She shook her head, sitting up straighter in the bed as her breathing came in faster gasps. “That does not sound familiar. Are you sure?”
Although their problems had just become much larger than he had feared, Darcy could not help chuckling. “Yes, I am certain.”
“Are you having the pain?” Martin’s question drew her attention to him. She nodded and then flinched as if the movement hurt. The doctor leaned forward to examine the back of Elizabeth’s head. She winced at his gentle touch. “What are you remembering?” he asked. “Can you tell me the last memory?”
Her eyes glazed over as she considered for a moment. “Nothing. I remember nothing.”
“Not to worry.” The doctor’s voice continued low and soothing. “Can you say the name of where you grew up? Or your parents?”
She hesitated before replying. “No.” Her voice climbed in pitch. “This is wrong. So wrong. What has happened to me?”
“Shh. Shh.” The doctor laid her head back gently on the pillows. “You had a hurt to your head. Sometimes that causes forgetfulness.” He glanced up at Darcy, speaking in French. “I have read about such cases. The condition is called amnesia.”
“But the wound was weeks ago,” Darcy protested. “Why is she not recovered?”
The doctor peered deeply into Elizabeth’s eyes. “The blow was severe; there is still some swelling. And sometimes the effects linger even after the wound is healed.”
“Her brain was damaged?” Darcy asked in a horrified whisper.
Elizabeth watched them both with sharp eyes that suggested she understood some of the conversation.
“I do not believe so,” Martin said. “She seems quite rational. Her wits are intact.”
“I am rational!” Elizabeth declared in English, proving that she spoke enough French to understand them.
Darcy could not suppress a laugh. “It appears her character is intact as well.”
One corner of Martin’s mouth curved upward. “It may be that only her memory was affected. There have been similar cases.”
“Will the memories return?” Darcy asked.
The doctor shrugged. “Sometimes they do, and sometimes they do not. Researchers do not know why.”
Elizabeth appealed to Darcy with a horrified expression. “Is he saying sometimes the memories do not return?” Darcy instinctively tightened his grip on her hand.
“It is too soon that we know for certain,” Martin reassured her in English. “But, you are safe. Your husband is here—together with you.”
She regarded Darcy in wonder. “You are my husband?”
“Yes. Fitzwilliam Darcy.” He said a silent prayer of forgiveness for the falsehood.
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “That is quite a lot of syllables. Surely I do not call you Fitzwilliam.” A little tension ebbed from Darcy. Forgetful or not, she was still his Elizabeth.
But what should she call him? He had never considered the question before. His friends simply used his last name. His parents had called him Will. The staff addressed him as Mr. Darcy. Only Georgiana called him William. Suddenly Darcy experienced a fierce yearning to hear that name on Elizabeth’s lips. “No…er…you address me as William.”
She nodded slowly, her eyelids lowering. “William,” she murmured, her mouth lingering over each syllable as he savored the sound. Then her eyes snapped open. “Wait! What is my name? My full name?”
“You are Elizabeth Anne Bennet.”
“Darcy,” Martin corrected with a grin.
Damnation! He had forgotten already. How would he ever pull off this charade? “Yes, yes. Elizabeth Darcy,” he agreed quickly. “We are recently wed.”
She gave him a long, searching look. “I am married to you?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, hating the necessity of the falsehood.
Elizabeth’s eyes blearily examined him from the top of his head to the toes of his boots. “Hmm…” she mumbled sleepily as her eyelids dropped. “I may not know my name, but I know I have excellent taste in men.”
Darcy had never blushed more furiously in his life.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth was deeply asleep, but Darcy could not bring himself to leave her bedside. Already her countenance had lost some of its grayish pallor and taken on a rosier hue. Her perfectly pink lips parted slightly as she inhaled and exhaled in a steady rhythm. Dark lashes brushed her cheeks. He often had envisioned how Elizabeth would look when asleep, and now he could look to his heart’s content. But that was not why Darcy had difficulty tearing his eyes from her. Instead his scrutiny was borne of an almost superstitious fear that some ill would befall her if he left her presence.
