Slowly, she slid off the bed, gingerly resting her weight on her feet. Her knees immediately buckled, compelling her to grab the edge of the bed. The next few minutes were occupied with steadying herself.
Holding the bed with one hand, she took a step and then another, pleased that she remained upright. Reaching the end of the bed, she was at the point where she needed to place all her trust in her legs. She took a minute to ensure her balance and then released her grip on the carved wooden bedpost, holding her breath as she stepped into the middle of the room.
Her body wobbled a bit, but she did not fall. She took another quick step, which brought her to the mirror. Steadying herself with a hand against the wall, she stared into it with rapt fascination.
The face that stared back at her might have been pretty were it not so pale and gaunt. Dark circles shadowed Elizabeth’s eyes, and her cheeks had hollowed out. How long was I sick? I might have been raised from the dead!
At least her hair was dark and thick, curling around her face. And her eyes were bright, a startling green. I have a few good features despite my complete want of complexion. Under the linen nightrail, her frame was slender to the point of being thin. I resemble a plague victim. What if my countenance never recovers? Her stomach clenched. Would William put me aside if I am never in good looks again?
Without any warning, the room dimmed, her legs collapsed, and Elizabeth sank to the floor. I am fainting. How odd, I have never fainted before. Actually, how would I know? This is so frustrating…
The world went black, but briefly. After only a few seconds, she recovered consciousness. Her arms had broken her fall, but her legs were awkwardly twisted underneath her.
She did not try to arise immediately but remained on the floor, panting while her heart rate returned to normal. I should call for help, but they will only chastise me for leaving my bed.
Evidently I also am stubborn.
Once she had regained a modicum of strength, Elizabeth crawled to the end of the bed and pulled herself to standing with the help of the wooden bedpost. She needed another minute to rest before she could lift herself onto the bed. It required another rest before she had the energy to crawl up to the head of the bed, where she collapsed with her head upon the pillows, unable to muster the energy to crawl under the covers.
Elizabeth dozed, but when she awoke, nothing had changed except the angle of the sun in the window.
She considered what she had learned. The face in the mirror held no familiarity, and no memories had appeared in her head as she slept. She was a stranger even to herself. Was it possible for a person to be more alone?
Her hands clenched into fists. I must not give way to panic. There must be other ways to learn about my situation. Perhaps she could make deductions from her own observations. Earlier she had ignored the sounds of the household, but now she strained her ears to hear them.
A conversation between two women was taking place near the closed door to her room. Elizabeth understood only about a quarter of their words—enough to guess that the conversation concerned that evening’s dinner menu.
Why did she comprehend so little of it? Was that an effect of the blow to her head? But she had understood William quite easily—every word. And the doctor had been comprehensible despite his accent. Because they had spoken…English. Her mind supplied the right word. Yes, he had spoken proper English while the doctor had spoken with a French accent. And the conversation outside her door was entirely in French—the reason she understood so little.
This amnesia was a strange thing. She could not remember anything of her childhood, but she was completely certain that she had accurately identified French and English. Had she taken French lessons as a child?
Why were the women speaking in French? And why did the doctor have an accent? She peered around the room: the furniture, curtains, paintings. Everything had felt subtly alien, although she was only now recognizing the sensation. This was not her home; there was nothing English about it.
Her heart beat an agitated rhythm, and her palms grew moist. I must be in France. For a moment she did not recall why the thought quickened her breathing. This place feels safe, but I know France is not safe. Why? But the reason eluded her. I should be in England; I know it. However, try as she might, Elizabeth could not picture where she lived. Did she live in a London townhouse? Or on a farm in the country? Or in an apartment over a shop?
At least if I live in the country, I may take long walks. I dearly love long walks.
How do I know that?
The strain of remembering was like trying to grab for handfuls of clouds. Her head throbbed, and her eyes drifted closed, as if the very act of trying to remember had taken more effort than her body could sustain. She fought sleep, wanting to learn more about the place, but soon her eyelids closed, and she fell deeply asleep.
***
When she next awakened, William sat in the armchair reading a book. He sprang to his feet the moment she stirred.
“How do you feel? Should I get the doctor? What do you need? Whatever you want, I shall obtain it for you.”
Sitting up in the bed, Elizabeth tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Whatever I want? Hmm…I would like a strawberry and apple tart.”
William took a step toward the door and then stopped, turning to her with a crestfallen expression. “I do not believe strawberries and apples are in season.”
Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips indignantly. “No strawberries?” William’s eyes widened with near panic until Elizabeth ruined the effect by laughing.
A slow smile broke out over William’s face. “I should have known that even a blow to the head and lung fever would not quell your mischievous sense of humor.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “At this moment I would happily trade it for a lifetime’s memories.”
Her husband’s expression darkened. “Do not say so. I would not alter one thing about you.”
She suppressed a shudder. Such sentiments were disconcerting when spoken by someone who essentially was a stranger. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Would you pour me some water?”
