Chapter Six

Darcy

T he surgeon, who had introduced himself as Mr Wexler, stood beside the bed, peering intently at him. “Now, Mr Wickham,” he began, holding a small lantern close to examine the bruising around his eye, “can you recall anything at all before you woke up in this bed?”

The man, whom they were calling Mr Wickham, though he didn’t think that was his name, shook his head slowly. “Nothing,” he murmured. “It’s as if everything before my accident is missing. I don’t know how I got here or who I am.”

Mr Wexler nodded thoughtfully, making a few notes in his ledger. “I see. It’s not uncommon for a concussion to cause temporary amnesia. Judging by your accent, I’d say you hail from the north. Does that sound familiar to you?”

The man blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thus far considered where he might be from. “A northern accent? I hadn’t noticed. But no, it doesn’t spark any memories.” Then something came to him. “I know Hertfordshire is in the south of England.”

“Interesting. Who is the King right now?” He dipped his head sideways and waited, the floorboard creaking as he stepped from one foot to the other. A crackle from the fireplace across the room filled the silence as he pondered the question.

“King George the Third, but he is unwell. His son is Prince Regent,” he said, certain this was so.

“Indeed, so it appears it is your personal memories that have been affected. That is good. That means you know some things at least.” The surgeon continued his examination, gently probing the bruises and the swollen area around the black eye. “You have a rather nasty black eye and some significant bruising, indicating you were in a fight. Any recollection of that?”

“No,” he replied, frustration edging his voice. “I remember nothing about any fight. I wonder who I might have been fighting with on the roadside. Do I look like a man who might be a brawler?”

Mr Wexler looked at him sympathetically. “One can never tell, though your nose is quite straight and I would expect a man who fights regularly to have sustained past breaks. In any case, you’re suffering from a concussion, Mr Wickham. You need to rest. The Bennets will certainly allow you to stay here for a while. I will alert the constable, and perhaps he can find out who you are. For now, focus on recovery.”

The man nodded, though the name ‘Mr Wickham’ still didn’t sit right with him. There was something unsettling about it, something that didn’t quite fit. But he had no better alternative.

Mr Wexler finished his examination and packed up his bag. “I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”

He slipped back into bed once the surgeon had left. As he lay down and glanced around the room, he realised he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings before. It was a simple chamber, clearly belonging to a young lady, as there was a dressing table with a hairbrush near the window, along with patch boxes and small containers that reminded him of—he sat bolt upright.

What did it remind him of? He’d had it for a second, a clear image of a dressing table just like this with all manner of containers and patch boxes. Neatly arranged, unlike this cluttered table before him. Who had it belonged to? He closed his eyes, willing the image to return but it did not. Frustrated, he clasped the soft blanket between his fists and squeezed when the door opened. He turned so fast a sharp, hot pain seared up his neck, and he grabbed it with one hand, willing the muscles to relax.

“Mr Wickham, are you quite all right?” Mr Bennet asked.

“Yes, just a pain, it is nothing.” He massaged the spot while Mr Bennet, his wife, and Elizabeth entered. She smiled at him, but it was the kind of smile one reserved for a person most unfortunate, someone one pitied.

“Mr Wexler said you will need rest. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need,” Mr Bennet said while glancing at his wife, which brought up a worry that perhaps not everyone in the household was pleased to have him there.

“The constable will come by to get a description of where we found you, and of you,” Elizabeth explained. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief at her presence. There was something calming about her that eased his anxiety. As he looked towards the door, he noticed two young girls peering in, their eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.

Mrs Bennet hurried towards the door in a resolute manner that prompted the girls to retreat back.

“That’s Lydia and Kitty,” Elizabeth said with a slight smile, noticing his gaze. “They’re my younger sisters.”

“Silly girls, you’ll excuse them,” Mr Bennet added.

“Lydia, Kitty, please allow Mr Wickham some peace,” Mrs Bennet chided gently. “He needs rest, not your endless questions, if we have any hope of him recovering his strength and memory.”

“Yes, Mama,” they chorused, though it was clear they were eager to learn more about the mysterious man in their house.

Mr Bennet gave them a stern look. “Girls, go and help your mother with dinner preparations. Leave Mr Wickham to rest.”

Reluctantly, Lydia and Kitty left the doorway, though not without a final glance back at the bed. Elizabeth moved closer, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. “If there’s anything you need, please let us know,” she said softly.

“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” he replied, with gratitude. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness more than I can say.”

She smiled at him. As the Bennets left the room, Elizabeth lingering a moment longer to offer one last reassuring look, he settled back into the pillows. Despite the turmoil of his missing memories and the confusion of his situation, there was a small comfort in knowing he was in the care of such kind people.