The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  Other parts of the dream also coincided with things she knew to be real. Colonel Fitzwilliam was indeed a cousin of William’s. Mr. Bingley was the man who had liked Jane at the assembly ball. She was certain that the park from this dream belonged to the house from the previous dream. Its name was— The name remained elusively out of reach.

  Likewise, the William described in this most recent dream greatly resembled the one she had seen in her previous dreams, although he did not seem at all like the William she knew in France.

  Therefore, she could conclude that this dream was most likely a real memory and not a fantasy. The thought was more disturbing than reassuring.

  Why had Mr. Darcy—William—objected to Jane’s behavior? It was possible Jane was a terrible flirt or seemed too immature, or perhaps she simply did not like Mr. Bingley. But Elizabeth’s reaction to the colonel’s news suggested otherwise. She had felt that Jane deserved a chance for happiness with William’s friend and that it had been unjustly denied to her. Elizabeth had been furious at his interference.

  William stirred, turning his head toward her as his voice emerged from the darkness of the cabin. “Elizabeth? Are you unwell?” Without awaiting a response, he sat up in bed, the covers falling around his waist.

  She scrubbed her face with the heel of her hand. “Nothing but a dream.” She did not feel equal to describing its particulars to him, but perhaps he could help her ascertain their accuracy. “What is my sister Jane like?”

  William hesitated before responding. “She is very pleasant and sensible. Quite pretty. I believe you are very close to her.” He finds nothing objectionable about her now? Elizabeth was beginning to feel as if she were traveling with a completely different man than the one depicted in her dreams.

  “Have I met your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

  William startled slightly. “You met him when visiting Rosings Park.”

  Rosings Park! Yes, that was the name she could not quite recall.

  He leaned closer to her, his face deeply creased with worry. “What did you remember?”

  She refused to tell him the whole of her disturbing dreams until she understood them better. “Bits and pieces only. I remember he listened to me play the pianoforte.”

  William’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, upon more than one occasion. Your playing is quite good.”

  “Where is Jane now?”

  She must have appeared anxious for William took her hand. “She was at Longbourn with your family before I left England.”

  Was she still heartbroken over Mr. Bingley? “How did she seem to you?”

  If William found these questions odd, he did not show it. “She was quite worried about your disappearance. All of your family was, but perhaps Miss Bennet and your father took it the hardest.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I arrived at Longbourn with my friend Charles Bingley. He stayed in Hertfordshire, and I hope his presence is a comfort to her.”

  Another piece of the puzzle! Elizabeth fought to contain her excitement. “Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said slowly as if just recalling the name. “Did he court Jane?”

  “Indeed.” William’s smile seemed a bit strained. “Your memory is improving.”

  “Only a little.” Elizabeth shrugged. “I have a vague recollection of his face, but do not remember even the smallest detail about him.” She hesitated before saying anything else, but William was her sole source of information. “Do you believe he will make Jane an offer?”

  He gave her a startled look. “He may very well. I have reason to believe he was not happy while they were apart.” So far, William had corroborated every particular in the dream. Her stomach churned; while it was exciting to regain memories, their content raised more questions than they answered.

  Elizabeth scrutinized his face as much as the dim light would allow. He evinced no dissatisfaction with the idea that her sister might wed his friend. Had he changed his mind about Jane? Or had the colonel been wrong about the identity of William’s friend? Perhaps she had drawn the wrong conclusion at Rosings Park.

  Elizabeth rubbed her forehead. Partial memories were nearly worse than no memories at all. She would prefer to believe the dreams were lies, fantasies spun by a mind not completely recovered from its recent ordeal. Yet she could not dismiss them completely when so many of the details were accurate.

  While her mind was confused, her body had no reservations about William…kissing him or craving more of his touches. Surely that was a sign of past intimacies. Their kiss had been…

  The memory alone gave her goosebumps.

  “You should try to get more sleep. Lie down under the covers again, my darling. Your hands are like ice.”

  She could have no doubt he cared about her as she allowed him to pull her down beside him, enjoying the feel of his warm body cradling hers. But she could not shake her misgivings. Despite his concern for her, she could not prevent her opinion of her husband from being influenced by something as insubstantial as dreams.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darcy was once again admiring the view from the deck of the barge—there were few other ways to pass the time—when the captain joined him. “We will arrive in Rouen tomorrow morning. What will you do then? You are hoping to cross the Channel, are you not?”

  Darcy was not surprised the man had guessed they were destined for England; no doubt he had noticed Elizabeth’s accent. He took a minute to scrutinize the captain. There was no reason to distrust the man; his hatred of Napoleon seemed genuine. “We will need to hire a carriage for Calais.”

  The captain frowned. “Hmm.”

  “You disagree?”

  “The army is thick on the ground at Calais. It is the place, above all, where they are most wary of spies.”

  “We must take a boat from somewhere to cross the Channel.”

  “I would suggest Gravelines. Boats leave for Kent and Sussex every day.”

  The name sounded familiar, but Darcy could not recall where he had heard it. “What is in Gravelines?”

