“How wonderful, Tommy!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You look very sharp. I hope you found it refreshing.”
Tommy grew puzzled. “Well, miss, that’s jes’ the thing. I did as Mrs. Bell said, used soap an’ scrubbed proper-like, but I don’t see the benefits much. I mean, I’m already gettin’ smelly again from workin’, so what’s the point of all that washin’?”
Elizabeth bit back a smile at his practical assessment. “The point is not to remain clean forever, but to start each day fresh and comfortable. Think of it like…like making your bunk each morning, even though you will unmake it again that night.”
“Hmm,” he mused, working through the logic. “I s’pose that makes some sense, miss. Though I still say it’s a lot of work for somethin’ that don’t last.”
“Many of the best things in life require regular attention,” Elizabeth replied. “Cleanliness, learning to read, kindness to others…all are things we must practice daily, not only once.”
The ship’s boy nodded slowly and then brightened. “Speakin’ of readin’, miss, I been practicin’ them letters yer father showed me. Want to see?” He displayed his improving penmanship on his slate.
A warm sense of satisfaction overcame her. Here she was, sailing toward Rome with a man who wished to court her, surrounded by friends, helping a young boy expand his horizons through education. The morning's worry over Mr. Wickham seemed very far away now.
Whatever challenges awaited them, Elizabeth looked forward to meeting them with these wonderful people by her side.
The salt-stainedmirror in the tavern’s washroom reflected a stranger. Wickham ran his fingers along the stubble that shadowed his jaw, wincing at the sharp stench of his own unwashed skin. His once-pristine shirt clung to his chest, reeking of sweat, stale wine, and defeat. The gold buttons on his waistcoat, the last remnants of his former prosperity, caught the dim lamplight like accusations.
He pressed his palms against the cracked porcelain basin, water dripping between his fingers. Three days since his fortune changed. Three days since Darcy had taken a public stance against him. Three days since Captain Gilmartin’s innocent smile had lured Wickham into that back room where cards had danced between nimble fingers like trained serpents. The memories burned: his confident laugh as the first few hands fell his way, the whiskey tasting of victory, and the gradual shift as his purse grew lighterand lighter until nothing remained but lint and shame.
“Darcy.” The name escaped his lips like a curse, fogging the mirror’s surface. Every misfortune and humiliation that had brought him to this squalid port traced back to that man. If Darcy had not stopped him from eloping with Georgiana, Wickham would have been set up in style. If Darcy had not possessed that blasted clue, Wickham would never have been compelled to follow him on this blasted treasure hunt. If Darcy had not existed at all, Captain Gilmartin would be fleecing some other fool’s gold instead of counting Wickham’s last coins.
The irony of his situation twisted in his gut like spoiled meat. He had come to Gibraltar to hunt down his nemesis, to take one step closer to the treasure. Instead, he had become the prey.
Wickham straightened his shoulders and smoothed his filthy hair. He knew from the clue and his quick inquiry of the Gibraltar Port Authority that Rome was theMary Catherine’snext destination, and with it, whatever gold that clue promised. His adversary might hold the advantage now, but fortunes could change as quickly as cards could turn. All Wickham needed was passage, a plan, and the patience to wait for his moment.
The reflection in the mirror smiled back at him, and he made himself believe that his vision of attaining both fortune and revenge would succeed.
20
The next day, the Spanish coastline unfolded like a watercolor painting in the morning light. The dramatic cliffs and whitewashed villages dotting the shore seemed close enough to touch. Yet they remained safely distant, a perspective that Captain Morrison assured them was precisely calculated.
“In these waters, a wise sailor keeps the land in sight but never courts her too closely. She is a beautiful mistress, the Mediterranean coast, but she has sharp teeth hidden beneath her charms.”
Mr. Darcy moved closer to Elizabeth’s side, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cool morning air. “What sort of dangers?” he asked, though his attention seemed more focused on her profile than on the captain’s reply.
“Shoals, primarily. And sudden squalls that can drive a vessel onto the rocks before you can say your prayers.” The captain gestured toward the crystalline water aheadof them. “If we follow the old sailing routes?stay three to five miles offshore?then we have the best of both worlds. Navigation by sight, protection from the worst weather, and deep water beneath our keel.”
Elizabeth breathed deeply, savoring a breeze that carried scents of wild herbs from the hills. Rosemary and thyme, she thought, mingled with the clean salt tang of open water. The temperature was delightfully mild, warm enough to make her light shawl unnecessary but cool enough to keep her comfortable in the Mediterranean sun. Their situation was perfect, and Captain Morrison inspired complete trust in his judgment.
When he returned to his duties, Elizabeth was alone at the rail with Mr. Darcy. The rest of their party was scattered about the deck, engaged in various activities. The moment felt charged with possibility, and she became acutely aware of how the morning light revealed his appeal.
“I am grateful for Captain Morrison’s expertise,” Mr. Darcy said. “The responsibility of keeping you safe on this journey weighs heavily upon me.”
Elizabeth turned to face him more fully, struck by his obvious concern. “Surely you cannot hold yourself accountable for every aspect of our adventure. We are all adults who chose this path willingly.”
“That is true, but that does not diminish my…my feelings of protectiveness where you are concerned.” He paused. “Elizabeth, might I ask something of you? We have agreed to a courtship, to know one another better. In the spirit of that understanding, would you consider…that is, might you call me by my given name? Fitzwilliam…or William, as Georgiana frequently does?”
The intimacy implied by using his Christian name was significant, an unmistakable step toward the closer understanding they had agreed to pursue. “I…yes, I believe I should like that very much. To avoid confusion, I shall call you William when your cousin is near. When he is not, I will refer to you as Fitzwilliam.” She tested the name on her tongue and found it sounded surprisingly natural. “Though not in company, at least initially.”
“Of course,” he agreed quickly, the elation transparent in his smile. “And might I…that is, when we are in private, may I continue to call you Elizabeth? I have grown fond of your name on my lips.”
“Not Lizzy?”
“No. You are and always will be Elizabeth to me.”
“Then you may,” she replied, then added with a teasing smile, “Though I noticed you have been taking that liberty already.”
“I have been presumptuous. Should I beg for your forgiveness?”
