When musing about the first dream (assuming it was a memory), Elizabeth had supposed that she and William quickly overcame the negative feelings about their first encounter. She had imagined that William apologized, and they laughed over the misunderstanding before embarking on their courtship.
But this memory—from some months later and in a completely different place—suggested that they were still very much at odds, even if William did not recognize it. Sitting at the pianoforte, Elizabeth’s thoughts about William had been extremely unfavorable. Her words had been bitter, even if she concealed her anger with a teasing tone.
In Saint-Malo, William had suggested their acquaintance was short before their marriage. How had she gone from disliking the man to accepting his hand? It was a puzzle. She shivered despite the heat in the room. I am missing something, an important piece of information; without it I am groping for answers in the dark.
She cursed the holes in her memory. William’s concern for her wellbeing was indisputable; he had risked his life on her behalf many times. But she had the persistent sense that he was concealing something from her. A fundamental rift? A mutual disdain? Some kind of forced marriage?
Staring into the dark, she listened to the thumping of her racing heart. What would she do if the one person she relied upon completely was the one person she could not trust?
William rolled over in his sleep and threw his arm around her, pulling her close against his body. The sensation of his hands on her arms made her skin crawl, but Elizabeth did not struggle lest she awaken him. She expected to remain awake for the rest of the night, but she soon fell into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
In the morning, Mr. Girard introduced Darcy to Mr. Moreau, the captain of a barge bound for Rouen. A gruff fifty-year-old with a fringe of white hair, Moreau eyed Darcy with a raised eyebrow. “Do you support Napoleon?” he asked in a harsh voice nearly as weather-beaten as his face.
Unsure of the “correct” answer, Darcy simply gave the honest one. “No.”
Moreau grunted. “Good.” He spat on the floor. “I spit on Napoleon!”
Darcy said nothing.
“Do you support Joseph Fouche?”
Fouche was the director of the Paris gendarmes—someone Darcy had no desire to encounter.
“No.”
“Good.” Moreau spat on the floor again. “I spit on Fouche!”
Again, Darcy said nothing.
“And what of the gendarmes of Paris?” Moreau’s eyes narrowed at Darcy.
By now Darcy felt comfortable revealing some of the truth, so he shrugged. “Well, they tried to arrest me.”
Moreau spat on the ground again. “I spit on the gendarmes!”
Girard rolled his eyes. “We get the idea, Moreau.”
Moreau grinned at Darcy. “If taking you to Rouen would make Napoleon’s gendarmes unhappy, I am pleased to help.” Then he named his price.
Darcy grimaced; the captain was not solely motivated by altruism, but they had little choice. “We have a deal.”
***
The barge did not move swiftly, which gave Darcy plenty of time to enjoy the passing scenery from the deck. One bank boasted fields of golden wheat as far as the eye could see; they gleamed in the noonday sun and rippled whenever a breeze brushed over the sheaves. A picturesque village occupied the other bank.
Hearing footsteps, he turned to find Elizabeth climbing the stairs to the deck. The voyage so far had been uneventful, and he had enjoyed the opportunity to relax his vigilance.
Genuinely pleased to see her, he gave her a warm smile, but her answering smile was brief and tight. It was not his imagination; although the trip on the barge should have helped Elizabeth relax, she seemed more distant with every passing hour.
He had been poised to inquire about her change in mood numerous times, but he feared the answer. What if she had remembered something he would prefer she forget? What if she had decided she could not love him?
Despite his unease, he longed to take her hand, as much to reassure himself as to express affection for her. However, he could not forget—even for a minute—that he did not have the right to touch her as a husband
would. He held his breath, hoping she would extend her hand to take his, but she joined him at the railing with only a cursory glance in his direction.
Restraint was the proper course, but Darcy’s arms ached with emptiness—particularly now that he knew exactly how they would feel wrapped around Elizabeth. It was pure torture sharing a bed with her every night while trying not to touch her.