Chapter 7
Elizabeth blinked, her vision blurred. Voices echoed through a hazy fog. A face loomed in front of her, and she recognized the pungent scent of her father’s pipe tobacco.
“Lizzy? Lizzy, wake up, dear girl.”
What had happened? Elizabeth tried to speak, but her words stuck together, escaping in a moan. She tried to sit up, but her limbs did not respond.
She felt her father slip his arm under her head and, very gently, he helped her to sit.
Elizabeth’s heartbeat pulsated, pounding up to her skull. She winced against the brightness of the sun. Pressing her fingers against her temple, she winced when they met with tender, rising flesh.
An injury. Had she hit her head? How?
Papa sat beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, holding her to him on a grassy knoll on the side of the road. The carriage sat twisted and unmoving on the lane, the axle on the side of the coach where Elizabeth sat broken and littered over the compact dirt.
The evidence was before her — they had been in a carriage accident — but she could not connect the pieces. “What happened?” she asked.
Her father held up his hand, tucking his fingers into his palm. “How many do you see?”
She gave him a face. “Three.”
“What is your name?” he pressed.
She humored him with a reply. “Elizabeth Bennet.”
“What is my name?”
“Thomas Bennet, although I only ever call you ‘Papa.’”
He embraced her so tightly, she felt him tremble, and she did not have the heart to complain that she could not breathe. “I have never been so worried. You took a blow to the head and lost consciousness for a spell.”
She reached up to her forehead again, carefully testing the size of her injury. “How long?”
“Two or three minutes. Quite possibly less, but it felt like an eternity until you woke.”
“What happened?”
“The rear axle broke, and you smacked your head against the edge of the window. It knocked you out cold in an instant, and when the carriage toppled over, you fell like a rag doll along with it.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“It was awful, Lizzy. I thought—,” his voice cracked. “I thought you were gone.”
She snuggled against him, taking comfort in his warmth. “I am perfectly well. Aside from a headache.”
He stroked her cheek, his fingers catching in her hair. She did not care.
“Do you think you are able to stand?” he asked.
“I will only know if I try.” Elizabeth did not feel completely recovered, but a sense of urgency did not allow for her to remain on the grassy knoll. She had a sense there was somewhere she needed to be….
“That is my girl.” He grabbed her elbows, assisting her up and watching her with lingering concern etching his face.
Determined to prove her wellness, for her father’s benefit as well as her own, Elizabeth released her hold on his forearms. Once she stopped swaying, she picked her way to the road.
The footman and coachman watched her by the horses. Papa nodded at them, explaining, “Thatcher will ride into Meryton to fetch the blacksmith. If it is not too much trouble, I suggest we walk the rest of the way. It is not far, and Jane will be worried if we tarry. We are already late.”
Clarity came to Elizabeth like a parting of the clouds. They were late for the wedding!
Tugging on her father’s hand, Elizabeth hastened her pace. “We must hurry. I will not ruin the happiest day of Jane’s life. If I know her at all, she will delay the service to wait for us.”
Papa furrowed his brows. “I am only sorry I am unable to spare your slippers from the dust. Your dress is stained beyond repair. If I were younger and stronger, I would carry you, but I fear that I am rather taxed at the moment.”
Elizabeth's laugh softened to a chuckle which quickly died out when her head threatened to split in half. Contenting herself with a smile, she said, “A gallant offer, indeed.”
Her smile faded when Papa cleared his throat and motioned down the lane.
Mama charged toward them, fists clenched stiffly at her sides, her face flushed a brilliant red.
“Where have you been? I have stalled the best I can, but I was hard-pressed to convince Mr. Darcy not to leave! And in such a state! Grass stains all over your beautiful gown,” she wailed.
Elizabeth shrugged. “So long as Mr. Bingley does not leave, I do not see the trouble. Nobody will notice me or the condition of my gown.”
She heard her father catch his breath, his mouth agape as he turned to face her.
“What?” Elizabeth asked, looking between her mother and father.
“Oh dear,” he said.
Before Elizabeth could inquire into his strange reaction, her mother latched on to her hand and pulled her at a brisk clip down the lane and up the step into the Longbourn parish church. “Come, Lizzy! I will not allow for any more delays,” she chirped.
Jane met them at the entrance, her concern changing to delight. “What happened? Are you well? We are all so worried.”
Caressing her sister’s cheek, Elizabeth said, “You are a dear for waiting for us.”
Jane’s eyebrows met. “I could never suggest continuing without you.” She glanced at Papa.
What did all these sideways glances mean? Elizabeth wished they would stop worrying about her. Other than a bruise on her forehead and a headache, she was perfectly well.
Papa sighed heavily. “We must send for Mr. Jones immediately.”
The apothecary? Elizabeth protested, “My headache is not so bad I cannot wait until after the wedding.”
“There is no time for that now anyway,” Mama hissed, opening the doors wide and shoving Elizabeth forward.
The pews were packed. Mr. Bingley stood beside the vicar. He smiled brightly at Jane.
Another young man stood beside Mr. Bingley. Tall, dark, strong. Very handsome. His smile and firm gaze made Elizabeth blush.
Papa whispered into Elizabeth’s ear. “Do you know those gentlemen?”
She turned to him, her agitation mounting when she felt the watchful stares of dozens, if not hundreds, of eyes on her.
He signaled the gentlemen to join them, further provoking Mama’s nerves, and asking Elizabeth, “Does the name Darcy mean anything to you?”
Why was he speaking in riddles? Frustration growing, she replied, “Is it supposed to?”
The gentlemen stood before them now, their wide shoulders blocking the onlookers’ view and lending them a measure of privacy. It was considerate of her father, but Elizabeth did not understand why they were having this conversation when Jane ought to be exchanging vows with Mr. Bingley.
Papa inclined his head. “Mr. Bingley.” Slower, and with his gaze fixed on Elizabeth, he said, “Mr. Darcy.”
The handsome man smiled at her as though he knew her. His eyes were dark and captivating. But the intimacy in his gaze perplexed her. Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, she repeated in her mind until her head whirled, and the ground spun under her feet.
The man named Mr. Darcy caught her in his arms, his silk cravat brushing against her cheek. He held her close, as though he had embraced her before. Her skin burned and tingled at his nearness, as though she had allowed it. Enjoyed it.
Not liking this helplessness, Elizabeth shook herself free of him as soon as she gained her footing. All three gentlemen looked at her expectantly, eyebrows drawn, mouths gaping.
She knew she needed to say something, but what?
Papa prompted her, “Mr. Darcy…” He waved his hand in front of him, prompting her to finish his sentence.
Mama finished for her. “Of course, she knows who Mr. Darcy is. We are wasting time, and the vicar is waiting.”
Freeing Elizabeth from her mother’s grip, Papa repeated, “Mr. Darcy … your betrothed?”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered over to Mr. Darcy. The horror in his semblance mirrored her own sentiments. Stepping back, shaking her head, she gasped. “I am sorry, but I have never seen this gentleman before in my life!”