. The darkness was deeper there, the stars swallowed by something dense and shifting. Clouds, heavy and thick, loomed in the distance, creeping closer.

A storm is coming , she realised .

The air felt different somehow. Charged, humming with a tension that whispered against her skin. The sails above her shifted, their taut fabric groaning as a sudden gust of wind tugged at them. The ship, which had been rocking gently just moments before, seemed to pause—as though holding its breath.

She looked around her, curious at how the storm would impact the ship. A few men lingered near the far side of the deck, their voices low and wary as they peered towards the horizon. Elizabeth could hear them muttering, though she could not make out their words. Then a sharp call came from above.

“Storm’s coming in fast! All hands—secure the deck!”

At once, the crew sprang to life, men moving swiftly to tighten ropes and fasten the loose sails. The quiet peace of the evening shattered into hurried footsteps and shouted orders. Elizabeth watched, entirely fascinated. It was so different to a storm at home.

One of the men near Elizabeth turned sharply, catching sight of her standing alone at the railing.

“You, miss!” he called, his voice urgent over the rising wind. “You should get below—quickly now!”

Elizabeth barely acknowledged him, and he dashed off to deal with something. She had every intention of obeying, of returning to the safety of the cabin before the storm hit, but something held her still.

The wind surged again, whipping strands of hair from her pins, sending them lashing against her cheeks. The heat, the pressure, the energy in the air—it was all so exhilarating.

Other passengers hurried inside, calling to her as they went.

“Miss Bennet, you ought not stay out here.”

“Storm’s coming in fast, best get inside.”

She knew she should go inside. She knew it. And yet…

How often does one get to witness the fury of nature?

The storm was still far enough away, and she was enchanted by it. The way the clouds coiled like a restless beast, shifting and stretching across the sky. The way the wind seemed to whisper secrets in her ears. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. It was wonderful.

The man who had spoken to her rushed past in the other direction, a heft of rope in his hand. He gave a frustrated shake of his head, turning back to his work. Another loud clap of thunder rumbled from the distance, closer now. The crew was moving with more urgency, their voices sharper, their steps quicker.

Elizabeth took one last look at the vast sky, the rolling sea, the coming storm. One last glance and then she’d go inside.

The gust of wind that took her almost off her feet was sharp and violent. The ship lurched beneath her. Elizabeth gasped, gripping the railing as the entire vessel pitched sharply to one side. Shouts rang out around her, the crew barking orders over the roar of the wind. The storm was no longer approaching. It was here.

The wind howled, a beast set loose upon the ship, ripping at the sails, the ropes, the very wood beneath them.

Elizabeth turned sharply to go, but it was too late. The ship pitched again, harder this time. Her footing failed. Her breath caught as she was flung sideways, her shoulder slamming hard against the deck. Pain jolted through her, but before she could recover, another violent surge sent her sliding across the slick wood.

Her hands scrabbled wildly for purchase, her fingers brushing against the base of the railing, but she couldn’t hold on. The storm had come, and she was at its mercy. Elizabeth sprawled against the cold, rain-slicked railing. She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip, her fingers numb from the wind and salt. Thunder cracked overhead, loud and jarring, rattling through her bones. Sheets of rain pelted down, drenching her hair, soaking through her gown, leaving her shivering in the sudden storm’s fury.

She should have gone inside. She knew she should have. But something about the storm—the wild, untamed power of it—had mesmerised her. She had watched the sky darken, the clouds thickening to a deep, bruised grey, yet she had lingered, caught between caution and curiosity.

The sea was unrecognisable, no longer a vast stretch of calm but a living, breathing beast, roaring beneath the ship, tossing it with effortless ferocity. The sails snapped violently overhead, the masts groaning under the strain.

She was going to be thrown over, she was certain of it.

Elizabeth clung to the rail, her breath sharp and unsteady, her entire body tense with effort. The ship lurched again, and she felt her feet slipping further, her drenched slippers utterly useless against the slick wooden deck.

Then she felt the hands around her. Strong, steady, unrelenting hands wrapped around her arms, yanking her backwards, away from the deadly pull of the sea. She let out a startled cry as she was wrenched against the solid warmth of a chest, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Everything spun.

The next thing she knew, she was being half-dragged, half-carried, boots pounding against the wooden planks, through the whipping wind, through the slamming rain, through the howling storm until a door slammed behind them.

The world shifted again. The howl of the wind dulled, the pounding of the rain softened. Everything was calmer and muted here, less terrifying. Elizabeth sucked in a breath, still damp, still trembling, still too stunned to move, and entirely uncertain what had happened.

