“Paris?” She sounded as shocked as if he had suggested traveling to the moon.
Perhaps he should lower his standards. Only a path led to this hut, not a road, nor even a cart track. “Somewhere, an inn, perhaps, where adiligencestops,” he said using the French word for stagecoach.
She shook her head, baffled.
“The nearest town, then.”
She smiled. “Ah oui! Demain.” Then she went off into a spate of words, from which he took the meaning that she would direct him to the town tomorrow, when his clothes were dry.
She was right, of course. Even if he managed to find the strength, he could not set off in soaking clothes. And it was almost sunset, when he could try to reach Elizabeth through the dragon scale.
It took Darcy three days to reach civilization. First a long, wearying trudge in boots that pinched abominably after their soaking to reach the so-called town. It consisted of five small cottages. He hired another old man – France seemed completely depleted of men of fighting age – to take him to the next town in a slow ox-drawn wagon. He had not realized how much he would stand out simply because of his age and good health. His newly ill-fitting boots proved a boon in the end; the farmer seemed to think his limp was a war wound.
They did not reach their destination until dark, where the promised inn proved to be a widow who let out her spare room to visitors. But it did have adiligencewhich came by once a week.
By sheer luck, he only had to wait two nights.
He remembered thediligencesfrom his trip to France when he was ten, not that his mother had allowed him to ride one, but he had been intrigued by the odd shape, like two stagecoaches mashed together over four wheels, often with a small cabriolet attached for those who preferred to ride in theopen air. Now, when he finally had the chance to ride in one, he spent the journey pretending to doze to avoid conversation until they arrived in Rouen.
Thank heavens! It was recognizably a city, even if the pointed spirelets above the famed astronomical clock and the colorful half-timbering made it look obviously foreign to his English eyes. And everyone here seemed to speak recognizable French.
Thediligencewas greeted by a crowd of boys shoving advertisements for hotels on the unwary travelers. Darcy chose one for its address on the Grande Rue St. Jean, which seemed likely to be in a better part of town. The Grande Rue, though, proved to be barely a yard wide, but the hotel seemed acceptable enough, if not the sort of establishment a high-ranking gentleman would patronize. Fortunately, his rooms looked out the back, with a view so that he could see the setting sun. He would not know the exact moment it touched the horizon, which was when the dragon scale would become active, but he would be ready.
If only he could go straight to Paris! He had lost too much time on this journey already, thanks to the sea serpents and landing in a singularly unpopulated part of France, but there was no way around it. He could not arrive in Paris with no luggage, only one set of suitable clothing to his name, and that having been more worn for the better part of a week. He would have to stay in Rouen long enough to obtain a few more clothes if he was to make the appearance of a gentleman.
He had paid an extra fee for a private manservant. When the man arrived, Darcy explained his situation in clipped French, with the tale of a shipwreck and lost luggage. He would need new clothes, but also a map of France and one of Paris.
It was almost sunset, so he sent a servant off to begin making the arrangements, telling him he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances for the next half-hour.
Because this was his chance to communicate with Elizabeth, and that took all his concentration. The first night, at the hut, the shock of feeling her vibrant presence within him was so astonishing and welcomethat he forgot what he needed to say. Her words sounded in his head –Are you safe?– as if she was speaking aloud, and it was all he could do to say yes and that he loved her before the connection faded, leaving him bereft.
After that, he had prepared his messages more carefully. The Eldest had not misled him – a simple sentence or an image was all he could hope to convey. Which was quite a challenge, when he needed to communicate a complex concept like Napoleon using sea serpent eggs to force them to do his bidding.
He had decided to divide the message over three nights. The first time he had sent an image of Napoleon stealing eggs from the sea serpents. The second was a French Emperor giving the eggs to the High King. Tonight’s would be the trickiest.
He can only pray that Elizabeth would make sense of it.
He slid the scale from the leather pouch around his neck and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. For some reason it always felt warm to the touch, warmer than a human. And then Elizabeth was there.
He did not let himself get distracted by her beloved presence, much though he longed to. He sent his image, Napoleon handing an egg to a serpent with a sinking ship in the background.
Her shock was palpable. He could practically hear her indrawn breath and could imagine her stunned look. She had understood!
I will tell the dragons, she sent.
The scale went still in his hand. Would he grow accustomed to this, that sense that she was there and then vanished?
Tomorrow he would use his message to tell her how much he loved her.
The bored ticket-seller at the inn where thediligencesstopped leaned on a crutch as he studied Darcy’s papers. “Good enough. Coach or cabriolet?”
The sudden memory assailed him of his first journey to France, as a boy of ten who wanted only to be back in his silent cottage at Pemberley,away from the noise and conversation and too many changes. He hated the entire trip, but Jack had loved it.
Jack had chattered endlessly, full of questions. Why did they have to travel in that stupid private carriage when anyone could see it would be more fun to ride in the cabriolet perched on the top of adiligence? Why could he not play with the French boys out in the street?
His mother’s answer was the same every time. “Because you are an English gentleman and a Darcy of Pemberley.”
Jack had been curious about everything – no, not everything. He had been bored by the grand cathedrals, the vast quiet spaces where Darcy had finally felt a little peace. In the bloodthirsty way of little boys, Jack had been disappointed by the lack of guillotines and tumbrels carrying aristocrats to their deaths. At least he could gawk at the square where the Bastille had stood and imagine the fighting in the streets.