The silent vigil afforded him plenty of time to think. Guilt nagged at him. He should not have told Martin that she was his wife—and should not have compounded that sin by repeating the lie to Elizabeth. Yet he could not regret it. Her eyes had gone wide with fear when she realized how she had forgotten her life. However, the presence of a “husband” seemed to be reassuring; at least she could sleep.
Still, he experienced a compulsion to confess everything when she awoke. Darcy abhorred falsehoods, and the confession would relieve his conscience. He would simply explain that he was not a husband or even a fiancé, but an acquaintance she disliked and whose proposal she had rejected.
But try as he might, Darcy could not imagine how such a confession would go well. She trusted him…now. If she knew the truth, she might believe she had nobody to trust. It would be disastrous to her peace of mind—and would perhaps slow her recovery. Surely placing her trust in Darcy was preferable. He would protect her with his life and would never do anything to hurt her. Except lie to her, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
Darcy ignored it. There would be time enough for the truth later. Most likely she would remember on her own and then they could discuss it—hopefully before she ran screaming from the room.
Decision made, Darcy stood and called Mrs. Martin to watch Elizabeth. Loath though he was to leave her side, he needed to take other steps to secure her safety. Mr. Martin’s promise of discretion was reassuring, but he needed to know more. Why would the man take such a risk with his family’s safety?
Darcy found the doctor in his study, a dark-paneled, comfortable room with books lining two walls—exactly what Darcy would expect from such a learned man. The fireplace stood empty, but above it was a portrait of a young, blond man. He bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Martin. A son perhaps?
The doctor was working at his desk but stood when Darcy entered. “Mr. D’Arcy, how is your wife?”
“She is sleeping now.”
“Good.” He nodded. “I would like to take this opportunity to examine your hand.”
Darcy stared at the bandage; he had completely forgotten the wound. “It is of no matter.”
Martin eyed him severely. “What will become of your wife if you die of an infected wound?”
Darcy sighed. Damn the man for making sense! “Very well,” he grumbled, thrusting his hand forward. Martin took it in both of his hands, turning it toward the lamp on his desk as he unwound the bandage.
The stitches were small and even, and the area around the wound looked red to Darcy’s inexperienced eyes. However, the doctor seemed unconcerned. “It is healing well,” Martin said as he re-bound the wound. “But you must heal for several more days before I may remove the stitches.”
Darcy nodded. “There is another matter I would discuss with you.”
“Of course.” Martin gestured to the seat before his desk, and Darcy sat. “Would you like some brandy?”
Real French brandy. Darcy’s mouth watered at the thought. “Please.”
The doctor went to the sideboard and poured from a glass decanter into two glasses. “What is on your mind, hmm?” Seating himself behind the desk, he handed a glass to Darcy. The brandy was as smooth and flavorful as he had imagined.
Darcy stared at the amber liquid, considering how to broach the delicate subject. �
�I am…surprised that you are so willing to conceal us from the authorities. They may not care about Elizabeth, but if they discover an Englishman in your home, they might arrest you…” He allowed his words to peter out, hoping the man would explain himself.
Martin set down his glass. “You are wondering if I secretly plan to present you to the gendarmes as an early Christmas present?”
Darcy would not have phrased it in such a way, but… “Essentially.”
The doctor waved a dismissive hand. “You have nothing to fear, my friend.”
“To be blunt, how can I be sure? I am risking my wife’s life.”
The other man took a long, thoughtful gulp from his glass. “I do not know how familiar you are with the history of Bretagne, but the Chouan were very popular here, particularly in Saint-Malo.”
The English newspapers had published many stories about the Chouan, French bourgeoisie who had opposed the revolution, leading to many violent clashes with republican soldiers. “I thought the movement had been crushed.”
Martin’s lips pressed tightly together. “It was. I myself was not a member, but…I lost friends….” He sighed. “However, the spirit of the Chouan was not completely crushed. Not here and not elsewhere in Bretagne.”
