Chapter 2
A More Familiar Delusion
Worse than the unrelenting sense of suffocation, worse even than the agony of whatever affliction gripped his throat, was the terrible thirst to which Darcy awoke.
His tongue cleaved to his palate, his head pounded, and exhaustion pinned his arms to his sides.
When he begged for water, his lips cracked and his tongue spasmed, but his plea remained unspoken, for no sound came from the parched wasteland of his mouth.
He could hear the hoarse scrape of what he presumed was his breathing, a crackling that he supposed was a fire, the faint whistle of wind trespassing around an ill-fitted windowpane—but of his own voice, he heard not a croak.
Fear added its bite to the gnaw of thirst. What in God’s name had happened to him?
Fighting an upwelling of alarm, he forced his eyes open.
He was in a chamber, the ceiling of which was yellowing and peppered with mildew.
He could see the uppermost corner of a window from where he lay; it was glazed with diamonds of thick, distorted glass.
The walls were painted a utilitarian shade of taupe.
He did not know the place or why he was in it.
The time of day eluded him, for the light was all wrong—grey and bright at the same time.
He knew neither how he came to be there, nor how long ago he had arrived.
All that was certain was that he hurt atrociously, though the reason for that was as shrouded in mystery as everything else, and the confusion of his mind terrified him almost as much as his physical suffering.
Thirst overshadowed everything, compelling him to lift his head in search of water.
Excruciating pain drove him instantly back down, his eyes and jaw clenched shut and his mind awhirl, grasping futilely at wisps of memories that might—but did not—explain the feeling of being utterly spent, utterly broken.
His neck was ablaze and there was something horribly unfamiliar about the way his head and shoulders were aligned—an unnatural rigidity betwixt the two that, when he reached up to touch it, felt numb, despite the monstrous pain.
He dug his fingers into it, attempted to scratch away whatever was hurting him, but everything he did and everywhere he touched exacerbated the torture.
Something took hold of his hands. He recoiled from the contact, ripping free of its grip and shoving it away, fearful of anything touching him.
The movement tightened the constriction about his throat.
He tugged frantically at the collar of his shirt to relieve it, but again his hands were seized and drawn aside, this time more firmly.
Somebody spoke, the words nebulous but the tone fretful.
He was not alone! There was comfort in that—or at least, there would be, if only whoever it was would do something to relieve his torment.
He or she—she—said something else. He knew not what; he could not concentrate on anything beyond the all-consuming need for liquid.
He begged for water and shuddered when his throat gave forth nothing but an arid wheeze and a flood of pain.
He forced one eye open and mouthed his plea again at the silhouette bent over him.
For the briefest moment, Darcy forgot his thirst entirely as the achingly familiar apparition slid her hand beneath his head and lifted it slightly to meet the cup she held to his mouth.
“Sip it slowly, Mr Darcy. Your throat is wounded. You would not like to choke.”
Then water trickled between his lips and all else became immaterial. He meant to sip, but need bade him gulp. His throat contracted, he bucked in agony, spluttered out most of the water and sucked the rest into his lungs.
“Calm yourself, sir. Breathe. ’Tis well. ’Tis well.”
The composure of the voice was vastly at odds with the desperate situation.
It steadied him until he ceased coughing.
As did the hand that remained at the base of his neck.
Somebody—the same woman, presumably—dabbed the water from his face.
He strained to focus his gaze on her countenance, his eyes found hers, and his breath hitched, though nobody would have noticed amongst the already erratic clamour.
“Now sip,” said Elizabeth Bennet—to all appearances the real one, not an apparition or a delusion or a dream.
What in blazes? Darcy wondered in bewilderment, for in his present condition, with his mind as empty as his lungs, he could think of no goodly explanation for her being there.
He had not the strength to reflect upon it for long.
Distracted by the cup that was back at his lips, he attended instead to assuaging his thirst, though the pain of swallowing and the effort not to gag made it impossible to take more than half a dozen sips.
By the time Elizabeth laid his head gently back on the pillow and removed her hand, exhaustion had crept into Darcy’s mind and settled heavily upon his limbs. His eyes were already closed.
He heard, and envied, the deep breath Elizabeth took. He heard her also as she let it out, slowly and a little shakily—and he heard her speak.
“Good. The only thing that could possibly make this situation worse would be if you were actually to die.”
Sleep was upon him before her meaning could even begin to matter.
“Come, Darcy. I must have you breathe. I hate to see you thrashing about in this stupid manner.”
Darcy opened his eyes. “Bingley?” The man standing over him in full evening dress did not look like his friend, but he sounded like him, and his cocked hat was placed the wrong way on his head, which seemed apropos. “What has happened to me?”
“Strangled, old fruit.”
“Strangled? By whom?”
“A bear.”
“What?”
Bingley was gone, however, and all was dark again.
Darcy sipped, for there was water upon his lips.
“Who did this?” he begged, though this time he had no voice, and the question hurt to ask.
He found he no longer cared. The means mattered little; that he was injured remained true whatever the cause.
He sipped more water and prayed for everything to cease hurting.
Never had he known pain that permeated even the deepest sleep. It did not relent even for a moment.
“Physician?” he begged—or attempted to. His numb lips misshaped the word, and the obstruction in his throat stole what was left of the plea. “Laudanum?” he mouthed. “Laudan—” He gave up, exhausted.
“I am sorry,” a voice too feminine to be Bingley’s said, “I have nothing to give you for the pain. Though—” A loud scrape muffled whatever words were spoken next, and the voice faded away. Time pulsed in Darcy’s ears awhile. Pain throbbed in his neck, and he drifted helplessly in obscurity.
An icy touch at his throat awoke him. He flinched away from it, and then grimaced at the agony of so sudden a movement. He lifted a hand to identify the coldness that stung his skin but was pushed gently away.
“Pray, leave it a moment, Mr Darcy. ’Tis only snow.”
He frowned, baffled, yet snow was a less threatening delusion than a murderous bear, and he had not the wits about him to query it.
In any case, its icy burn had begun to affect a small but sublime reprieve from his torturous breathing—and he felt certain he knew that voice intimately enough to trust it.
“What has happened to me?”
He received no response. Somebody dabbed at the rivulets of melted snow that ran behind his ears and into his hair, but whomever did so gave him no answer. Perhaps it was another hallucination. He asked again. The fussing ceased.
“Forgive me, I cannot understand you. Could you move your lips more slowly?”
He thought he had spoken aloud. Though, he also imagined he had been talking to his sister and, it would now seem, this was not she. Was he losing his mind?
“What happened?” he mouthed slowly and pointed at his throat.
“You were kicked by a horse.”
It was more probable that he had been strangled by a bear. A man kicked in the neck by a horse would like as not be too dead to enquire about it, mutely or otherwise. Perhaps he was dead. He asked if it were so.
“I am sorry,” came the answer after a pause. “I simply cannot understand what you are trying to say. Pray, rest for now. I can answer your questions when you are better recovered.”
Dead people did not recover. With the snow at his neck now merely warm dampness and the constant scraping sound of his breathing showing no sign of abating, that seemed as much comfort as he was likely to find at the present moment.
He released the last of the air in his chest and surrendered once again to darkness.