Darcy nodded, idly rifling through the stack of bills that Elizabeth watched with wide eyes.
More than a thousand pounds were sitting on the table, except in French, that is in franc.“How badly would I have had my ears trimmed back if I let Monsieur Dessein give me Napoleons for guineas?”
“Is that his offer?”The man of business chuckled.“Quite badly, a matter of more than a tenth of the value, sir.”
“Still, a fine establishment.”
“Yes, sir,” the man of business, whose name Elizabeth had already forgotten but who was a far, far more friendly and honorable looking man than Lachglass’s Mr.Blight, replied.“A fine establishment.Mentioned by Sterne, you know.In hisSentimental Travels.Though I believe the building that the family occupied then may have been different.”
“Oh, really!”Elizabeth exclaimed with a small clap.“I adore Sterne.I must find a copy of that to read.”
The man of business bowed with a friendly air to her.“I shall send for my own copy, madam, if you wish.”
After penning her story, Elizabeth was at liberty to enjoy the touring delights of Calais.She walked along the shore a great deal with Darcy.She looked at every part of the harbor.She was properly repulsed by the smell of the fish market late in the afternoon after all the catch worth selling had been sold.She admired the half medieval, half modern town hall.She listened to the church bells from the cathedral chime every quarter hour.The church had, she was told, been built during the English rule, three or four centuries before.And Elizabeth visited the neighboring town of Bourgoine, which had seemed to be half English in its population.
On the fourth day of their stay in Calais, which they planned to be the last, as General Fitzwilliam’s regiment was to leave the next morning, an event of some importance occurred.
Darcy had taken her arm in arm for a walk out along the long wooden pier that extended far out into the sea from the land.General Fitzwilliam was this day occupied arranging matters before his men marched off to join the division he commanded in Cambrai.
However Darcy and his cousin planned to meet for fencing at a salle patronized by many English gentlemen of fashion and leisure, and that General Fitzwilliam promised was exceedingly well equipped, at around four o’clock.
The pier delighted Elizabeth like a ball of yarn delighted a kitten.
She had never had the opportunity to properly enjoy a beach resort town, as Papa had a general disinclination to travelling, even so far as London, and he kept the family mostly fixed during the summers (and winters) in Longbourn when she was a girl.
The salty sea wind flapped loose strands of hair against her face, and the waves propelled by the wind splashed against the big round tree trunks that made the frame of the pier.Seagulls and albatrosses placidly sat on the roughhewn wooden railing of the pier.Despite the cold weather and winter season, every few yards some man with a bucket of stinky bait fished from off the pier.The hooks hung down off long twine strings, and the already caught fish swam helplessly in tubs, awaiting their final doom.
Quite sad for the poor fish.
Many ships were moored along the line of wood, floating slightly up and down with every wave.There was also that peculiar slightly pleasant and slightly rotted smell of decaying sea life everywhere.
The waves made the pier moan and sway which gave Elizabeth the delightful sensation that the entire structure was about to collapse under her and toss her and Mr.Darcy into the sea.It gave her an excuse to cling close to his arm (her other hand needed to cling closely to her hat, lest itactuallybe tossed into the sea by the blowsy billowing wind).
At the very end of the pier there was a small wooden bench that they could sit on.They contemplatively looked out at the endless sea — not actually endless.The white cliffs of Dover, with the afternoon sun gleaming off them, were easily visible in the distance on this clear day.
Elizabeth sighed.“Just a few hours’ carriage ride away.”
Darcy took her hand and comfortingly squeezed it.“A little over twenty-seven miles.Or perhaps a little under, given the length of the pier, we are some appreciable fraction of a mile out into the sea.”
“Twenty-seven miles.”The white cliffs of Albion were beautiful.They were as beautiful as every patriotic poet or writer describing this scene, of looking upon his home from a foreign land had ever claimed.Something caught in Elizabeth’s heart, and she wanted to cry.She squeezed her lips tightly together.
Darcy was a calm presence, confident and caring.He sat with her quietly.
“‘Tis strange,” she said to her companion.“I had anticipated I would be purely eager and happy to be in a new country, a new land.I thought I would need atleasta few weeks simply to explore every new sight, sensation and smell before I had the slightest longing for our green home.But…”
“You shall enjoy every sight, despite this longing, and I shall be at your side, to protect and care for you,” Darcy said, “I promise you.”
Elizabeth nodded, but she also pursed her lips with a little dissatisfaction.
Yes, he promised to be with her so long as she was separate from England.But he did not want to marry her.At least not yet.Thoughts inthatdirection would lead to a sensation of disappointment, and annoyance.And annoyance at her savior.At a man she owed her very life to, and in no metaphorical sense, for she would be dead of two causes, and likely a third as well without him.
“Well at least you do not guarantee I shall return to England soon as I may wish.”
Darcy smiled wryly at her.“I am not in the habit of making promises whose fulfillment I cannot guarantee — however much I may wish to comfort the person I make such promise to.Besides,” he grinned at her with a playful light in his eyes, “nothing simpler than to return to England, you can take any packet boat back to Dover.”
Elizabeth laughed.“I would very likely not bepleasedwith the reception I gain in England.”
“That is entirely possible,” Darcy replied smilingly.
