Chapter 2
Two
Elizabeth was dreaming. At least, she must be, for what else could account for the curious impression that Mr Darcy was holding her in his arms?
She could smell his familiar scent: the clean fragrance of his shaving soap, mingled with the aroma of damp wool and the sharper bite of starched linen. There was warmth, too, a steady heat from the press of his coat, soaked through in places but sheltering her all the same.
His arms were strong and secure around her, the rhythm of his breathing slow and steady against her ear.
The sensation of safety was so unexpected, so strange, and yet not at all unpleasant.
She felt drowsy, lulled by the motion of his steps and the low murmur of a voice she could not quite hear.
She attempted to open her eyes, to make sense of it all, but her body would not obey. The effort was too great.
And so, at last she gave in, letting herself drift once more into darkness.
When next awareness returned, Elizabeth realized that she was no longer in motion, and the air around her was warm and dry. Her limbs felt heavy, her head thick, and she was reclining upon something soft—a bed? she wondered uncertainly.
Sounds reached her through the haze, muffled at first but growing gradually clearer. Someone was speaking in a low tone. And then she recognised it: Mr Darcy’s voice.
Her forehead furrowed in confusion. What possible reason could Mr Darcy have to be in her bedchamber?
With great effort, she forced her eyes to open.
The light was dim, filtered through heavy curtains, and for a moment everything wavered.
But as her vision cleared, realization struck: this was not her bedchamber.
She was lying on a couch in what appeared to be a richly appointed parlour.
A fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the paper on the walls, though familiar in its elegance, struck her as… wrong somehow.
And then her gaze landed upon Mr Darcy.
He stood near the fireplace, his dark brows drawn together as he conversed with someone just out of sight. Elizabeth shifted, pushing herself cautiously upright; at the sound of her movement, Mr Darcy turned and his eyes found hers.
“Miss Bennet! You are awake.”
The sharp line of his features softened with unmistakable relief as another gentleman stepped from the shadows beside him. Both men moved swiftly in her direction.
Elizabeth grasped at the light blanket draped over her body, pulling it higher and tucking it beneath her chin.
Mr Darcy halted several paces away. “How do you feel?”
She blinked back at him, still trying to make sense of her whereabouts.
“I—my head aches,” she murmured, lifting a hand to her temple.
Her voice felt unfamiliar in her throat, her limbs oddly heavy.
“I believe I may be…confused. I must assume I am at Rosings Park, but I do not remember how I came to be here.”
“That is entirely to be expected,” Mr Darcy said evenly. “Pray, allow me to introduce Dr Latham. He is a physician from the nearest village.”
The second gentleman stepped forwards with a kind expression. “Miss Bennet, a pleasure. I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but I would like to ask you a few brief questions, if I may?”
Elizabeth nodded faintly, wincing at the throbbing in her head.
“Do you know your full name?”
“Yes. Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Good. And the date?”
She hesitated. “It is—April… I believe the month is April. But I cannot be certain of the day.”
“That is quite all right,” the physician responded. “You stated that you do not recall what happened. Can you tell me, what is the last thing you do remember?”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted past him. For a moment, her mind felt like it was shrouded in fog.
Then, as if a curtain had suddenly lifted, the memories returned in a rush: Mr Darcy’s unexpected visit to the parsonage, his wretched proposal, and the letter he had pressed into her hand that morning in the grove.
Then the swift darkening of the sky, the fierceness of the wind, and the sound of the tree branches cracking overhead.
Her cheeks instantly heated.
She looked sharply at Mr Darcy, fresh mortification washing over her. “You—were you the one who found me?”
He hesitated, as though reluctant to make too much of it. “Yes,” he finally answered. “You were insensible beneath a fallen branch, soaked through and quite cold. Rosings was the nearest place I could take you.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket. “I see,” she said, though she could scarcely imagine the sight she must have made. “I…thank you,” she added at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
“There is no need to thank me,” he replied, his expression grave. “I only did what any gentleman would have done in similar circumstances. It is fortunate your injury occurred so near the house, and that Dr Latham happened to be in residence, attending my cousin Anne.”
Elizabeth nodded numbly, at a loss for words. But after a moment, her thoughts began to settle, and she asked hesitantly, “How long…that is, how long have I been here?”
