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Her answer came in short gasps as they hurried along the alley. “Many depart every day. Barges bring coal and firewood daily to the city from Belgium and Normandy.”
“They return up the river empty?” he asked.
“Yes, or laden with goods manufactured near the city. The gendarmes could not possibly watch all the boats on the Seine even if it occurred to them. Wharfs line the river in many different locations, and boats leave at various times of the day.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “My friend Therese is married to a dockmaster. Perhaps he could find a boat that would take you upriver.”
Darcy nodded. “Lead the way. There is no time to lose.”
***
Adele’s friends, Mr. and Mrs. Girard, were surprised to receive visitors so late at night but were eager to help. Naturally she did not relate the entire story, merely explaining that her friends needed to reach the coast quickly. The coupl
e might have guessed William and Elizabeth were fleeing from the authorities, but they did not ask questions. Many people in France, it seemed, were eager to defy the government.
Mr. Girard indeed knew of a barge that was departing for Rouen in the morning. No doubt the captain would be amenable to taking passengers—for an exorbitant fee. Elizabeth was relieved to have a plan, although she would not rest easy until they were safely on the barge—and probably would not sleep soundly again until they were back in England.
Darcy gratefully accepted the Girards’ offer to occupy their guest chamber for the night. All that remained was to bid farewell to Adele.
The older woman had tears in her eyes as she said goodbye to Elizabeth and William. She embraced Elizabeth first. “How fortunate we had an opportunity to meet! You are exactly the sort of woman I would have chosen for Will.”
“A woman with amnesia?” Elizabeth joked.
Adele shook her head, her eyes serious. “Even with amnesia, it is clear you are a woman of character who will not always allow him to have his own way. This is what he needs, whether he knows it or not.” Over her shoulder, she gave William a fond look; he merely shook his head, as if he had expected her to say something of the kind.
When the former governess released Elizabeth, she pulled William into an all-consuming embrace. “I knew you would mature into a fine man. Your father would be proud.” She pulled a letter out of her reticule. “Here, I have written a note to Georgiana. I pray you, deliver it for me.”
William carefully put the note in his pocket. “Will you be safe after we depart?”
She waved away the anxious expression on his face. “I will stay with friends for a few days. Once the gendarmes realize you are gone, they will chase after some other ‘spy.’”
William took both of her hands in his. “If they give you any trouble, please write to me. I will ensure that you and your family may leave the country. We would be most pleased to have you at Pemberley.” Elizabeth realized he meant they could host Adele and her family at his country estate…forever. The idea of such wealth was quite overwhelming.
“Yes, and you must write to me when you arrive home,” she insisted. With another swift hug, she was gone.
***
Elizabeth dreamed. She played the pianoforte in a drawing room she did not recognize. The house was very grand, with chairs upholstered in silk and gilt décor verging on gaudiness. Some instinct told Elizabeth that it was too ostentatious to be Longbourn. A sandy-haired man sat on a chair near the pianoforte, listening to Elizabeth play. His appearance tickled her memory, but Elizabeth could not recall his name. Mr. Darcy’s sudden appearance at her right shoulder startled her, causing her to strike the wrong key. As she recovered from the faux pas, the master of Pemberley positioned himself so he could view her face while she played.
By the end of the piece, Elizabeth was fighting a rising irritation. “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me?” She gave him a poisonous smile. “But there is a stubbornness about me. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
A small smile played about Mr. Darcy’s lips. “You could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”
Elizabeth suppressed a desire to roll her eyes. She had told him he intimidated her; her request for him to desist could not have been any plainer. And his response? He assured her that she was joking, as if she did not know her own mind! Did the man understand no subtlety at all?
Covering her irritation with a polite laugh, she directed her next comment to the man who sat beside the piano. “Your cousin will teach you not to believe a word I say. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire for it is provoking me to retaliate and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” Mr. Darcy said. Of course, he was not. His position insulated him from whatever criticism his unpleasant demeanor so richly deserved.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” said the cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam: the name rushed into Elizabeth’s mind. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
For a moment Elizabeth was tempted to tell the truth: that the man was rude, condescending, and aloof. Oh, it would be so lovely to voice such sentiments. But her triumph would be brief. She would be sent away from Rosings Park, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins would suffer the consequences of having invited such an ill-mannered guest.
Instead Elizabeth fixed an insincere smile on her face. “Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him was at a ball and what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce and more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner.”
The colonel’s knowing smile suggested that Mr. Darcy had behaved this way upon other occasions. Mr. Darcy himself grinned as if Elizabeth had paid him an immense compliment. Infuriating man. Yes, she had said it in a teasing manner, but he should be ashamed of his rudeness; instead he appeared to be proud of it.
Elizabeth pulled herself up through layers of sleep until she lay gasping and staring at the low ceiling of the Girards’ cottage. There was barely space for a bed and washstand in the room, and the bed was so small she was pressed quite close to William’s body. Slow, regular breaths demonstrated that his sleep was undisturbed by memories of past conflicts.
Elizabeth increasingly was certain that this dream—like the last—was the record of a memory and not random images from her life jumbled together in a nonsensical narrative in the usual way of dreams. These visions were too linear, logical, and sensible to be anything other than memories—although she would have preferred otherwise.
