“Doyouknow Mr. Darcy well?“ Elizabeth heard herself ask. The question emerged without her conscious intention, pulled from her by the swirling confusion of her thoughts.
“As well as anyone knows him, I suppose.” Anne’s smile widened fractionally. “We have been acquainted since childhood. Our families have long expected... but I am sure you are not interested in such tedious family history.”
“I am not interested in Mr. Darcy at all,” Elizabeth said firmly. “I find him disagreeable in the extreme.”
“Do you?” Anne leaned back in her chair, apparently satisfied with some private assessment. “How interesting. And yet you seem to think of him quite often. His name keeps arising in our conversation, though I did not introduce it just now. You did.”
Elizabeth’s face burned. Had she? She could not quite remember. Her head felt oddly heavy, her thoughts sluggish and difficult to grasp. The afternoon light seemed too bright now, making her eyes water.
“I think of him only insofar as his actions have affected those I care about,” Elizabeth said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strange, too slow, the words requiring tremendous effort to form properly.
“Of course.” Anne’s voice seemed to come from very far away, though she sat right next to Elizabeth. “You are devoted to your sister. One can see it quite clearly. You would do anything for her happiness.”
Would she? Yes. Yes, of course she would. Elizabeth tried to nod but found the movement difficult. The room had begun to tilt slightly, or perhaps it was only her perspective that had shifted. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.
“I find you utterly fascinating, Miss Bennet,” Anne said softly. “Your spirit, your health, your determination, are all quite remarkable. I wonder if you properly appreciate what you possess.”
The words made no sense. Elizabeth wanted to respond, to ask what Anne meant, but her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She reached for her teacup again, some instinct suggesting that drinking might help, might clear the strange fog descending over her thoughts. The tea was cooler now, and she drained the last of it, tasting only bitterness.
Footsteps sounded in the passage as Charlotte and the others returned. The door opened, and Mrs. Jenkinson stepped through, Maria chattering behind her about the receipt and its ingredients.
“Miss de Bourgh, we really must return to Rosings now,” Mrs. Jenkinson said firmly. “You have been away from home quite long enough.”
Anne rose gracefully, her movements smooth and controlled. Elizabeth tried to rise as well, managing it only with difficulty. The floor seemed uneven beneath her feet.
“Thank you for a most enlightening visit,” Anne said, her pale eyes meeting Elizabeth’s for one last, lingering moment. “I do hope we shall have opportunity to speak again soon. I feel we have so much more to discuss.”
Elizabeth murmured something, she knew not what. The words were merely sounds, meaningless syllables pushed past her lips by habit and training. Her head throbbed now, a dull ache spreading from her temples to encompass her entire skull.
She was dimly aware of Charlotte showing the visitors out, of Maria’s continued chatter, of the front door closing with a decisive thud. The sounds reached her as though filtered through thick wool, muffled and distant.
“Lizzy?” Charlotte’s voice, concerned now. “Are you quite well? You look dreadfully pale.”
Did she? Elizabeth lifted a hand to her face, finding her skin clammy beneath her fingertips. The room swayed around her, the furniture blurring at the edges.
Charlotte was saying something about dinner at Rosings, about the carriage that would be sent to collect them at five o’clock. The words reached Elizabeth as though travelling through water, distorted and slow.
“I cannot possibly attend,” Elizabeth said. Or thought she said. Had the words emerged properly? Charlotte’s face swam beforeher, concerned and questioning. “I have a headache. Quite severe.”
That, at least, was true. The dull ache that had begun during tea with Anne had intensified into something demanding and insistent, a pulsing pain that seemed to originate behind her eyes and radiate outward in waves. Each heartbeat sent a fresh throb through her skull.
“You should lie down,” Charlotte said, her voice seeming to come from very far away despite her proximity. “Let me help you upstairs.”
Elizabeth wanted to protest that she could manage alone, that Charlotte need not trouble herself, but the words tangled in her mouth and would not come out properly. She found herself accepting Charlotte’s offered arm, grateful for the support as they moved toward the stairs.
The staircase presented an unexpected challenge. The steps seemed to multiply before her eyes, each one requiring tremendous concentration to navigate. Her boots felt heavy, as though weighted with lead, and her legs responded sluggishly to her commands. Once, her foot caught on the edge of a riser, and only Charlotte’s firm grip prevented her from stumbling.
“Perhaps we should call for the apothecary,” Charlotte said, her concern evident in the tightening of her fingers on Elizabeth’s arm.
“No.” The word came out more forcefully than Elizabeth intended. “No apothecary. Simply a headache. I require only rest.”
But even as she spoke, Elizabeth knew this was no ordinary headache. She had suffered headaches before; from eyestrain after reading too long in poor light, from the stuffiness of overheated rooms, from the tension of particularly trying social occasions. This felt different. This felt wrong in a way she could not quite articulate.
They reached the landing, and Elizabeth’s bedchamber door seemed impossibly distant down the corridor. Each step required conscious effort, her body growing heavier and less responsive with each passing moment. The floor tilted beneath her feet, first one direction and then another, as though she stood on the deck of a ship in rough seas.
The afternoon light streaming through the corridor windows hurt her eyes, making them water. She squinted against the glare, but that only made the throbbing in her head worse. Nausea rose in her throat, bitter and acidic.
Finally, blessedly, they reached her room. Charlotte guided her to the bed, and Elizabeth sank onto it with a groan she could not suppress. The mattress seemed to undulate beneath her, rising and falling in slow, sickening waves.
