“Yes, and you must write to me when you arrive home,” she insisted. With another swift hug, she was gone.
***
Elizabeth dreamed. She played the pianoforte in a drawing room she did not recognize. The house was very grand, with chairs upholstered in silk and gilt décor verging on gaudiness. Some instinct told Elizabeth that it was too ostentatious to be Longbourn. A sandy-haired man sat on a chair near the pianoforte, listening to Elizabeth play. His appearance tickled her memory, but Elizabeth could not recall his name. Mr. Darcy’s sudden appearance at her right shoulder startled her, causing her to strike the wrong key. As she recovered from the faux pas, the master of Pemberley positioned himself so he could view her face while she played.
By the end of the piece, Elizabeth was fighting a rising irritation. “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me?” She gave him a poisonous smile. “But there is a stubbornness about me. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
A small smile played about Mr. Darcy’s lips. “You could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”
Elizabeth suppressed a desire to roll her eyes. She had told him he intimidated her; her request for him to desist could not have been any plainer. And his response? He assured her that she was joking, as if she did not know her own mind! Did the man understand no subtlety at all?
Covering her irritation with a polite laugh, she directed her next comment to the man who sat beside the piano. “Your cousin will teach you not to believe a word I say. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire for it is provoking me to retaliate and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” Mr. Darcy said. Of course, he was not. His position insulated him from whatever criticism his unpleasant demeanor so richly deserved.
“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” said the cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam: the name rushed into Elizabeth’s mind. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”
For a moment Elizabeth was tempted to tell the truth: that the man was rude, condescending, and aloof. Oh, it would be so lovely to voice such sentiments. But her triumph would be brief. She would be sent away from Rosings Park, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins would suffer the consequences of having invited such an ill-mannered guest.
Instead Elizabeth fixed an insincere smile on her face. “Prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him was at a ball and what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce and more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner.”
The colonel’s knowing smile suggested that Mr. Darcy had behaved this way upon other occasions. Mr. Darcy himself grinned as if Elizabeth had paid him an immense compliment. Infuriating man. Yes, she had said it in a teasing manner, but he should be ashamed of his rudeness; instead he appeared to be proud of it.
Elizabeth pulled herself up through layers of sleep until she lay gasping and staring at the low ceiling of the Girards’ cottage. There was barely space for a bed and washstand in the room, and the bed was so small she was pressed quite close to William’s body. Slow, regular breaths demonstrated that his sleep was undisturbed by memories of past conflicts.
Elizabeth increasingly was certain that this dream—like the last—was the record of a memory and not random images from her life jumbled together in a nonsensical narrative in the usual way of dreams. These visions were too linear, logical, and sensible to be anything other than memories—although she would have preferred otherwise.
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.
“The view is very beautiful,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
She leaned against the railing, savoring the scenery while Darcy savored her beauty.
They had been fortunate in the weather; since departing Paris, the skies had been blue and sunny. The crew was pleasant but kept the two passengers at a wary distance. When Darcy and Elizabeth dined with Captain Moreau, he generously shared his opinion of Napoleon, the emperor’s generals, the march on Russia, the Peninsular War, taxation, the state of the roads, men’s hats, or any other subject. Indeed, he appeared to have a decided opinion about everything. Thus, conversation with the captain consisted primarily of listening.
Otherwise, Elizabeth and Darcy were left to their own devices for entertainment—a situation that would suit Darcy admirably were it not for the shadows in Elizabeth’s eyes. Even now when she had sought his company, she stared persistently at the vista and showed no inclination toward further conversation. Perhaps he should give her an opening to discuss the source of her unease. He took a deep breath and said, “Have you remembered anything else of your past?”
She hesitated and then shook her head as her hands squeezed the railing. “Nothing substantial. Just wisps of memories, images that are unconnected to specific events. Words and sounds that make no sense to me.”
How bewildering such an experience would be. Lost in a forest without any sign of a path to lead you back home. No wonder her eyes were shadowed.
“Perhaps if you describe the images, I might be able to help you recall what they are. I could put them into context.”
She pressed her lips together. “I doubt it. After all, you and I have not known each other very long.”
“True.” Why was she insisting on that point? She presented a calm façade, but underneath there seemed to lurk a great disturbance of spirit. Did she doubt his feelings for her?
Or was she questioning her feelings for him?
I am still a virtual stranger to Elizabeth, he reminded himself. Everything is disorienting. Of course, she is uncertain about the stability of our relationship. No doubt she is uncertain about the stability of her entire life.
The need to reassure her urged him to speak, but he faltered over finding the right words. He had been deliberately vague in describing their relationship, but there was nothing vague or false about his feelings for her. Recalling that emptiness following her “death” was like pressing on a bruise, yet it gave him strength. Nothing that happened now could be as painful as those days.
“As I said before, I had great difficulty convincing you to marry me.”
She bit her lower lip. “Yes, I recall. But I thought…” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes?”
Her gaze touched him briefly and then returned to the water. “I thought possibly that my father wished the match and I did not.”
Tension twisted his stomach. The supposition came a little too close to the truth for his comfort, and yet he must not let her suspect.
His hand covered hers where she gripped the railing. “Elizabeth, I…” How may I reassure her without weaving additional lies into our story? “I assure you that my proposal was borne of nothing other than the deepest and most ardent affection and admiration.”
