Page 3 of Done for the Best (Engaged to Mr Darcy #5)
CHAPTER THREE
TEN MONTHS LOST
C onsciousness returned in shadows and half-light. Elizabeth ached—her head, her legs, her stomach—and more often than not, it was easier to sink back into slumber than it was to force herself into the light. But at last, she felt enough mistress of herself to open her eyes and look about.
She found herself in a pretty room, simple but pleasant. Light streamed in through the window, which was framed by gauzy white curtains, and there was a painted table next to her bed upon which were a glass of water and multiple bottles of tinctures and potions. The walls had been painted a cheerful pale yellow, and the coverlet which lay over her was white with yellow flowers.
It was all quite sweet…but it was not hers. Of this, she was sure. She listened for the sounds of home, Mrs Hill’s voice or the maids—but she heard nothing. She tried to sit up a little, feeling a hot pain sear her leg as she did so. What happened to me? Where am I?
She had a strange, muffled, confused feeling in her mind that she disliked heartily. It was as though she had awoken in the midst of a dream, but reacquainting herself with reality proved more difficult than it should.
She lay for a time, her eyes moving around the unfamiliar room, and tried to grasp on to the threads of memory that lay disordered in her mind. At last, she settled on a memory, an assembly at the rooms above the Merry Fox in Meryton.
She sorted through that memory as one might sift through the pages of a beloved book. Summertime… It had been very hot in the room with all the candles lit. Was it July? She had just had her twentieth birthday—no, it was the very night of her birthday. In June. Kitty had teased that the assembly was given in her honour and that she was sure to meet the love of her life. She had teased her sister in return, ‘Being that everyone there I shall have known for a decade at least, I doubt that!’
She had worn her ivory muslin with the rose-coloured sash, and Jane had on her pale-yellow silk, and Lydia and Kitty fought for who would wear a fawn tambour they both liked, but which Elizabeth privately thought made Lydia look sallow. Mary wished to remain home, and Mrs Bennet was too harried to argue with her about it. Elizabeth had danced a great deal that night, all the dances, twice with…what was his name? She could not quite remember it. He was Charlotte’s cousin—Mr Stephen Lucas?—and he was very amiable if not very handsome. And Mr William Goulding had teased her about becoming an old maid, and she had teased him about his attempt to grow whiskers, which looked more like smudges on his cheeks.
Pulling herself from her memories, she looked around her. She was not at Longbourn, but it did not seem to be Gracechurch Street either. Was it still summer? How long had she been ill?
At length, the door opened very slowly, and a maid entered, an unknown maid. She clearly did not expect Elizabeth to be awake and went about the work of tidying the room. Elizabeth tried to speak to her but only a weak, hoarse “Pardon—” emerged.
The girl startled. “Oh! Oh, Miss Bennet! You’re awake!”
Elizabeth, still clearing her throat, forced a smile to her painfully dry lips and nodded.
“I’ll go and get Mrs Collins and Mrs Bennet. Don’t you stir, I’ll return in a wink!” She darted from the room too quickly for Elizabeth to ask who Mrs Collins was.
Minutes later, the door opened, and Charlotte entered, Mrs Bennet hard on her heels. Charlotte was instructing someone to ‘call Dr Hughes at once and bring some tea and bread’. Elizabeth watched her with amazement. Whom was she ordering about, behaving as if she was mistress of the place?
Mrs Bennet bent over Elizabeth first, smoothing her hair and kissing her cheek. “Ah Lizzy, I confess it does my heart good to see you awake. We all wondered if we should ever know you again.”
Elizabeth laughed, weakly. “What happened to me? I have some odd pains in my leg—is it broken?”
“You have been in a bad way,” Charlotte informed her, coming to sit on the bed. She explained about the snake and the fits and the fevers. It all sounded perfectly dreadful to Elizabeth.
“It seems I must be glad to be alive,” she said. “Sounds like some dire times were had, and I am glad to have been insensible to them all. But Charlotte—where am I? This…this is not Longbourn. Where is Jane?”
“You are not at Longbourn,” Charlotte replied with a glance at Mrs Bennet who had gasped theatrically. “This is Hunsford Parsonage in Kent, where you have been since the middle of March.”
“March? But it cannot be March?—”
“It is April, in fact.”
