Beginning, Previous Section, Section XI, Next Section
Posted on Wednesday, 21 May 2008
With a faint creak of unoiled hinges, the door slowly swung forward, candlelight from the hall spilling across the carpet. Light footsteps padded against the floorboards as a shadow cut into the light, rippling and wavering as it moved toward the bed.
As if the sound had somehow been transferred to his senses, Darcy awoke almost instantly; the very air of the room seemed hushed, and he lay perfectly still, hardly daring to shift so much as an inch and trying to keep his breathing steady. He closed his eyes, feeling a cold sweat building at his brow. Only once, he cracked open an eyelid enough to see that a dark figure was standing beside his bed, looking down at him. His body coiled with anticipatory tension as his good hand inched toward the jackknife concealed under his pillow.
The movement was agonizingly slow as he waited every moment for a blow to fall, and he could have shouted in relief when he slipped his fingers under the cool handle of the blade, curving them around to grasp it securely in his palm.
A whisper of air as the figure shifted nearer – a heartbeat’s pause, and he prepared to fling himself off the mattress and stab as quickly and fiercely as he could. By God, he would not lie here docilely to be slaughtered like a sleeping babe! He drew his legs slowly up, hoping the motion was hidden by the coverlet; his ribs burned at even this slight jostling. The figure bent toward him, so close that Darcy could feel gusty breath against his cheek. A hand alighted on his shoulder.
With a wild cry, he launched himself upwards, the blade glittering high above his head, and started to lash out. The sudden uprush of pain as he stretched took him unawares; the breath flew from his lungs, flashes and lightning danced before his eyes, and he tumbled headfirst onto the carpet, knocking into the intruder.
They both fell, a tangled mass of limbs and linen bed-sheets. There was a brief struggle, and Darcy managed somehow to plant his knee firmly into his attacker’s stomach. He had lost the knife somewhere, and although his injured side was screaming for him to stop moving, he snatched a handful of silk coverlet and proceeded to try to suffocate the assassin. An outraged yelp rent the air, and as they rolled toward the fireplace in the course of the fight, Darcy saw that a thatch of curled blond-brown hair was protruding over the taut edge of the sheet; and the fact that he was attempting to strangle Bingley finally penetrated his consciousness.
He released the sheets as though they were burning his hands, and both men, unseated by the sudden shift in balance, fell to the floor with identical thumps that reverberated unpleasantly in the silence. Darcy lay stunned, unable to do anything but wait for the edges of blackness to fade again from his vision and for his head to stop spinning so madly.
The adjoining door opened, and light from a candelabrum blazed into the room, nearly blinding them. Darcy looked up, eyes watering, to find Phipps standing in the doorway. There was a brief pause as the valet glanced calmly from his disheveled master to Bingley, who was fighting his way out of a cocoon of blankets, cursing a blue streak. “Is everything in order here, sir?”
Darcy couldn’t answer; he only nodded, closing his eyes against the glare of the light.
“Very well, sir.” Phipps bowed neatly, turned, and closed the door.
As soon as his vision cleared, Darcy inched himself tentatively up so that his back rested against the footboard. Bingley, panting, finally managed to shake his legs from the sheets and collapse breathlessly on the carpet. For a moment neither man said a word.
Bingley cleared his throat, fingers rubbing gingerly at his forehead, where a new and impressive knot was rising up. “Er....sorry about all that.”
Apparently that reply seemed flippant enough to prick his friend’s temper, for Darcy’s scowl deepened, and he said a word which had probably never crossed his lips before in his life. It took him a second or two more before he could say anything even faintly civil. “Wh-What in the b-blazes were you d-doing? My G-God, I c-could have k-killed you, you blockheaded idiot!”
“No need to bellow at me,” Bingley said crossly. “Grant you, you did jab your bony elbow in my kidneys, but that’s hardly fatal, never mind how it hurts like the very devil.”
“Another moment and it would have b-been a b-bloody knife lodged in your b-bloody kidneys! Lord ab-bove, d-didn’t your f-father t-teach you not t-t-to sneak up on a man wh-while he’s sleeping?” Darcy took a gulping breath, trying to slow his heartbeat as he retrieved the knife from where it had landed under the bed. “B-Bingley, I would have m-murdered you r-right here if it had not b-been t-too d-dark to aim well.” Shakily he held it up to the light, the thin, curved edge gleaming wickedly.
The color drained from Bingley’s face. “Oh.”
Darcy stared at the blade himself, remembering how he had slashed blindly out, and he felt sick. Another few inches, and he might have seriously injured his friend.
“Darcy?” Bingley reached over and plucked the knife from his hands. “Never mind it. I’ve learned my lesson – no more midnight excursions.”
With some effort, Darcy shook himself from his daze as the words registered in his mind. “Wh-What were you d-doing up in the f-first p-place?”
“Oh, that. Well....” He paused, looking sheepish. “Jane is the sweetest woman who ever lived, Darcy – positively angelic, practically made for sainthood, the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate, loveliest.....”
Darcy bit his cheek. “Yes, yes, I know. And?”
“And she is driving me mad,” he hissed, a note of desperation in his voice. “When she’s not with me herself – and that, mind you, is all fine with me – she has that Hill woman trail me about; she sends for Jane the instant I so much as sit up. I haven’t been beyond the walls of that blasted chamber this whole week, even when the physician said it was safe for me to go downstairs and walk about a bit by myself.”
“I b-believe he said it was p-probably safe f-for you t-t-to leave your bed alone.”
Bingley made a noise of disgust.“Yes, well, it is the same thing – but Jane is convinced that if I so much as take a step on my own, I’ll fall down and break my head open again. Last I knew, I had not lost the ability to walk by myself. If Jane gets her way, she’ll have me on blasted leading strings next, Darcy, and that devil-spawned housekeeper will be spoon-feeding me oat gruel by the end of the week!”
Darcy was very tempted to laugh, but the wild look in Bingley’s eyes said it was best to remain properly sympathetic. “Of c-course. Mayhap if you sp-spoke to Jane.....”
“I don’t want to hurt her tender feelings,” he blurted. “She seems to like all this pampering, and I do not want to appear ungrateful....but deuce it, Darcy, I’m three-and-twenty years old! I don’t have the patience for this. Lizzy doesn’t smother you with all this nonsense, I’m sure.”
Darcy, recollecting all too well the time, only yesterday, when he had attempted to rise by himself from the bed just as Elizabeth came inside, considered telling his friend that in some ways, Jane and Elizabeth were remarkably alike. However, he decided that the fact that he had been roundly scolded and ordered back to bed like a naughty child – and that he had meekly obeyed without a murmur of protest – was not something he particularly wished to disclose to anyone. “Th-that doesn’t exp-plain why you c-came in here.”
