Chapter 24
Elizabeth was ecstatic. Colonel Fitzwilliam wore plainclothes, and she had recognized him without the advantage of his uniform. She greeted him like the harbinger of promise he represented.
She heard Jane, Mr. Bingley, and Mama in the hall along with a great deal of scuffling, but Fitzwilliam entered the room then. It was difficult to pay attention to anyone else when Fitzwilliam occupied her every sense.
At first glance, Fitzwilliam looked much the same. Polished, pressed, and perfect. She breathed in his sandalwood shaving soap, felt the warmth of his gaze on her. She searched his face for memories. His hair was slightly rumpled, his eyes haggard. Had sleep abandoned him as it had her?
More than anything else in the world, she wished she could lie and tell him she remembered. That she was safe from danger, and her heart was wholly his again. Elizabeth believed herself capable of loving this man fully, but the past — their past — evaded her.
“I brought something for you,” he said, gesturing out to the hall.
Jane peeked inside. “The crate is in the dining room if you wish to set up the machine.”
“Machine?” Elizabeth asked.
“A transcranial electrical stimulator, to be precise,” offered the colonel.
“Come have a look, Lizzy. Its appearance is dreadful, but I saw how it worked … the effects of it, at least … and found it quite”—Jane's vision swiveled to Fitzwilliam, and she had to bite her lips before she could continue—“remarkable.”
The colonel chuckled. “Darcy would never have brought the contraption if he thought it could harm you.”
Their defense of the thing made Elizabeth more cautious.
Jane waved her into motion. “Come see for yourself, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy will explain.”
Elizabeth listened closely as they walked down the hall to the dining room. Apparently, the machine involved straps and electricity designed to stimulate the dormant memories trapped in her brain.
Terrifying … and tempting.
Fitzwilliam must have read her doubtful expression.
He added, “It came recommended by my family’s personal physician and has been used successfully to treat other patients suffering from inflictions of the mind.
” He pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“This was written by the inventor. He enumerates his credentials, and he was kind enough to provide a list of cases in which he was able, with the use of this machine, to assist several individuals to full recovery.”
She read the pages and studied the drawings, hesitation gripping her until she came up from her consideration and saw Fitzwilliam’s anticipation plainly etched on his face. He had gone to so much trouble and expense for her. But she was nervous.
She could not yet bring herself to look inside the crate sitting atop the table, knowing her courage might falter unless she was firmly decided first. “It does not hurt?” she asked.
Mr. Bingley snorted, hiding behind his hand and receiving a rare — most likely, his first — disapproving look from Jane.
Nobody seemed eager to reply, which was strange.
It was a simple question, and their hesitation was confusing as the scowl on Fitzwilliam’s face and the poorly contained merriment of Mr. Bingley and the colonel led her to conclude that he was the brunt of their joke.
She did not imagine Fitzwilliam was the sort of gentleman who enjoyed being laughed at. Few were.
Jane spoke. “From the little I observed, it is quite harmless. Merely … tickles … is that not so, Mr. Darcy?”
He cleared his throat, pulling himself up to his full height. “Aside from the awkwardness of the strap, I felt no discomfort at all. To the contrary, in fact. It gave me a euphoric sensation.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam guffawed. “I should say so! You smiled wider than I have ever seen and laughed longer than I have ever heard. Had you not been strapped down, you would have taken flight!”
Even Jane sniggered, but Elizabeth paid them no heed. Fitzwilliam bore their laugher heroically, embarrassment tinging his cheeks, and convincing her of her course in a heartbeat. “You tried it?” she asked. “For me?”
“I had to make certain it was safe.” He shrugged, as if his thoughtfulness did not mean the world to Elizabeth.
She would have kissed him right then, but there were too many spectators, including her mother, who would march them to the church before noon to marry at the slightest display of Elizabeth’s growing affection.
She understood what it meant to feel cherished then. Fitzwilliam had shown her. “Thank you,” she said through her smile.
He laughed. “I made a proper fool of myself, grinning and giggling like a fool.”
“That was nothing!” Bingley dabbed at the corners of his eyes, his complexion bright red. “It was when you leaped about the front parlor, asking if the altitude of your jump was higher than before.”
“All you needed to do was flap your wings to take off!” Colonel Fitzwilliam doubled over, laughing so hard he cried along with Mr. Bingley.
Jane hid behind her hands, but her shoulders shook.
Fitzwilliam must have given them quite a performance.
While Elizabeth loved nothing more than to laugh at the weakness of others, she could not laugh at Fitzwilliam. Filling her lungs with a deep inhale, she stepped forward and peered inside the crate. “I will do it.”
