As the sun set, painting the Channel waters the color of blood, the predatory shadow continued to cut a black wound against the sky. Elizabeth set her book on the table, unable to look away from the small window.
Soon after, as if by some unspoken decision, the battleship turned away and sailed toward the French coast. Elizabeth’s breath rushed out in a gasp of relief, and her muscles turned to water, forcing her to grip the edge of the table in front of her for balance.
Mrs. Bell again patted her knuckles. “Seems they had other business after all.”
“We are safe, then?”
“For now. This is a mere taste of what lies ahead. The Mediterranean is crawling with French ships, pirates, and who knows what else.” She studied Elizabeth, who was undoubtedly pale. “Are you still eager for your adventure?”
The terror had been real, more intense than anything she had ever experienced. For hours, she had been imagining capture, imprisonment, death. But beneath her fear, resolve emerged. Unbreakable. “More than ever.”
Upon returning to her cabin, Elizabeth sank onto the stool. Her heart continued to beat in a wild rhythm that gradually slowed until she could safely hold her journal.
It was time to make her first substantial entry sinceentering the Channel. The reality of her situation had become clear: they were traveling through waters where the stakes were life and death. And she had made a new friend. Gratefully, she was no longer alone.
Darcy struggledto his feet as the boom of a cannon echoed across the water. His weakened legs almost failed to support him at theMeridian’s shudder in repercussion from the shot across her bow. Through the porthole of his cabin, he could see the white splash perilously close to their vessel where the French ball landed. He gripped the cabin wall for support. The seasickness that had plagued him for days now seemed insignificant compared to the terror coursing through his veins.
Another thunderous volley from the French echoed across the water. Darcy’s jaw clenched as helpless frustration washed over him. Above deck, he could hear Captain Shanklin’s calm, measured responses, his Winchester-educated accent carrying easily over the wind. The man’s voice betrayed no panic, but Darcy knew the gravity of their situation.
This is intolerable.Every fiber of his being screamed against his inability to help. At Pemberley, he managed thousands of acres and hundreds of lives. In London, his word carried weight in drawing rooms and counting houses alike. But here, confined to this narrow cabin while facing mortal danger, he was utterly powerless.
He paced the small space like a caged animal—three steps to the porthole, three steps back to the door.I should be up there. I should do something.But what could he doagainst a warship? He had no naval experience, no knowledge of seamanship beyond what he had read.
The sound of running feet on deck made his stomach lurch. Were they preparing for battle? Surrendering? Not knowing was agony. He looked out the porthole, seeing the massive French vessel through the spray-streaked glass as it approached close enough that he could recognize the French sailors if he ever saw them again.
Captain Shanklin knows these waters,he told himself, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cabin’s chill. Richard had spoken highly of the captain’s experience. Shanklin was reported to be methodical and respected by his crew for competence rather than bluster. However, competence would matter little if the French boarded them.
Oh, lord! Richard’s uniform!Just as the thought of yet another pressing reason to pray the French would stay away crossed his mind, another boom split the air, and Darcy’s heart seemed to stop. Fortunately, this time it was the sound of the ship’s signal cannon instead of another warning shot.
Time slowed. Eventually, the massive warship began to turn away, its business apparently concluded.
The relief hit him like a jolt. His already weakened legs gave out, and he collapsed onto his bunk. The encounter had lasted around forty minutes, but it had felt like a lifetime.
Richard burst through the door. “Darcy, we are clear of present danger, though I am afraid this encounter serves as a sobering reminder of the waters we are entering.”
“What did they want?” Darcy asked, rising on limbs that were marginally steadier.
“Primarily, to make their presence known. A show of force.” Richard’s tone carried respect for the captain. “Shanklin showed them the ship’s papers and cargo manifest. They seemed satisfied that we posed no threat to their interests.”
Darcy thought of all the ways this journey could go wrong.
“Cousin,” Richard said, “Should we consider returning to England?”
Darcy knew that the colonel saw the pallor and weakened frame of a generally robust man. “We continue,” he said. “Elizabeth is in these same waters. She could already have encountered a similar threat. In the moments when I anticipated our capture, one thought burned clear and constant beneath my fear: Elizabeth. I will move heaven and earth to reach her.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Yes.”
10
Elizabeth made her way to the galley, still feeling unsteady after the day’s terrifying encounter. Her father had fallen into an exhausted sleep, so she sought the comfort of Mrs. Bell’s calm presence once again.
In the compact cooking space, Mrs. Bell helped the cook, her movements efficient and unhurried. Her smile was warm and welcoming. “How is your father managing after our excitement today?” Mrs. Bell’s eyes were bright with concern.
“Better now that the danger has passed.” Elizabeth settled on a small bench nearby. “He ate some soup and is asleep. I confess, I am still shaken.”
The lady nodded toward the cook, who was slicing thick portions of bread. “Even though they did not take up arms, the men are always hungry after a battle they did not fight.” She chuckled with the same rich sound that had comforted Elizabeth hours earlier. “I have found nothing builds an appetite quite like mortal terror.”
