Chapter Six
Three days later
Consciousness returned in fragments—the weight of blankets against his chest, the medicinal smell of laudanum, a dull throb at the base of his skull that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Darcy's eyelids felt heavy and resistant to movement, but he forced them open.
His bedchamber. The familiar green damask curtains, the mahogany wardrobe that had belonged to his grandfather, and the portrait of his mother hanging opposite the bed. Home, then.
Safe.
But how had he come to be here, lying abed in the middle of what his sluggish mind suggested must be daytime?
"Ah, Mr Darcy. You honour us with your return." The voice came from his left—crisp, professional, faintly amused. Dr Newport, his physician, leaned into his field of vision. "How are you feeling, sir?"
"My head..." Darcy's voice emerged as a rasp. His throat felt parched, his tongue thick. "What happened?"
"You do not recall?" Dr Newport’s expression grew more intent, his eyes tracking across Darcy's face with practised assessment. "That is not entirely unexpected. Mr Smith, perhaps you might explain whilst I conduct my examination?"
Another figure moved closer—his steward, looking considerably more dishevelled than Darcy had ever seen him.Mr Smith's cravat was askew, his coat rumpled, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of insufficient sleep.
"Three days you've been like this, sir," he said, his voice rough with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain. "Slipping in and out, not quite here even when your eyes were open. Scared us half to death, if I'm honest."
Three days. Darcy tried to sit up, but Dr Newport pressed a restraining hand against his shoulder.
"Gently, Mr Darcy. You have suffered a significant blow to the head. Sudden movements are inadvisable."
"But three days—what happened? I remember that..." Darcy paused, reaching for his most recent clear memory. "No. Three days ago, Bingley was here. We did not leave the house. He spent the entire day showing me records of a place he wished to buy.” He paused. “Netherpark? No. Netherfield. He wished my counsel before buying it. We were making plans to travel, and then..." The memory ended abruptly, like a book with pages torn out. "I cannot recall anything after that."
Mr Smith and Dr Newport exchanged a troubled glance.
"Mr Darcy," the physician said carefully, "that visit from Mr Bingley occurred nearly three months ago."
The words took a moment to penetrate. "Three months?"
"You did travel to Netherfield with Mr Bingley. You spent time there, attended local society events, and then returned to Pemberley when we had the mining accident." The steward’s voice was gentle, as though speaking to someone who might shatter. "You've been managing the recovery efforts these past months. Surely you recall some of it?"
Darcy's mind groped for the memories Mr Smith described, but found only disconnected fragments, fleeting impressions that dissolved when he tried to examine them. "There was an accident at the mine?"
"A collapse in one of the shafts. Several men were killed, and others injured. You handled everything, sir. Brought in engineers, provided for the families, had the entire operation redesigned. You don't remember any of that?"
A sense of dread washed over Darcy, cold and heavy. Men had died. On his property, under his responsibility. He should remember their names, their families, the weight of that loss. But there was nothing—only a terrible blankness where those memories ought to be, and beneath it, a terrible feeling he could not quite name.
"I..." He stopped, uncertainty choking the words. "I remember nothing of it. What happened to me? How did I come to be injured?"
"You saved young Thompson's life, sir. Horse bolted with an ore wagon—happens sometimes when they’re spooked. We’re still sorting out what set this one off. Thompson was directly in its path. Would have been trampled, no question. You pushed him clear, but the lad lost his balance and went down. You went with him, trying to catch him. Hit your head on a rock, sir. A bad one.”
Images flickered at the edges of Darcy's consciousness—the sound of hooves, perhaps, or shouting—but nothing cohered into actual memory. It might have been imagination rather than recollection.
"Thompson is well?"
"Bruised and shaken, but otherwise unharmed thanks to you. He’s been here twice a day asking after your condition." Mr Smith cleared his throat. What you did—well, it matters. They know you’d risk yourself for any of them.”
Darcy absorbed this information with difficulty. He had apparently lived an entire three months that now existed only as scattered pieces, like a shattered mirror reflecting fragments too small to make sense of the whole.
Dr Newport moved into his line of sight, holding up fingers. "How many do you see, Mr Darcy?"
"Three."
"Good. Follow my hand with your eyes, if you please." The physician moved his hand slowly left, then right, then up and down, watching Darcy's response with clinical attention. "Excellent. No difficulty tracking. Now, can you tell me your full name?"