“Of course.” William poured a glass from which she drank greedily. “Have you remembered anything at all?”
“No.” Trying to remember anything was like visiting a house that should be full of people and activity, only to find nothing but empty echoing chambers. Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face. William took the glass gently from her hand. “It is early yet. You have barely started to recover.”
Elizabeth wished she shared his optimism. William poured more water into the glass. “The doctor wishes you to drink. You have not drunk nearly enough over the past days.”
Finding she was quite thirsty, Elizabeth eagerly drank and then held out her glass for more “Would you like some soup?” William asked. “You have not eaten a proper meal in days.”
At the mention of food, Elizabeth’s stomach rumbled. “I believe that is your answer,” she said with a smile. “Soup would be welcome—and bread if they have it. And tea. Tea would be lovely.” She could focus her attention on food and forget the agitation over her missing memories.
He left the room briefly to speak with the maid. Upon his return he hovered about the bed, observing her intently. “What else do you need?”
“I do not require such scrutiny, sir. I suspect my most interesting activity today will be falling asleep. And I am unlikely to injure myself doing so.”
He shook his head. “You can always make me laugh at myself.”
Was she indeed this sort of person? How strange not to even be aware of her own nature. William knew her better than she knew herself. A tight panicked feeling fluttered in her chest. What would she do if she never recovered those memories? Would she be trapped forever in a foreign country with a man who called himself her husband?
The room seemed suddenly too small, too close, with not nearly enough air. Sweat trickled from her temples as she tried to slow her breathing, but she c
ould hear it come in harsh gasps.
“Elizabeth.” William hastily clasped one of her hands. “I am here, and I will care for you. Do not fear.”
How shameful that he recognized her fear! “It is only…the situation is so odd. I am a stranger to myself. You are a stranger to me.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You may trust me, Elizabeth.”
Her breathing evened out. Of course, she could trust him; he was her husband. He cared about her. “Perhaps you could answer some questions?” Any information would feel like an anchor, preventing her from drifting in a vast sea of nothingness.
“Of course.”
A timid scratch at the door announced the arrival of the maid with a tray of food. As she set Elizabeth’s soup and tea before her, William opened the windows, allowing a fresh breeze to waft in. The soup—thick and creamy—smelled wonderful, and Elizabeth swallowed several spoonfuls as she considered what to ask.
William rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a muscular forearm, tanned from days in the sun. She knew nothing of his profession or family—or hers for that matter. His clothing was not the best quality; the weave was rather rough, and the trousers fit him loosely. He must be a farmer or other kind of worker. Perhaps she should be disappointed he did not command a greater fortune, but he had watched her with such earnest concern. Such caring was its own kind of wealth.
Thoughts of wealth gave her pause. She was unlikely to have a higher station in life than her husband, so they must be struggling. How were they in France? She bit her lip. Where would they have obtained the money for such an expensive voyage? She longed to know, but it did not seem an auspicious first question.
Instead she asked one of the first questions that had occurred to her. “Why are we in France?”
His eyebrows rose. “Figured that out, did you? You were on a ship which…met with an accident. Somehow, by divine providence, you washed up on shore here.”
“And you came to France in search of me?”
He hesitated a moment. “Yes.” There is something he is not telling me. But she had far too many other questions to linger over one inconsistency.
“Where in France are we?”
“Brittany. The town of Saint-Malo.”
The town’s name meant nothing to her. Her memory did supply a rough map of France and a vague recollection of Brittany’s location.
Her hands moved fretfully over the counterpane. “We should not be here. I know that for certain, although I cannot say why. When can we return to England?”
He hesitated again. “We are safe for the moment. The doctor and his wife are providing us with shelter.”
A memory returned in a rush. “Oh, England is at war with France! That is why it is dangerous.” William nodded solemnly. “How is that I can recall that England is at war, but I cannot remember my own parents?” She rubbed her forehead fretfully.
“Mr. Martin said it often is thus with amnesia.” William shifted in his chair. “The sufferers forget the details of their own lives, but factual memories remain intact.”
Elizabeth swallowed a bite of bread. “Just as well. I would not relish learning to read or do sums again.”
“Indeed.”
He leaned forward in the chair. “Do you know how well you speak French?”
“You do not know?”
He avoided her gaze by staring down at his hands. “Our marriage was recent. We have known one another for less than a year.”
Again, he was concealing something from her.
Was it possible that theirs was an arranged marriage? The thought struck her with horror. She was not the sort of woman who would want an arranged marriage. Or was she? In truth, Elizabeth knew nothing except that she was the sort of woman who took ships that met with accidents near the coast of France.
How disconcerting. She might stare into her own soul and find…nothing. What if Elizabeth discovered that she was not a good person? Not a moral person? Or that she had married William for the wrong reasons?
For that matter, how did she know that William was a good person? She had put her trust in him. Indeed, she had little choice. But she was sure he was concealing things. Might he hurt her?
