“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 forgethim?” 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, amagic 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 couldnothave 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 wasMr Darcywho had kissed her, she was certain of it. Had hemarriedher? 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 properdiet. 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.”
