Page 71 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“Yes.”

“Stone buildings with intact roofs,” she continued, her voice filled with wonder. “Roofs that were not desperately repaired with flat stones and mud.”

“The roofs of Valletta are, I believe, properly constructed.”

“Proper construction,” she whispered. “The concept is almost too beautiful to bear.”

The Santa Chiara smoothly docked. Rossi's crew handled the mooring with efficient indifference, but Darcy found every moment remarkable. The rope hit the bollard, the gangplank was lowered, and he stepped onto the dock. His feet touched the solid stone of a city filled with people who had not been stranded, people who moved about their lives without a second thought for their survival.

Elizabeth stepped onto the dock in bare feet, for the sailor's wife had possessed no spare shoes. The ancient stone under her feet was warm from the morning sun. She stood perfectly still, looking at the city, tears spilling silently over her smiling cheeks.

Darcy quickly dealt with Captain Rossi. He arranged payment for their passage through a letter of credit drawn on his London bank. The captain accepted Darcy's signature with pragmatic trust, correctly judging that an English gentleman of Darcy's bearing was good for his debts. Darcy made the amount exceedingly generous.

“The British consul,” Darcy said.

Rossi gave him swift directions. The consulate was on Merchants Street, a ten-minute walk across cobblestones. Darcy's borrowed shoes could manage the stones, but Elizabeth's bare feet could not. The problem was immediately solved by Rossi's wife, Maria. She appeared from below decks with a pair of leather slippers that were two sizes too large. Elizabeth accepted them with a gratitude that nearly undid her composure.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, in the Italian that Darcy had been teaching her on the island, the pronunciation adequate and the sincerity unmistakable.

Maria said something rapid and warm in Maltese. Neither of them understood the words, but the kind, wishing tone was unmistakable.

The British consul was a tall, thin man named Harrington. He had the measured manner of a career diplomat, and his efficient gaze had thoroughly assessed them before they had even finished taking their seats.

Darcy clearly related the facts: the pirate attack, the shipwreck, and their six weeks stranded upon the island. He provided his name and estate, and then named Elizabeth, along with the Gardiners who had been aboard the Adeona.

Harrington listened carefully, taking precise notes. He asked relevant questions, omitting the one obvious question burning in his gaze: What exactly happened on that island?

That question could wait.

“The Gardiners,” Darcy said. “Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner, of Gracechurch Street, London. They were aboard the Adeona when it was taken. Do you have any record of their survival?”

Harrington silently consulted his files. It took only four minutes, but to Elizabeth, the wait was an agony rivalled only by the fever. She sat perfectly still in her chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, waiting for the answer she had desperately sought for six weeks.

“Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner arrived in Naples six weeks ago,” Harrington said. “Carried there by the merchant vessel Prosperità, which recovered survivors from the wreck. They have been in contact with this office, enquiring about two persons: a Miss Elizabeth Bennet and a Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, both believed lost.”

Elizabeth's hands moved, her palms pressing flat against her thighs. She absorbed the impossible information.

“They are alive,” she said.

“They are well and in good health, by the last correspondence. I can have a message sent by the next packet.”

“Send it immediately.” Darcy's voice was utterly calm; it was the voice of a man accustomed to authority. “I will pay for an express. The Gardiners must know that Miss Bennet is alive and safe. The message should also be forwarded to Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, near Meryton, Hertfordshire, and to my own household at Pemberley.”

Harrington wrote as Darcy dictated. Elizabeth sat in her chair with bright eyes and an intact, rigid composure. It was a fiercely controlled performance. Only Darcy, having spent six weeks learning her every expression, could see the violent trembling she was suppressing through stillness.

They left the consulate and walked down Merchants Street. Elizabeth in her oversized slippers and Darcy in his borrowed sailor's clothes attracted many curious glances from the residents of Valletta.

Between a shop selling lace and a shop selling olives, Elizabeth suddenly stopped. She pressed her back against the warm stone wall and breathed deeply.

Darcy stood beside her. He did not touch her, but positioned his body between her and the street, providing the privacy the island had given freely and the world required them to construct.

Her breathing was deliberate and controlled, her hands in tight fists at her sides. The effort of her stillness was visible in the sharp line of her jaw and the rigid set of her shoulders.

The composure held. It cost her, but it held.

“They are alive,” she said.

“They are alive.”