  “Napoleon has created a smugglers’ village there.” The captain gestured expansively. “French merchants visit Gravelines to sell silk clothing, brandy, and lace to English smugglers in exchange for guineas. Napoleon is always short of cash. His wife needs tiaras and golden furniture.” The man spat on the deck. “I spit on him!” He spat on the deck again. “I spit on his wife!”

  Darcy moved his boots out of range. “Yes, so you said before.”

  “Because so many boats go back and forth, Gravelines should be safer. You should find a smuggler who will take you to England for a price.”

  Darcy had his doubts about trusting the honor of smugglers, but Gravelines still seemed safer than Calais, where Elizabeth’s accent would be noticeable to agents of the French government. “Very well. I like this plan of yours, but we cannot embark on it immediately.” They would arrive at Rouen too late in the day to begin a journey. “I will need to rent a carriage, and Elizabeth will need to rest.”

  “I would be quite pleased to offer you and your lovely wife a room in my house for the night. For a very small fee, of course.” Moreau grinned widely enough for Darcy to see all his crooked teeth.

  “Of course.”

  Oddly, Darcy found the captain’s greed reassuring; if money was Moreau’s primary motivation, he was unlikely to betray them. “Thank you, we would be honored.”

  ***

  They arrived at Rouen around noon and disembarked from the barge without attracting any attention. The captain’s home was located near the port, but it proved to be a good-sized townhouse decorated in the modern style.

  As they stood in the nicely appointed home, Darcy realized that the captain could not possibly be fooled by their disguise. Not only had he guessed their true nationality, but he also must have an idea of Darcy’s station. A man of Moreau’s means would not have invited a common laborer to this house. Darcy wondered what had given them away. The abundance of funds? His commanding presence? Perhaps the truth was
that Darcy did a spectacularly poor job of pretending to be a laborer.

  The back of his neck prickled as they ventured further into the house; he was wary of everything these days. But Darcy saw nothing out of the ordinary. The captain introduced his wife, a short, plump woman, and his children, who had to be coaxed downstairs to greet the strangers. A fine luncheon had been spread out for them in the dining room, Darcy saw gratefully. The fare aboard the barge had been meager.

  Once they had seated themselves and started eating, conversation quickly turned to the next stage of their journey. “Is it difficult to enter Gravelines?” Darcy asked the captain.

  The other man nodded slowly. “It is strictly controlled by the military and the customs services. Everyone who enters or leaves the encampment must have the appropriate papers.”

  Darcy’s stomach churned. Perhaps Calais was a better bet.

  The other man grinned, leaning back in his chair as he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Fortunately for you, I know an export forger. He has created papers for many other ‘merchants’ who need entry to Gravelines. His services are not cheap, but he is fast. I would be happy to take you to him—for a small fee.”

  Of course. Darcy agreed and thanked the captain. Perhaps this plan would work.

  After luncheon, the captain led them into a large, well-appointed drawing room. Through a doorway, a smaller room was visible with a—

  “A pianoforte!” exclaimed Elizabeth. Her eyes shone with an excitement that had been too often absent of late.

  Mrs. Moreau dimpled. “Yes. Do you play?”

  “I believe so,” Elizabeth responded, not noticing the puzzled looks this earned. She drew closer to the instrument as if pulled by a magnet.

  “Would you play for us?” Darcy asked. He had not had the pleasure of hearing her play for months. Perhaps she was not the best musician technically, but the expression with which she played brought the music alive for him.

  As if enchanted, Elizabeth seated herself and brushed her fingers over the keys. Darcy searched among the pile of musical manuscripts on a nearby table for a piece he recognized. But music immediately emanated from the piano, so he seated himself to enjoy her performance. Captain and Mrs. Moreau positioned themselves on a loveseat near the door.

  It was a simple melody, the kind a child might practice when learning the instrument. But Elizabeth played it with a sense of discovery and childlike wonder that eased Darcy’s heart. At the end of the piece, Elizabeth lifted her hands from the keys and met his eyes. “I remember.”

  “Yes, you played the piece perfectly.”

  “No. I remember.” She tapped her temple.

  Darcy’s hands trembled as he rose and went to her. What would she do when she recalled that he was not her husband? “What do you remember?”

  Her expression was dazed. No doubt the sudden onslaught of memories must be like standing under a powerful waterfall.

  She blinked, her eyes focusing on him. “My childhood. Longbourn. My parents. Jane, Mary, Kitty, Lydia. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. How could I have forgotten them?” She raised a hand to her mouth.

  Captain and Mrs. Moreau watched curiously from the loveseat but did not interfere.

  “Nothing of your later years?” Darcy asked.

  She shook her head. “I recall my twelfth birthday, but I do not believe any memories date from after…”

  His knees weak, Darcy sank onto the bench beside her, feeling like a prisoner who had been granted a stay of execution. Perhaps they need not discuss such unpleasant matters until they were on their way to England. “It is a good sign,” he said. “Other memories might follow shortly.” But hopefully not all.

  “Perhaps.” Her face glowed. “It is so wonderful to remember! I feel more like myself than I have since I awakened in Saint-Malo. For what are we, after all, but the sum of our memories?”

