Chapter 31
Darkness had swallowed Elizabeth.
Not the soft darkness of sleep, but something heavier—thicker—like being submerged beneath deep water where every movement required effort and every breath felt uncertain.
Sometimes she seemed to float.
Sometimes she was jostled sharply, as though the world around her were lurching and swaying.
But always the darkness remained.
She struggled against it more than once, trying to claw her way upward toward wakefulness, yet each attempt dissolved before she could reach the surface. It was like being trapped inside a dream that would not release her.
A dreadful dream.
In it she was alone.
Abandoned.
Calling for help that no one could hear.
Her limbs felt distant, unresponsive. Her thoughts moved slowly through the heavy black fog that surrounded her.
Occasionally voices drifted through the darkness.
Faint.
Muffled.
As though she were buried beneath pillows and the world outside could only reach her in fragments.
She tried to listen.
Tried to understand.
But the sounds slipped away before they could take shape.
Once she thought she heard someone laugh.
Once she thought someone spoke her name.
But it might have been imagination.
Time passed—though she had no sense of how much.
Then suddenly something changed.
Noise.
Sharp.
Urgent.
The voices were louder now—many voices at once. There was movement and confusion and what sounded very much like alarm.
The darkness loosened its hold slightly.
Just a little.
Elizabeth seized upon the opening.
She fought upward with everything she had left, pushing through the suffocating heaviness that dragged at her mind.
The effort felt enormous.
But slowly—painfully—the fog began to lift.
Light filtered through her closed eyelids.
Her lashes fluttered.
With a final effort she forced her eyes open.
The room around her swam into view slowly, shapes and colors assembling themselves with painful brightness.
Elizabeth blinked, staring up at the ceiling.
Nothing looked familiar.
The ceiling is wrong.
She looked around. The walls were wrong as well, and the bed was not her own. She pushed herself upright unsteadily, her head spinning as she struggled to focus.
Across the room several figures stood gathered around a woman she didn’t recognize lying upon the floor.
Darcy… Lady Anne… Georgiana… and a man she did not recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a soldier’s uniform.
They were speaking urgently to one another, their attention entirely fixed on the unknown woman lying motionless at their feet.
“What… what is going on?” she managed hoarsely, realizing in that moment just how parched her throat was.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
No one heard.
She swallowed painfully and tried again, forcing the words louder.
“What is happening?”
Darcy turned so suddenly that for a moment he simply stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Elizabeth!” he cried.
“You are awake!”
In two strides he crossed the room and reached her bedside. He sat beside her on the mattress and pulled her tightly into his arms, holding her as though he had feared he might never have the chance again.
Elizabeth clung to him instinctively, still struggling to understand where she was—or how she had come there at all. She tried to ask him, but she could not yet speak well.
“Water,” she rasped, and even that single word scraped painfully against her throat.
“Of course,” Darcy said at once.
He rose quickly and crossed to a small table where a pitcher and basin had been set out. Pouring a glass, he returned immediately to the bedside.
Elizabeth reached for it, but her hands trembled so violently that the water sloshed against the rim.
Darcy gently steadied the glass before it could spill. “Allow me.”
He lifted it carefully to her lips, and Elizabeth drank greedily. The cool water slid down her throat like a blessing, easing the burning dryness that had plagued her since she woke.
“Slowly,” Darcy cautioned softly.
She forced herself to obey, and it was fortunate she did. A sudden wave of nausea surged through her stomach without warning. She stiffened, pressing one hand weakly against the bed as her stomach lurched violently.
For one alarming moment she was certain she would be sick. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, forcing the sensation back down.
Gradually the worst of it passed. She leaned back against the pillows, breathing carefully until her stomach settled again. When she opened her eyes, Darcy was watching her with intense concern.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
“A little,” she managed.
Her head had begun to pound now, a dull heavy ache behind her eyes, and her limbs felt impossibly heavy—as though each arm and leg weighed several stone.
She tried to focus on the room again. “What is going on?” she asked weakly. “Who is that on the floor?”
Her voice sounded slightly stronger now, which was a relief.
Darcy studied her for a moment before answering. “Tell me first—what is the last thing you remember?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly.