“What? Oh, in here – I wanted to see how you were faring. I had meant to go and talk to you before, but Hill somehow appeared to block the doorway every single time I tried to slip away. I swear, the woman must have gypsy blood.”
“And you th-thought midnight was a fine t-time for a little t-tête-à-tête, did you?” Darcy said testily. “Everyone t-tends t-to b-be asleep when it gets all d-dark like this, B-Bingley.”
The young man colored. “Yes, well, Hill was safely off snoring somewhere, so I imagined I had best take advantage of the opportunity when it came. How could I know you meant to leap on me like that?”
Darcy sighed and pushed a lock of disordered hair back from his eyes. “I am s-sorry, B-Bingley, for st-startling you, b-but I thought....” He trailed off.
Bingley’s frown faded, and he reached out to pat Darcy’s shoulder comfortingly. “No harm done, old man. I should have thought the whole plan through a little more thoroughly.” With a groan, he dragged himself to his feet, wincing as the shift in position made his head throb with renewed vigor.
Darcy tried to rise to his knees, but as the pain-numbing adrenaline bled from his veins, the twinge in his ribs demanded his immediate attention. He let out his breath and rested for a moment; the instant he tried to move again, his side put up a virulent protest. “B-Bingley?”
“Yes? Oh....I say, Darcy, are you feeling quite the thing? Your face has gone all pale.”
“I imag-gine it has,” he said, between clenched teeth. “B-Broken ribs d-do t-tend to hurt a bit now and again.”
“What? Oh! Sorry – here, let me help.” Bingley hooked his hands under Darcy’s arms and tried to drag his friend back up onto the bed. Darcy cried out at the agonizing pressure, and Bingley, startled, promptly dropped him. His head collided rather unluckily with the floor, and he lay quiet, stunned.
“Darcy? Oh, God, did you hit yourself?”
“No, I th-think you d-did,” he replied drowsily. He narrowed his eyes and frowned at his friend, who had somehow obtained an extra head or two. “Or one of you d-did.”
“One of....? Oh, damme, I think you’ve really hurt yourself. Here, let me call for Phipps.”
“Just g-get me in the b-bed, Bingley,” he snapped, blinking a few times in the hopes of clearing the room of unnecessary duplicates, “b-before you d-do f-finish me off.”
With more careful maneuvering and a considerable amount of discomfort, Bingley finally was able to hoist his friend, who towered over him by a good six inches and outweighed him by a stone, up onto the mattress. Darcy sank into the soft ticking with a heartfelt sigh of relief. His vision had thankfully cleared, although he could feel a painful lump forming at his nape.
Bingley, his hair sticking up every which way, a pump-knot rising on his forehead, looked in no better condition. “I think perhaps I had best return to my chambers and let your rest. Do you require anything?”
Darcy shook his head, and then moaned as the motion made the room tilt and whirl madly around him.
“Well.....goodnight then.” Perhaps fearing more mishaps should he linger even a moment more, Bingley hastened out into the hall and back into the safe confines of his bedchamber. It took several minutes more for Darcy to recover sufficiently to inch his way back under the blankets; and although he was able to at length settle back with a good degree of comfort, he could not sleep – then again, that was nothing unusual. Excepting the two days he had spent in an opiate-saturated oblivion, he had not slept through an entire night all week.
It was not for a lack of desire to – he almost wished he had not refused any more laudanum treatment, if only to snatch an hour or two of deep, undisturbed sleep. Elizabeth had commented on his wan complexion and the shadows limning his eyes on more than one occasion, but he always waved away her concerns. It was foolish, he supposed, but his pride prevented him from admitting to anyone what kept him awake.
Shifting restlessly, his eyes fell on the protruding handle of the knife on his bedside table. He reached out reflexively to return it to its place beneath his pillow, but a vivid recollection of his panicked assault on Bingley made him rethink the wisdom of it. If he had it so close, who was to say that he might not harm someone else with it should he be startled awake again in such a manner. He and Bingley had been fortunate this time, but what of the next? People were in and out of his chamber at all hours. What if he should strike at Phipps, or Georgiana, or Richard – or Elizabeth? The thought made his blood run cold, and quickly he slid open a drawer on the table and dropped the knife inside. He would rather be killed himself than bear the shame of having wounded someone he cared for.
He snapped the drawer shut, grimacing at the jarring movement, and reclined onto the pillows. Staring up at the hangings overhead, the image of Bingley and himself tangled helplessly on the floor in a pile of linens and nightshirts and contorted limbs came into his mind, and he could not repress a small chuckle. The expression on poor Phipps’s face had spoken volumes.
He coughed quietly and burrowed more deeply under the covers. Come morning, he would have to have a quick conversation with his valet.
The days passed in a surprisingly placid and orderly fashion. Elizabeth spent the majority of her time divided between attending Darcy and attempting to pry even a scrap of information from his tight-lipped cousin.
She knew the colonel was conducting some sort of search for the culprits; he was gone from the house more often than not, traveling from Netherfield to Meryton, pausing briefly at Longbourn every few days to see to his cousins before riding off again. He had even made a brief journey to Town, returning late to confer briefly with the magistrate.
No matter how she phrased her questions, he evaded them as well as her own father might have done. She could hardly understand anything, excepting the fact that Wickham had been involved and had disappeared shortly after the attack.
She was not frightened by it – there remained a peculiar numbness inside her when she thought of the causes of the injuries she was now so diligently tending. It was as if her mind knew she was not yet ready to ponder that particular aspect, and so had tucked it away for consideration in the future. Right now she wanted only to assist Darcy’s recovery; there was time enough for anger later.
Nevertheless, she would have appreciated knowing what was happening, and she suspected, from Georgiana’s current displeasure with the colonel, that he was being equally secretive with his cousin. She rather doubted that Darcy had been informed about the desertion either – in truth, no one had spoken a word about the attack or those responsible for it. Darcy had not mentioned it himself, but she understood that he was well aware of what had happened to him.
The first few days after the regimen of opiates had been repealed, there had been a marked change in his behavior. She watched him flinch away from every unexpected movement, recoil when a bird flew past the window or a servant appeared in the hall; she knew he was not sleeping well – his appearance was damning enough testimony to that – and he ate sparsely. It had taken all her powers of persuasion to convince him to take any nourishment at all.
When he spoke to her, it was in cheerful tones, with an air of breezy unconcern, but what he did not say spoke more loudly to her than his protestations of contentedness, for when he slept, he could not lie.
