Gradually, awareness crept over Elizabeth. She was no longer in that drawing room. She was in a bed. In the inn where William had bespoken a room.
Where William was in the bed beside her!
Her shift—and even the sheets—were plastered to her body with sweat. Her breath was coming in quick, audible pants, and she tried to slow it lest she wake William. Lying immobile in bed, she considered the dream. These were memories, she was quite certain of that now, but she knew not what to make of this latest one.
Mr. Dar—William had apparently proposed to her in that little drawing room. And she had rejected him in a decisive manner, blaming him for Jane’s heartbreak and for reducing a man named Wickham to poverty. Try as she might, Elizabeth could not recall anyone of her acquaintance named Wickham; the last year of her life still proved elusive. William had not denied the accusations about Wickham or about Jane. And then Elizabeth had accused him of pride, selfishness, and ungentlemanlike behavior. She nearly gasped at that last one: such an insult for a man like William!
Very well, the circumstances of the proposal and the reasons for her rejection were quite clear, but how had she later ended up married to the man?
Her hands clutched at the sheets. Was this all part of some elaborate plot? Had William abducted her for the purpose of—what? She could think of no reason why kidnapping her would be to his advantage. Her family had no fortune, and he certainly could secure a wife by conventional means.
Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her experience with Dreyfus had shown how untrustworthy some men could be. Was she making a mistake by trusting William now?
Was it possible that William was plotting with Dreyfus—and the French? Perhaps his concern for her was only a mask that concealed his true purposes. Perhaps the true William was the cold, proud man, and the one she knew now was only a construct, an act perpetrated to fulfill some unknown scheme.
No, their race across France had been too complicated to be a ruse, and then there was the question of motivation.
Obviously I have been reading too many novels from the circulating library.
But still she was left with the fact that William had proposed in that unnamed house, and she had violently rejected his offer. How had they wound up here?
No matter how she considered it, nothing made sense.
If only she could remember the past year! But she had strained and searched for any wisps of memories, and her mind was still a blank.
Why had William proposed in the first place when Elizabeth had disliked him so decidedly? He seemed shocked by the vehemence of her rejection—or that she rejected him at all. Of course, few women in England would decline Mr. Darcy’s fortune; he would not have expected it. But he must have been quite violently in love with her to have made the offer in the first place.
“I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.” William had been in love with her when he made the offer; there was no other possible explanation. The memories occasioned her considerable anxiety, but she also experienced a pang of pity at the disappointment she had inflicted upon him. He had been quite shattered when he departed the drawing room.
He had loved her then. And—she thought of his declarations on the barge—he loved her now. There could be no doubt. Every word, every action had demonstrated his love for her. He had risked his own life again and again for her sake. Her safety was his utmost concern. Despite her rejection, his love had been unwavering.
Elizabeth’s muscles unlocked, and she relaxed into the bedding. I may trust William. He will not do anything to harm me and will do everything to protect me. She repeated these words silently to herself over and over until most of the tension had drained from her body.
Still, he was concealing something from her. Perhaps it related to the question of why Elizabeth had changed her mind about marrying him. What had he done or said since her rejection to make her accept him? Like unread chapters in a book, there clearly was more to the story that she did not know.
She stared at William’s blanket-clad form as if it could somehow answer her questions. Here, he was quite different from the cold, condescending man who haunted her dreams. She did not blame her past self for wanting to avoid such a proud, difficult man. Unease prickled over her skin. Which William was the true one? Would he revert at some moment to his previous demeanor? That thought left her feeling very alone.
Or perhaps he had an identical twin. Elizabeth suppressed a snort of laughter. Definitely too many novels.
Perhaps she was losing her grip on reality. Her dreams told one story while she lived a far different story when awake. Elizabeth clasped her trembling hands together. I must endure until we reach England. It will all be sorted out, she assured herself. Once there, I will determine the truth about his feelings—and mine.
Goosebumps returned. She was almost afraid to discover that truth. Whatever it was, Elizabeth was now William’s wife irrevocably. She was bound to him forever—even if the cold, indifferent William of the past returned. How could she bear to live with such a man? Her hands shook as she wiped tears from her eyes.
After a long while, her thoughts were turning back on themselves since she had no new information to add. This is fruitless; I should rest instead. Perhaps in the morning Elizabeth might find a way to ask him about the events in her dream. More tears leaked from her eyes as she lowered herself back on the mattress, beside William but not touching him.
***
The next morning at breakfast, Elizabeth was very quiet, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate. Darcy had expected her spirits to improve as they grew closer to home. Gravelines was less than an hour away. Once there, they need only hire a boat across the Channel. Anticipating the end of their travels, Darcy was alive with energy. However, dark smudges marred Elizabeth’s eyes, and she moved with the sluggishness of someone who had not slept well. “Did you have a difficult night?” he asked her.
She took a moment before responding. “Yes…no. That is to say my rest was rather disturbed.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Darcy replied. He scrutinized her for signs of returning illness, but it appeared that she simply suffered from fatigue. “Hopefully we will quickly locate a boat so we may return home.” Elizabeth nodded wearily.
