She turned, ever so reluctantly, and was standing against the waves when the stern struck a dark, hitherto hidden rock with such violence that Coxon expected the masts to crash over the side. Thank God, each held. Immediately, he ordered the crew to throw out the sheet-anchor to hold the vessel from being forced further onto the rocks. The situation appeared most dreadful, for excessive darkness—being before the dawn—added to the violent squalls of wind and rain, accompanied by lightning, and the surf breaking over the ship.
Elizabeth knew immediately they had struck. But it was imperative not to panic, to stay with Eleanor until they were called on deck. The ship had foundered, but the masts had held, and the hull, being almost new and copper-clad, was strong enough. The floor was awash, but that was immaterial to finding her woollen day dress in her sea chest. Slipping it on, together with a spencer—she ignored her stays, which had become increasingly constricting—she sought Eleanor’s sea chest. The girl huddled on the cot, whimpering, but at least her cries of terror had ceased. Elizabeth found the girl’s linen dress, perhaps not the warmest, but she had nothing in the way of woollen clothing, having lived all her life in India.
A knock on the door. The pounding of feet in the galleyway as the other passengers rushed to the upper deck. What to take? Of course, her guitar. She saw Eleanor take up theCrusoeKeg, almost too heavy for the child. But she screamed as Elizabeth sought to leave it behind.
“No! No, we made this, and now we’re wrecked! It must come.”
Elizabeth acquiesced—‘twas best to get the child above deck, to safety, rather than linger in the cabin, which would flood at any moment.
The floor sloped downwards towards the gangway, which led to the upper deck. They gingerly climbed the steps, Eleanor still clutching the keg, which she had fastened by a strap about her waist, and Elizabeth’s guitar slung across her back, secure in its case of leather and oilskin. The deck was awash, great waves spilling over the railing, some gunports ripped open by the force of the sea. The depth of water and the slope of the flooring were so great that they slid across the sodden planking, floundering into the wall of the raised forecastle. There, huddling together, were the other child passengers. “Where are your parents?” cried Elizabeth. She looked back to the quarterdeck where most of the crew and passengers were assembled. She saw that the gangway from the deck was now too steep for any but an adult to climb. The children were left behind.
Captain Coxon came to the taffrail. “Mrs. Darcy, we’ll have a sailor to you, instanter!” His shout was almost lost in the wind. Elizabeth waved back in acknowledgement. She went to the children and, leaning close, told them sailors would come to carry them to the quarterdeck. Tears streaming from their eyes, they clutched together; Elizabeth pulled them close.
The seas were abating; fewer waves breached the railing of the ship, which, though shuddering as each wave pounded into it, was gradually turning around, pointing into the sea—the anchor was holding. The wind had shifted, now blowing from the land. Captain Coxon sent men to the capstan, ready to release the anchor if the ship came free.
One by one, a sailor, secured by a rope to the quarterdeck, took a child and was hauled to the gangway where the child was handed onto the deck above. Finally, all but Elizabeth and Eleanor remained. The seaman made his way to them.
Suddenly, an anguished cry arose from the sailors on the deck behind. Turning towards the sea, Elizabeth beheld a great wave, a behemoth rearing over the ship. The vessel groaned and shook, the oak planking twisting under the strain, but the anchor held. The wind, striking the staysail, swung the vessel free as the wave surged over the rocks.
The crest broke over the decks; all gathered on the quarterdeck were submerged by the massive rush of water. When it had passed, those on the quarterdeck were safe, but the upper deck was empty, save for the lone sailor still tied to the safety line. Both Elizabeth and Eleanor were gone, swept into the maelstrom.
Chapter 36
Pemberley, September 1, 1813
The danger, thought Darcy, was that life at Pemberley was too easy; every day had its own charm. Whether taking breakfast with his father and Georgiana in the small dining-parlour overlooking the willow-fringed lake, walking out with his sister and seeing her become more relaxed, restored to good humour as they put the tragedy of Frederick’s death behind them, or driving out with his father in the gig, visiting tenants, preparing for the harvest, and seeing to the maintenance of the bridges and laneways in anticipation of a wet autumn and icy winter.
As always, he imagined Elizabeth next to him: her takingGeorgiana’s arm as together they strolled through Lady Anne’s rose garden; her being admired as she rode into Lambton in her scarlet riding habit, the ladies curtseying and men doffing their hats, their eyes drawn to her graceful seat. Mistress of Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy—he could scarcely wait till the end of the month to be reunited.
“William, would you mind if I invited Felicity to visit? I received a letter from her, and she’s finding life at Matlock ever so tedious.”
Darcy looked up from his ledger. Georgiana had quietly entered the study and stood hopefully before his desk. It had been a pleasant six weeks—only his father, Georgiana, and himself. Surprisingly, the earl hadn’t imposed on him; perhaps even he had the decency to allow Darcy some time alone with his closest family.
“Of course, sweetling. Felicity is a lovely girl, and I’m sure you’ll have great fun together.”
His sister came around his desk and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. And I know how much Father enjoys her company.”
She skipped away to write her invitation.
“And what has her so excited?” George Darcy came through the interior door from the library. He relaxed into a chair by the fire.
“She’s inviting Felicity to visit. I believe our respite from being importuned is ending. If Felicity comes alone, then all will be well, for she’ll spend her time with Georgiana. But if Lady Matlock accompanies her—which I fear—then issues of marriage and Lady Catherine’s debt will be thrust in our faces.”
“Ah, the games begin again. Speaking of mortgages, is there any progress on our investigations?”
Darcy put down his pen, stood, and walked to stand infront of the fire. “’Tis only two months, and there are many records that may have relevance. Currently, we’re searching manor rolls and probate copies of wills, also, investigating any civil matters in the Court of Common Pleas. It all takes time, and our clerks must be very discreet.”
“I’m merely impatient. There’s much about this sorry business that doesn’t smell right. Is Catherine a secret gamester? Has she made some investment, perhaps in a bank that has collapsed or in some scheme to grow breadfruit in Scotland? What ridiculous reason is there to deny Matlock and disclose nothing?”
“As do you, I wish an end to this. But we’re at the final turn; we must be patient. Elizabeth will soon return.”
***
“George, you must have Fitzwilliam marry!” Lady Matlock glared at George Darcy as they sat to dinner in the small family dining-parlour.
“And how do you propose I do that? Withhold his allowance? But since he now controls the estate finances, that may be difficult. Lock him in the nursery? but he’s a little old for that.”
Darcy regarded his aunt; the attack was not surprising, though he had thought she would wait at least a day before raising the subject. Felicity was staring at her bowl of turtle soup, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. A small, excited smile touched Georgiana’s lips; she glanced nervously towards him, a hopeful look in her eye.
