“Why is there no doorknob? There is no handle.”
I answer his desperate whisper. “This is the constable’s closet.”
There is so little light I can only discern a shadow where he stands, searching frantically from the sound of it for a way out. This goes on for I know not how long until there are voices. I begin to feel faint.
“I-I believe I should sit down,” I said weakly, and fearing I might lose consciousness, I reach out for his arm. Suddenly, I am on the floor, Mr Darcy is leaning over me, Lydia is laughing, I hear a stern command shushing her, and many footsteps. We are blinded by light from the hall, but by instinct, I recognise Sir William Lucas and a few of the others silhouetted against the light. There is a jumble of voices, my own included, rising, trying to be heard. I am desperate to explain that Lydia only played a stupid prank. No one pays me any heed.
My father, holding a branch of candles, is now in the room.He looks down at me on the floor with the blankest, most uncomprehending stare. I can only hear the rush of blood in my ears, though I see that there is uproar all around me by the way their mouths are moving. Why are there so many people?
Mama’s voice reaches me through the ringing in my ears. She is wailing something I do not understand. I see Mr Darcy say something to my father. He bows curtly, his friend Mr Bingley arrives at the door, pale as a sheet. My father’s hand is pulling me up by the arm, none too gently. I am standing, and then I am in the carriage—we are home. I am shouting, I am on my knees, I am vomiting in a basin while Jane holds my hair. Nothing happened! He did not touch me! I merely fainted! I am pleading and blinded by tears. Why does no one listen to me?
I am fighting for my life. They are holding me, hands holding me down. Why will they not let me leave? I will run away! Papa cannot make me marry! I am too weak to fight, and I fall endlessly into a dark void.
At long last my eyes opened. Slits of light stabbed dagger-like in my head and I winced. “Wilson?”
“She is coming.”
“Mr Darcy?” I was still dreaming. “I cannot forgive you,” I whispered.
He did not answer.
“You would not listen to me. I begged you. How could you be so heartless?”
48
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
“She is raving, sir,” Wilson said in a low voice. Was her maid begging me for understanding? I believe she was. Did she fear retribution for whatever my wife said to me while in a fever? My wife had been rambling and crying out off and on for hours on end, interspersed with fewer and fewer moments of lucidity.
“Is Yardley not returned?”
“No, sir.”
We mutely agreed then to sit Mrs Darcy—Elizabeth—high enough to get her to drink. She was still swallowing at least.
A waft of aromatic smoke crawled around the bed curtains. “Must we burn camphor?” I asked pettishly.
“It soothes her cough, sir.”
My wife was then shivering, and I put more coal on the fire which was roaring in the grate. Panic stampeded through my body. This was the same room, with these same smells, this same kind of fire, this same time of year as when my mother died in that very same bed. I was almosttoo weak to stand when I remembered my sister at the age of eleven, all innocence and incomprehension, brought into this room as my father pulled her towards the bed to say farewell to her mother—my mother.
How fortuitous my wife had begged me to remove Georgiana! No, not fortuitous but merciful. Mrs Reynolds was suddenly at the door.
“Mr Darcy, sir, Mr Hodge is here.”
“What? Now?” I barked.
One glance at the clock showed it to be nearly noon. Had it been so long? But what day was it? Wilson stood up from where she was leaning over my wife and looked curiously at me.
“Send him in, Mrs Reynolds,” I said as if from afar.
The curate held Elizabeth’s hand and whispered a prayer. He read from Psalms. He shook my hand and murmured words of sympathy and of hope. I wished him to the devil.
Yardley arrived. He looked ghastly. We did not speak. I was leaning helplessly against the wall, and I could not move. I had not moved for half the day. He examined Elizabeth and then looked sharply over at me.
“Have you eaten? Mrs Reynolds, I believe Mr Darcy should have tea at least.”
“What of the birth in Lambton?” I asked this stupid question in a small voice so he would stop talking about me.
