“Fitzwilliam, this is exquisite.” Her voice was unsteady with emotion. “You are too generous.”
He stepped closer to help with the clasp, and his fingers brushed her nape as he fastened the chain,sending shivers through her that had nothing to do with the evening air. “I thought… Well, I hoped…you might think of this night whenever you wear it.”
“I shall treasure it always,” Elizabeth replied, her hand rising to touch the cameo where it rested against her throat.
Signora Rosellinitactfully drifted away to examine the view more closely, providing Elizabeth and Darcy with a measure of privacy.
“Elizabeth, it is likely too soon to speak of such things again, but each day that passes, my feelings for you grow even stronger.”
Warmth spread through her at his honest declaration. “Fitzwilliam…”
“I do not expect you to return my affections immediately,” he continued. “However, I hope that your regard for me might deepen, as mine does for you.”
Elizabeth studied his face in the golden evening light. “You ask about my regard.” She took a breath, gathering courage to match his honesty with her own. “Do you remember, after our encounter with the French warship, when you… When you held me?”
“I remember everything about that moment.”
Elizabeth’s confidence mounted as she spoke. “Your arms around me, your strength supporting me when I was shaking from the experience?you made me feel cherished. Protected. A man I could rely upon completely. Someone who would stand between me and any danger.”
“Elizabeth…”
“I had not realized how much I wanted—no—how much Ineededsomeone who could be both gentle andstrong.” Her cheeks warmed with the confession. “Someone whose mere presence made me feel safe but never constrained.”
“Then may I hope that time and continued acquaintance might deepen such tender feelings?”
Without conscious thought, Elizabeth’s fingers stroked the cameo adorning her neck as she answered, “I find myself longing for the same.”
The rope burnedthrough Wickham’s palms as he pulled himself up the ratlines one final time. His legs trembled from hauling canvas and scrubbing decks. Below, the harbor at Civitavecchia spread like a forest of masts.
He rejoiced at the sight of theMary Catherine’sfamiliar silhouette.
Wickham dropped to the deck in silence, his bare feet finding purchase on the salt-warped planks. A boatswain’s whistle shrilled across the water, and crew members scurried up theMary Catherine’s gangway like ants fleeing rain. They were still taking on cargo.
Impatiently waiting for the captain’s dismissal or his meager wages?three copper coins that would only buy bread?he hurried to discover where theMary Catherinewas headed next.
The port authority’s office reeked of tobacco and unwashed bodies. Wickham pressed himself against the grimy wall, straining to hear as a clerk shuffled through manifests. “Piraeus,” the man muttered to his companion, stamping a document with unnecessary force.
Athens.The word echoed in Wickham’s skull as hestumbled back into the blazing Italian sun. His stomach gnawed, a constant companion since Gibraltar. His shirt, the same shirt he had worn for over a week, clung to his shoulders like damp canvas. The hammock had offered no rest, swaying in stagnant air filled with five other men’s snores and curses, their bodies pressed together in the suffocating hold.
He entered the tavern nearest the docks but quickly backed toward the door. The men inside had the look of wolves with scarred hands that took what they wanted and eyes that measured a man’s worth in seconds. Wickham recognized predators, having been one himself. The irony tasted as bitter as old wine.
A ship’s bell clanged across the harbor as another merchant ship pulled away from the dock. He needed to find his next berth, one that was eastward bound. He could not afford to lose sight of Darcy. Nor could he afford to tarry long in the port on his own. Damning Darcy for the wealth that brought him privilege, Wickham stood empty-handed among thieves who would gut him for sport.
27
Early the following day, the Roman countryside whisked past their carriage windows as they rushed back toward Civitavecchia, their driver pushing the horses harder than was comfortable to ensure they reached theMary Catherinewell before her scheduled departure. The morning air was crisp and clear after yesterday’s rain. Elizabeth wore the coral cameo at her throat like a badge of their evening together.
“Driver, halt!” Bennet called suddenly, his voice carrying unusual urgency. “There! That workshop with the marble statues. We must stop.”
Darcy’s stomach clenched with anxiety about the timing, but the older gentleman was already climbing from the carriage with obvious purpose. Outside a modest stone building, dozens of marble busts and statues stood in various stages of completion, their white surfaces gleaming.
“Papa, we cannot delay,” Elizabeth protested, thoughshe followed her father toward the shop with evident curiosity. “The ship will not wait.”
“Just a moment, my dear.” Bennet’s attention was fixed on a particular marble bust. “Look at this.”
Darcy approached the statue that had captured Bennet’s attention and gaped. The bust depicted a young woman with classical features and a gentle humor that was remarkably familiar. Though the carving was idealized in the Roman tradition, the resemblance to Mrs. Bennet as she must have appeared in her youth was unmistakable.
“It is your mother as she was when I first met her.” Bennet’s voice was thick with emotion. “The same tilt of her head when she was thinking. The same smile. I must have it, whatever the cost.”
