Chapter Two
Pain arrived first, dull and insistent, dragging her up from bottomless depths.
Elizabeth became aware of her body in pieces – an ache in her skull, burning in her throat, heaviness in her limbs suggesting she’d been crushed beneath something immense.
Consciousness flickered like a guttering candle, present one moment and gone the next.
Time passed, unmeasured. She floated between waking and sleeping, dimly aware of discomfort but unable to address it. Heat pressed against her skin, thick and suffocating, making each breath an effort. The air tasted stale, recycled through lungs that couldn’t draw enough.
Eventually, Elizabeth forced her eyes open. The lids felt weighted, reluctant. Light filtered through in fragments, indistinct and blurred. She blinked, and the world remained stubbornly unfocused. Blinked again, and details began to emerge.
Heavy fabric surrounded her on three sides. Bed hangings, she realised slowly, her thoughts moving like chilled honey, slow and thick. Deep crimson velvet, pulled partially closed, creating a stifling cocoon.
This was not her room at the parsonage, the room she had been sharing with Maria these past weeks. The certainty settled over her with the weight of the bed coverings themselves, which pressed against her chest and legs with oppressive heaviness. Where was she?
Elizabeth tried to lift her hand to push the hangings aside. Her arm refused. The muscles trembled with effort but achieved nothing beyond a slight finger twitch. She concentrated harder, focusing her will on the simple act of raising her hand from the coverlet.
After an eternity, her hand rose perhaps two inches. The exertion left her gasping, heart pounding erratically, sweat beading on her forehead despite her immobility.
What had happened? Elizabeth’s thoughts scattered and reformed, refusing to arrange themselves coherently. She remembered the parsonage, Charlotte helping her to bed, the terrible headache that had made the world tilt. And before that...
Anne de Bourgh. The tea. That strange, intent way Anne had watched her drink.
The memory surfaced through her confusion like something dredged from muddy water.
She had suspected poison, hadn’t she? In those final moments of consciousness, she’d been certain something was wrong with the tea.
But surely that was impossible. Surely her illness-addled mind had conjured phantoms.
Yet here she lay, weak as a newborn kitten, in a room decidedly not her own.
Elizabeth let her gaze wander across what she could see without moving her head, which felt too heavy for her neck.
The furnishings glimpsed between the bed hangings spoke of wealth and status far beyond the comfortable but modest parsonage.
A massive wardrobe of dark wood dominated one wall, its surface gleaming.
A dressing table stood near what appeared to be a window, though heavy curtains blocked most of the light.
An ornate mirror in a gilded frame reflected back the crimson hangings.
The heat bordered on unbearable. Elizabeth could see a fireplace across the chamber, flames leaping high, sending waves of warmth that made the stale air even more oppressive. Why would anyone maintain such a fire on a warm spring day?
Her throat burned with thirst. She tried to swallow and discovered her mouth parched, tongue thick and uncooperative. Each breath through her dry throat felt like inhaling sand.
Everything felt wrong, foreign, deeply uncomfortable.
How long had she been unconscious? Hours?
Days? The quality of light seeping around the heavy curtains suggested daytime, but whether morning or afternoon remained unclear.
Her last clear memory was lying down in her room at the parsonage in late afternoon.
Had she slept through the night? Multiple nights?
She needed to see more, to understand where she was and why she’d been brought here.
With painstaking effort, she attempted to push herself upright.
Her arms shook, muscles screaming protest. She managed to lift her shoulders perhaps three inches before her strength gave out and she collapsed back, gasping.
The exertion left her trembling, vision greying at the edges. For a terrifying moment she thought she might lose consciousness again, slip back into that absolute darkness. But slowly her vision cleared and her breathing steadied, though it remained laboured in the thick, hot air.
Someone must have moved her here while unconscious. But who? And where was here? The grandeur suggested a great house, and Elizabeth knew of only one such establishment near Hunsford.
Rosings Park.
The realisation deepened her confusion rather than clarifying it.
