Sharon Lathan: The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

The weather held favorably for the Channel crossing from Dover to Calais. That was a major boon for the non-seafaring Darcy men in one respect as the calm waters did not jostle the ship, but not so fortunate in that the lack of wind extended the time of the crossing. George and Darcy kept to their bunks in various degrees of misery for the entire ten-hour voyage, but Alexander did not suffer as acutely as his father or uncle. Lizzy held him in her arms and stood at the railing. She loved the rolling waves and relished the spray and smell of seawater for every moment of the journey.

The port of Calais was another matter entirely. It was chaotic, dirty, fetid, and plain frightening in how ramshackle the docks, at least to her untrained eye. Darcy assured her it was perfectly stout and safe, but considering his frantic need to disembark and place his feet on solid ground, she was not trusting of his guarantee! There were no mishaps and the hours necessary to unload their equipage gave them time to recuperate within the warmth of a hospitable inn near the docks. Lizzy discovered her fascination and agreeableness returning as she observed the diverse humanity and unfamiliar activities from behind a glass window.

“What are they doing there? What is that contraption? Who are those men, do you think?” And on it went, the others patiently answering her inexhaustible queries while Lizzy jotted notes into the blank journal Darcy had gifted her for the journey. Georgiana’s curiosity was as intense, but she maintained a semi-serene demeanor in sharp contrast to Lizzy’s blatant enthrallment.

It took nearly four hours to unload, examine everything for damage, take care of the proper legalities, and hire the required help. Brokers lined the harbor with shingles hung above dingy doorways to offices squeezed between pubs. Recommendations gave the men a starting place rather than trusting to luck, and the third businessman approached possessed what the foreign travelers would need: an experienced coachman and former soldiers with impeccable records who knew the roads, and were brave and skilled with firearms.

The women had been prepared for the demand to hire trained escorts prior to leaving England, including the fact that each gentleman would carry loaded weapons with additional pistols secreted inside the carriages.

“Decades of war and terror and then Napoleon’s defeat have left far too many people homeless and starving—thousands of ex-soldiers without employment and no skill other than how to kill. Some turn that to lucrative business, such as those we will hire to be our guards. Others turn to thievery and highway robbery.” Lizzy shivered at Darcy’s words, remembering their lethal encounter with bandits. “We will be cautious,” he finished firmly, embracing her tightly.

Traveling in larger groups also tipped the odds in their favor, making it less likely that an attack would occur. As luck had it, two other families were on their ship and thrilled to join them for the journey to Paris, and two other companies were already ashore waiting for the next ship to dock in hopes of adding members to their caravan before departing. It was fortuitous for all involved.

Finally they regrouped, leaving Calais for a leisurely meander toward Paris. The careful plotting by the men succeeded, the days of travel passing pleasantly with halts for rest or interesting sights to explore.

Then Paris! Georgiana’s feigned serenity disappeared as the vast city drew near, and upon crossing the first cobbled bridge spanning the Seine her giddiness equaled Lizzy’s.

“Are we there, Brother? This is Paris?”

“The outskirts. Paris proper is yet a few miles and then we must cross a quarter of the city to reach Marais.”

“How long shall it take? Will we pass the Bastille? Or the Luxembourg Palace? Or Notre Dame? Or…”

“I shall stop you there, Sister! I have no idea whether we shall pass any of those places on our way to Hôtel d’Arlatan.”

Both Lizzy and Georgiana stared at him in shock, Lizzy finding her tongue first. “Are you admitting to not knowing the precise route and layout of Paris?”

“Remember that I was last here several years ago when I traveled with Mr. Bingley. I am certain much has changed with Napoleon’s restructuring plans and now Louis XVIII continuing the project, not that I tried memorizing routes then. I can tell you that the Place de la Bastille lays within the Marais arrondissement, but where it is in relation to Hôtel d’Arlatan I do not know. In fact, I trust Uncle Malcolm on this aspect of the journey as he knows the owners.”

“So you are not fully versed on every detail of the townhouse we are to stay in, not even where is it?”

Darcy smiled at his wife’s tease. “I know it is on the Rue Andre Dolet near the Parc du Rolens Croix, that the view is reportedly incredible, and the hôtel beautiful. Beyond that I am at the mercy of guides, thus why I shall not attempt to play navigator. That is why we hired Parisian coachmen in Calais.”

“Ah, I did wonder about that,” Lizzy nodded. “Quite wise. Well, I do pray they are recent residents if the streets are under construction.”

“Paris, and actually all of France, has suffered decades of unrest. The evidence is visible still.”

He was correct in the latter statement. Buildings in partial states of repair were common, as were piles of rubble and destroyed gardens. They kept to major thoroughfares so views of poorer neighborhoods were rare, but glimpses revealed areas of filth and decay not yet touched upon. But clearly the coachman leading the way knew his job, diverting frequently from blocked avenues or unsightly obstacles, weaving in a haphazard fashion along roads laid without a pattern remotely organized.

Most of the scenery was pristine and beautiful so the lengthy ride was enjoyed immensely. Darcy pointed to certain architectural oddities or vegetation not indigenous to England, but he was ignorant to a large degree. Paris was much like London in the ancientness to the city, meaning there was little cohesiveness to the styles. Modern Greek neoclassicism stood alongside medieval Gothic, the disparity bizarre but expected. Elaborate gardens were frequent, as were gated lawns and miniature woods. The deeper into the city they went, the grander the passing surroundings until finally they crested a residential avenue lined with palatial private homes and halted before the iron gate of number eighteen, the plush mansion owned by the Marquis Dissandes de la Villatte.

The elderly marquis, an acquaintance of Colonel Fitzwilliam from the war, greeted them with warmth and hospitality. As Darcy had promised, the townhouse was beautiful, with ornate, spacious guest quarters overlooking the courtyard gardens. Every top floor window afforded stunning views of the city streets, a nearby park, and glimpses of the Seine.

Their host and hostess were courteous in every way. The food was delicious, the servants exceptional, and the accommodations superb. Their three weeks in Paris passed in a blur of fêtes, operas, museums, and sightseeing. It was not enough time to adequately view all that Paris had to offer, but eventually they bid adieu to the Marquis and Marquise Dissandes de la Villatte to embark on the second leg of their journey.

“I completely filled my journal with memories of France.” Lizzy patted the thick, leather-bound book in her lap, her eyes riveted on the disappearing Paris landscape.

“No worries,” Darcy squeezed her hand, “I have another in my trunk. Two, actually, just in case.”

“You think of everything, do you, Mr. Darcy?”

“I do try.” He grinned smugly, leaning to kiss her nose.

“Well, I am sure I will recall something I missed to add in betwixt the future delights to jot down, so thank you for your foresight and thoughtfulness.” She sighed, gazing again out the window. “I do wish we did not have to leave. Who knows when we shall be able to return, what with babies being born and all,” she concluded, rubbing her slightly rounded midsection.