A few days later, Elizabeth began to feel the effects of not sleeping well for several successive nights, but she still eagerly looked forward to her walk. As she readied herself to go aloft, she determined that on this day they would discuss poetry. She wondered whether he enjoyed that literary genre. She imagined he would not.
Later, after they had walked the perimeter of the ship a couple of times, she finally inquired, “What do you think of poetry, Mr. Darcy? Is it the food or foolishness of love?”
“I believe it is said that poetry is the food of love,” answered Darcy, fairly suspicious that she was ready to challenge his statement.
“So they say. But how often has poetry actually driven away love? If it is a good, strong, healthy love, then anything will nurture it and cause it to grow. But a weak love… I am afraid that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”
“But would it not also have to do with the sonnet itself? A good, strong, healthy sonnet should have a positive effect on even the weakest love, whereas a weak sonnet, in even the most fervent and ardent love, might it not even be injurious to it?”
Elizabeth smiled. “But would not the recipient’s knowledge and appreciation of sonnets be essential? What is pleasing to one person may not be to another.”
A fleeting thought crossed his mind that she was much like a young lady he had met years before. The memory was merely a faded blur, having spent only a couple of hours with her in a carriage, but she stirred him in the same way. He could not remember her name or where she had been travelling.
They continued to banter back and forth, but this morning Elizabeth had to excuse herself early. She had grown more weary and even the fresh air was not obliging her as it normally did in reviving her spirits.
Elizabeth retreated back down to steerage and did a little to help out Mrs. Rawlings and her daughters, as she normally did, in addition to a few others who were struggling with illness. She soon found herself growing more and more weary, and finally was compelled to curl up and take a short nap, even though she felt she needed to help out those who were suffering from more severe illnesses. She ended up sleeping for most of the day; something that she rarely did.
***
With the rising of the sun the following day, Elizabeth struggled to open her eyes. Her head ached, as well as her body, and she was only vaguely aware of the sun sending its light and warmth down into the depths of the ship in a futile attempt to awaken her. She shifted her position on the floor but could not get comfortable. The voices she began to hear were only murmurs, and she could not make out any particular words. Her one thought was that perhaps she was becoming ill as well, as she dug herself deeper into the coverlet, covering her eyes from the light that was beginning to filter through the room.
Darcy had eagerly pulled himself out of bed, looking with anticipation toward his morning walk. That he found himself looking forward to being with Miss Bennet altogether surprised him. He rarely had, in all his adult years, been so captivated by a woman. Although he knew it was an injudicious partiality on his part, as she was not at all suitable for him, he was helpless to put her out of his mind.
She had become the one thing on this ship he found tolerable; a refreshing, lively distraction from both the unpleasant obligation this journey had become and the intolerable array of women seeking his attention. She enjoyed doing things he enjoyed doing. He tried to convince himself that there was nothing more to it than the simple fact that they enjoyed their morning walks together talking about books they had both read.
She does not seem particularly to seek out my attention as so many women do. What a pleasant change! That last thought surprised him. He shook his head, contemplating the oddity that he considered a woman not interested in him a pleasant change.
He vigorously splashed himself with the water from the pitcher and managed a frugal attempt at bathing using the hand basin in his room that was the only provision for bathing on this ship. He looked at himself in the small mirror, frustrated with his unruly, curly hair that was becoming more unmanageable with each passing day. He wished he had his valet along, who could work wonders with very little. He wished he could don a hat and cover what he considered his least favourable attribute, but the wind up on deck would only whip it away, so he resigned himself to just walk up and face her with his hair looking the way it was. And it was certain only to get worse.
He readily walked up and out on deck, pleased to find another fine day, and he began his walk. Each time around, when he approached the door that led to the stairway, he paused, hoping to see Elizabeth appear. Several times during his walk he glanced behind him, thinking that possibly he would find her there, but each time he was disappointed.
He scolded himself, arguing that he had no business dwelling on this lady whom he would most likely never see again and one whom he would probably never have given a second glance in Town. She was simply a young lady from a small, inconsequential country village somewhere in England.
His strides became more determined as he contended with himself regarding the disparity between the two of them. Resolving to cease his musings of her, however, and the actual realization of it are two different things. He continued on with the hope of seeing her. After a disappointing walk, he finally returned to his room and wondered at her absence.
Later that morning, he went to the eating area for the prepared meal that was becoming less and less desirable as there was nothing remaining that was fresh. He overheard passengers talking about the sickness taking hold in steerage.
“With all those people confined together, what do you expect?” one man asked in frustration.
Another spoke up. “I have heard o’ ship’s fever that takes hold and runs rampant. Sometimes it can be fatal. I heard o’ ships coming to port having lost a whole one fourth of their passengers.”
“Excuse me,” Darcy spoke and a look of silent surprise passed each face as they looked toward this man who usually extended only the minimal courtesy of conversation that civility required. “What was that you were saying about disease spreading through the ship?”
“Not the whole ship, sir. Just down in steerage.”
“Do you know what it is?” he asked.
“No. It’s mainly in the women’s and children’s area and a fever seems to be part of it.” After a pause the man added, “I just hope it’s not the typhoid.”
Darcy tensed and his jaw firmly tightened as he thought of Miss Bennet. He knew she had been caring for the Rawlingses, as well as a few others, and wondered if she had grown ill herself. His mind went back to his walks with her, and he recalled that she appeared increasingly tired and worn each morning. “Has anyone inquired of the captain for some medical assistance for them?”
“I believe so, but he can do nothing. At this point he does not think it is anything serious and it will run its course. Till then we must wait and hope.”
“And pray!” added another.
Darcy stood there silent, as all the eyes in the group were upon this man who, for most of the past week, had been distant, aloof, and exhibited a very austere persona. That he was suddenly conversing with them was surprise enough, but that he appeared concerned astonished them even more.
Darcy felt a presence behind him, and he turned to see Miss Brewster standing behind him.
“Mr. Darcy, what a pleasure to encounter you this morning.”
The last thing Darcy wanted was to endure this woman’s wearisome presence. Each day it seemed she had sought him out at exactly the time he least wanted it. There were two or three other women who seemed to take pleasure in finding him unattached and wanting for company. Yet now she was displaying the audacity to approach him while in the midst of a conversation with a group of men. Would it never cease?