She had been frightened the first time she observed him in the throes of a night-terror. He had been resting that afternoon; she had not been long in the room before he began to stir restlessly upon the bed, and she and Phipps had quieted their hushed conversation at the disturbance. Sweat glistened on his brow and he shifted, the movement undoubtedly tugging unpleasantly at his bandages, and the valet had just risen to wake him before he injured himself when Darcy had let out a bloodcurdling shout.
The dreadful sound rang in her ears, and she unconsciously covered them, struck with an irrational fear for him, as though the scene of that night were replaying itself before her. A brisk shake had pulled Darcy from his troubled visions, and after a moment he had drifted off again to wake later with no recollection of the incident.
Seeing her alarm, Phipps had gently steered her toward the door, hinting that she might find it refreshing to take a brief walk or rest a half-hour in her room. Elizabeth had obeyed mindlessly, her ears still reverberating with those pitiful cries.
It was not to be his last nightmare; soon she became accustomed enough to it to wake him before the dreams had progressed very far. He never seemed to remember having the dreams or calling out, and she said nothing about them, guessing that he would not wish his weakness known to others.
He did not know that she had heard him, so she surreptitiously kept watch during the day, ready to draw him back out of the nightmares....at least in daylight. In the evenings he was left alone to suffer through it without the benefit of timely interference. She could not know that he woke himself from the pain of frantic motions, breathless and ashamed of his cowardice.
Now, at least, as he stopped resting so much during the day, his dreams lessened; of course, conversely he seemed yet more exhausted, and she did not know what to do to soothe him. Dr. Lawrence, who had been away during the incident, had returned to pay a call on the Darcys and see for himself how the young man was faring. Darcy had readily invited whatever counsel the clergyman could offer him, and although Elizabeth did not know what was said between them, he had seemed less nervous after the visit.
She could only hope that, with time and careful attention, whatever demons troubled him might leave him in peace.
A knock on the door brought Phipps to his feet; the master was awake, the hour nearly one, and so the valet knew exactly whom to expect. Surely only one person’s appearance could make his master smile so.
He glanced over once more at Darcy to ensure that the covers were in place to prevent any unseemliness, and then opened the door to find the anticipated sight of Miss Elizabeth, trailed by a maid balancing two luncheon trays. He bowed. “Miss.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Phipps. Maggie, pray set the trays on that table there.”
The maid rushed forward thankfully to rid herself of the unwieldy burden. As was usual, Elizabeth went to Darcy’s bedside and took his hand. Finished with her task, Maggie was gaping at the couple with blatant curiosity until Phipps frowned and cleared his throat pointedly. The maid glanced up and blushed, scurrying past the valet and out the door.
Elizabeth bustled about, readying the trays and drawing the table closer. As soon as everything was arranged to her satisfaction, Phipps came forward to assist Darcy in sitting up. The process was still slow and very uncomfortable, but the bindings the doctor had placed around his healing ribs seemed to help keep everything locked in place, so that the slight change in position was not so much an ordeal as an inconvenience. Nevertheless, it felt wonderful to be able to change position and lean his back against the pillows – what he really wished to do was walk, but knowing that was an impossibility, sitting up at least prevented him from feeling completely the invalid.
Phipps propped the pillows exactingly behind Darcy and tugged the edges of his robe together to preserve what modesty he could. Darcy smiled a little at his valet’s persistent mothering – it was Phipps himself who had broadly hinted that it was in his best interest to keep covered in the robe when Elizabeth was in his company, and since she was in the room so often, he had taken to wearing the dratted thing all day. The discomfort of raising his arms high enough to slip into the sleeves of his shirt or a coat made it difficult to adhere to Phipps’s particular opinions on how a man ought to present himself to a young lady.
“Will that be all, sir, miss?” Phipps stepped back with an approving nod at his handiwork.
“Yes, thank you,” Elizabeth said, exchanging an amused glance with the man at her side. “You may go.”
He bowed and went out into the hall, leaving the door pointedly ajar.
“I do get the impression,” she said thoughtfully as she crossed the room to fetch a pitcher of water, “that he does not care much for me. Am I too intrusive?”
Darcy chuckled. “N-Not at all. He r-rather admires you, I th-think. Not all l-ladies would b-be willing to sp-spend their t-time in the sick room wh-when they c-could be out of doors on such a fine d-day.”
“Yes, well, not all ladies love you as well as I do,” she returned, opening the window to let in the breeze. “And if they did, I should be most displeased.”
His smile faded. “I hope t-to never s-see you d-displeased, Elizabeth.”
The seriousness in his voice gave her a moment’s pause. “And I hope I shall be, at least once or twice after we are wed. We would be a most uninteresting couple if our lives were all sparkle and happiness.”
“Of c-course,” he murmured. “I mis-spoke. B-But a marriage with c-constant conflict is no j-joy either – to anyone.”
She had the strangest sensation that he was not speaking of platitudes, but from personal experience. “I do not believe that we shall know either extreme.”
He did not reply; a sudden look of consternation had overcome his features. His eyes turned toward the window before flicking uncertainly back to her face. “Elizabeth, about....ab-bout our....understanding....”
Elizabeth stopped, hands suspended over the luncheon trays, his words sinking a shaft of chilling alarm into her breast, and she fixed her eyes onto him with silent anticipation. His expression was blank, closed up against her, and she felt a rising dread clamoring to be acknowledged.
“Elizabeth, p-perhaps I was t-too hasty; I had not thought....”
“No!” she cried, flinging her hand down forcefully on the tabletop. “No, I will not let you! I refuse to let your....your misguided sense of.....of honor, or whatever it is, ruin everything we have suffered for! If you think you are doing me some sort of favor by deigning to end our engagement – if you believe for one moment that....”
Darcy only blinked. “Elizabeth?”
“What?” she snapped.
He smiled, rather sheepishly. “Th-That’s not what I was t-talking of.”
“What?”
“I had only m-meant th-that I was not t-trying t-t-to imply th-that we would b-be unhappy together. I have no such d-doubts, I assure you. I was not sp-speaking of d-dissolving our understanding.”
“Oh.” She lowered herself slowly into her chair, putting her hands to her blushing face. “Oh, I see.”
“I ought t-to have b-been more sp-specific. Forgive me f-for upsetting you.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I....oh, I am not at all thinking right.” She shook her head in a mute expression of frustration. “I ought to be apologizing to you, Fitzwilliam, for believing the worst. I thought I had gotten over that. I have not been myself of late.”
“An apology is not at all n-necessary,” he said mildly,” b-but if it will ease your c-conscience, I will g-gladly accept it.”
