Wickham visited once each day, or so Elizabeth believed. He looked worse with each appearance—his face haggard, his uniform stained with salt and sweat. He tried to charm them,but his words rang hollow. “Just a little longer, my dears,” he would say, “and all will be well. Once the storm passes, we’ll be in France, and you’ll be treated as guests. It is only a matter of patience.”
Lydia spat at him. “I hate you,” she declared, her voice cracking.
Wickham only smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Were you always so ungrateful, Lydia?”
“Why?” asked Elizabeth. “Why have you taken us? To where?”
Wickham looked at her with some perplexity. “Surely, Miss Bennet, you of all people know where we are going. Please, don’t take me for a fool. You found me easily enough with Georgiana on the Great North Road.”
Elizabeth looked at him with horror. Did he truly believe that she had such knowledge?
“How was it possible, I said to myself,” smirked Wickham. “And then, a little searching, a few pennies in the right hands, and I learnt that all of Meryton’s prosperity is due to a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Oh, the French were willing to pay a lot of money to have you safely in their hands. Georgiana is just a bonus, when sold back to Darcy, that high-and-mighty prig!”
He turned to go. “Miss Elizabeth, I suggest you think carefully—your options are few. Miss Darcy is safe, at least from me, for Darcy will pay well to have her returned undamaged. Miss Lydia, however, she seems a feisty sort of girl—I’m sure the sailors would enjoy her company.”
He never stayed long. The sailors did not trust him, Elizabeth thought, and perhaps he did not trust them either.
By the next night, the storm’s fury had abated a little, but the sea remained rough. The sloop rolled and pitched, and the air grew thick and foul. Elizabeth’s head ached. Lydiagrew listless, her earlier bravado spent. She whimpered for her mother in her sleep, tossing restlessly on the damp planks.
Georgiana tried to keep herself calm, singing softly in French—old lullabies she remembered from her governess. Elizabeth joined her, their voices mingling in the darkness. Lydia, unable to understand, only frowned and turned away.
The sailors seemed subdued, moving with greater caution. Rumours drifted through the thin walls: the British brig was close, their sloop was in danger, supplies were low. They had expected to make landfall in France well before.
Water was scarcer than ever. The sailor with the scar brought only a half-cup, apologising in rapid French. “Il n’y en a plus beaucoup—there isn’t much left.”
Elizabeth pleaded for more, but he shook his head. “La mer est trop forte. Peut-être demain— the sea is too strong. Maybe tomorrow.”
Lydia cried when there was nothing left to drink. Georgiana pressed the cup to her lips, offering her own share, but Lydia refused. “No, I don’t want it. I want to go home. I want Papa. Why don’t they speak English? Why won’t they let us go?”
Elizabeth gathered her in her arms, rocking her gently. “They’re afraid, too, Lydia. They think the British will catch them. We must be brave.”
The hours crawled by, marked only by the faint movement of light across the planks and the crash of waves against the hull. There was never any peace, only the constant roll and yaw of the boat. Elizabeth’s mind wandered—she imagined Darcy, searching for Georgiana, his face drawn with worry. She imagined her father, pacing the hall at Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet in hysterics. Would they be remembered as lost at sea, their names carved in stone, their story whispered as a cautionary tale of the perils of promenading in Brighton?
Georgiana grew feverish, her cheeks flushed and her movements sluggish. Elizabeth did what she could, soaking a handkerchief in the salt water which ran in rills across the floor, and pressing it to her brow. Lydia slept more than she woke, her breathing shallow.
Their torment was unrelenting—a trial not just of the body, but of the mind. Elizabeth forced herself to speak to Georgiana, to keep their spirits up, to distract Lydia with stories of home. She rationed every crumb, counted every drop, prayed for rescue though she had never been one for prayers.
In the end, it was not the storm, nor the hunger, nor even the fear that broke them—but the waiting. Days, trapped between hope and despair, listening to the sea and the footsteps of men whose language was almost, but not quite, comprehensible.
* * *
Chapter 11
Bay of Biscay
Night fell early, the sky dull and pressing. TheWasppitched and rolled, every timber groaning, the wheel almost wrenched from the helmsman’s grasp.
“Hold her steady, Mr. Trask!” Lanyon roared, his voice almost lost in the gale.
The midshipman nodded, face pale but set. “Aye, sir!”
For hours, the two ships were prisoners of the storm, driven south by a wind that cared nothing for flags or nations. The men worked in darkness, hauling lines, adjusting sails, pumping out the water that sloshed in the bilge. Once, Lanyon glimpsed theHirondelle, her masthead light swinging wildly—then she vanished, swallowed by the spray.
The Channel was behind them now. The wind had veered, pushing them south, the shape of the French coast somewhere out there—unseen, unknown. No one slept. The sea was too wild, the danger too near. Lanyon moved among the men, shouting encouragement, checking on the injured, helping to secure loose gear. His second, Finch, was everywhere at once, a steady presence, his hat lost to the wind hours ago.
Dawn broke, sullen and grey, the storm still raging. TheWaspwas battered but afloat. The men were exhausted, faces hollow, but alive. The water was warmer now, the swell longer and heavier—a sign that they had entered the Bay of Biscay.
“Any sign of her?” Lanyon asked, scanning the horizon.