Darcy believed she was concealing something. Unusually wary in his presence, she flinched from his touch as he handed her up to the wagon seat. Had she remembered something to his detriment? Unfortunately, there was no discreet way to inquire.
Although the sun was not at its height, the day was already quite warm when the high fence surrounding Gravelines came into view. It was merely a smudge on the horizon, but the back of Darcy’s neck prickled with apprehension. This could be the most dangerous part of their journey.
“I do not understand why the French government wants a smugglers’ encampment on their land,” Elizabeth remarked as they drew closer. “Smuggling is illegal here as it is in England.”
These were the first words she had uttered since they left the inn, and Darcy was happy to pursue the subject. “Napoleon sees it as a means to acquire English gold to finance his war effort. The smugglers arrive with gold guineas to purchase goods, which they transport to England for sale. The encampment is controlled by French soldiers and customs officials to ensure that the emperor receives a portion of the illicit activity.”
Elizabeth stared at the distant line of fences. “Guineas leave England and go to France? Does that hurt our war effort?”
Darcy shrugged. “It is not good, but I do not believe it is crippling Britain. No doubt the Royal Navy would prefer to put a halt to all smuggling, but there are simply too many of them—and many smugglers also are legitimate fishermen. I would imagine the War Office finds Gravelines useful as well. No doubt it is a good source of information.”
She was silent for a moment. “Do you have confidence in the forgeries you obtained?”
“I think so. I do not believe I was the first buyer
for that particular sort of forgeries.”
“What will they do if they suspect it is a forgery?”
Darcy took a deep breath. “I do not know. In that case, failing to reach English shores may be the least of our concerns.”
Elizabeth’s stiff nod betrayed her anxiety. Her fists clenched the skirt of her gown while she comtemplated the distant fences.
As they drew closer to the encampment, it was revealed to be roughly triangular. It was shaped by tall fences on all sides to prevent English smugglers from wandering—and spying—in the rest of the country. A gate opened to admit travelers, providing glimpses of a multitude of tents as well as a roughly built, one-story wooden building—no doubt to house the French officials. The French merchants and English smugglers would be consigned to the tents. The entire structure was only a few yards from the beach, which was covered by a number of small smugglers’ galleys awaiting the return trip to England.
The road led directly to the encampment’s only gateway, guarded by uniformed soldiers. Darcy said a prayer that the forger had been both competent and honest. He was entrusting both their lives to the papers the man had created. He slowed the wagon as they drew closer and stopped it right before the gate.
“What is your business here?” one of the soldiers—a man with a dark bushy mustache—demanded.
“I am a silk merchant,” Darcy responded, enunciating carefully to avoid any trace of an English accent. “This is my wife.”
Dark Mustache stared at them suspiciously. “I do not remember you from before.”
“We are new visitors to Gravelines,” Darcy said. “I have the appropriate papers.”
He handed them down to the man. Mustache consulted with a man in the guard’s shack, most likely his supervisor. Another man climbed into the back of the wagon, throwing back the cover over the bolts of silk so he could count them. There were sufficient guards watching the wagon so that escape would have been impossible.
A skinny blond man stared openly at Elizabeth. The lasciviousness in his expression had Darcy wishing he could punch him. “Eh, pretty lady!” he called out to Elizabeth. “You don’t want a merchant for a husband. Come and live with me if you want a real man!” His fellow soldiers laughed at what seemed like a harmless jest to them. Elizabeth sat frozen on the bench of the gig, not having comprehended all his words. “What do you say?” the soldier continued. “Will you at least give me a kiss?”
Silence hung in the air as the soldier awaited a reply. The soldier searching the wagon had jumped back and watched them along with the others to see what her response would be. A pulse beat rapidly in her neck, her entire body quivering with tension; she could not reply without betraying her accent.
The blond man frowned. “What, are you too good to speak with me?” The other soldiers exchanged disgruntled looks.
Elizabeth’s eyes darted in panic to Darcy. “That is not the case at all, Lieutenant,” Darcy said hastily, trying to think up a good reason why his wife would not speak. “My wife is, unfortunately, deaf.”
The blond soldier’s face turned from suspicious to sympathetic. “What a pity! She is quite lovely. But who would want a wife who cannot hear? You should give her up and get another woman,” he advised Darcy with a shake of his head.
Darcy clamped down hard on his anger and considered his role as a merchant. “Not at all!” He tried to match the man’s leer. “A mute wife is the best kind. She is grateful for my attention and never complains.”
The soldiers laughed uproariously at this rejoinder. Soon the mustached man returned with Darcy’s papers, assuring him that they were in order and gesturing for them to proceed through the gate. Darcy surreptitiously wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and snapped the reins to get the horse moving.
As the wagon creaked noisily into the camp, Darcy spoke from the side of his mouth. “I apologize for my coarseness.”
Elizabeth said nothing—after all, she was supposed to be deaf—but she shook her head with a smile, suggesting she was not offended. As the gates closed behind them with a clang, Darcy tried not to think about how they were now essentially trapped within the encampment.
The camp was bustling with activity. Well-dressed merchants, scruffy soldiers, and even scruffier smugglers strolled around, some at their leisure while others were intensely involved in heated negotiations. Most were men, although a few merchants were accompanied by wives.
