Chapter 6

Six

Elizabeth woke to darkness. Disoriented, confused, she sat up quickly and immediately regretted it, rather more gently easing herself back down upon the pillows and shutting her eyes again. Her head pounded with the rhythm of her heartbeat, drumming pain into her body. Was she at home, back to Longbourn?

And why had she wondered if she were back to Longbourn? Had she left? Where to? How long had she been gone? Why? For some unknown reason, she felt panic at the question and forcibly quelled the line of examination.

It does not matter at this moment , she told herself. All that is required at present is one breath in, one breath out. In. Out . When she felt sufficiently calm, she carefully opened her eyes.

The darkness, she saw, was not absolute. A screen had been carefully positioned by the fireplace to prevent the light from shining directly on her, but the fire was built up enough for the glow to be visible. The air was warm. Cautiously, she smoothed her hands across the linens surrounding her; they were fine ones. She lay upon the softest of mattresses, perhaps more than one. Gingerly, she turned her head to try and take note of her surroundings.

She was not alone. A young woman, probably a servant, sat on a chair by her bedside, chin upon her chest, dozing. On a bedside table, a pitcher was near at hand; at the sight of it, Elizabeth became aware of tremendous thirst. An inch at a time, she eased herself up, but some rustling of her covers must have alerted the sleeping servant.

"Oh, miss! Ye be awake!"

"Water, please," Elizabeth tried to say, but her voice emerged as only a husky rasp. Nevertheless, the girl understood, and poured a cup.

Never had any water tasted so refreshing as this did. She drained the glass, and might have asked for more, had her need for information not been so acute.

"Who are you?" she croaked.

"Molly, miss."

"Where am I, Molly?" she asked, pleased when her voice emerged a bit more strongly.

"At the Golden Fleece, miss," the girl said.

An inn, then, but the name meant nothing to Elizabeth. "Where is the Golden Fleece?"

"Past Barnet, not so far as Whetstone," Molly replied.

It took a moment for Elizabeth to associate the names, but of course she had travelled to her London relations numerous times, and the towns named were along the main road. Had she been on her way to visit the Gardiners? A carriage accident, perhaps?

The servant stood. "The doctor's been and gone, but now that ye be awake, he'll be coming again, I suppose. Such a to-do as ye caused us! Such commotion in the place as he stirred up, I was like to be getting a pain in the noggin myself. I's to be fetching ye a tray once ye wakened, himself said."

"Himself? Who is ‘himself'? Mr Gardiner?" Although making a tremendous fuss was the last thing she would ever expect of her placid uncle.

"I don't know of no Gardiner. Ye came with your pot 'n pan. Mr Buskers gave him nothing but the best of what we have, and the Fleece has enough for the Regent himself, I always say."

"My pot and pan?" Elizabeth rasped, utterly confused.

"You know. Your pot 'n pan, your man. Your husband. Mr Darcy. Ye must've hit your noggin but hard. Who could forget him ?" She bustled out of the room.

"My what? Who?" Elizabeth tried to cry out, but Molly did not turn back.

Husband? Husband! Mr Darcy? The room spun sickeningly as she tried to rise, forcing her back down upon the pillows. She made herself take deep breaths, until gradually the dizziness eased.

Think, Elizabeth, think. You must remember!

The past replayed disjointedly in her memories, a magic lantern show with the slides tilting madly or missing altogether. Her mother's voice, saying, ‘Come my poppet, it is time to be wed'; Mr Darcy's, telling her in commanding tones that she was being taken to a church to be married. For some reason, Mr Collins was present, blathering on and on. Had he been the one to perform the ceremony?

Strangest of all was the memory of a kiss.

She had been kissed twice before. Once was by John Lucas when they were both twelve, more in the nature of an experiment with a friend. It had been interesting, but not particularly appealing, especially after they both burst into laughter afterwards. The other had been Reginald Goulding at an assembly a couple of years prior; five years her senior, she had thought him exciting for that reason alone, and he pursued her after imbibing a bit too heartily at the punch bowl. It had been reckless, to be sure, and her feelings had been bruised, but not shattered, when he had quite determinedly ignored her ever afterwards.