“B-but…it is summer. My birthday…”
“When do you think your birthday is?” Charlotte asked.
“At the end of June,” Elizabeth replied.
Charlotte and Mrs Bennet exchanged a glance before Mrs Bennet said, “Well done, Lizzy! Quite right!”
Evidently, I am to be lauded for knowing the date of my birth. Elizabeth looked round before asking, “Why am I in Kent? In Munsford?—”
“Hunsford,” Mrs Bennet corrected.
“Hunsford…Parsonage?”
“Because it is Mr Collins’s house,” Charlotte explained, a worried frown appearing on her forehead. “Where I live. You came to visit me.”
Elizabeth began to chafe and twist her hands against the coverlet, a sensation of being unable to draw breath coming over her. A number of questions were churning about in her mind, but at last she settled on asking, “Who is Mr Collins?”
At this, Mrs Bennet threw up her hands and wailed loudly. “Oh! She has gone witless! Oh, she shall never marry now! No man wants a witless woman for a wife!”
“Mrs Bennet,” Charlotte scolded. “Eliza has just a bit of confusion, she is not witless, and Mr Darcy is far too honourable to throw her over for some mild memory loss. I am sure that once she is better recovered?—”
“Mr Darcy? Who is Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth interrupted.
But she could not receive an immediate answer, for Mrs Bennet had frozen. Still looking at Elizabeth, she said to Charlotte, “Mr Darcy has made her an offer of marriage?”
“Indeed he has,” Charlotte said warmly. “And is much in love with her, from his cousin’s own testimony. I suppose we should have guessed as much when he hired nurses to tend to her.”
“Who hired nurses?” Elizabeth asked desperately. “Someone is in love with me? I do not know any Mr Darcy! Can someone please explain this to me?”
Some hours later—after the physician had examined her and left, and the nursemaid had bathed and settled her—Elizabeth sat in shocked silence, blessedly alone in her bedchamber. Dr Hughes was on retainer by a wealthy and powerful widow who lived just across the lane in a beautiful house called Rosings Park. This lady had a nephew, Mr Darcy, who had proposed marriage to Elizabeth, and who loved her. Did she love him? She could not say, being that she had no notion of the man. Was he handsome? Witty? Was he fifty years old and missing his teeth? Did he have odd hairs sprouting from his ears? She suddenly felt as though she might cry and squeezed her eyes shut against it.
A year of my life is gone. Questioning by the physician in concert with her mother and Charlotte had determined that the last thing she recollected was the assembly given in late June of ’11; it was presently April 1812, almost ten months later. She knew nothing of the events her mother and Charlotte had spoken of: Netherfield Park being let to a young bachelor called Mr Bingley who had two elegant sisters; Jane falling in love with this Mr Bingley; Charlotte getting married to Mr Bennet’s cousin and heir, Mr Collins—what was he like? She did not remember him either.
For a girl who had long prided herself on her quickness, it was a blow, to say the least. She felt stupid and helpless, two things she disliked heartily. Charlotte had been exceedingly kind to her, tucking a shawl around her and promising her that she would do anything she could to get her friend well again.
Even her mother was treating her with unusual deference, only permitting herself a few dire proclamations about witlessness and being thrown over. It might have made Elizabeth laugh were she not so very much in need of a good cry.How she longed for her dear Jane! But her mother had not permitted her to come to Kent, insisting that she remain at Longbourn for reasons yet unclear to Elizabeth. She hoped Jane might disobey their mother and come anyway.
While well-pleased that Elizabeth had awoken, and with relatively little in the way of physical infirmity, Charlotte was nevertheless troubled by her friend’s amnesia. She descended her stairs behind Mrs Bennet who moved very slowly.
When they reached the floor beneath, Charlotte opened her mouth to offer tea to Mrs Bennet only to have Eliza’s mother announce grimly, “Come into the parlour, my dear, we need to have a talk.”
“Very well.” Charlotte followed Mrs Bennet into her parlour and closed the door as she had been urged to do. Mrs Bennet rounded on her as soon as the click of the door was heard.
“I do not suppose I need to tell you that no one can know about Elizabeth’s madness,” she announced.
“Madness? She is not mad!”
