Chapter Four

Darcy

H is eyes blinked open and he found himself in a dimly lit room. Immediately, a sharp, pounding pain on the right side of his head claimed all his attention, and a groan filled the air. Was that his voice?

“Sir?” A soft, tender voice called out, and he turned his head slightly to the left to see a woman hovering over him, her dark eyes filled with concern. “Are you in pain?” she asked.

“My head,” he mumbled.

“Well, we should put a cool cloth on his head,” another female voice, this one shrill, said, accompanied by the sound of splashing water.

“I need to get up,” he said, attempting to push himself up, but the young woman with the soft voice placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back while a man did the same on his other side. He moved his head, although every inch of movement brought more pain. The man was older, with grey hair. His eyebrows were bushy and white, and his face was lined and weathered. However, he was dressed well, indicating that he was a gentleman.

“Lizzy,” the other woman said from somewhere closer to him now. “Here, take this cloth and put it on his head.”

He did his best to take in his surroundings, trying to see who had spoken, trying to understand who these people were. The thrill of a wet cloth being placed on his forehead drew all his attention because it felt wonderful.

“Thank you,” he muttered as he closed his eyes. Where in the world was he? Who were these people? How had he got himself into this situation?

“Mr Wickham, you should know I am Mr Thomas Bennet. This is my daughter Elizabeth and my wife, Mrs Bennet. We found you lying injured on the road and brought you in. We have sent for the surgeon, and he will be here soon,” the man said.

He looked around the room to see who else Mr Bennet had just spoken to, for he knew it could not be him. However, there was nobody else here but the three people he’d already taken in. He closed his eyes again, confused.

“Did you hear me, Mr Wickham?” the man asked.

The voice was still coming from directly beside him. How odd. He opened his eyes, and sure enough, the older man looked right down at him.

“Wickham?” he asked. This time he looked at the young woman.

“That was the name stitched in your greatcoat. George Wickham. Is that not your name?” The young woman, Elizabeth, said, now with a hint of confusion in her voice.

“No…” he said. “My name is…” He felt the air passing between his lips as he lay there with his mouth agape, a washcloth on his head, and a young woman who smelled like a lavender field beside him—and there was nothing where his name should’ve been. It was a void, blank. What was his name?

Surely he had to know his own name. “My name is…” he started again, hoping that somehow those words would catapult out the information he was looking for, but again he came up with nothing. “I am…”

Who was he? He had been found on the road, what road? And where was he? Panic gripped him and he sat up in the bed, the wet cloth falling into his lap where it soaked the blanket they had covered him with.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Go? You cannot go anywhere, Mr Wickham,” the sharp-voiced woman, Mrs Bennet, said while he wildly looked around and attempted to get out of bed.

“Mr Wickham,” she repeated.

“That is not my name,” he said. “That is not…” The strong arms of Mr Bennet pushed him back onto the bed and pinned him down. For an older man, he was certainly very strong. Then it occurred to him. Was he an older man? He had no idea how old he was. He had no idea who he was.

He looked at his hands and saw that they were strong and without age spots. They were the hands of a young man. He was a young man. How young? His heart pounded, and the urge to get away increased. He had to find out who he was. He had to get away from these people who seemed intent on keeping him in their care. Without a clue as to who they were, he had to assume they were up to no good. Maybe they had poisoned him. Maybe they had done something to make him not remember?

His mind raced with the pain he had felt earlier when suddenly a cool, smooth hand appeared on his forehead and the young woman’s dark eyes and heart-shaped face materialised before him again. She pushed him back into the pillow but not with the force used by her father, rather with a smooth, tender movement.

“Mr Wickham, please be calm. We only want to help you, as my father said, we found you injured and brought you home. We have summoned the surgeon. We mean you no harm, you are safe here. Please stay sir, at least until Mr Wexler can assess your wounds.”

He knew that on a rational level these words should not have necessarily soothed him. Because if these people were up to no good, of course, they would say this. Yet he couldn’t help himself. The woman’s voice was so sweet, so compassionate, and so full of sincerity that he felt his heart slow to a regular pace and his breathing grow even again.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said, noting the flicker of surprise on her face. She caught her father’s gaze and then her mother’s, and then Mrs Bennet exited the room in haste. “I don’t know who I am,” he whispered again and suddenly his eyes stung, and he felt a tear rolling down his cheek.

He was terrified. Absolutely terrified.

“All will be well,” the woman said. “I promise you. The surgeon will come and take a look at you. You’ve had a blow to the head. Perhaps that is why you cannot remember? Once you heal, you will remember. And then we will take you home. Do not fret.”

“I think it would be best if you try to rest,” Mr Bennet said, releasing his grip on his arms. He looked up at the man. “Thank you for helping me. I… I don’t know who I am,” he repeated.

“I gather that,” Mr Bennet said, “but as my daughter said, we will figure it out. For the time being, I would advise you to rest and garner your strength. We will leave you to it. Come now, Elizabeth.”

He turned to leave, but the young woman, though she removed her hand from his forehead, did not leave his side.

“Perhaps it would be better if I stayed. What if he falls asleep and wakes and he’s frightened again?”

He wasn’t sure why, but the idea that she thought him frightened, bothered him. Why he should be concerned with something like this, at a time where he lay in a home he didn’t know with people who could be just about anyone—a stranger even to himself—wasn’t quite clear. And yet, there it was.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s proper,” Mr Bennet said.

“Please,” Elizabeth said. “I will sit and wait here until Mr Wexler arrives. I would want someone with me if I were in his position.”

Elizabeth looked at her father, who hesitated, and then nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “But do call us if you need anything. And I am leaving the door open.” With that, he left the room, leaving the young woman behind to watch over the stranger who didn’t know his own name.