Elizabeth could never remember sleeping as soundlyas she did while moored at the dock. TheMary Catherinerocked with each incoming ripple of water. Nevertheless, she woke early, ready for the day. The evening before, Captain Morrison had informed them they would be in port until Monday, giving them two full days of exploration. She intended to make the most of every minute.
She had not realized Prudence would be such an accomplished guide. Her new friend possessed an intimate knowledge of Porto. “I see you remembered to bring along your journal, Miss Bennet. I believe you will be happy to have it with you today.”
“I did. I simply cannot wait to put it to good use.” Elizabeth chuckled. Leaning closer, she whispered, “I do understand the need for formality, Prudence, but I feel a delightful freedom here. As if being casual is more appropriate.”
Prudence grinned. “Welcome to the wonderful world of travel, Elizabeth.” She turned to Mr. Bennet and drew his attention to a picturesque inn with a lovely flower garden dotted with tables shaded by bright umbrellas. “Would you choose to continue with us, or would your preference be to enjoy respite beneath one of those umbrellas?”
“The garden is for me.”
After seeing him comfortably settled, Prudence wrapped her arm through Elizabeth’s. “Come along. Senhora Rosa makes the finestcaldo verdethis side of Lisbon, and she has agreed to show a curious young lady her secrets.”
They wound through narrow streets past buildings whose faded paint told stories of countless seasons. Prudence led her into a tiny kitchen filled with the fragrance of garlic and olive oil. The elderly woman, her silver hair pinned beneath a worn kerchief, welcomed them with kindness that transcended language barriers.
Elizabeth was fascinated as Senhora Rosa’s gnarled hands moved, first peeling potatoes and chopping onions with ease. The woman gestured enthusiastically as she explained each step, her rapid Portuguese interrupted by Prudence’s translations and Elizabeth’s careful notes.
“Caldo verde,green broth,” Elizabeth wrote in her journal, sketching the preparation. Senhora Rosa demonstrated the precise technique, rolling the dark green leaves like cigars and slicing them into impossibly fine strips. The elderly cook beamed when Elizabeth attempted to repeat “couve galega,” her pronunciation earning gentle corrections and encouraging nods. “Our cook will find this easy to attempt,” Elizabeth murmured, noting the final details. “We have plenty of kale in our kitchen garden, and I am certain she could substitute our own sausages for the Portuguesechouriço.”
Prudence chuckled. “Aye, miss. Bringing a bit of theworld home with you is the spirit of travel.” Despite Senhora Rosa’s protest, they pressed a few coins into her possession.
Next, the two strolled through the marketplace to a small square where a young man sat beneath a flowering tree, his fingers dancing across a piece of rough paper with fragments of colored chalk. “Ah, Miguel!” Prudence called. “This young lady has an appreciation for art, and I believe you two might strike a bargain.”
He looked up with curious dark eyes, taking in Elizabeth’s travel gown and the journal clutched close. When Prudence explained what they sought, he gestured to the blank space Elizabeth had left in the journal above and below her Portugal entries.
She nodded eagerly. “TheMary Catherine,” she said, pointing toward the harbor where their ship’s masts rose above the port buildings.
Miguel’s pencils and chalk moved with swift, sure strokes, as the ship took shape. He drew the vessel not as she sat at anchor but as she would appear at sea?sails billowing with the wind, spray dancing at her bow. He captured the elegant lines of her hull, the complex rigging, and even the small figures of sailors working the deck. Her father wandered over to observe the proceedings.
“Papa, look!The Mary Catherineis flying across the waves.”
He peered over her shoulder. “Remarkable!”
Upon completing his drawing of the ship, Miguel placed a square of tissue between the pages to not smear the chalk. Then he turned to another page and began sketching the port itself with its colorful buildings, theforest of masts in the harbor, and the distinctive bell tower that marked Porto’s prospect. Page after page, his chalk captured the play of light on water and the busy movement of dockworkers.
He gestured for Elizabeth and her father to pose before the restaurant’s garden, where spring flowers cascaded over stone walls in brilliant profusion. She had sat for a formal portrait before, a stiff affair in Longbourn’s drawing room, but this was a different experience. Miguel worked quickly, his attention moving between them and the paper.
Elizabeth stared at the finished drawing in amazement. There they were, the two of them, surrounded by oleander and early roses, alive with curiosity and pleasure, the very spirit of this perfect morning.
“Allow me to give you this,” Elizabeth said, reaching into a leather satchel Prudence loaned her for a set of fine chalk pastels.
Miguel received the wooden box with reverence. He opened it carefully, running his fingers over the pristine sticks of color. “Obrigado,” he said.
He then added a few words in rapid Portuguese that made Prudence smile. “He says you have given him the colors of dreams,” she translated. “And that your journal will always carry a piece of Porto’s soul. Of his soul.”
As they walked back to the harbor, Elizabeth clutched her journal close, already knowing that these pages, filled with the artist’s vibrant work, would become some of her most prized possessions.
When they rounded the final corner to the dock where theMary Catherinewas moored, they found another vessel tied there. The sleek ship bore the nameMeridianpainted in bold letters across her bow. Dockworkers bustled about securing lines and transferring cargo.
“Bom dia!”Elizabeth called out to several of them who had paused in their work.
The men responded with delight at hearing the English lady wish them a good day in their own language, gesturing toward the Meridian with obvious pride. She laughed at their animated accounts as they all spoke over one another, describing how they had sailed from England across the high seas and survived an encounter with the French Navy.
She was still smiling when movement near theMeridian’s railing caught her eye. Two figures approached the ship’s bulwark, their forms silhouetted against the afternoon sun. As they drew closer to disembark, Elizabeth’s cheerful greeting died on her lips.
Mr. Darcy stepped into full view.
She gasped.
His characteristically immaculate appearance was disordered, and his dark hair showed signs of salt air and wind. His clothing, while still fine, bore the unmistakable marks of a long ocean crossing without proper facilities. A dark beard covered his face, creating a dramatically altered effect. Most striking of all was his pallor. His skin held the grayish cast of someone who had been gravely ill, and he moved with the careful, measured steps of a man still recovering his strength.