  Darcy was happy for her. He was. But his hands still shook. How much time do I have before everything crashes down upon me?

  ***

  Elizabeth’s good mood persisted for the rest of the day. Whirling in a sea of reminiscences, she would occasionally laugh aloud as a particularly amusing memory struck her or hold back tears at the recollection of some more solemn incidents from her childhood. Buoyed by her rediscovered memories, she was especially charming with Mrs. Moreau and the children as they begged for songs on the pianoforte. How good it felt to play again!

  William and the captain returned before dinner with the necessary papers for a departure the following morning. Memories flooded Elizabeth throughout dinner. The taste of potato recalled a funny story about Lydia. A sip of wine reminded her of Jane’s preferences for the drink. She had opened a previously locked door to find an endless series of rooms just waiting to be explored.

  At the same time, she was extremely impatient for dinner to end so she could inundate William with questions. Possessing memories that ended at age twelve was endlessly frustrating. Were all her sisters yet at home? Had any married? Had Mary ever outgrown her tendency to moralize? Had Lydia developed better sense? Had Kitty lost the annoying lisp in her speech? Were they all in good health? Every new worry sent a thrill of anticipation racing through Elizabeth’s body.

  Her sisters must have grown and changed, but Elizabeth did not know how. Unfortunately, William would likely lack answers to many of her questions since he did not seem particularly well acquainted with her family. How did I come to marry a man who showed so little interest in my family? She recalled Colonel Fitzwilliam’s story about Darcy’s attitude toward Jane. Does he dislike my family? Would she have married such a man?

  However, by the end of the meal, Elizabeth was faltering again. Perhaps the excitement over the new recollections had drained more energy than she recognized.

  After dinner, William departed to hire a horse and wagon for the morrow, suggesting that Elizabeth rest before their long journey. She did lie down on the bed in the guest chamber. Her body was weary, but her mind was too alert for sleep. Although she knew the memories of her adult life were inaccessible, she could not help but strive to uncover them. In particular, she wished she could remember her association with Mr. Darcy. Her dreams had given her vexingly incomplete glimpses.

  The memories provided other information she found to be useful. She now understood how unprepossessing the Longbourn estate was and that her dowry would be very small. Why had William chosen a wife who was virtually penniless? As a girl, she had occasionally fantasized about falling in love with and marrying a handsome rich man. But the adult Elizabeth recognized that such men usually married beautiful rich women—which she decidedly was not.

  Was there some other reason for their marriage? Had he accidentally compromised her? Or perhaps it was a case of “marry in haste, repent in leisure.” No, he had vowed his love for her on more than one occasion.

  But why he had made no effort to claim his marital rights? Whenever she had tried to move their lovemaking beyond kissing, he had rebuffed her. Yes, he treated her tenderly, but perhaps his affection was more akin to the fondness one might feel for a friend or a sister.

  Earlier he had claimed that he did not wish to get her with child, though surely that could not be the only reason. She had assumed he was being a gentleman, but perhaps his ardor toward her had cooled. Perhaps she was no longer so attractive after her illness. Perhaps he did not want a damaged wife. Despite the warm air, the room suddenly felt very cold.

  If she approached him again with amorous intentions, how would he react? The thought set butterflies flitting about her stomach, a not completely unpleasant feeling. The truth was that William was quite a handsome man, with intelligent eyes and dark curls that she longed to thrust her fingers into.

  The idea that such a handsome man loved her…was intoxicating. The excitement fizzed in her veins like champagne bubbles. She could imagine a wonderful future being married to such a man. The few kisses they had shared had been…exquisite.

  Was William a magnific
ent kisser because he really loved her, or simply because he was practiced at the art? She did not wish to pursue that line of thought.

  Of course, she wanted the answer to be true love, and yet it was difficult to fully believe in his love given the contradictory information in her dreams. It was a puzzle, and a number of the pieces were still missing.

  ***

  She awoke when William opened the door, blinking sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly nine,” he said softly. “I visited earlier, but you were sleeping so soundly I thought it best to let you get the rest you need.”

  She stretched her arms over her head, noting that William’s eyes followed her every movement. “Thank you. You are kinder to me than I deserve.”

  He gave her an odd look. “Not at all. I regret that I cannot give you anything close to what you deserve in the present circumstances.”

  She sat up, tugging her shift into place. “You have taken excellent care of me.”

  “But you deserve to be back at Pemberley with a doctor to monitor your return to health and servants to care for you. Not being dragged across France during a war—and without any memory to boot.”

  “None of the circumstances are your fault.”

  William strolled to the window without a word. Why did the subject disturb him so? Did he feel some guilt about her presence in France? Perhaps something he had done or said precipitated her trip to Jersey. Perhaps they had a row before she departed. But she had been visiting an old friend… The endless mysteries were beginning to wear on her.

  With his eyes focused on the street below, he told her of his successful efforts to hire a horse. “Captain Moreau’s friend has given us papers naming me as Maurice Thibeaux, silk merchant, which would give me reason to enter Gravelines. You will be my wife, of course.”

  “But will they not expect us to have silk to sell?”