Chapter 15
Elizabeth could not ruin Jane’s celebration. Dwelling on Mr. Jones’ most positive outcome, she told her sister and Mr. Bingley, “I am perfectly well besides this bruise on my head.”
Jane’s eyes searched her face. “And what of the amnesia?” she asked quietly.
Holding Jane’s hands, her gaze unwavering, Elizabeth declared, “I shall be recovered by the end of the day. Mr. Jones found no reason to believe otherwise, nor do I have any reason to doubt him.”
Mr. Bingley cried, “Another wedding on the morrow!” to the applause of the crowded room.
She sat with the newlywed couple, wishing Mr. Darcy was near and understanding why he was not.
Papa would wish to hear Mr. Jones’ assessment, and though Elizabeth did not understand why she trusted Mr. Darcy to give a thorough and reliable report, she did.
As convinced as she was that he would disapprove of the reassurances she had given to her relatives and their guests.
Merriment became onerous, but Elizabeth was determined to endure as long as she could for Jane.
Whether it was due to the stifling lack of air in the room or Mr. Collins’ frequent stares or the weight of Elizabeth’s own concerns, she could not swallow a bite, though the cook had prepared a feast to tempt the most fastidious consumer.
Even to Miss Bingley, who was not predisposed to show favor of any table not her own or her social superior.
Thatcher passed in and out of the dining room, disappointing Elizabeth every time he was not Mr. Darcy.
She found herself watching the entrance more than she attended to the conversation.
Mr. Darcy had been away for quite some time.
Just how much did he have to discuss with Papa?
And without her? If they were discussing her condition, her treatment, her future, ought she not be present?
Or, perhaps they were not speaking of her at all and were, instead, chatting about bees or books or the best brandy while she was suffering from an overdose of her company’s cheer?
Did she really wish for Mr. Darcy to return? Elizabeth pondered. She had noticed how intently he had watched Lydia, his expression grave, his disapproval marked. He must know how closely Lydia’s senselessness had come to scandalizing their entire family.
What did Mr. Darcy think of her family? If he knew Mr. Wickham, was he willing to tolerate becoming his brother when … if … he married her?
Not only had Elizabeth forgotten her own thoughts, but she no longer knew his.
Elizabeth looked at the door again, wishing for quiet, wanting to converse with Mr. Darcy, needing to understand. Needing her memories.
The clock on the mantel ticked mercilessly, taunting her with the passing time. It had been four hours since the accident. Four hours with nary one recollection of Mr. Darcy.
Laughter bubbled around the table, and Elizabeth returned her attention to the banquet. She smiled often and commented occasionally, but when she could smile no more, she dismissed herself, claiming a headache and the need for some fresh air and quiet.
Papa met her in the hall. “In search of your betrothed?” he asked.
“He is not with you?”
“Not for the better part of an hour. He has a great deal to consider.”
About them? Without her? Elizabeth was not so vain to assume Mr. Darcy’s every thought centered around her, but neither did she wish to be discounted and brushed aside so easily.
Gently settling his hand on her shoulder, her father said, “Be gentle with him, Lizzy. You are no longer in possession of all the facts. Do not repeat the same mistakes.”
“I do not remember the mistakes to avoid repeating them.” Her voice quivered, her fingernails biting into her palm, angry at the barrier blocking her brain.
Papa squeezed her arm. “Do not be too hasty to think the worst of Mr. Darcy.”
Had she been so dreadful to Mr. Darcy? It was a wonder he still loved her.
He continued, “He has been very patient with us, and I daresay he will continue to be so.”
Elizabeth blinked, her eyes burning. “Patience has its limits,” she mumbled.
Mr. Darcy had assured her he would wait for her, but what if she never remembered him?
What if his patience was undeserved? From what he had told her, he had exerted himself to improve his character to win her heart, but what had she done for him?
“Have faith, Lizzy. Darcy loves you deeply. He has proved it over and over again.”
His encouragement brought Elizabeth little relief.
Papa took her hand, tugging her down the hall toward the entrance door. “I have not checked on my hive since early this morning. The queen has sent her scouts out several days now to select their new home.”
“Have you seen them inspecting your skeps?”
