What next? The serpent had told him to speak to the people on the shore, but he was on a deserted stone beach with a white chalk cliff rising far above him, one that stretched as far as he could see in either direction. He was going to have to do some serious walking if he wanted to find anyone, and that would be impossible with his sodden clothing hanging heavily from his shoulders.
There was no help for it. He stripped down to his shirt and underclothes, dumping the seawater from his boots and wringing out the rest beforeputting them back on. They were lighter now, at least. And his satchel looked intact, though if the water had soaked through the oilcloth enclosing his safe-conduct, there would be trouble. An Englishman with no papers would not get far in France.
If he even was in France – and could find his way past these cliffs.
Then he spotted a distant figure atop the cliff. Friend or foe? It hardly mattered if he could not find a way off this cursed beach. Darcy waved to catch his attention. The man swung his arm, pointing to Darcy’s left.
At least it gave him a direction, though with no guarantee he would not be arrested at the end of it. He stomped out the fire and set off, the effort of walking on the uneven gravel warming him. Finally he came to stream that cut through the cliffs, creating a narrow ravine down to the sea.
He climbed along a steep path worn beside the stream, his thighs aching as he scrambled over rough boulders. Was he actually off English soil? That meant he could try to reach Elizabeth tonight using the dragon scale the Eldest had given him. It had only been six days since he had seen her, but it felt like forever.
And he needed to tell her about the sea serpents. The dragons would want to know – and the War Office, too, though how Elizabeth could explain it to them without involving the dragons was unclear. If, in fact, he could communicate it to Elizabeth at all.
The ravine gradually widened, the path becoming smoother. Then the man he had glimpsed on the cliffs came stomping towards him. A man who would either help him or turn him into the authorities.
Life or death. Success or failure. He was growing tired of this choice.
The man was short, his skin wrinkled with age and leathery, as if he spent all his time out of doors. His clothes were heavily worn and hung loosely, and he seemed displeased by the sight of Darcy. Not a good sign.
Darcy’s heart pounded. “Je suis envoyé par les serpents de mer.”The serpents sent me.
The man gave a sharp nod, jerking his thumb to indicate that Darcy should follow him.
He exhaled in relief. Two problems solved, since the man both knew about the serpents and spoke French. But he needed to be certain. “Suis-je bien en France?” he asked.Am I in France?
The man averted his head and spat on the ground. “Normandie.”
Normandy? Well south of where he had intended to land. All the hours of planning from the War Office, the routes he had memorized, the names of the towns and potential contacts – all useless now.
Now he had to find a way to Paris, and his map of France was in his trunk at the bottom of the Channel, along with his other clothes – including the power-infused shirt he had intended to wear when he confronted Napoleon, the one Elizabeth had sewn for him from the fabric made by his half-sister. At least he still had the two handkerchiefs Elizabeth had embroidered, even if they were soaking wet. He had kept those in the pocket closest to his heart.
Somehow he would have to find attire suitable for a gentleman in this desolate land. If he ever managed to get dry, something which seemed impossibly distant.
The man led him to a hut built into the hillside, a spiral of smoke rising from the narrow stone chimney.
Darcy ducked his head as he went through the door, an unpainted slab of wood hanging on leather hinges. The acrid smell of burning peat assailed him in the dim interior, a smoky single room with rough furnishings. But beggars could not be choosers, and he was indeed a beggar now.
A stooped old woman stood by the rustic hearth, looking for all the world like a witch in an old tale. She stared at him in shock. No doubt he clearly came from a different world, even when disheveled and soaking wet.
The man growled in a thick accent, “Envoyé par les serpents.” Then he stomped out, the door falling shut behind him.
The woman burst into a flurry of words, as voluble as her husband was silent, but Darcy could barely understand it. “Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites,” he said tiredly. Would this dreadful day never end?
She cocked her head, then spoke more slowly, but he still made out no more than one word in three. Some local dialect, no doubt. But shebrought out a rough nightshirt and gestured to him to remove his wet clothes.
He would wear anything that was blissfully dry. Once he had changed into it, she ladled up a bowl of fish stew and pointed to the table. Chatting incomprehensibly throughout, she collected his soaking attire and took it outside.
Only then did he realize how hungry he was, having eaten nothing since leaving England. The stew was delicious to his starving tongue. He would happily have refilled it several times, but he doubted these poor fisherfolk could spare even this much.
Regretfully he pushed the empty bowl aside, taking stock of what little remained to him. His watch was ruined, of course. Fortunately it was not his own, a gift from his father upon developing his land Talent, but one the War Office had given him with ‘E. Harcourt’ engraved upon it. His satchel held a surprise, though, a happy one – everything within it was completely dry. It was as if the seawater had never touched it. He said a silent word of thanks to the sea serpents for their magic.
His boots, turned upside down to dry, would never be the same, and his hair was sticky with salt. How did people without servants deal with these things? He would have to wash it in the stream. No one would believe him to be Mr. Darcy of Pemberley if they saw him now.
His stiff muscles groaned as he rose and padded barefoot outside to the brook. The old woman was hanging his clothes on a line. She pointed him to where the water collected in a pool, no more than a few inches deep, but enough that he could collect it in his cupped hands and rinse out the worst of the salt. It was a far cry from the ewer of hot water his valet would pour over his head.
If he ever made it back to England, he would never take his valet for granted again.
When the woman offered him a rough cloth to dry his hair, he asked, “How do I get to Paris from here?” He enunciated each word slowly and carefully.