She did not know how to navigate the town—or even the house. She knew nobody in this place. She must take William’s word for everything. The thought made her shiver despite the warm summer air. She stared into his eyes, full of anxiety on her behalf. He had given her no cause to distrust him.
The soup bowl was empty, and the bread reduced to crumbs on the plate. As Elizabeth took a last sip of tea, a familiar lassitude crept over her limbs.
William noticed as well. “You should rest.”
“But I have more questions.”
He chuckled. “I am sure you do, but I will be here when you awaken.”
She considered protesting, but her eyelids were so very heavy. Perhaps he was right. Elizabeth settled back on her pillows and gave him one sleepy nod before her eyes closed.
Chapter Six
The sounds of marching feet awakened Darcy.
Mrs. Martin had offered to give Darcy his own room, but he feared that Elizabeth might need him during the night, so the Martins’ housekeeper had arranged a pallet on the floor for him. It was not the most comfortable bed, but it was infinitely superior to the armchair.
Only semi-awake, Darcy brushed the curtain aside and peered down at the street below the window. The rising sun was just beginning to cast a harsh summer light, touching everything with fierce radiance.
Wave after wave of French soldiers marched along the avenue in precise lines, their feet thumping in such a steady rhythm that the house’s walls seemed to shake in time. Light glinted off the rifles on their shoulders and splashed over the blue of their uniforms.
Other than the cadence of the marchers, the scene was eerily silent. A few people lined the street, standing in doorways or peering out of windows—and even fewer waved flags or shouted, “Long live the emperor!” Most of the villagers were silent, observing the passing soldiers with baleful glares.
Hastily, Darcy drew back his head, twitching the curtain into place. His anxiety over being noticed was irrational; the curtain shielded him from view. However, the relentless sounds of tromping feet provoked an unease that crawled up his spine. I am in a foreign country, a country at war. How can I hope to protect Elizabeth from the entire French army? I am a fool to even try. Yet I have no alternative.
The sounds of rustling sheets interrupted his musings. Darcy quickly smoothed the anxious lines of his face so he could face Elizabeth with a tolerable attempt at a smile. Her eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, Mis—Elizabeth.” She did not notice how he stumbled over her name, but Darcy silently chastised himself for the error.
“Good morning.” She gave him a cautious smile.
“How do you feel?”
She stretched her arms over her head, a very appealing sight. “Ravenous. I suppose I have many days’ worth of food to make up.”
Darcy stepped out of the room to inquire about breakfast, and when he returned she regarded him shyly from under her lashes. “I am hungry for something else as well.”
Darcy’s heart skipped a beat, but she could not possibly mean what he thought. “Oh?”
“I am hungry for knowledge,” she said. “Will you tell me about my life?” She laughed self-consciously. “Although that does sound ridiculous!”
Suppressing his more inappropriate reactions, Darcy seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Not at all ridiculous, but Mr. Martin thinks it is best if I do not tell you everything. He thinks your memories should return naturally.”
Elizabeth made a sour face. He could just imagine the questions piling up inside such a naturally inquisitive person. “I can certainly answer the basic questions. Please ask,” he invited her.
“Where am I from? Who are my parents? Do I have brothers and sisters? How did we meet? What—?”
Chuckling, Darcy held up a hand to stan
ch the torrent of words. “I can only answer them one at a time, if you please.” She bounced with impatience, as eager as a young lady before her first ball.
He settled closer to her on the bed and took her hand. “Your family is from Hertfordshire. Your father owns an estate known as Longbourn.”
She frowned, screwing up her face. “An estate? Is it large?”
Why would such news distress her? “Of moderate size and prosperous, I believe.”
“Then…how did we meet?”
“We met at an assembly in a nearby town. I am not from Hertfordshire; I was visiting a friend.”
Her hands clutched at the edge of the covers. “An assembly? Did we dance?”
He glanced away as she unknowingly touched on a sore subject. “Not that evening, though we did upon a later occasion.” Perhaps she recalled something from their inauspicious first meeting that could cause her agitation. “Does this sound familiar?”
Her hands grasped the counterpane so tightly she was creating fine wrinkles. “No, not at all.”
Perhaps the past was simply too fraught for Elizabeth to learn of it with equanimity. “Maybe you should rest until breakfast arrives.”
She smirked at him. “I assure you that a quarter hour of sitting in bed has not fatigued me excessively. But I thank you for your concern.”
Darcy snorted. She had not forgotten how to be Elizabeth. “This subject seems to agitate you; perhaps we should discuss another.”
She gave him a level stare. “Did my parents approve of our match?”
Darcy hesitated. Embellishing his initial falsehood with yet more lies was so distasteful.
“They did not!” Her voice was harsh with anguish. “I see the truth in your face.”
Darcy gaped, at a loss of how to respond. He had every reason to believe the Bennets would support his desire to marry their daughter if he ever had occasion to ask them.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 6