“Ladies have gone to Bedlam for far less. I worry that once Mr Darcy realises she has lost her quickness—” Mrs Bennet sliced one finger across her own neck and made a ghastly choking sound.
“Off with her head?” Charlotte asked, repressing a horrified chuckle.“I should think not.”
“He particularly cannot know how grievously affected she is. These great men do not wish for half-wit wives! Whatever words have been spoken, you can trust he will work his way out of them. So pray, do not spread this abroad, this notion she has that Mr Darcy proposed to her!”
“Mr Darcy did propose to her,” Charlotte reminded her. “I do not think you need to worry about him abandoning her—not if his cousin’s understanding of the matter is any indication. The colonel said Mr Darcy is very much in love with her.”
“He was in love with the woman she was,” Mrs Bennet replied. “It remains to be seen if he will stand by her, such as she is.”
“I really do not believe that?—”
“Charlotte, a mother knows these things,” Mrs Bennet insisted. Then, with a disdainful flick of her eyes over Charlotte’s un-expanded waist, she said, “As you might understand some day for yourself.”
Charlotte drew in a breath to summon patience even as she owned that she might not have been wise to tell her husband of the colonel’s disclosures. “Very well. We will not mention this to anyone, and I shall tell Mr Collins not to write anything of it to anyone.”
“Not even your mother,” said Mrs Bennet firmly.
“Not my mother, not anyone in Hertfordshire. But what of Mr Darcy’s family? We can surely have no sway over what they speak of and not.”
“If they speak of it, then it is done. He will have to marry her then,” Mrs Bennet declared.
Then, in a rare burst of maternal approbation, Mrs Bennet reached over to pat Charlotte’s cheek. “You have always been dear to my girls, but I cannot help but feel an extra measure of gratitude for all you have done for our poor Lizzy.”
She left the parlour, and Charlotte was left to stare at the door that closed behind her with the commingled exasperation and fondness that Mrs Bennet tended to inspire.
“A note came for Mama from the parsonage this morning,” Anne informed Darcy as she came into the breakfast room. “Miss Bennet is awake.”
A jolt of an emotion he could not name made Darcy sit straighter and lay his fork down. “Indeed?”
Mrs Jenkinson had just scurried into the room and was filling Anne’s plate for her. Anne sat with her head held high and her back straight, not even deigning to tell the lady what suited her that morning.
“What did it say?”
“The note?” Anne shrugged, which caused her shawl to slip a bit. Mrs Jenkinson hastened to fix it. “I am sure I do not know any more than what I just said: Miss Bennet awoke.”
Darcy fought the urge to leap to his feet and run to the parsonage. “Splendid news,” was all he would say.
He forced himself to finish his meal, telling himself it would be perfectly natural that he, as an acquaintance, should call and ask after Elizabeth. But he must do so at a sedate pace, he determined, not go tearing off like a lunatic.
Leaving Rosings about half an hour later, Darcy strolled down the avenue, doing his best to appear unaffected and tame. He need not have worried, for soon enough—he imagined that it was the moment Mr Collins saw him—the door was flung wide, and the parson himself rushed out, wiping his mouth as he went. Apparently, he had been eating, if the napkin he was using to scrub himself was any indication. “Mr Darcy! Sir! We have some news of Cousin Elizabeth to share with you!”
Schooling his countenance to appear solemnly interested, Darcy stopped. “Good day, Mr Collins. I hope I have not called you away from your breakfast?”
At this bit of mild civility, Mr Collins halted, looking as if Darcy had conferred great honour upon him. “Indeed you are too good, kind sir, but to put aside my own humble bodily requirements that I might impart upon you the most delightful news, indeed, our house may even be considered blessed above all?—”
“I understand Miss Bennet has awoken? What of her fever?”
Mr Collins gave a slight nod. “She is not entirely well and suffers some confusion, but Dr Hughes has been to see her and pronounces her as well as could be expected.”
“Mr Collins, you, Mrs Collins, and your household are to be commended for her excellent care.” Darcy paused. He knew not what he had hoped for in coming to the parsonage, but he longed to see Elizabeth, to know for himself that she was well. Or at least on the way to being well. “You will send a note, I hope, when she is able to receive callers? I wish to?—”
Mr Collins nodded vigorously. “You must wish to see her, of course! Alas, as soon as Dr Hughes had gone, Cousin Elizabeth settled into slumber.”