For a moment her thoughts drifted uncertainly.
Then the memories came rushing back all at once.
The argument with Mary.
Her father’s voice through the study wall.
The tea.
The letter to Charlotte, pleading for her to fetch Darcy.
Her eyes flew open.
She lifted one heavy hand to her cheek—and winced as soon as her fingers touched the tender skin.
The bruise throbbed painfully beneath her touch. Tears filled her eyes.
“Mary…” she whispered. “My father…” Her voice trembled as she continued. “I sent a note to Charlotte.”
Darcy nodded. “Yes, Miss Lucas brought it to me.”
He glanced briefly toward the tall officer standing near the door.
“My cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” he said, gesturing slightly. “Came with me to rescue you.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered briefly toward the colonel before returning to Darcy.
“Did… did my father simply allow you to take me?” she asked faintly.
Darcy hesitated. “No.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Then how—?”
A faint shadow of something—perhaps grim humor—crossed his expression. “I will tell you the full story when you are stronger,” he said gently. “For now, you must rest. The doctor has been sent for.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “The woman,” she said again, remembering suddenly. “What happened?”
Darcy glanced across the room where Lady Anne and Richard were now assisting the prone figure.
“I brought you here to Rosings,” he explained. “It is my aunt Lady Catherine’s home. I believed it safest.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. “Lady Catherine?”
“Yes.” Darcy exhaled faintly. “When she heard your name… she swooned.”
Elizabeth gasped softly. “Oh! Then you must help her!”
Darcy shook his head immediately. “Richard and Lady Anne will see to her.” He reached out and gently brushed a stray curl from Elizabeth’s forehead. “My first concern is you.”
Warmth filled Elizabeth at his words—a gentle heat that spread through her chest and chased away, for a moment at least, the lingering fear and confusion that still clung to her thoughts.
Even through the heaviness in her limbs and the pounding in her head, the tenderness in Darcy’s voice wrapped around her like a protective embrace.
She lifted one unsteady hand and placed it gently over the one he had resting against her cheek, as though to anchor herself to him, to reassure herself that he truly was there and she had not imagined his rescue in the fog of sleep.
His fingers curled instinctively around hers, and something in his expression softened even further.
He leaned closer.
Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered closed, her heart lifting in quiet anticipation—
“I say, Darcy.”
The unfamiliar voice cut through the moment.
Darcy sighed—very slightly—and pulled back.
Elizabeth opened her eyes.
The tall soldier—Colonel Fitzwilliam, she reminded herself—stood nearby with an expression that was somewhere between amusement and apology.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, though his smirk suggested he was not especially sorry at all, “but I believe we ought to get Lady Catherine to her bed. Since you have proven yourself so adept at carrying unconscious ladies today, I think the task should fall to you.”
Darcy gave him a look of exaggerated patience. “You simply do not wish to admit that a gentleman of leisure such as myself may be stronger than you are.”
Richard placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Darcy, I am wounded. I would gladly carry my noble aunt myself, but I fear the spectacle might permanently damage her dignity at being hoisted about by a younger son.”
“Her dignity will survive,” Darcy replied dryly. “Your pride, however, might not.”
Richard chuckled, then turned back to Elizabeth with an elegant little bow. “Since my cousin appears determined not to introduce us properly, allow me to remedy the situation. Colonel Fitzwilliam—though as you will soon be family, you may call me Richard.”
He added with a quick wink, “Darcy was simply delaying the introduction because he feared you might take one look at my handsome face and run off with me instead.”
Darcy snorted. “More likely I feared his ugly mug would frighten you away entirely. I would hate for you to reconsider the match for fear that any children might resemble the Fitzwilliam side of the family.”
Richard burst into loud laughter. The sound carried across the room.
Georgiana looked up at once—and then froze, eyes wide. “Elizabeth!” she cried, then hurried across the room at once. “You are awake!”
She reached the bedside and stopped only just short of throwing her arms around Elizabeth. “I was so worried.”
“Georgiana,” Lady Anne said gently, though there was relief in her voice as well, “Elizabeth has only just awakened. She likely needs rest.”
“On the contrary,” Elizabeth replied, managing a faint smile, “I believe I have been asleep for far too long.”