She bent and kissed him soundly on the lips. “There. A bargain is sealed; we will not speak of this again. Now, I am not certain how you feel, but I am very hungry myself, and the food will soon grow cold. Shall we?”
Luncheon was dished up and they sat comfortably together, she perched on a nearby chair where she might easily be able to assist him. Eating was still a somewhat difficult task. He had the strength in his arms to handle holding the dishes fairly well, but his right hand, which he favored, was still encased in a splint and linen wrappings. Consequently, he had no option but to use the left, and it resulted in a good deal of unsteadiness and the occasional mishap.
In view of this, Hill had sent up the broths and thick stews Darcy was limited to in wide bowls, so that if he should spill, it would fall into the bowl instead of his lap. A nice notion in theory, but as Elizabeth watched his spoon slip and spatter stew on his nightshirt for the third time, she thought it might perhaps have been best to have simply served it in a cup.
His cheeks flushed dark with mortification as he mopped hastily at the mess before it dribbled onto the coverlet. She saw that his clumsiness embarrassed him; regardless of how ridiculous that shame seemed, considering how his hand shook and dipped as he tried to use it, she did not attempt to assist him. He had been fairly patient with the constant prodding and moving, but she suspected that his cooperation would come to a halt should she even suggest that it might be more expedient if he allowed someone to feed him.
No, every man had a limit to his tolerance, and that sort of thing was exactly what would put an end to his good-humor. Not that it heartened him any more to continually stain his clothes every time he took a meal.
Wisely, she let him blunder through it, making no remarks and keeping herself from watching him, for she had learned that any further scrutiny only served to fluster him more.
They ate in silence for a bit, and once Darcy had taken the edge off his appetite, he slowed to watch the woman at his side. “Are you n-not very t-tired?” he asked with gentle concern. “You h-have hardly had a m-moment to yourself.”
“Being by oneself only allows a person to brood. I should much rather be here with you during the day. I have nothing more pressing to do, nor anything more important.”
“Should I b-be concerned th-that you c-can look me d-directly in the eye and t-tell such a pack of lies?” he said, with amusement plain in his voice.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I ought to take offense at that, sir, to know that you think of me so meanly.”
“N-Nonsense. I have the h-highest regard for th-those who c-can p-prevaricate so effortlessly. You may c-consider it proof of my admiration.”
“Prettily said,” she replied, “but your sincerity leaves a great deal to be wished for.”
“I s-see that you would misconstrue my every d-defense. A w-wiser man th-than I would s-simply c-concede d-defeat and desist.”
“Wisdom is too celebrated a virtue.” She patted his arm with great condescension. “You see, I too can profess opinions which are not my own.”
“And how well you d-do,” he agreed with a slight laugh.
The door creaked as it opened farther after a brief knock, and the pair looked up to find Mr. Bennet in the doorway; the expression upon his countenance made their smiles fade away.
“Mr. Darcy.” He nodded to the young man and then faced his daughter. “Lizzy, you are wanted downstairs.”
“Papa, if Mama is asking for me, Mrs. Hill said she would attend to her for me.”
“Never mind it, Lizzy. Go on with you.” He turned to look at Darcy. “I daresay you can manage by yourself for the afternoon?”
Unable to tell by vocal inflection whether the words were meant scathingly or sincerely, Darcy looked uncertain. “Of c-course, sir.”
With her father’s hand firmly at her back, Elizabeth could glance back only once at him with a brief, reassuring smile before she was led briskly away.
Posted on Friday, 30 May 2008
Although she had followed her father downstairs willingly enough, Elizabeth hesitated upon reaching the landing, seeing that her mother was sitting in the open parlor and sewing contentedly by the fireplace, Hill hovering nearby to attend to her needs.
Baffled, she glanced back at her father, whose face revealed nothing of his thoughts, nor of his reasons for summoning her away from Darcy’s bedside without any apparent need. With one guiding hand, he propelled her past the sitting room and into his study. She went inside but stopped mulishly just inside the door, watching as he left her to sit wearily behind his desk. “Papa, what is this all about?”
He peered up at her over his spectacles; busying himself by opening the decanter on his desk, he clearly was hoping for opportunity to choose his words cautiously. “I would not think it such a remarkable request, Elizabeth, to have you come downstairs.”
“Was there a purpose for it, I should not quarrel with you,” she said, a little exasperated by his deliberate vagueness, “but I have difficulty understanding why you have chosen to call me away from my duties when nothing needs to be seen to.”
“I should think your own health is reason enough.”
“My health?” She stared at him for a moment in frank surprise. “Pray, what does my health have to do with any of this? My health is not the issue – I was not the one to receive any injury.”
“Not physically, no.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit down, Elizabeth. I would speak to you.”
Grudgingly she sat, made anxious by his stern countenance and impatient to return to Darcy; yet Mr. Bennet sipped at his port for a leisurely minute before beginning.
“I appreciate that this has all been a very upsetting incident for you,” he said, his eyes fixed on the bowl of the glass as he twirled it absently between his fingers. “You and your sisters have led sheltered lives; I do not blame myself for having wished to protect you from the less savory aspects of this world, Elizabeth, nor do I wish that you might have been kept in ignorance for all of your years.”
Mr. Bennet paused to refill his goblet, and Elizabeth, beginning to suspect what he meant to speak of, quickly moved to intercept him. “But you do blame Fi...Mr. Darcy for exposing me to it?”
He looked at her sharply. “You appear to wish to discredit me a good deal, Lizzy. I would not do myself or your young man the dishonor. It is no one’s fault – at least no one in this house.”
Properly chastised, she nodded meekly and folded her hands back onto her lap, waiting for him to finish.
“You are a clever girl, and not deficient in sense; I trust that you know what you are about, so I will not attempt to persuade you otherwise.” A breezy sigh intruded on his speech. “But I would not be doing right by you if I let this continue on unchecked.”
She stiffened, her eyes narrowing on his face. “Let what continue?”
Leaning across his desk, he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward the light, where the tired shadows stood high against her skin. “This, Elizabeth.”
She pulled away from his grasp. “You are exhausted,” he said firmly, “and still you continue to spend hour after hour above-stairs. I realize that you want to comfort him and ensure that his recovery is swift – but child, your own health is being compromised. Until you can rest more fully, I do not want you with him above an hour each day.”
The edict shocked her as much as his harsh tone. “An hour!”
“Far too much of your time is spent there as it is. I would not say anything, for I know how....” He paused awkwardly, as if the words sat ill in his mouth. “....how adverse violent young lovers are to any sort of restrictions, particularly under these circumstances; but, Lizzy, it is not wise. Your health, your reputation....”