“Of course. Best thing for her, no doubt.” Darcy bade Mr Collins good day with a touch on the brim of his hat and left the good parson behind him, swollen and affixed in place by his own delighted importance.
When Darcy returned to Rosings, he was greeted by an exceedingly unusual sound: raised voices. Strident tones from his aunt were matched by shocking screeches from… Anne ? It had to be, for no one else would dare speak so to Lady Catherine, surely. He hastened his footsteps towards the parlour from whence the cacophony seemed to originate.
He entered to find Lady Catherine standing, her skin an alarming hue of puce and her walking stick shaking in time with her outrage. Anne sat in a posture of upright defiance; beside her sat an unknown gentleman, slight and concerned-looking. Darcy did not immediately place him but knew his face and believed they had been once introduced. This was confirmed when the man rose and came to him, bowing and saying, “Mr Darcy? We met at Lady Farmington’s dinner last spring. I am Mr Roland Yardley.”
“Yardley,” his aunt scoffed from behind them. “Who are the Yardleys, I ask you!”
“I remember you, yes,” said Darcy with a bow. Was this, then, the attachment Fitzwilliam had hinted about? He had given it little credence at the time, for Fitzwilliam saw clandestine romances everywhere he turned. It seemed in this case he had been correct. “Good to see you again, even if under somewhat…fractious circumstances? Anne, what is all this about?”
“Do you understand,” Anne said, “that I am the owner of this house and all within it? Not you, Mother, me!”
“I have life tenancy!”
“But we both know you do not live from your jointure,” Anne snapped. At this impertinence, Lady Catherine grew yet more purple.
“Ladies,” said Darcy with a glance at Yardley. “Might we settle this peaceably?”
Lady Catherine laid down her walking stick, took a deep breath, and came towards him, both hands outstretched even as she nearly elbowed Yardley out of the way. Yardley gave Darcy a small nod and returned to Anne. Darcy observed that he took Anne’s hands in his own and believed he could surmise the rest of what was happening herein. “ You are the victim here, Darcy,” said Lady Catherine theatrically. “It is you who will have the greatest portion of the humiliation.”
“Shall I?” he asked mildly. “How so?”
“Anne does not intend to fulfil your engagement!”
Darcy glanced over his aunt’s shoulder to see that his cousin was now resting her head on Yardley’s shoulder. “We are not engaged, Aunt, and if Anne’s heart has led her otherwise?—”
“Jilted!” Lady Catherine cried. “I could never imagine my own daughter being so ill-bred!”
“I did not jilt anyone!” Anne replied hotly. “Darcy and I were never engaged, and I love Yardley! I shall marry him, or I shan’t marry!”
In a low tone, Darcy said, “Aunt, if some misplaced concern for my feelings is your only objection to the match?—”
“He is a second son!” Lady Catherine hissed. “His father made his fortune in the navy!”
“My father increased his fortune in the navy, but the Yardleys have had land in Herefordshire for five generations,” Yardley offered. “Eardisley Park is my father’s home.”
“Second sons should marry too,” Darcy told his aunt. “With Anne’s holdings, they will be quite comfortable indeed.”
His aunt pointed a bejewelled finger at him. “You could have been one of the wealthiest men in England. Your holdings would have rivalled that of any duke!”
“I daresay I shall just need to shift along as best I can without it,” Darcy replied.
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed to slits. “So you are saying you will not marry her?”
“I understand that my marriage to Anne was your wish?—”
“And that of your mother!”
“So you say, but it was never said thus to me. Much as I hold my cousin in dear esteem, it has never been my intention to marry her, nor hers to marry me. Is that not true, Anne?” Darcy looked to his cousin.
“I told you that years ago, Mama,” she said calmly, while Yardley squeezed her hand.“And Darcy as well.”
Lady Catherine looked about, as if incredulous that the three younger people in the room did not intend to give way to her. One can almost see the smoke coming from her ears , Darcy thought, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
“Your generation is a disgrace,” she spat finally and turned on her heel and stomped out of the room.
After a short silence, Anne spoke up, her tone considerably lighter than it had been only moments previous. “Would it be terribly peculiar if I asked you to give me away, Darcy?”