Nevertheless, there had been nothing in her entire life like the kisses she had experienced within these fragmented memories.

They could not have been a dream, for she could never have dreamt such an experience, could never have imagined it. Even now, her body livened at the recollection.

It was Mr Darcy who had kissed her, she was certain of it. Had he married her? How could she possibly have agreed to marry a man for whom respect was lacking, a man she was not even certain could behave as a gentleman? Yet, she remembered those kisses. She had wanted them, desired them, and, even weak and bewildered, wanted more. She wanted them still. They were not stolen moments nor fleeting, friendly experiments; they were neither clumsy nor confusing.

They were the kisses of a grown man to his wife. And she had kissed him as a wife would kiss her husband. It was mortifying. It was shameful. It was…intriguing.

Carefully she felt along her hairline, over her face, across her brow, searching for injuries, intent upon finding a lump on her head that would indicate a cracked and fractured skull. It was the only possible explanation.

Darcy paced the inn's narrow corridor, silently cursing his inability to do anything useful. When Elizabeth collapsed, unconscious at his feet, he nearly panicked. The next hour—of stopping his carriage, of finding an inn, of demanding a physician, treatment, anything—while Elizabeth lay unresponsive and pale, was the most dreadful of his life.

Worse, he had no idea what sort of toxic brew Mrs Bennet had administered, and thus could only tell the doctor the symptoms of it. The man administered some sort of purgative, and only half-conscious, Elizabeth began retching again. It was horrible, but the doctor's firm opinion was that once she rid her body of the poison, her current weakness would be resolved by rest and proper diet. While undoubtedly sensible, Darcy's worry and guilt only increased.

He had lost his vaunted control of his temper, of his emotions; he had stooped to mean jealousy, to ridiculous and unkind argument, resentfully blaming Elizabeth for being unable to see through Wickham's machinations. How could she? His own father had been blind to them; the more innocent and good his victim, the less likely they were to see him for the scoundrel he was.

Does she despise me now? He could hardly blame her if she did. His own feelings were ever clearer; seeing her collapse, wondering whether she was at death's door, only emphasised just how much she meant to him.

Life, he knew, was altogether too short for far too many; his father had never seen his fiftieth birthday. His mother had not lived to see forty.

The maid who had been sitting with Elizabeth emerged from her room, interrupting his pacing.

"Your wife be awake, sir," she said. "I be fetching a tray for her now, sir, just as ye wisht."

"Thank you," he replied with a twinge of guilt at his falsehood. He could hardly reveal the truth, however—that he had plucked a young lady away from her mother and groom because she had been poisoned into accepting a fool.

He knew he ought not to enter Elizabeth's room; he was not truly her husband, after all. Yet, until he could see for himself that she was in her right mind, recovering, he would be stretched between the unbearable agonies of doubt and dread.

Just a few words, that I might know she will be well , he thought, and opened the door.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom, but finally he made out the slight figure upon the bed.

"Mr Darcy!" Elizabeth said, her voice sounding both weak and alarmed. Her expressive eyes darted around the room, as if she looked for a means of escape. She was, plainly, anxious—and yet, she faced him bravely.

His heart, which alternated between pumping too hard and stopping entirely, melted. He pulled up a spindly wooden chair to sit beside the bed. In the dim shadows, he saw one slender hand lift slightly from the blankets. Unable to help himself, he took it within his own, and was relieved when she did not pull it away.

"The servant," she said in almost a whisper, "she said that we are—we are married."

"Well, yes," he said, wondering how to explain. "It was necessary to tell the innkeeper, due to what happened."

"What happened?" she repeated, her voice wary. "I cannot remember much of anything. Was there an accident?"

He was determined, this time, that the conversation might not devolve to accusations. "You were given a medication meant for your father, in order to soften your feelings towards matrimony. I believe you were given too much."

"Given what ? Surely you would not?—"

"No, no," he protested immediately. "Not by me. I-I heard of the plot, and only meant to stop your marriage to Mr Collins, your cousin, while you were not in your right mind."