Her words had the precise effect she had calculated. The teasing ceased.
But her defense did more than that. Fitzwilliam regarded her with appreciation …
and pride. It was a heady sensation, and had Elizabeth not known that her thoughts put into action would not be understood as mockery, she would have given into the temptation to jump around the room, flapping her arms for good measure.
She did not need a machine to feel euphoric, she only needed Fitzwilliam’s approval.
Elizabeth did not know when he had gained possession of her hand. He brushed his lips over her fingers, tickling her skin and shooting sparks up her arm. Electric.
Dropping her hand and spinning away from her before she was ready, Darcy unpacked the crate while Elizabeth leaned against the papered wall to steady herself.
Her father studied the papers, and Jane explained the function of the pieces splayed over the table waiting for Fitzwilliam to assemble them to Mama, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, who had since joined them.
Elizabeth did not wish to be a spectacle, but she understood their curiosity. She silenced her reserve and allowed her hope to soar. If the contraption worked as Mr. Aldini claimed it had for so many others, it was certain to help her when she only needed to remember one person.
Papa pulled his chair out at the head of the table, patting the cushion. “Here you are, Lizzy.”
Aside from a large strap the width of her forehead, the assembled machine was not as terrifying as she had feared. So long as she did not dwell on the many wires secured to her head through which pulses of stimulating shocks would flow between her and the rod which resembled a candlestick.
“That is the battery,” Fitzwilliam said, pointing to the rod.
She nodded, gripping the edge of the chair and reminding herself to breathe.
Papa placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sit still, and relax, now.”
Mama fanned her face, leaning against Colonel Fitzwilliam. He and Jane reassured her while her sisters looked on in awe. Lydia went so far as to fetch her nerve tonic should they require it. Elizabeth was tempted to ask for a drink.
Elizabeth heard the battery behind her hum, and before she could ask anything else about the machine or request more assurances from Fitzwilliam, she was filled with such a pleasant sensation, she exclaimed in surprise, startling the too many occupants in the room.
Fitzwilliam was at her side immediately, his fingers on the buckle.
She raised her hand. “No, please do not stop the machine. It only took me by surprise.” More than that, she could not say.
Closing her eyes, Elizabeth floated and flew, swooped and twirled.
The tension in her body released from her shoulders, melting down her legs to her toes and leaving her as light as a feather and more content than she had believed possible.
Elizabeth yielded herself to the device, allowing it to stimulate the recesses of her mind where her memories of Darcy lay.
She attempted to think back, to relive her first meeting with Fitzwilliam, but the happiness overtaking her only allowed for the most pleasant thoughts.
So, she daydreamed of Fitzwilliam, attempting to discern whether her musings were mere woolgathering or actual recollections — she felt too well to care.
She could have remained thus all day, but eventually the humming of the machine came to a halt.
Only when her father’s face loomed in front of her did Elizabeth realize how widely she grinned. She must look a fool, but it was a small price to pay for her memories.
“What a marvelous contraption,” Papa said. “You did not feel any discomfort, I surmise?”
Fitzwilliam carefully lifted the headpiece from her head, and Elizabeth patted her curls into place.
“Not at all. It was invigorating. I have never felt more calm or more contented. It truly is an amazing invention.” She still gripped the sides of her chair, but her motive was drastically different.
She would have floated up to the ceiling otherwise, as crazy as that sounded.
Papa fiddled with his spectacles. “Do you think this battery will last a few more uses?”
Mama pushed Elizabeth out of the chair, plopping herself down. “I am next,” she declared, waving her feet in front of her to prevent Lydia from shoving her out of the chair to claim the next treatment.
Fitzwilliam stood near, watching, silent.
The colonel clapped him on the back. “Let us see if the contraption stimulated more than pleasant feelings. Do you remember the topic of your discussion with this man when you stayed in with a headache and Darcy called at Hunsford Cottage?”
Eight sets of eyes turned to her (thirteen counting the servants standing just outside the door jostling for position).
Elizabeth smiled, her gaze fixing on Fitzwilliam. “We discussed…” Like a heavy door, her mind slammed shut, leaving her in the dark. She squinted her eyes, praying her tongue would continue where her mind was unable. “We discussed…”
Her heart lurched into her throat, her stomach dropped, and she crashed to the ground, scraped, bruised, crushed.
She closed her mouth, pressing her icy fingers against her burning eyes, her disappointment cruel after the heights to which she had allowed her hope to soar.