Why would she have been brought to Lady Catherine’s estate?
If she’d taken seriously ill at the parsonage, surely the sensible course would have been to keep her there in familiar surroundings, where Charlotte could tend her.
Or if her condition was severe enough, to send for a physician who could attend her at the parsonage itself.
Unless her illness had been so alarming that Lady Catherine insisted on her removal to Rosings for better care?
But that made little sense. Lady Catherine had shown no particular warmth toward Elizabeth, had indeed made clear her view that Elizabeth was unsuitably connected and beneath her notice.
Why would she concern herself with Elizabeth’s wellbeing?
Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam or Mr. Darcy had insisted.
.. but if she’d been so dreadfully ill, why was she apparently now alone, without a maid to watch over her? Rosings hardly lacked staff.
The questions circled in Elizabeth’s mind without resolution. Her thoughts felt sluggish, difficult to hold, slipping away like water through cupped hands. The heat pressed down, making concentration nearly impossible. She needed air, coolness, water for her parched throat.
She tried to call out, to summon whoever might be attending her, but her voice emerged as barely more than a rasp, a whisper that wouldn’t carry beyond the bed hangings, certainly not beyond the door. Her throat ached with the effort, burning as though scraped raw.
Elizabeth let her eyes fall closed, conserving what little strength remained. Perhaps if she rested a few moments longer, she might gather enough energy to make herself heard, or better yet, to rise from this suffocating bed and seek help herself.
But exhaustion pulled at her, threatening to drag her back under. She fought it, clinging to consciousness with desperate determination. She wouldn’t slip back into that darkness, wouldn’t surrender to the weakness that had claimed her.
The clock on the mantelpiece, barely audible over the crackling fire, ticked away the seconds with maddening regularity. Each tick marked time passing, opportunities lost, questions unanswered.
Elizabeth forced her eyes open once more, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, and willed her body to obey. She would rise from this bed. She would discover where she was and how she came to be here.
Elizabeth braced her palms against the mattress and pushed. Her arms trembled violently, the muscles burning with effort that should have been trivial but felt monumental. She managed to lift her torso perhaps six inches before having to pause, gasping, vision swimming.
She wouldn’t give up. The thought anchored her, gave her something to focus on beyond the physical distress. Whatever had happened, whoever had moved her to this stifling chamber, she wouldn’t simply lie here helpless waiting for answers.
Elizabeth pushed again, gritting her teeth against the weakness.
This time she managed to raise herself higher, propping herself on one elbow while the other arm shook with strain.
The heavy bed coverings tangled around her legs, and she had to pause once more, breathing hard, before attempting to kick them aside.
The simple act of freeing her legs took far longer than it should have.
Her feet moved sluggishly, as though encased in mud, and the coverlet’s weight seemed impossible to shift.
By the time she finally worked herself free, sweat poured down her temples and her heart hammered so violently she feared it might burst.
But she was sitting upright now, perched on the mattress edge, the bed hangings pushed aside.
The room swayed, the ornate furnishings sliding left and right in a sickening dance.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, pressed one hand to her chest where her heart continued its frantic beating, and waited for the dizziness to subside.
When she opened her eyes, the room had steadied somewhat. The window across the chamber drew her gaze, promising fresh air and understanding. If she could reach it, could look out and see what lay beyond, perhaps she might make sense of her situation.
Elizabeth swung her legs over the bed’s side, and her feet touched the floor. The polished wood felt cool against her bare feet, a relief after the oppressive heat of the bedclothes. She attempted to stand.
Her legs gave out immediately. Elizabeth collapsed forward, barely managing to catch herself on the carved bedpost. She clung there, arms wrapped around the post like a shipwreck survivor clinging to debris, while her legs threatened to buckle entirely.
This was wrong. This weakness went beyond anything illness should cause.
Elizabeth had been sick before, had suffered through fevers and headaches, but never had she experienced such complete betrayal by her own body.
Her legs felt like water, incapable of bearing her weight, while her arms possessed barely enough strength to keep her upright.