“She keeps her head in battle. Many a skirmish she’s gained the upper hand. Nerves of steel, she has. Stronger than most men. Has to be.” Bauer shrugged. “Can’t expect anything less from a Lafitte. The sea be all she’s ever known.” He stepped aside to allow Darcy through a narrow space that opened into the galley.
Barrels and crates lined the walls. An oven hovered over the tin-covered floor, swinging from chains attached to large hooks in the ceiling. “Plus, she keeps us in good food.” Nodding at the man cracking eggs into a large bowl, Bauer said in a low tone, “Jean-Christophe used to cook fer the royal family. Or so they say.”
“Then what is he doing on theFancy? Is he another one of your captain’s prisoners?”
Bauer leaned closer. “Word be he poisoned a Lord of Parliament. He never goes ashore. Best stay on his good side … just to be safe.”
Darcy nodded his thanks and Bauer departed, leaving him alone with the deadly chef.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my galley?” The cook had an accent the years had faded.
Swallowing his pride, Darcy presented himself. “I am the new ship boy.”
The man guffawed. “You are very tall to be a ship boy, but I will forgive you this if you can peel those potatoes.” He pointed at a mound of dirty potatoes in a crate that reached Darcy’s knees. He prayed there was straw on the bottom. There were so many, and Darcy had never peeled a potato in his life.
But how hard could it be?
Jean-Christophe sharpened a knife and handed it to him. “Keep the peel thin, or I will make you cut the onions.”
Taking a seat on the wooden stool, Darcy grabbed a potato, holding the knife in his other hand. Slowly, he cut into the potato and dragged the knife across the bulk of the vegetable until a chunk fell at his feet with a thud.
The chef glowered at him. “Much too thick.” Grabbing the knife and potato from Darcy’s hands, Jean-Christophe turned the blade to face him, pulling it toward his thumb. Raising the thin ribbon of peel, he waved it in front of Darcy’s eyes. “You see? Like this? Thin.”
Feeling like he was back in the schoolroom, Darcyset his jaw and held the knife as the Frenchman had shown him. Carefully, he drew the blade toward his thumb. It was just like carving. His father’s valet had taught him how to cut figurines into soft wood. He raised the peel for the chef to approve, proud of his quick improvement.
Jean-Christophe tsked. “Thinner!” he demanded.
It took several more potatoes before Darcy mastered the technique. By the bottom of the crate (which did not have straw at the bottom), the peels at his feet were paper thin.
Knuckle-sore, back aching, Darcy stood from the stool, too tired to celebrate his triumph. When he made it back to shore, he would raise the wages of his kitchen staff. And he would remove potatoes from the menu for the foreseeable future.
“You waste too much. Chop the onions,” Jean-Christophe said, still cross.
One onion later, and with a dozen more to go, tears ran down Darcy’s cheeks. This was a whole new kind of torture. The pungent odor burned his eyes, soaking through the cloth tied over his palm with a vicious sting. He did not know which was worse: keelhauling, chopping onions, or the horrors awaiting him over the nexttwenty-five days.
The followingday brought no relief to the Gardiner household.
Still full of nervous energy, Elizabeth was grateful when Aunt suggested they leave Lydia under the maid’s charge to take the children for a stroll in the park.
They walked along the nearby paths while the nurse supervised the children. They ran and skipped as though they had no care in the world.
Elizabeth searched the pavements for signs of Mr. Darcy. It was a vain search, she knew. With so many people unable to find him, he was unlikely to be discovered strolling leisurely through a park.
Aunt took her hand. “You are not as averse to Mr. Darcy as you led us to believe, are you, dear?” It was more a statement of fact than a question.
“No.” Elizabeth would not deny it. Aunt could not have helped but overhear her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam the day prior. Elizabeth’s throat swelled and she could say nothing more.
Aunt tucked her hand against her side and resumed walking slowly. “I suspected as much while we were at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth heated at the memory. “I was mortified to see him. H-he offered for me last spring,” she admitted.
“And?”
“And I refused him—most resolutely.”
Aunt raised her eyebrows, her lips curling. “Did you, now? Mr. Darcy certainly knows how to inspire strong feelings in you.”
“I was very passionate,” Elizabeth mumbled.