Darcy indulged in another sip of brandy. He would have been more reassured if Martin had admitted to being part of the Chouan.
The doctor must have guessed Darcy’s reservations; he gave a mirthless laugh. “If the Chouan still existed today, I would be the first to sign my name.”
Darcy’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry. What had changed?
Martin gestured to the painting over the mantel. “My son, Charles.” The man could not have been more than twenty when the likeness was taken. “He was an ardent supporter of Napoleon when he was First Counsel—before the man styled himself Emperor.” He uttered the last word with a sneer. “Napoleon claimed it was necessary to raise a Grand Army to defend France from its enemies. I doubted the necessity, but Charles—a true patriot—believed. He did not wait to be conscripted; he volunteered.” Martin paused for a gulp of brandy. Darcy had a dark premonition about the ending of the story.
The doctor set his glass on the desk with trembling hands. “He was a soldier for two years, but he grew less and less content with Napoleon’s cause. In his last letter to me, Charles expressed doubts about the Peninsular War. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘were we fighting in Spain? It does nothing to defend our borders. Spain does not threaten France.’” Martin stared into the middle distance as if seeing things not in the room. “He was not the only one with such questions.”
Martin fell silent, lost in his reverie. After a long pause, Darcy cleared his throat. “Your son was sent to the Peninsula?”
Martin grimaced. “Yes. He fell in the very first battle. My friends said I should be pleased he died in battle and not of disease, as so many soldiers do.” A cynical snort expressed what the doctor thought of that idea.
Darcy winced. Richard had fought on the Peninsula. Was it possible that Richard had cut down Martin’s son? Unlikely, but still his stomach knotted with tension. Of course, Darcy had known that war was a horrible business, but the thought of Richard and Charles meeting in battle provoked a new awareness of the horror. Richard was a good man, and no doubt Charles had been a good man as well. Thank God Richard was now involved in espionage rather than fighting on the front lines.
“My condolences,” Darcy said, aware that the words were horribly inadequate.
Martin appeared not to hear. “And now our glorious leader has taken the flower of France’s youth to Russia. Russia! Where the cold and snow will kill them if the Russian army does not.”
Darcy winced. British newspapers suggested that the French casualties from the Russian offensive were devastating.
“Why, I ask you, must we go to Russia at all?” Martin finished the rest of his brandy in a long swallow. “Everyone in Saint-Malo is sick of the war. We do not care if the ‘emperor’ wins or loses. We only want peace.”
Darcy gaped. Such words were treasonous, dangerous to utter.
Martin gave another bitter laugh. “Do not worry, my friend. Everyone in Saint-Malo thinks the same. The war has been long and costly. Many here have lost sons, brothers, husbands—and everyone has felt the pinch of increased taxation and scarce resources. Even many of the gendarmes hate the war. They conscript too many of the youth. Young men often ask that I declare them unfit for combat. I can always find something wrong: weak lungs or flat feet. It is preferable to having them mutilate themselves to avoid conscription.”
Darcy drew in a long breath. What a terrible price these people were paying for their leader’s war.
“Naturally I would not vocalize such sentiments to the colonel who commands the town’s garrison,” Martin conceded. “But even he knows they are not popular here. Everyone speaks openly about hopes for the end of the war and the restoration of the monarchy.”
Did Darcy dare trust the doctor’s words? More, did he dare trust Elizabeth’s life to this man? On the other hand, what was the alternative? Ferrying her to England in her present state would be nigh impossible. And the doctor’s sentiments agreed with what Darcy had observed in the marketplace.
Trust did not come easily, however. Darcy stroked his chin. “How long will it be before Elizabeth can travel?”
The doctor pursed his lips as he thought. “It is difficult to predict, but at least a week. Her lungs need to recover, or you risk a relapse.”
“How long until she recovers her memory?” Darcy refused to contemplate the possibility that she might never recover it.
He shrugged. “I cannot give you an estimate. The phenomenon of amnesia has not been extensively studied, and we know very little.”
Darcy nodded. It was the answer he expected. He could only hope Elizabeth would be ready to travel soon. Every day increased the danger of discovery.
***
When she awoke again, she was alone. The room’s emptiness made her heart beat a little faster. Although it had been disconcerting to awaken to two strange men, being alone with her own thoughts was nearly worse. Her head ached, and her throat was parched. The room was brightly lit; she was grateful for the curtains that kept out the worst of the summer sun.
Elizabeth. The darkly handsome man had said her name was Elizabeth, but it brought no sense of familiarity, no stirrings in her memory. Nor had the man himself—her husband—provoked any recollections. That was wrong, she knew. She should remember her name, her husband’s name, and all manner of other things—her childhood, her parents, her home. She strained to remember even the smallest thing, but it was like reaching into a void: there was nothing she could grasp. This was wrong, all wrong. Who was she if she could not remember even the most basic information about her life? Did she even really exist?
I am in a bed. The sunshine is yellow and bright. The armchair has green and gold embroidery. She perfectly recalled words, objects, descriptions. But she could not recall even the tiniest detail about herself. Do I prefer beef or mutton? Do I dance or sing? Do I have brothers and sisters? Even the smallest details remained stubbornly out of reach. It was like trying to grasp clouds.
Her breath quickened, and her legs twitched as if readying themselves to flee, but she could not outrun this threat. Her panting triggered a coughing fit; she fought for breath, each gasp causing her lungs to ache.
Clutching the counterpane in both hands, Elizabeth willed her muscles to relax, her breathing to slow. I am safe for the moment, she assured herself. My husband is here. I am alive. Concentrating ferociously, she slowed her breaths until they evened out and her heart ceased its frantic pounding.
Seeking to avoid the yawning absences inside herself, Elizabeth turned her mind to other thoughts, such as discerning her location. The room was small, decorated in bright wallpaper with yellow flowers. It was sparsely furnished, with an armchair and a table by the side of the bed and a dresser against the far wall. Is this my home? My home wit
h William? None of the furnishings tugged at her memory, but that meant little.
If only her head would not pound as though someone beat it like a drum!
Shakily, her fingers kneaded the hem of the sheet. The world was vast and complicated, and Elizabeth was small—tiny—and easily crushed. How could she hope to survive with no memories to rely upon? It was an impossible task. She would be lost. Utterly lost. A boat adrift in the middle of a lake with no oars and no way to reach the shore.
She fought back the black grip of panic. I have a husband. I am not completely alone and unmoored. What was his name? She cringed inwardly at the idea that she had forgotten such a basic fact. William. Yes, his name is William. As she pictured his face, her heartbeat instantly slowed. William. The name suits him.
Yet she recalled nothing about him or their relationship. How could she have forgotten a man so handsome, so tender? It seemed particularly unfair that she could not remember kissing him. Kisses from such a man would surely be worth remembering. No doubt she had kissed him many times. I would kiss him now if he walked into the room. The very brazenness of the thought made her blush.
And the wedding night! What had happened on the wedding night? She was wild to know, but her mind remained stubbornly blank.
It was part of a long list of things she did not know. “Upon my word,” she exclaimed to the empty room, “I would not even recognize my own countenance!”
Suddenly it was very important to know her own appearance. Her hair was a dark mahogany, and her hands appeared young—unlined and unspotted—but she knew little else. Was she pretty? Was she tall? What was her age? A mirror hung on the far wall, but Elizabeth’s position in the bed did not allow her to see it.
Climbing from the bed would not be condoned by doctor or husband, but neither was present. Hmm….apparently I do not bow easily to the will of others. Good for me.
If she were to make the effort, it would be best to do so now while she was still alone in the room. Sitting up provoked a wave of dizziness; Elizabeth paused for a moment to allow the room to stop spinning around her. Feeling steadier, she slid to the edge of the bed and dangled her legs over the side. They did not reach the floor. Perhaps that answers my question about my height. Fortunately, the dizziness remained at bay despite her movements.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 5