“We are engaged,” she said, with some pique, “and he has been most grievously hurt! How can anything even remotely improper happen? His valet is always with us besides. There is simply not an opportunity for anything undue to occur.” Her father’s brows rose at this exclamation, and she reddened. “I do not mean that we have looked for an opportunity, I only say that there is not anything that we may rationally be accused of by anyone – Papa, you know there is no danger in my attending him.”
“Be that as it may, child, people will talk eventually – but even more than that, my interest is in your well-being. Hill tells me your appetite has been poor, and you obviously have not been sleeping above half the night. I have scarcely seen you for a week; you have not been downstairs to eat a proper meal with us for nearly as long, and it is wearing you thin. You ought not to be overextending yourself in such a manner.”
“I am only a little tired, and I have been taking regular meals with Mr. Darcy. You should not worry so about me.”
His frown deepened in displeasure. “Mr. Darcy ought to be the one insisting you rest more; if you shall not listen to me, you ought to listen to him. Surely he sees how the effort is affecting you – surely he has spoken something of it.”
Elizabeth did not like the implied censure in his tone. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy has, Papa. Several times he has asked me to take an afternoon for myself, to rest or take a walk in the gardens.”
“How selfless of him,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “I rescind my earlier remarks, Lizzy. I see now that they are quite unjust.”
Her cheeks flushed with angry color. “Papa, that is not fair! He has been most anxious about me of late, and I do not at all mind sitting with him during the day. I welcome time spent with him; it is no hardship, no exhausting task. I am perfectly content to stay with him.”
“But I am not.” Mr. Bennet shuffled the papers on his desk, keeping his eyes directed away from her. “I am not attempting to lock you away from him. I only ask that you set aside a little more time for yourself.”
It seemed a rational enough explanation, and had Elizabeth not known her father so well as she did, she might have agreed to his requests with little fuss. Mr. Bennet, however, was not so straightforward a creature as that, and if he said one thing, most often he meant another. His concerns about her health, although they undoubtedly had come to his attention, were but flimsy covers for his real intentions.
She was bitterly disappointed by this reversion back to his initial opinion. She had thought, after two months of continuous interaction with Darcy, that her father had overcome his prejudices, that he had learned to respect the young man his daughter had chosen or perhaps even come to admire him. But it appeared that once again she was mistaken. One incident, which was no fault of Darcy’s, had returned her father to all his first sensations of doubt, and despite his assurances, the only thing she could think of was that this new restriction was yet another attempt to separate them.
Mr. Bennet, unaware of the substance of his daughter’s thoughts, believed the interview to be concluded and waved her away. “Go on with you now, Lizzy. I will explain the matter to Mr. Darcy if you think yourself unequal to the task.”
She watched him in disbelief as he settled back in his chair, opening a book and pouring a fresh glass of port, the issue clearly put paid to in his mind. A new resentment, which had unknowingly been festering in her since the very moment she had come to him with the news of her engagement, rose in her throat, demanding to be released and expression. “You will not.” The words were hoarse and uncertain, chafing oddly against her tongue as she said them.
He glanced over his book with an indulgent smile. “What was that?”
“You will say no such thing to him.” She nearly choked, stunned by her own boldness. “I do not think it is reasonable.”
His good-humor faded. “I will excuse your insolence because I know how tired you are.” After a moment, his voice softened. “You are not thinking like you might, Elizabeth. Rest this afternoon, and you shall feel more yourself tonight.”
“This has nothing to do with sleep,” she said coldly. “You only wish for me to stay away from him.”
His brows shot up. “I do not recall forbidding you from seeing him.”
“No, because you know I would not consent to it.” She rubbed her sweating palms against her skirt. “The less time I spend with him now, the farther apart we will be when this is all over. You mean to drive a wedge between us.” Her voice lowered. “You blame him for this because he is deaf, and those men came after him for just that reason. You think he placed me in danger, and you want me to have nothing more to do with him.”
His patience had come to an end. “Elizabeth, that is nonsense worthy of your sisters. I had not thought it possible for you to speak so foolishly.”
Her lips trembled. “You may blame him, but this is your fault! You refused to let us marry soon – you made us wait for a half-year, for no purpose at all – you convinced him to agree to it, so that he had to stay here and be beaten nearly to death! None of this would have happened if we had been married last month and left his dreadful place and been far away at Pemberley....” Her tirade broke on a frustrated sob.
Her father’s face appeared to have frozen to stone, tight-lipped and silent as she rose tentatively from her seat, frightened by what she had just said and whom she had said it to. She stood there for a long moment, looking at him numbly. “Papa?”
The stiffness melted from his face, leaving in its place a countenance that appeared to have aged a decade in the space of a minute or two. He looked at her solemnly, and then smiled, a humorless twist of the lips. “You have always been able to direct your arrows with goodly accuracy, child. Go and sit with Mr. Darcy now. You have said enough.”
“Papa —”
He had turned toward the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, perfectly composed and and perfectly distant. “Off with you.”
She hesitated, waiting for something more, any indication that she had not ruined everything for a few careless words, but he did not turn around. A sting of tears welled in her eyes, and she left him to his solitude, knowing that any attempt at reconciliation was, at present, fruitless.
Without conscious direction, her feet took her directly back to Darcy’s chambers. Eschewing the customary knock, she burst inside, startling poor Phipps, who had been piling laundered shirts into a drawer. She watched helplessly as the pristine silk fell to the floor in a mournful puddle. Darting forward, mortified, she tried to help him gather up the mess. The valet patiently advised her that he could deal with the matter directly, if she would but step away for a moment, and she burst into noisy tears.
Phipps gaped at her in horrified fascination before his composure made a delayed return, and he tried to guide her to a nearby chair, entreating her to rest and drink a little water.
She would not budge, however, and with every placating word the valet said, the harder her tears came. It was an uncontrollable surge of emotion, and although she shamed herself for the wanton expression of it, she could no more halt it than she could take back the things she had said to her father.
Phipps, after overcoming his initial surprise, took control of the situation in short order. Having been privy to several tearful outbursts courtesy of a youthful Miss Darcy, he was not entirely inexperienced in matters of such delicacy. Careful to appear unsympathetic, he briskly shoved her into a chair (although he would not be so bold to deem it a shove, no matter how the force of it had left Elizabeth with little choice as to her seating preferences), and fetched a cup of cool water from the sideboard, which he promptly pushed into her hands. “There, there, Miss.” He waited a moment for that comfort to halt the onslaught of unseemly bawling. When it failed, he pointed back at the recumbent form of Darcy on the bed. “The master may wake soon, Miss.”