Her fingers curled into fabric, into the unmistakable feel of a man’s coat, still grasping for balance, for any sense of grounding as she gulped in breath.

“It is difficult to tell where bravery ends and foolhardiness begins, Miss Bennet,” came the voice of her rescuer.

Mr Darcy.

She looked up into his face, and despite herself, she noticed again how handsome he was. His breath was uneven, his coat soaked through, dark curls dripping with rain, his cravat loosened, his entire frame rigid with tension.

He stared down at her with storm-grey eyes, as wild and dark as the tempest outside. She could see his disapproval in his expression, but there was something else, too. Relief, perhaps?

Neither of them spoke for a long moment as they caught their breath. She could feel his hands still on her arms, gripping tight, as if to ensure she would not dissolve into the storm again, and a heat that she didn’t understand washed through her.

Elizabeth was not accustomed to silence between them. But this? This was something else.

“I—” she started, but her voice was unsteady, breathless. She cleared her throat, thinking to try again, but the words did not come. How could she thank him for saving her? How could see tell him that her mind was as wild as the storm when he was near?

Mr Darcy’s fingers loosened abruptly, and he took a step back, as though realising his proximity for the first time. His brows furrowed sharply, a muscle in his jaw tightening as he exhaled.

“What,” he said, his voice low, “were you thinking? That was foolish beyond measure.”

Elizabeth bristled. Despite the tremor still in her limbs, despite the way her body still felt shaken from the sheer force of the storm—she was not about to be scolded like a child.

“I did not realise the storm would come so quickly,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Clearly,” he said tightly.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, the moment that had passed between them gone now. Her irritation at his cold and unfeeling nature returned. “I was not the only one on deck.”

“No, but you were the last one,” Mr Darcy bit back. “And the only one reckless enough to stay, even though I daresay you’d been warned by several people!”

Elizabeth’s lips parted in indignation. “Reckless? You presume to lecture me after dragging me across the deck like a sack of grain?”

He let out a short, sharp breath, running a hand through his windswept hair. “You would prefer I left you to be swallowed by the sea?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, feeling her cheeks redden.

“Then accept that what you did was foolish.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms against the wet chill still clinging to her skin, her expression sharp. “Would a mere thank you not suffice?”

Mr Darcy stilled, watching her as though weighing his next words carefully.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She did as he asked, and he disappeared out of the room. Elizabeth looked around her. He had deposited her in one of the communal rooms on deck, and all around her she could see passengers staring out of the window, as fascinated as she was by the storm but significantly safer.

She swallowed back her emotions. She had indeed been foolish, but there was something about Mr Darcy’s manner that made her want to defend herself, protect herself. But he had saved her, and for that she would always be grateful.

When he returned, he carried a thick woollen blanket that he must have fetched from his cabin. He shook it out, then thrust it towards her.

“You are drenched,” he said shortly. “You ought to try dry yourself out.”

Elizabeth hesitated, but then she wrapped the blanket around her shaking shoulders. She had not realised how cold she was until the weight of the wool settled over her.

Mr Darcy turned away, running another hand over his face. His coat was still dripping, his frame rigid, his posture betraying an exasperation that was quickly wearing thin. The silence between them stretched. The storm outside continued to rage, but here, inside this dimly lit room, where the air still held the scent of salt and rain, the real storm was something else entirely.

Elizabeth pulled the blanket tighter around herself, her lips twitching as her mind began to settle.

“Well,” she said, her voice laced with wry amusement, “that was rather dramatic.”

Mr Darcy gave her a look, his expression still dark, but something about the sharpness of his features eased, and she was certain she saw the tiniest trace of amusement in his expression.

Encouraged, Elizabeth continued, her voice light. “And here I thought you disliked unnecessary heroics, Mr Darcy.”

He let out a sharp breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I do.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. “And yet, you have quite literally just saved me from being swept into the ocean. I daresay that makes you my knight in shining—”

Oh.

She stopped herself from finishing the sentence, suddenly aware of its implications, the intimacy of it. Her face grew warm, and she snapped her mouth shut before she could make it worse.

Mr Darcy stiffened, coming to the same realisation, and the pair fell into another uncomfortable silence.

And then, to her complete and utter astonishment, his lips twitched. It was barely anything. A ghost of something, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but it was there, and she had seen it. She pressed herself together to stop herself from grinning.

“You will be all right now?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “I shall tell your sister where you are.”

“Of course, Mr Darcy,” she replied in a soft voice, her eyes glued to his. “Unless, perhaps, you would care to join me in watching the rest of the storm?”