Page 9 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“Mr Darcy.” Mrs Gardiner's greeting was warm and, he suspected, strategic. She had been watching him for five days, assembling a theory that appeared to involve him, Elizabeth, and the distance between them. He did not know whether to be alarmed or grateful.

“Mrs Gardiner. Mr Gardiner. Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. She conveyed perfect civility and complete opacity in a single movement.

Dinner proceeded. The soup was marginally better than the previous evening. The clergyman held forth on the antiquities of Sicily with breathless enthusiasm. His wife nodded at intervals. The Bristol merchant ate with single-minded focus.

Darcy ate and watched Elizabeth's hands. They were restless when she was amused, still when she was annoyed, and gripped things tightly when she was truly angry. He had seen her angry only once, and that was sufficient.

Tonight, she tapped her spoon against the edge of her bowl in a rhythm matching the ship's sway. She watched Mr Gardiner and Darcy with an unreadable expression.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said. The sound of his name in her voice made his chest tighten. “My uncle tells me you discussed the Sicilian grain trade this afternoon.”

“We did.”

“For how long?”

“I — some time. An hour, perhaps.”

“Two hours,” Mr Gardiner said cheerfully. “And we had not exhausted the subject. Mr Darcy has a thorough understanding of Mediterranean commerce for a man whose primary occupation is in Derbyshire.”

“Mr Darcy has a thorough understanding of many subjects,” Elizabeth said. Her tone was neutral. Her eyes were not. “He is a man of extensive study.”

Darcy looked at her. He did not know whether she was complimenting his learning or insulting his habit of forming conclusions from a distance.

“I aspire to be,” he said. “I do not always succeed.”

Her eyebrows rose. “An unusual admission.”

“I have been making unusual admissions recently. It is a new undertaking.”

“Is it going well?”

“I am told it improves with practice. I am in the early stages and therefore frequently wrong.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. It was not a smile, but it was close. He watched her with complete, desperate attention.

Mrs Gardiner looked at Mr Gardiner. Mr Gardiner looked at his soup. The table held its breath.

“Practice does help,” Elizabeth said. “I have found that being wrong becomes less painful with repetition, though it never becomes pleasant.”

“No,” Darcy said. “It does not.”

The ship rocked. Their eyes held for a moment longer than the conversation warranted. They both knew they had been wrong.

Elizabeth looked away first. She picked up her spoon. The tapping resumed.

Darcy ate his soup without tasting it. She made a joke about being wrong. She included herself. She did not say “you were wrong” — she said “being wrong.” First person, general application, herself included.

A door that had been closed was now, by the width of a sentence, ajar.

He finished his soup and excused himself. He went to his cabin, sat on the edge of his bunk, and pressed his hands together. He thought about her mouth, almost smiling. He thought about her voice, saying practice helps. She had destroyed him. Now, possibly, she was three inches from finding him bearable.

Three inches was a country. He would cross it on his knees if she let him.

Chapter Five

It started with a remark about loyalty.