That quieted her. Sniffling into her handkerchief, she took several steady breaths, swabbing at her eyes as embarrassment swiftly replaced distress. She was not one of those fortunate creatures who could cry prettily – since she was not at all in the habit of practicing the delicate feminine art of weeping, she preferred to meet difficulty with good humor or the occasional spurt of anger; she laughed when she might rather have cried. No, her weeping was the loud, red-nosed, full-lunged operatic wailing of a Covent Garden tragic heroine.
If this comparison also occurred to Phipps, he possessed sufficient sense not to mention it. Elizabeth calmed presently enough; after bathing her face, she sat next to Darcy’s bed and folded herself double, tucking her head wearily onto her knees.
She heard the door gently snap shut and closed her eyes, intending to rest just a moment longer.
“Elizab-beth?”
The hushed voice intruded on her pleasant lassitude, and she blinked open her eyes as Darcy’s face swam into view. A foggy lethargy tethered her limbs, and she realized that she must have fallen asleep. “Fitzwilliam?”
He smiled, looking appealingly boyish under the tangle of his pillow-pressed hair. “I d-did not mean t-to d-disturb you, b-but you d-didn’t look very c-c-comfortable.”
She straightened in her chair, groaning as her spine crackled in indignant response. “Not at all – I should know by now not to sleep upright.” She paused as his smile fell away. “What?” His gaze was intent on her face, and she turned awkwardly away.
His eyes narrowed. “Is s-something wrong, Elizabeth?”
“No, no. I’m quite well, thank you.”
He did not disagree, but his frown spoke clearly enough; to her horror, she felt herself in danger of tears yet again, and she launched up from the chair, striding to the window and gazing out into the yard in the hopes of settling the well-up of emotion.
“Elizab-beth.”
Taking a gusty breath, she reluctantly looked back at him. His expression had softened into that tender warmth she had become so intimate with; he stretched out his hand, beckoning her to the bed, and she came hesitantly forward. To her surprise, he did not release her but drew her down to sit next to him on the mattress. He was disconcertingly close, and her battle for composure was soon intensified by an entirely different sort of discomfiture.
Feather-light fingers curved around her jaw, lifting her head until she met his gaze. “Was it y-your f-father?”
After a pregnant pause, Elizabeth nodded, chin quivering. She heard him sigh, and a moment later the hand was at her back, urging her down. Without a thought for Phipps or the sight they should make if a servant came in unexpectedly, she stretched, half-sitting, half-lying alongside him. Darcy shifted, very carefully, until her head was nestled in the cradle of his shoulder. Gratefully, she burrowed her face against his neck, sagging bonelessly onto the soft ticking. The room was silent but for the whisper of their mingled breathing, and she closed her eyes and wriggled closer. He smelled clean, like soap and fresh linen.
His good hand sifted slowly through her hair, and, soothed by the repetitious movement and blessed quiet, they both presently drifted off to sleep.
Much to Bingley’s relief, the physician’s last visit had entailed the granting of his permission to return to business as usual, although extended periods of exercise were sternly discouraged. No news could have possibly been more welcome, and Bingley took full advantage of his new freedom, joining the family at mealtimes, taking walks in the garden, and spending the afternoon hours with Darcy. Since Jane was no longer justified in her excessive mothering, he had even managed a jaunt to Netherfield to see his sister and speak with his steward.
Caroline had been oddly subdued – he had scarcely gotten a word from her when he had been expecting a tirade on the inconvenience of the whole mishap – and had offered no objection to remaining a few more weeks in Hertfordshire. He had kept waiting for a scolding, or some sort of sharp rejoinder, but she had sat placidly across the dining table, saying nothing but the occasional inquiry as to his preference for tea-cake. She looked normal – if a little preoccupied – but it was so very strange that he had been tempted to ask her if she was ailing.
It was lovely to have control over his own schedule again, and although he would never admit it to Jane, he very much dreaded those times, after they were wed, when he should be ill, if it meant that he was always to be subjugated for such treatment. With that in mind, he resolved to take every precaution in the future against catching cold.
His most pressing business had been finished, and Bingley, after a quick conversation with his housekeeper, sent men to fetch his trunks back from Longbourn. Although he was loath to deprive himself of Jane’s company – if not her constant hovering – he knew that Mr. Bennet would undoubtedly appreciate a prompt removal when the need for his remaining was no longer there. The last thing he wished to do was add more gossip to fuel the whirlwind of wagging tongues that had already entertained Meryton for the past two weeks.
Mrs. Nicholls set about airing the bedchambers, as Bingley suspected that the Darcys would soon follow as soon as Dr. Grantley deemed it safe. Upon questioning Caroline, he learned that Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been spending his nights in one of the guest chambers when he happened to pass through Hertfordshire, was off in London at present; he gave instructions that the colonel’s chamber was to be kept clean and ready for his continual returns, sporadic though they seemed to be.
It was rather vexing to be so uninformed – he thought Darcy’s cousin might have come upon a clue, considering that he was fixed in London at present, but Bingley rather wished he might be of some assistance. After all, he was the one who had gotten his head rattled. But, as always, he chose not to be confrontational and let the colonel do his searching without complaint.
And so Bingley completed his duties at Netherfield and returned to the Bennets’ for one last dinner before he removed permanently back to his estate. He thought Jane might not have been pleased by his abrupt relocation, but she always looked so calm and content that he could not entirely be sure of her reaction.
After a fine meal, he took the carriage home; a slight headache had left him eager to retire, and he resolved to put off whatever household concerns still needed to be attended to until he was feeling more chipper.
His steward, however, had some urgent news – a note had been left with Mason from the magistrate himself, a Mr. Breckenridge, inquiring at what time a conference might be arranged. The message also asked for Darcy’s attendance at the soonest possible time; the letter was already a full day delivered, so Bingley wrote a hasty reply, informing him that Mr. Darcy was still bedridden at Longbourn, but a meeting would be arranged as soon as everything was better settled.
Thinking that would put a delay to the entire matter, he sent it off and promptly forgot about it. It would, however, be thrust back into everyone’s attention two days later, when Mr. Breckenridge and his constable knocked upon Longbourn’s front door.
“Would you care for a little more tea, Miss Darcy?” Jane extended the teapot in question toward her guest, who jumped at the sudden address.
“I....yes, I think I would.” Georgiana held out her cup and waited while it was filled with the hot dark brew. “Thank you, Miss Bennet.”
“Pray, call me Jane. We will be sisters soon, you know.” Jane poured herself a fresh measure and leaned back against the chaise-longue comfortably, holding the cup between her chilled hands. She smiled over at Georgiana. “Shall you like gaining so many sisters all at once? It will be very different from what you are accustomed to.”
