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These were the first words she had uttered since they left the inn, and Darcy was happy to pursue the subject. “Napoleon sees it as a means to acquire English gold to finance his war effort. The smugglers arrive with gold guineas to purchase goods, which they transport to England for sale. The encampment is controlled by French soldiers and customs officials to ensure that the emperor receives a portion of the illicit activity.”
Elizabeth stared at the distant line of fences. “Guineas leave England and go to France? Does that hurt our war effort?”
Darcy shrugged. “It is not good, but I do not believe it is crippling Britain. No doubt the Royal Navy would prefer to put a halt to all smuggling, but there are simply too many of them—and many smugglers also are legitimate fishermen. I would imagine the War Office finds Gravelines useful as well. No doubt it is a good source of information.”
She was silent for a moment. “Do you have confidence in the forgeries you obtained?”
“I think so. I do not believe I was the first buyer
for that particular sort of forgeries.”
“What will they do if they suspect it is a forgery?”
Darcy took a deep breath. “I do not know. In that case, failing to reach English shores may be the least of our concerns.”
Elizabeth’s stiff nod betrayed her anxiety. Her fists clenched the skirt of her gown while she comtemplated the distant fences.
As they drew closer to the encampment, it was revealed to be roughly triangular. It was shaped by tall fences on all sides to prevent English smugglers from wandering—and spying—in the rest of the country. A gate opened to admit travelers, providing glimpses of a multitude of tents as well as a roughly built, one-story wooden building—no doubt to house the French officials. The French merchants and English smugglers would be consigned to the tents. The entire structure was only a few yards from the beach, which was covered by a number of small smugglers’ galleys awaiting the return trip to England.
The road led directly to the encampment’s only gateway, guarded by uniformed soldiers. Darcy said a prayer that the forger had been both competent and honest. He was entrusting both their lives to the papers the man had created. He slowed the wagon as they drew closer and stopped it right before the gate.
“What is your business here?” one of the soldiers—a man with a dark bushy mustache—demanded.
“I am a silk merchant,” Darcy responded, enunciating carefully to avoid any trace of an English accent. “This is my wife.”
Dark Mustache stared at them suspiciously. “I do not remember you from before.”
“We are new visitors to Gravelines,” Darcy said. “I have the appropriate papers.”
He handed them down to the man. Mustache consulted with a man in the guard’s shack, most likely his supervisor. Another man climbed into the back of the wagon, throwing back the cover over the bolts of silk so he could count them. There were sufficient guards watching the wagon so that escape would have been impossible.
A skinny blond man stared openly at Elizabeth. The lasciviousness in his expression had Darcy wishing he could punch him. “Eh, pretty lady!” he called out to Elizabeth. “You don’t want a merchant for a husband. Come and live with me if you want a real man!” His fellow soldiers laughed at what seemed like a harmless jest to them. Elizabeth sat frozen on the bench of the gig, not having comprehended all his words. “What do you say?” the soldier continued. “Will you at least give me a kiss?”
Silence hung in the air as the soldier awaited a reply. The soldier searching the wagon had jumped back and watched them along with the others to see what her response would be. A pulse beat rapidly in her neck, her entire body quivering with tension; she could not reply without betraying her accent.
The blond man frowned. “What, are you too good to speak with me?” The other soldiers exchanged disgruntled looks.
Elizabeth’s eyes darted in panic to Darcy. “That is not the case at all, Lieutenant,” Darcy said hastily, trying to think up a good reason why his wife would not speak. “My wife is, unfortunately, deaf.”
The blond soldier’s face turned from suspicious to sympathetic. “What a pity! She is quite lovely. But who would want a wife who cannot hear? You should give her up and get another woman,” he advised Darcy with a shake of his head.
Darcy clamped down hard on his anger and considered his role as a merchant. “Not at all!” He tried to match the man’s leer. “A mute wife is the best kind. She is grateful for my attention and never complains.”
The soldiers laughed uproariously at this rejoinder. Soon the mustached man returned with Darcy’s papers, assuring him that they were in order and gesturing for them to proceed through the gate. Darcy surreptitiously wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and snapped the reins to get the horse moving.
As the wagon creaked noisily into the camp, Darcy spoke from the side of his mouth. “I apologize for my coarseness.”
Elizabeth said nothing—after all, she was supposed to be deaf—but she shook her head with a smile, suggesting she was not offended. As the gates closed behind them with a clang, Darcy tried not to think about how they were now essentially trapped within the encampment.
The camp was bustling with activity. Well-dressed merchants, scruffy soldiers, and even scruffier smugglers strolled around, some at their leisure while others were intensely involved in heated negotiations. Most were men, although a few merchants were accompanied by wives.
Many merchants had set up stalls while others were showing their wares to the visiting Englishmen inside their tents. The variety of wares for sale was impressive. Tables displayed lace, fine silk bonnets, gloves, stockings, and shawls. Other booths sold bolts of cloth in many different hues. In another part of the camp, signs advertised merchants who sold brandy and Dutch or French gin. It was a bit like market day in a village square, if the market were surrounded by tall, impenetrable fences.
Darcy clambered down from the gig and tied up the horse to a hitching post outside the customs office, using the time to think about his next step. Unfortunately, the helpful Captain Moreau had not known anyone within the Gravelines encampment, so they had to rely on their own wits to find an English smuggler who would take them across the Channel.
If the French authorities learned of that smuggler’s part in their escape, he could be banned from Gravelines and its lucrative trading opportunities. Darcy hoped to offer a sufficient quantity of gold to encourage one of the galley captains to take the risk.
After helping Elizabeth down from the wagon seat, he tucked her arm into his and set a brisk pace away from the gate. The blond soldier’s frankly carnal stare at Elizabeth had made Darcy’s skin crawl. This was not a place where he could leave her alone for any amount of time.
