Page 4

Four

Willow

“‘...Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her…’”

There’s a pause, a rustle, and I swim against the fog.

I love this story.

Love that even when everything goes wrong, it all still works out in the end.

“It’s about damned time,” that voice mutters, going off script in a way that tugs me close to the surface, tempts me toward consciousness. “Finally someone is getting their fucking head together and realizing what a gift Elizabeth is.”

It’s a male voice.

And that has my stomach churning, my mind freezing, panic and worry tangling with the present.

But pain doesn’t come, and though the voice is gruff bordering on grumpy, it’s not sharp at the edges, doesn’t wound.

So, I stay near the surface and breathe evenly and…

Listen.

“‘...and [he] talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy.’”

He grunts, as though shifting positions because he’s uncomfortable.

And, for the first time in what feels like forever, I notice that I’m achy and stiff and my nerves are on fire.

Like they’re desperate to get to work and start moving this body.

“Yeah, now that some other dude is showing interest, you’re going to pull your head out of your ass?” He snorts. “Douche bag.”

I hear him shift again, the chair creaking, his grunt of pain audible, and I wonder if he’s going to leave, going to stop giving me that gift of his voice, and I strain to move my hand, to reach out and stop him.

And when that doesn’t work, I fight with my eyelids.

They’re leaden and immovable, as though held in place by heavy weights.

And when the man with the gruff yet tender voice begins to read again, I give up the fight. I just do the only thing I can…

I listen.

“ ‘His eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out. ‘What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.’”

“Jesus,” the man mutters. “She’s a nosy bitch, isn’t she?”

Then he goes back to reading, “‘We are speaking of music, Madam,’ said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.’”

“Ugh,” he grumbles and goes on, “‘Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation… There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient…’”

“God,” he mutters after Lady Catherine has continued to interject and dominate the conversation—and managed to insult Elizabeth’s friend before walking away to bother the next person. “She’s the worst.”

I hear a soft thunk—the book being closed—and then a grunt that is definitely the man getting to his feet.

Not now, I want to tell him.

Not when Mr. Darcy is finally getting the courage up to approach her.

When they’ll talk—well she’ll talk—and tease—again, she’ll tease. But the interaction will be the beginning of them.

Elizabeth softening.

Mr. Darcy falling in love.

Not when two of my favorite lines bookend a paragraph just down the page.

The first, “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me?”

And the second, “My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

If only that were true.

I hear rustling, footsteps.

“Goodnight, sleeping beauty,” the man murmurs, and I feel the lightest touch on my hand, roughened fingers brushing against mine. “I hope your dreams are sweet.”

I struggle against the fog, fight with my eyelids, my hand to reach out, to stop him from going.

Just a few more minutes, I would beg.

Just a few more minutes of the fantasy, of the happy ending, of everything that isn’t my life.

And for a second, I win the fight.

Not with my eyelids.

But with my hand.

I feel it in the tip of my finger, the sensation rising to a peak…

And then it moves, rubbing against the coarse fabric of the sheet.

Only it’s too late.

Because his hand is gone.

And I’m alone.

Again.

The next glimpse of consciousness isn’t me rising up to hear the man with the gently rasping voice reading more of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s love story.

It’s a conversation that’s icy cold and filled with only sharp edges.

And it drives a stake of fear dead center into my heart.

Instinct has me diving deep, pulling that protective fog over me…

At least until the words belatedly process.

I freeze then, halfway between consciousness and nothingness, and I listen to the voices tangling with the steady beeping that seems to fill the room.

“...if she doesn’t show improvement soon,” a cool female voice says, “we’ll need to think about transferring her to a long term care facility. The hospital isn’t where she needs to be—not now that her injuries have healed and there isn’t lasting damage.”

Hospital.

Of course.

I should have known.

The intermittent memories slide through my mind, one after the other. Hands poking and prodding, nurses and doctors talking to me.

Dylan’s occasional visits.

A hand squeezing too hard. That frightening edge to his voice.

The threat always hanging in the air.

I’ve clung to the fog, knowing that I’m safe there.

Safe here.

And now?

“Lasting damage?” Dylan snaps. “She’s been in a coma for weeks now. That’s nothing if not lasting. ”

The doctor sighs. “I know it’s not the news you want to hear, but we’ve done all we can for her here. Now the fight is up to her.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I have several great recommendations for facilities, and they’ll be able to focus on what she needs when she wakes up—memory care, physical therapy, trauma counseling?—”

“Trauma?” he snaps.

There’s a long pause, and I’m not so deep as to miss the thread of disapproval in the air. “Waking from this type of condition often brings many complications.”

“Well, be that as it may, I’m not dumping her in a facility.” They’re the right words, but the wrong tone.

Even in my fuzzy state, I recognize that.

The doctor seems to as well. “It wouldn’t be dumping,” she says cooly. “It would be getting your fiancée the care she needs in the place that’s best suited to her recovery.”

“The place,” Dylan grits out, “that’s best suited to her recovery isn’t a rehab facility. It’s our house.”

“I don’t think?—”

The sharp edges of his words have softened, gentled, gone charming .

My stomach twists, the monitor’s beeping speeds.

I know that tone, know the coaxing words will be impossible to resist.

I know because I’ve been cajoled and charmed and coaxed into staying, into giving, into bending when I should have gone, should have taken, should have stood straight.

“She’ll be where she’s most comfortable,” he tells the doctor.

“Surrounded by her belongings, by the scents and sounds of our home. She’ll know she’s safe and maybe that will help her come back to me.

” He sighs and I can practically picture the hangdog expression.

The same one that’s kept me tied to this man for far too long.

“Because I need her to come back to me. I miss her so much.”

The silence stretches.

Then the doctor sighs and my stomach begins to churn, the beeping on my monitor speeds again.

Because I know what that means.

There’s tapping, as though she’s dismissing the monitor’s alarms. “It sounds as though she misses you too.” The doctor’s voice gentles. “Every time you talk, her pulse increases.”

In fear.

In horror.

In desperation.

But I can’t fight the fog enough to tell her that, can’t make myself wake up.

Not even as she says, “I’ll talk to the social worker, see what we can do about making that happen.”