“In truth, I have not thought about it,” she admitted shyly.
“But did you never wish for more brothers and sisters when you were a child?”
The question surprised her. When she was a girl, she had not even regarded the possibility of other siblings. Her brother had required so much care and attention that she had not ever thought of another. Now that she reflected upon it, she felt she might have benefitted from a sibling closer to her own age. Twelve years was a very large gap between a brother and sister – it had made his transition into the role of guardian easier, but it would always precipitate a certain amount of generational misunderstanding between them. A younger sibling might have been able to identify with her more easily. Hers had been a lonely life, but nonetheless, she had never really felt it, for, having not had the close companionship of children her age, she could not have known what she was being deprived of. “Fitzwilliam and I were quite comfortable with just the two of us,” she said finally, for lack of a better way to explain the complicated situation.
Jane only nodded. “I hope you will not find us too lively for your tastes – a large family does sometimes have its detriments.”
“But you were the eldest,” Georgiana said. “Surely that gave you some advantage over your sisters. I do not think you ever had to wear cast-down dresses or old bonnets.”
Jane laughed softly. “No, and Lydia did always see the unfairness of it.” She thought for a moment. “But being the eldest does bear its responsibilities. I am sure your brother can attest to that.”
“Yes, I am sure he can.” She smiled. “I understand, from tales I have heard from our staff, that I was quite a naughty child myself. Fitzwilliam was forever having to put me back where I belonged. I should not have wished to bear his duties in those years.”
Jane gazed down into her tea as if it were some sort of scrying pool. “We older children must have a tendency to take on the habits of our parents. I know that Charles,” here her lips turned into something that might have been termed a pout had anyone else done it, “seems to think me a good deal too attentive. Oh, he would not mention it for the world, but I can see how he dislikes all the aid.”
“He probably does not wish to be seen in such an incapacitated state,” Georgiana ventured. “I know Fitzwilliam does not want Elizabeth to see that he is not capable of tending himself. Male pride, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Jane echoed, and for a mere flash of a second, Georgiana could have sworn that Elizabeth’s sweet-tempered sister looked positively disgruntled. “In any case, he will soon be back on his feet – although I still believe Dr. Grantley may have dismissed him too soon. I do so worry about him; did you know he is still having those dreadful headaches? I wish I could help in some way.”
“I am sure he appreciates all that you have done.”
“Yes, well....” Jane suddenly paused, and then colored. “Oh, I am sorry. Listen to me, going on like this.”
Georgiana was about to reassure her that no apology was necessary, but Mrs. Hill bustled into the parlor. “Dr. Lawrence is at the door, Miss Jane.”
“Thank you, Hill.” Jane rose from her seat to greet the clergyman, who was lingering in the hall, hat in hand. “Good afternoon, Dr. Lawrence. Please, will you come in and have some tea? It has only just been brought in.”
The rector smiled but shook his head, his flyaway white hair even more windswept than usual. “No, thank you, my dear. I thought I might pay a call on Mr. Darcy, if he’s not occupied at the moment.”
“Of course,” Jane said at once. “I believe he was expecting you. Miss Georgiana, will you excuse us for a moment?”
Realizing that someone else was in the room, Dr. Lawrence turned to her and quickly dipped his head, inquiring cheerfully after her health. Georgiana welcomed him fondly, for she had much admired the man’s steadfast support in the days before and after the melee; after a moment of brief conversation, she bid them have a pleasant visit, and Jane led him upstairs.
To no one’s surprise, Elizabeth and Darcy were both in the room, along with the ever-present Phipps, who took advantage of the clergyman’s chaperoning presence to slip down to the kitchens for a bite to eat. Dr. Lawrence greeted them cordially and seated himself opposite Elizabeth next to the bed.
“I saw Mr. Bingley as I was passing through the village,” he said, settling back into the chair slowly, his knees creaking with the exertion. “I am pleased to know he has recovered sufficiently to be back on his feet. I hope Dr. Grantley had similar news for you, Mr. Darcy.”
“He d-did, although mine was not s-so immediate as B-Bingley’s.”
“Dr. Grantley said his ribs were mending very well, much faster than he had thought,” Elizabeth said eagerly, glad to share the good news with anyone, “and his hand is almost entirely healed.”
“Excellent news indeed!” Dr. Lawrence smiled at her enthusiasm. “We shall see you quite yourself again in no time at all, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is m-much b-better th-than I hoped,” he said, “b-but I sh-shan’t be d-dancing any r-reels for s-several months.”
Amused, the rector asked if he had been given any specific date for release from his confinement. “I should think you would be anxious to be out of this room, now that you are feeling better.”
Darcy smiled. “I am still t-too t-t-tired to be restless.”
“He has been an exemplary patient,” Elizabeth teased. “Far better than I ever was.”
Dr. Lawrence chortled. “I can certainly credit that. You were a trial when you fell ill, Miss Elizabeth, and made almost as much mischief sick as when you were well. Your mother quite despaired of you.”
“I did make a dreadful invalid,” she agreed ruefully. “Any child of mine will probably share that trait, if only to avenge my own difficult behavior.”
A knock again interrupted their conversation, and Hill was once more the perpetrator. Peeping inside, she smiled apologetically and said, “There are a few gentlemen below-stairs to see you, Mr. Darcy.”
His eyebrows rose. “I’m s-sorry – d-did you say they wished t-to see me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth questioningly, but she could only shrug. “D-Did th-these gentlemen leave their c-cards, Mrs. Hill?”
“No, sir, but one of the gentlemen is Mr. Breckenridge, and the other is Mr. Cameron – a constable, I believe.”
This identification did nothing to alleviate their confusion. “Th-Thank you, Hill,” he said at last. “P-Please send th-them up, if they c-care to come.”
Hill curtsied and went to fetch them. Darcy quickly put the quilts to order and straightened his shirt collar. “Elizabeth, d-do you know of th-these men?”
“I have met Mr. Cameron,” she said, sounding as bewildered as he felt, “but I have never heard of Mr. Breckenridge. Do you suppose he is a constable too?”
“He is from the county magistrate’s office,” Dr. Lawrence interjected quietly. “I believe he has been involved in hunting out the men responsible for the crimes committed here.”
Darcy’s eyes widened, as if that thought had never occurred to him. “Have th-they f-found anyone?”
Elizabeth, recollecting that Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen fit to keep his cousin deliberately unaware of the happenings in that regard, spoke carefully. “I believe they have taken several men in for questioning, but I know little else. Perhaps Mr. Breckenridge may be able to tell us more.”