Many merchants had set up stalls while others were showing their wares to the visiting Englishmen inside their tents. The variety of wares for sale was impressive. Tables displayed lace, fine silk bonnets, gloves, stockings, and shawls. Other booths sold bolts of cloth in many different hues. In another part of the camp, signs advertised merchants who sold brandy and Dutch or French gin. It was a bit like market day in a village square, if the market were surrounded by tall, impenetrable fences.
Darcy clambered down from the gig and tied up the horse to a hitching post outside the customs office, using the time to think about his next step. Unfortunately, the helpful Captain Moreau had not known anyone within the Gravelines encampment, so they had to rely on their own wits to find an English smuggler who would take them across the Channel.
If the French authorities learned of that smuggler’s part in their escape, he could be banned from Gravelines and its lucrative trading opportunities. Darcy hoped to offer a sufficient quantity of gold to encourage one of the galley captains to take the risk.
After helping Elizabeth down from the wagon seat, he tucked her arm into his and set a brisk pace away from the gate. The blond soldier’s frankly carnal stare at Elizabeth had made Darcy’s skin crawl. This was not a place where he could leave her alone for any amount of time.
“I shall attempt to make the acquaintance of some of the smugglers,” he murmured in her ear, “in the hopes that we can identify one who will help us.” And will not turn us over to the French authorities, he added silently.
Elizabeth nodded, her grave face suggesting that she understood the risk he had not articulated.
They forged ahead, plunging into the bustling marketplace. Darcy scanned the crowd, seeking likely captains. They had not gone far when Darcy’s attention was caught by a figure at one of the lace merchants’ stalls. A familiar figure.
No, it was not possible. The man’s head turned toward the light, providing a clearer view of his features. The man did bear a close resemblance to Richard Fitzwilliam, but surely his cousin had never worn such ill-fitting rough clothing in his life.
It could not be. Still, as he had mentioned to Elizabeth, Gravelines undoubtedly served as a convenient location for English spies. Could he possibly be so fortunate?
Grasping Elizabeth’s elbow, he maneuvered her toward the man. If Darcy had mistaken his identity, they would simply walk away.
But he was not wrong.
Chapter Sixteen
The man turned just as they reached him, and his eyes alighted on Darcy. They widened, and a relieved smile spread over his cousin’s face. Then Richard noticed who accompanied Darcy, and he started violently; for a moment he seemed on the verge of apoplexy.
Of course; he thought Elizabeth was dead.
Darcy extended his hand to Richard. “I am Mr. Thibeaux, silk merchant,” he said in French-accented English. “Would you, perhaps, be interested in purchasing some silk?”
His eyes fixed on Elizabeth, Richard rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, I believe I am. Shall we go somewhere private to discuss the particulars?”
Elizabeth gave Darcy a questioning look, but he gave a minute shake of his head as they followed Richard to a far corner of the camp, sufficiently deserted that nobody was near enough to overhear them.
Once there, Richard gave Darcy a warm embrace. “Darce! Good Lord, it is good to see you! When we received no word from you, we feared the worst.”
Darcy laughed. “Why are you here, Richard? Are you meeting with an agent?”
Richard snorted. “Why am I here? The
War Office lost track of the master of Pemberley, who failed to contact any of our agents on this side of the Channel. My superiors were very concerned that some evil had befallen you. I was sent with one of the smugglers’ boats in the hopes I could slip into the countryside and search for you.”
No doubt his cousin had volunteered for the mission; Darcy was touched. “I ran into various unforeseen circumstances,” he said, thinking what a grave understatement that was.
“Indeed.” Richard’s eyes darted to Elizabeth. “This is most unforeseen. Miss Bennet, you look very well for a woman who has been dead for weeks.”
Elizabeth stared at Richard with a dazed expression on her face. Darcy winced. Of course, she would not recall his cousin; Darcy should have thought of that earlier. “Elizabeth,” he said quietly, “this is my cousin Richard.”
Richard gave Darcy a puzzled look, no doubt wondering why he was being introduced to a woman he knew quite well. When she did not immediately reply, Darcy prompted, “Elizabeth?”
“You are Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” Richard said warily. His brows drew together as he looked to Darcy for guidance.
“She suffered a blow to the head and experienced some memory loss,” Darcy explained without taking his eyes from her face. But apparently she recognized Richard; had she recovered the missing year of her life?
Richard’s eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open. “Memory loss? What the devil, Darcy?”
They both ignored him. Elizabeth fixed Darcy with an accusing stare. “I remember everything now. Everything.”
“Excellent!” Richard said cheerfully while Darcy’s heart sank into his boots.
“I trusted you,” Elizabeth said in a choked voice.
Darcy felt like the worst blackguard. Worse than Napoleon or any of his generals. Worse than a scoundrel who cheated a widow out of her last shilling. Worse even than Wickham.
“Darce, I pray you, explain,” Richard said.
Darcy ignored his cousin. “I did not set out to lie to you—” He reached out to touch Elizabeth’s arm, but she yanked it out of reach, and he let his hand fall again. “It simply happened…”
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 17