“I have seen them buzzing about. If they accept one of my skeps, it will be because of the brood comb I melted and coated over the inside of the straw. I am curious to see which of my three skeps they select for their new home … if I can coax them to accept it, that is.”
They were out of doors now and walking along the side of the house. Her window was still open, the curtain billowing above them. She followed her father, her concerns lightening with every step until he stopped short and muttered, “Bother and abomination.”
She followed his line of vision to see the coachman approaching.
Sighing deeply, Papa said, “I ought to have known he would report on the state of the carriage the moment I stop waiting to tend to my favorite daughter and my bees.” Grimacing, he added, “The damage must be extensive, or he would not have tarried.”
Elizabeth patted his hand. “Better damage to the purse than to the person.”
He looked at her hopefully. “Have you remembered anything?”
She smiled at him just as she had at Jane. “I am on the brink of it, I know it.”
Papa did not accept her dismissal as easily as Jane. Elizabeth ought not to have expected him to — not when he had dragged her unconscious from the crippled carriage.
Before he could insist she join him inside or insist anything at all, Elizabeth added, “I would be delighted to check on your bees.” Nodding at the house, she said, “That hive is much too busy, and I am in need of quiet contemplation.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand to join the coachman, pausing before he turned the corner as though he doubted she remembered the way to the grove bordering the apple orchard or feared she would get lost on the property she knew as well as the back of her hand.
Elizabeth waved, her footsteps deviating from their intended course when she saw a gentleman sitting alone on the bench under the willow tree by the pond.
Her heart fluttered. She had thought Mr. Darcy would have departed for London by now in search of another medic.
He looked up when she sat beside him. There was a melancholy in his bowed head and brown eyes that made her want to run her fingers down his cheek. She resisted the urge.
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the ducks and geese glide over the glassy water, sending ripples over the smooth surface. A burst of laughter broke the silence from the house.
“They will be happy together,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth’s fingers tingled. She would have run them through his dark, curly hair had she not shoved them under her legs. “Would we have been as happy?”
His gaze met hers, holding hers firmly. “Happier.”
They sat facing each other, Elizabeth’s heart racing while her mind chased evasive remembrances.
“Your father sent an urgent message to a friend of his from Oxford. A Mr. Sculthorpe.”
“I know him. He is a gentleman of confidence, a doctor and scholar, who has been kind to us over the years.”
“Mr. Bennet claims he is well-informed, an expert on the mind, though of a more theoretical bend than the others of whom Mr. Jones recommended.”
Elizabeth answered the question he was too polite to ask outright. “His knowledge of medicine and science is extensive, far greater than most.”
“Is he truly an expert?”
“In theory. He does not see patients, but he is a doctor and highly respected among scientists for his research and experiments.”
“Do you trust him?” There was desperation in Mr. Darcy’s voice.
“I do. He would never do anything to worsen my injury.”
Mr. Darcy’s shoulders relaxed. “That is what your father said, too.”
“Does this mean you will stay on at Netherfield Park?”
He ran his hands through his hair. Would that she could do the same. She clenched the bench under her leg, her fingernails scratching against the wood.
“I do not wish to leave, but I must do something. I cannot rest until you are returned to me.”
Was she so altered he spoke of her as if she were lost? Elizabeth braced herself, determined to ask him to share another bit of their history when boots scuffled on the gravel path behind them.
Her father rushed toward them, his white hair wisping with each long stride. Elizabeth had never seen him walk so fast.
Mr. Darcy sat on the edge of the bench, ready to stand, poised for action.
Papa spoke between gasps of breath. “I am grateful you are still here, Mr. Darcy. The coachman has recently returned from the blacksmith. He bears bad news.”
Elizabeth wondered what her father expected to gain in sharing the woes of repairing his conveyance to Mr. Darcy. “Papa?”
He glanced at her, then back to Mr. Darcy. His breathing did not calm. “Alarming news.” Another gasp, then he leaned a hand against the back of the bench.
“Pray, sit for a moment and rest, Papa.”
He shook his head fiercely. “The back axle did not break.” Another heave of his chest. “It was cut.”
“Cut?” Elizabeth repeated under her breath.
Mr. Darcy’s voice snapped. “Sabotage?”
Papa nodded, his voice low and his face grave. “Someone did not wish for us to arrive at the parish on time. Someone was willing to kill you to prevent you from marrying.”