“About three quarters of an hour,” Mr Darcy answered. “We were quite concerned when you did not stir, even after the application of smelling salts.”
Again, Elizabeth nodded, as Mr Darcy went on, “I sent for Mrs Collins straightaway, but she appears to be visiting some of the parish sick. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Collins have gone to search for her. I expect they will return shortly.”
A fresh blush rose to Elizabeth’s face. “I am sorry to have caused such trouble,” she murmured. “I am feeling much better now. As soon as Mr and Mrs Collins arrive, we shall return to the parsonage at once.”
At this, Mr Darcy’s brows lifted, and he exchanged a glance with the physician.
“I am not certain that would be wise, Miss Bennet,” Dr Latham said gently. “You have sustained a rather heavy blow to the head. While the parsonage is not far, I would recommend you remain here for at least another day. Just as a precaution.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest; she could hardly think of anything worse than being forced to accept Lady Catherine’s hospitality, particularly while Mr Darcy remained under the same roof.
But before she could form a reply, a flurry of activity erupted in the entry hall beyond.
A door banged shut, voices rose in alarm, and hurried footsteps sounded against the marble floor.
A harried-looking footman appeared in the doorway just as a woman rushed past him into the room.
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth stared in bewildered astonishment. For it was not Charlotte who entered—but Jane!
“Jane?” she breathed, her voice faint with disbelief.
Her sister hastened to her side, brows knitted with concern. “Oh, dearest, thank heaven! I came as soon as I heard. Are you well? Have you been badly injured?”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I-I am quite well. But…how?” She stared back at her eldest sister, her thoughts spinning. “Mr Darcy said I had been here for less than an hour. How could you have arrived from London so quickly? And why did no one mention that you had been sent for?”
Jane briefly caught Mr Darcy’s eye before replying slowly, “London? I have not been in London, Lizzy. I was only in the nearest village. I went to call upon a few of the parish families this morning—you know, the ones Mr Collins asked me to look in on.”
Elizabeth stared at her, uncomprehending. “But…I do not understand. You have been visiting the local parishioners?”
Jane gave a cautious smile, reaching for her hand. “Yes, of course. Do you not remember? We discussed it this morning at breakfast.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I—no, I do not…” She lifted her fingers to rub her temples, desperately trying to relieve the pounding in her head.
Jane made to speak, but before either of them could pursue the matter further, the parlour door burst open with a dramatic flourish, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the room, her expression black.
Behind her trailed Mr Collins, wringing his hands and making ineffectual hushing gestures, followed by Charlotte, whose eyes immediately sought Elizabeth with quiet concern.
But it was Lady Catherine who was the first to speak.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice slicing through the room as she stalked across the Axminster carpet.
It did not take long for her gaze to alight upon the sofa where Elizabeth lay, scandal clearly writ across her features as she continued, “Why is Miss Bennet lying in my parlour? And you,” she said, rounding on Dr Latham with a glare. “Why are you not attending to Anne?”
Mr Darcy stepped forwards, positioning himself between Lady Catherine and Elizabeth. “Anne is resting,” he replied evenly. “Miss Bennet was injured during a morning walk, and Dr Latham was good enough to remain so he might tend to her after seeing to my cousin.”
Lady Catherine, who did not appear to be the least bit mollified by her nephew’s explanation, launched into another tirade, but Mr Darcy gently steered her away, lowering his voice as he spoke to her in soothing tones.
Mr Collins, clearly torn between following his patroness and offering simpering platitudes, bowed once to Elizabeth before rushing to Lady Catherine’s side with increasingly incoherent assurances.
In their absence, Elizabeth turned her gaze on Charlotte, relief washing over her.
“Oh, Charlotte, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you,” she cried, attempting to collect her scattered thoughts.
“I am afraid I must be more addled than I realized. I do not even recall Jane accompanying me and Maria to Kent!”
Charlotte and Jane briefly locked gazes before Charlotte replied, “Elizabeth, I think you are still a bit confused. Maria is not here. I am the one who accompanied you on your visit to Hunsford. It is Jane who lives at the parsonage now, with Mr Collins.”