That much was the complete truth. She need not know that she had rejected the aforementioned proposal. He gave her hand an affectionate squeeze.
Elizabeth finally lifted her eyes to his. “It was?”
He had said this before; why did she find that hard to believe? Did she have a contrary memory? “Yes.” His voice was louder and more forceful than he had intended. “I was slow to recognize and comprehend my feelings.” He stared at their intertwined hands. “But it was irrevocable.”
“Oh.” She breathed out the word, a look of wonder on her face. After a long silence she asked the question he had been dreading. “And what of my feelings for you?”
He swallowed convulsively. “I cannot speak to your sentiments.”
“Did I not tell you I loved you?”
Darcy’s entire body stiffened as he fought to keep the panic from his face. What could he tell her that was not a lie?
“I…we did not speak much of our feelings.” That much was certainly true. “I have actually spoken more of what I feel here in France than before.” Also true. He drew her hand to his chest. “And I will always do everything in my power to make you happy.”
A few of the anxious lines on her face smoothed out at this declaration. He wanted to make all her worries disappear, but he had already told so many falsehoods… Was there another way to reassure her?
He studied her forest green eyes, absorbed by his concerns about her turmoil. I should not touch her, and I certainly should not kiss her. But Darcy would have defied any man to resist those soft eyes and slightly parted lips. Every passing day brought them closer to the restoration of her memories—when she might turn away from him forever. Every day could be his last opportunity to kiss her. Even if they managed to cross the Channel with the deception intact, the truth must be revealed the moment they set foot on English soil.
He stepped closer to her and, when she did not move away, bent his head toward hers. Still, she voiced no objections. When he enfolded her in his arms, she melted softly against him, a gesture so trusting that it took his breath away.
Darcy intended the kiss to be a taste, a quick reassuring pressure on her lips, but he was unprepared for her reaction. She pressed herself against the full length of his body, urging him to explore her mouth more deeply.
Every kiss with Elizabeth was intoxicating, like the finest wine he had ever tasted—rich and sweet and smooth. He could not get enough. Soon he was giddy with passion and lack of air; he might as well be foxed.
Many minutes passed before he could bring himself to pull away from her.
She stared at him, two parallel lines etched between her brows. “I do not understand…” Her voice trailed off.
“Understand what?” he asked.
She shook her head. “A vague memory of a dream. It probably means nothing.” He would have asked her more, but she looked away, her expression shuttered.
“I do love you, Elizabeth. Most ardently.” Please believe that much, even if you doubt everything else.
Her eyes fixed on a willow hanging over the river bank. “I wish I could say the same, but I cannot remember…” A tear slid down one cheek.
Darcy brushed it away with gentle fingers, cursing himself for even raising the subject. “I do not expect it. You are not sufficiently acquainted with me.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I am sure when I do remember, I will…”
Darcy wished he could be so certain. “I have no doubt all your memories will return in time.”
She nodded stiffly. Darcy felt so impotent in this situation. With all his fortune and station in life, he could do nothing to mend the operations of Elizabeth’s mind.
They stood at the railing, still as statues, for long minutes. Finally, Elizabeth withdrew her hand from his. “I am tired. I think perhaps I will lie down.”
Darcy watched her retreating form, unable to repress the feeling that he was losing her.
***
Elizabeth dreamed again. She walked in the park of some great house accompanied by the man she had encountered in the previous dream: Colonel Fitzwilliam. They were speaking of Mr. Darcy’s sister, whom Elizabeth had never met. “She is a very great favorite with some of the ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth said.
“I know them a little,” the colonel replied. “Their brother is
a great friend of Darcy’s.”
For some reason these rather innocent words frustrated Elizabeth. “Oh yes,” she said drily, “Mr. Darcy takes prodigious care of Mr. Bingley.”
“I really believe Darcy does take care of him. I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He congratulated himself on having lately saved his friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or particulars.” The colonel cleared his throat diffidently. “I only suspected it to be Bingley.”
A terrible thrill shot through Elizabeth’s body, and she quivered with the effort to conceal her reaction from her companion. He must be speaking of Jane; surely Mr. Bingley did not form “inappropriate” attachments so very frequently. “Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”
“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”
Elizabeth’s heart swelled with indignation. How could Mr. Darcy have presumed to do such a thing? Only that day she had been reading Jane’s letters and musing how out of spirits her sister seemed. Who was Mr. Darcy to judge that Jane was unworthy?
He had ruined her sister’s chance for happiness.
That high-handed… The gall of… Such an officious… Elizabeth could not think of epithets vile enough to express how she felt about Mr. Darcy at that minute.
The force of words unspoken pressed on the inside of her skull until she felt as if it would explode; her head throbbed and the muscles in her neck tightened as if preparing for a battle with Mr. Darcy. She desperately wanted to be alone but forced herself to continue walking and bantering with the colonel. He must not suspect anything…
Elizabeth awoke panting and sweating, twisted in the sheets. The dark walls of the barge’s cabin loomed over and around her, enclosing her in a room no larger than a jail cell. Pounding in her head alerted her that the headache had followed her from the dream into waking.
But was the dream a memory or a fantastical construct of her sleeping mind? A sister by the name of Jane? Yes. Such a sister had danced at the Meryton Assembly. But she could remember nothing about her sister save a vague memory from the earlier dream. Did she resemble Elizabeth? How old was she? What was her favorite color?
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 14