She was quiet for some moments. "I remember him…talking and talking," she said at last. "He would not stop talking. Mama was there, too. Mama."

He said nothing in reply; she had drawn her own conclusions, plainly.

"So… you married me instead?"

She sounded bewildered, her voice trembling—the voice of a woman who was holding herself together on sheer will. Darcy knew he had only one chance to get this right.

"To call you wife would be an honour and privilege for any man. I understand you do not know me well. I beg that I might be given a chance to earn your respect." He stopped himself from saying more of his love, his admiration and devotion. She loved another, and he was the only one who knew how futile were her feelings for the despicable Wickham. His earlier jealousy, spoken aloud, had been poorly done, his worst self on display. He did not wish to be that man, and prayed she would never remember it.

Her eyes were wide in the dimness. "You are forced, then, by your conscience, into matrimony."

"I do not consider myself forced, but am wretched that you must feel so. I am only resolved to protect your name by any means and to any extent necessary."

"And your own?"

He thought about how to reply. "My name is such that it will weather many storms. Please, allow it to shield you now."

"It is past the point, I suppose, where I have any choice."

The words were bitter—and yet her hand clutched his, giving him hope that she did not find him utterly repulsive.

It was not quite so dire as her words implied, he knew—they might yet escape the situation with everyone's choices intact. If he had thought to give an alias to the doctor and innkeeper, the odds would have been even better that they might remain unrecognised and anonymous. Nevertheless, he was not sorry that in his distress and anxiety at her collapse, he had cast his own reputation and protection over her, and he wished her to prepare herself for the necessity of marriage should it come to that. He opened his mouth to explain it all—as he should probably have done from the beginning—but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"I has your tray," the servant said, entering at his command.

"Yes, thank you," he said, turning back to Elizabeth. "Please, try and eat something. The doctor recommended plain broth and toast, feeling you would recover your strength quickly if you could eat."

Nourishment and rest, as the doctor had advised, was what was most required at the moment. Fuller explanation could wait. Reluctantly, he let go of her hand, and forced himself to take his leave of her.

Mr Darcy did not return, although she admitted to herself that she waited for him to do so after finishing her bland meal. Her mind alternatively raced and moved sluggishly as she sifted through broken and cracked memories.

There were too many frightening ones.

As best she could remember and piece together, her mother had been behind an attempt to marry her to Mr Collins. How very like Mama, neglecting not only to take her daughter's feelings into consideration, but failing to consider that ingesting so much of Papa's tonic might be dangerous!

How could she have done it? Is her understanding so mean, her will so pitiless, that she would throw me away at any cost? She might have ruined my mind, or murdered me outright!

Mr Collins, in her memory, was vacuous, vague, and voluble. It was incredible and yet unsurprising that he could not have understood her to be out of her wits, but then, he truly cared only for himself.

But Mama, Mr Collins, even concern for her ailing Papa possessed only minor bits of her attention. Again and again, she returned to the fantastic idea that somehow Mr Darcy had married her. Somehow, she had married Mr Darcy.

Elizabeth had no doubt that the very notion of matrimony was against his wishes and will. Also, she was certain Mr Darcy had not taken advantage of the situation to do it. That entire idea made no sense whatsoever. If he did not precisely hate her, he certainly was no admirer—and with his wealth, excellent birth, and outward beauty, he could obviously have his pick of brides more attractive and affluent.

She had not liked him, it was true—had been well on her way, in fact, to despising him for his mistreatment of her friend, Mr Wickham. But the recollection of this mistreatment, in fact, was what led her to the deepest mystery of all.

How could he disregard the friend of his youth so callously, while showing such extraordinary concern for me? At the ball, he had refused to defend himself from her accusations—conveyed when she ought to have been dancing, not pressing him for explanation—regarding Mr Wickham. On the other hand, why should he have? What am I to him, that I should deserve to hear any vindication of his motives or actions? I am an insect beneath his shoe .

An insect he had kissed in a wild, passionate manner, and inexplicably married while she was out of her senses, in order to protect her.

Her head ached. Nothing made sense, no matter how she wrestled with her fractured memories. Finally, she fell into a deep, if troubled sleep.