Page 65 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

It turned north. The bow swung directly towards the island, the adjustment small but definite. The captain had seen the smoke, and he was investigating.

“It is turning,” Elizabeth gasped, her hands white-knuckled on the sailcloth.

“Yes,” Darcy said. “They are coming towards us.”

She kept waving, and he kept feeding the fire. The ship grew steadily larger. He could make out the dark hull against the blue water, and the individual sails.

It was soon close enough that a man on the deck with a glass could clearly see the tower, the fire, and the two desperate figures waving from the platform.

The ship dropped anchor.

Darcy heard the sound echo across the water: the distant but unmistakable rattle and splash of an anchor chain. Elizabeth finally stopped waving. She clutched the sailcloth against her chest and stared at the ship in silence. The vessel had stopped, but neither of them dared to speak until they saw a boat.

A small boat lowered from the ship's side. It carried four oars and three men.

Elizabeth abruptly sat down on the stone ledge, her legs quite giving way beneath her. She watched the boat hit the water and begin rowing steadily towards the island.

Darcy remained standing, though it took every ounce of his discipline not to collapse beside her. She was shaking violently.

The sailors reached the cove twenty minutes later. A man stood in the bow of the small boat, calling out first in Italian, and then in accented French. Upon hearing Darcy's reply, he switched to English.

“You are English?”

“We are English. We have been stranded on this island for six weeks following a shipwreck. My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. This is my betrothed, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

The man in the bow stared at them. Darcy was acutely aware of what the sailor saw: a barefoot, bearded man in ruined trousers, standing beside a sunburnt woman in a torn dress. Elizabeth was gripping his hand with a force that would not release him.

“I am Matteo Ferrara, first mate of the Santa Chiara, out of Valletta. Captain Rossi sends his respects. He saw your smoke.”

“The smoke was intended for him. We are grateful.”

“You have injuries?”

“A wound that is healing. We require passage to the nearest port with British consul presence. I can pay.”

Ferrara nodded. He looked at Elizabeth, who was standing beside Darcy with her chin raised. Her fierce bearing communicated clearly that she required no pity.

“We can take you to Valletta,” Ferrara said. “Two days. Perhaps three, with the wind.”

“Valletta will do,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was steady. Her hand in Darcy's was not.

The transition from the island to the ship was a kind of violence.

It began with the boat ride. The sailors smelled strongly of tar, sweat, and cooked food. The scent of actual bread and garlic hit Darcy with a force he had not anticipated. After six weeks of fish and figs, the simple smell of baked flour was enough to make his eyes unexpectedly sting.

Elizabeth's grip on his hand tightened when they reached the ship's side. The Santa Chiara was merely a trading brig, but from the waterline, it towered over them. It was a wall of dark wood and rigging, alive with the sounds of a working vessel: men calling, ropes creaking, and a heavy brass bell. It was the entire world, arriving all at once after six weeks of silence.

He helped Elizabeth up the ladder. She climbed without hesitation, and he followed close behind. When they reached the deck, there were nearly a dozen men staring at them. It was the first time in six weeks they had been observed by strangers, and the sudden scrutiny felt exposing.

Captain Rossi was a short, broad man with a grey beard and the unhurried manner of someone who had been at sea long enough to be surprised by very little. He greeted them in English that was better than his first mate's, offered water and bread and olives, and led them to a small cabin near the stern that contained a table, two chairs, and a bunk.

“For the lady,” he said. “You, Mr Darcy, I can put in the crew's quarters, or⁠—”

“Miss Bennet is my betrothed,” Darcy said. “We are to be married upon reaching British jurisdiction. I would be grateful for whatever arrangements you consider appropriate, Captain, and I defer to your judgement in the matter.”

Rossi looked at Darcy, and then at Elizabeth. He observed the deep sun on their skin, their ruined clothes, and the way they stood within arm's reach of each other. Their proximity was an ingrained condition of survival. Rossi drew his own silent conclusions.

“I have a second cabin,” Rossi said. “It is small. It has a door.”