There was only one real problem with the entire scheme—or perhaps two, if you count the war and the likelihood of ending up dead on the bottom of the Atlantic—which, a week into the trip, actually seemed the best outcome. I had been on a ship before, and I knew what to expect.
I was quite in dread of the trip, knowing full well what was coming and pondering how to avoid the blockade. I engaged in some correspondence by express with an admiral whom I had saved from difficulties involving the Don of Cambridge, a donkey, and… but I digress. The man owed me a favour, and possessed useful information. Apparently, the British Navy outnumbered the American navy by a substantial margin (we had eight hundred ships—they had a dozen), but their ships were better—much better. While nobody was departing the blockaded harbours, nobody was entering either.
It seemed quite a conundrum, until he suggested the most obvious answer in the world. The easiest way to pass a British naval blockade was on a ship of the British Navy performing the duty. The Admiral had a vessel departing for Nova Scotia in only a month. I managed to trade a berth on the ship for my continued silence on what we calledthe incidentfor at leastanother month, thence Fowler and I departed Portsmouth in good cheer.
I am a man of iron will and discipline, so I simply decided my stomach would not rule my life, and even managed to keep the resolution almost until we lost sight of land.
It turned out that, were it not for bad luck I should have no luck at all, as we were beset by storms that everyone assured me were of significant magnitude, far worse than the usual fare, and they blew us far off course. Coupled with a broken mast, our trip was delayed by over a fortnight, and we suffered the indignity of stopping on some insignificant island in the middle of the Atlantic that may have had a name, but I could not be bothered to learn it. We were to delay at least a week to repair the ship, and more likely a fortnight, so I left the vessel. I was half a stone below my usual weight, quite green in appearance, and entirely disagreeable except for one thing. I was on dry land… well, it was raining in torrents, but it was technically dry land. There were a few inns of quality, and Fowler moved with alacrity to get us settled into one.
I vacillated between joy that I was safe and secure, distress that I must board the ship again, and even worse, distress that my meeting with Elizabeth was delayed even further. It had been well over a year since I had seen her, and several months since I realised that I loved her and always had. You would think I could endure another week of waiting, but it would make me insane—right after I killed Fowler.
In such confusion, I went to the room, lay down in the bed that steadfastly refused to move, and slept for what Fowler tells me was eighteen hours.
I awoke hungry and still tired, but otherwise seemed to have survived the affair. The weather had forced a couple of mail packets to dock, and one of them carried correspondence for me. It was on its way to Nova Scotia, but the postmaster on theship inquired regarding others trapped on the island. None of it was critical, but I dealt with it anyway, happy for something to occupy my time.
Once that was done, I set out to see the island. They possessed a surprisingly adequate stable, and I spent most of the afternoon riding and enjoying feeling like myself once again, on the back of a horse that didnotsway or swell.
Once I could actually think again, I spent nearly every waking moment asking myself a question over and over. Elizabeth had breached propriety by writing me, but it was an entirely different thing than writing her. Everything she received would be read by at least Hopkinson or Anne, and I could not think of anything I could say that I was willing to say so publicly that it might embarrass her or compromise her reputation, if they even worried about such things in Ohio. She had been the consummate lady, offered her forgiveness unstintingly, wished me all the health and happiness in the world… exactly as a friend, sister or indifferent acquaintance would.Dare I hope for more?
I finally settled on a few innocuous lines in Lady Catherine’s cyphered message, but I could not say what must be said in a letter. I must travel to Ohio and speak in person.
Have No Fun(Third Person)
Elizabeth Bennet would sheepishly admit that she was a woman completely and thoroughly in love. It was the kind of love that transcended time, transcended class, transcended all thought and all womanly emotion. Yes, it must be admitted. The young lady was thoroughly transfixed by Herr Beethoven, Herr Haydn, and Herr Mozart. The love had come on quite gradually, and the lady was allowed much time to think on the topic while she assiduously wooed the keys on the pianoforte.
Absolute love had struck Anne with the force of a falling wall, and though she was shocked, astounded, and careful in her expression, Elizabeth strongly suspected Anne had been smitten in the first five minutes. Mr Read was of course a complete and unrepentant lovesick puppy, and made no secret of it. Jane, on the other hand, must have built her love up like a kettle over the course of a year, and only when she heard the boiling and the kettle ready to explode did she give herself over fully.
Elizabeth’s love for music had flourished early alongside Mary, been snuffed out by her intransigence, laziness, and fear after her blindness (ably assisted by her mother’s chastisement), and then fully resurrected once she decided to resume playing; at least when she decided to play with her fingers instead of her head.
Now, after only a few months, a direct connection formed between her fingers, the keys, her ears, and her soul. She no longer depended on such children’s tricks as notches on keyboards, and in fact could not abide marring a perfectly good instrument. A light touch of a single key sufficed to orient herself, and a quick scale enough to enthral her to the music. Nothing existed in her musical world but the sound, and there was nothing like the sense of peace that came when she could, just for a while, narrow her hearing to the point where she heardonly the music and not everything else happening within a dozen yards.
This particular pianoforte was like no other she had ever played, and she thought she might play through dinner, and probably supper as well; everyone in the building was transfixed by the music, while thoroughly unwilling to disturb her peace.
~~~
Charlotte Lucas was thoroughly vexed and confused. Vexed and confused and tired and sour and most disgusted. Seventy miles in a coach in one day, even if it was quite a good coach, and even in the company of the amiable twins, was too much for a woman whose nerves were so aflutter. She would eventually fret her way to understanding that the Bingleys had done nothing wrong all day, but eventually was a long time off when her limbs ached and her nerves were shattered. She wondered how long it would be until she called for Mrs Bennet’s salts.
The coach had barely come to a halt when she alighted, entered the house at a near run, and found the colonel in conversation with Lady Catherine in the parlour.
“I must speak with you—now!”
With that, she gave Lady Catherine a quick curtsey, dragged the bewildered man into the office next door, and slammed the door.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, quite unaware of what exactly he had done to get in her brown books this time, was perplexed but had enough sense to keep quiet until she had her say. Battle teaches a man when to keep his head down.
“Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrgh!”
The exclamation, along with the corresponding stamp of her foot, left the man perplexed, but at least not without some semblance of manners.
“Welcome back, Miss Lucas. I had not expected you, but—”
She glared at him for a moment, but he simply continued.
“—you are indeed, most welcome.”
“Am I, Colonel?”
“Always!I would hope you know that. I owe you my life.”