Dr. Lawrence rose cautiously from his chair. “I ought to be leaving, then. I hope the magistrate may bear good news, Mr. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth. God be with you both.” He bent to pluck his hat from the bureau top.
“If you d-don’t mind it, I sh-should like you t-to st-stay,” Darcy said, much to everyone’s surprise. “I value your ad-advice, sir.”
The rector was taken aback but pleased nonetheless. “I should be happy to be of service to you.”
“Th-Thank you.”
In another few minutes, footsteps clamored up the stairs, and the gentlemen made their entrance. Introductions were quickly made, and if either of the men were startled by a woman’s presence in the sickroom, they drew no attention to it.
Mr. Breckenridge was a thin, ungainly man, with a full brown beard and blue eyes that shone strikingly dark from his fair-skinned face. He was quiet and professional with an air of efficient command and deliberation. His companion, Mr. Cameron, was stockier and clean-shaven, his blond curls already receding at the hairline, his smile good-humored and frank.
While Mr. Breckenridge surveyed the room and its occupants with a practiced eye, the constable explained the matter that had drawn them to interrupt the family party at Longbourn so incommodiously. He informed them that four gentlemen in particular had been kept in gaol for further investigation, due in part to the testimony of a barmaid in one of the local taverns who had seen them in the company of Mr. Wickham the night of the incident. Those men had been identified easily and were awaiting trial. There were three others, however, who could not be traced in a similar manner, but who were almost certainly involved in some manner or another.
“You see, sir,” Mr. Cameron concluded, “we cannot press charges until we have some sort of definite witness to their presence with the other criminals at the time of the assault.”
“And s-so you th-thought I might b-be able to t-tell you,” Darcy said softly.
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Breckenridge spoke up for the first time, his tone brisk but not unkind. “We had hoped that you might be able to assist us.”
Elizabeth slowly released the breath she had been holding; she did not know whether to feel relieved or not. Some sort of resolution to this dreadful uncertainty was what she most wished, but at the same time, she did not want the humiliating spectacle of a public trial.
“We understand that Wickham has a prior connection with your family – Colonel Fitzwilliam assures us that he was the instigator of this attack.” Mr. Breckenridge withdrew a slip of yellowed parchment from his coat and perused it for a moment. “You verify that Lieutenant Wickham has, on at least one occasion before this, leveled similar charges at you? The incident in question took place in Derbyshire last summer, am I correct?”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew toward Darcy’s face, and she watched as he nodded solemnly. He caught her astonished gaze, and he jerked his head down, staring fixedly at his hands, faint color staining his cheeks. Before she could process this new information, Dr. Lawrence ventured forth an inquiry. “Pardon me, but if the....er....lady who identified the other men could not accuse these others, how did you come to suspect them?”
Mr. Cameron seemed taken aback by the question. “They had connections with Lieutenant Wickham,” he said after a moment, “and Wickham appears to be the cause of his....” He coughed, glancing over awkwardly at Darcy, “....his unpopularity. Any ill-wishers Mr. Darcy had were led directly by the lieutenant.”
“And so, Mr. Darcy, since we cannot locate Lieutenant Wickham at present,” Breckenridge interjected, “our only option is to round up the others.”
Both men looked expectantly at Darcy, who swallowed thickly, appearing faintly ill. Elizabeth watched him anxiously as he shifted, his brow furrowed deep. “Have you sp-spoken with Mr. B-Bingley on this matter?”
“We have, but Mr. Bingley was unable to give us any information because of the nature of his injury.” Mr. Breckenridge inched forward in anticipation. “Our only alternative is your testimony.”
The very air itself went still, everyone absolutely silent as they waited for Darcy to speak. He happened to look at Elizabeth, and she was struck by the distress shadowed in his eyes; she smiled a little, hoping to encourage him, waiting for the condemnation he would pass on the men who had wronged him so maliciously.
“Mr. Darcy?”
A breathy sigh flowed from his lips before he lifted his head, looking the magistrate squarely in the eye. “I am s-sorry, sir, but I c-cannot help you.”
Mr. Cameron’s mouth sagged open; Mr. Breckenridge merely surveyed the gentlemen with fresh intensity. “Mr. Darcy, do you mean you cannot – or will not?”
Darcy returned his observant stare with equanimity. “I c-cannot, sir. I am afraid I d-did not c-clearly see the f-faces of any of the men. It was fairly d-dark, and I was n-not t-trying to d-discern who was around me – I c-could only th-think of what was happening at th-that moment. I am v-very sorry, but I d-do not th-think I c-can be of any use t-to you.”
An appalled silence fell over the room. Elizabeth knew her own face must be displaying the same ridiculous shock as the others, but she could not conceal what she felt – Darcy alone appeared composed. After a moment, Mr. Breckenridge seemed to recover himself. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth was unable to believe what she was hearing. “You don’t remember anything?” she cried, quite forgetting herself. “Nothing? Surely you can recollect something? Anything? A face, a voice, something?”
He looked rather pained at her outburst. “Nothing, Miss B-Bennet. Nothing at all.”
She started to urge him to think a little harder – that if he dwelled on it for a moment, he would certainly come up with something – but she felt Dr. Lawrence’s hand at her shoulder, squeezing gently. She looked over at him, and he shook his head, his expression composed and very serious. “Let him make his own choices,” he whispered. “He must do as his conscience dictates.”
“Do you believe you might be able to think more clearly when you have had a while longer to recover?” Mr. Cameron inquired. “We could hold them for a few days more, should you remember something later.”
“I d-doubt I c-could remember, sir, even with more t-time.”
“Would it be possible for you to tell us the names of the accused?” Dr. Lawrence ventured, just as the quiet tension was becoming unbearable.
The magistrate and constable exchanged quick glances before the latter said, “Yes, sir. There are three: Mr. Josiah Watt, Mr. Robert Ferley, and Mr. Silas Simmons.”
Elizabeth heard Dr. Lawrence suck in a startled breath; the vision of Mr. Simmons’s fury-twisted face and pointing finger in the church swam before her eyes as if the scene had happened moments and not months before.
Mr. Breckenridge watched Darcy carefully. “Do those names draw in any recollections now?”
Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides; she saw his face work in anguish for a moment, before he resolutely shook his head. “No, sir.” He lifted his chin. “I am s-sorry I was not able t-to be of more assistance t-to you.”
Mr. Breckenridge heaved a sigh. “It is a great misfortune indeed. Mr. Cameron and I will trouble you no longer – good afternoon to you.” He bowed neatly to Elizabeth and motioned for the constable to follow him. Mrs. Hill appeared in the hall to escort the gentlemen out, and they left as quickly as they had come, the door clicking soundly shut behind them.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven