Elizabeth was deeply asleep, but Darcy could not bring himself to leave her bedside. Already her countenance had lost some of its grayish pallor and taken on a rosier hue. Her perfectly pink lips parted slightly as she inhaled and exhaled in a steady rhythm. Dark lashes brushed her cheeks. He often had envisioned how Elizabeth would look when asleep, and now he could look to his heart’s content. But that was not why Darcy had difficulty tearing his eyes from her. Instead his scrutiny was borne of an almost superstitious fear that some ill would befall her if he left her presence.
The silent vigil afforded him plenty of time to think. Guilt nagged at him. He should not have told Martin that she was his wife—and should not have compounded that sin by repeating the lie to Elizabeth. Yet he could not regret it. Her eyes had gone wide with fear when she realized how she had forgotten her life. However, the presence of a “husband” seemed to be reassuring; at least she could sleep.
Still, he experienced a compulsion to confess everything when she awoke. Darcy abhorred falsehoods, and the confession would relieve his conscience. He would simply explain that he was not a husband or even a fiancé, but an acquaintance she disliked and whose proposal she had rejected.
But try as he might, Darcy could not imagine how such a confession would go well. She trusted him…now. If she knew the truth, she might believe she had nobody to trust. It would be disastrous to her peace of mind—and would perhaps slow her recovery. Surely placing her trust in Darcy was preferable. He would protect her with his life and would never do anything to hurt her. Except lie to her, a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
Darcy ignored it. There would be time enough for the truth later. Most likely she would remember on her own and then they could discuss it—hopefully before she ran screaming from the room.
Decision made, Darcy stood and called Mrs. Martin to watch Elizabeth. Loath though he was to leave her side, he needed to take other steps to secure her safety. Mr. Martin’s promise of discretion was reassuring, but he needed to know more. Why would the man take such a risk with his family’s safety?
Darcy found the doctor in his study, a dark-paneled, comfortable room with books lining two walls—exactly what Darcy would expect from such a learned man. The fireplace stood empty, but above it was a portrait of a young, blond man. He bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Martin. A son perhaps?
The doctor was working at his desk but stood when Darcy entered. “Mr. D’Arcy, how is your wife?”
“She is sleeping now.”
“Good.” He nodded. “I would like to take this opportunity to examine your hand.”
Darcy stared at the bandage; he had completely forgotten the wound. “It is of no matter.”
Martin eyed him severely. “What will become of your wife if you die of an infected wound?”
Darcy sighed. Damn the man for making sense! “Very well,” he grumbled, thrusting his hand forward. Martin took it in both of his hands, turning it toward the lamp on his desk as he unwound the bandage.
The stitches were small and even, and the area around the wound looked red to Darcy’s inexperienced eyes. However, the doctor seemed unconcerned. “It is healing well,” Martin said as he re-bound the wound. “But you must heal for several more days before I may remove the stitches.”
Darcy nodded. “There is another matter I would discuss with you.”
“Of course.” Martin gestured to the seat before his desk, and Darcy sat. “Would you like some brandy?”
Real French brandy. Darcy’s mouth watered at the thought. “Please.”
The doctor went to the sideboard and poured from a glass decanter into two glasses. “What is on your mind, hmm?” Seating himself behind the desk, he handed a glass to Darcy. The brandy was as smooth and flavorful as he had imagined.
Darcy stared at the amber liquid, considering how to broach the delicate subject. “I am…surprised that you are so willing to conceal us from the authorities. They may not care about Elizabeth, but if they discover an Englishman in your home, they might arrest you…” He allowed his words to peter out, hoping the man would explain himself.
Martin set down his glass. “You are wondering if I secretly plan to present you to the gendarmes as an early Christmas present?”
Darcy would not have phrased it in such a way, but… “Essentially.”
The doctor waved a dismissive hand. “You have nothing to fear, my friend.”
“To be blunt, how can I be sure? I am risking my wife’s life.”
The other man took a long, thoughtful gulp from his glass. “I do not know how familiar you are with the history of Bretagne, but the Chouan were very popular here, particularly in Saint-Malo.”
The English newspapers had published many stories about the Chouan, French bourgeoisie who had opposed the revolution, leading to many violent clashes with republican soldiers. “I thought the movement had been crushed.”
Martin’s lips pressed tightly together. “It was. I myself was not a member, but…I lost friends….” He sighed. “However, the spirit of the Chouan was not completely crushed. Not here and not elsewhere in Bretagne.”
Darcy indulged in another sip of brandy. He would have been more reassured if Martin had admitted to being part of the Chouan.
The doctor must have guessed Darcy’s reservations; he gave a mirthless laugh. “If the Chouan still existed today, I would be the first to sign my name.”
Darcy’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry. What had changed?
Martin gestured to the painting over the mantel. “My son, Charles.” The man could not have been more than twenty when the likeness was taken. “He was an ardent supporter of Napoleon when he was First Counsel—before the man styled himself Emperor.” He uttered the last word with a sneer. “Napoleon claimed it was necessary to raise a Grand Army to defend France from its enemies. I doubted the necessity, but Charles—a true patriot—believed. He did not wait to be conscripted; he volunteered.” Martin paused for a gulp of brandy. Darcy had a dark premonition about the ending of the story.
The doctor set his glass on the desk with trembling hands. “He was a soldier for two years, but he grew less and less content with Napoleon’s cause. In his last letter to me, Charles expressed doubts about the Peninsular War. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘were we fighting in Spain? It does nothing to defend our borders. Spain does not threaten France.’” Martin stared into the middle distance as if seeing things not in the room. “He was not the only one with such questions.”
Martin fell silent, lost in his reverie. After a long pause, Darcy cleared his throat. “Your son was sent to the Peninsula?”
Martin grimaced. “Yes. He fell in the very first battle. My friends said I should be pleased he died in battle and not of disease, as so many soldiers do.” A cynical snort expressed what the doctor thought of that idea.
Darcy winced. Richard had fought on the Peninsula. Was it possible that Richard had cut down Martin’s son? Unlikely, but still his stomach knotted with tension. Of course, Darcy had known that war was a horrible business, but the thought of Richard and Charles meeting in battle provoked a new awareness of the horror. Richard was a good man, and no doubt Charles had been a good man as well. Thank God Richard was now involved in espionage rather than fighting on the front lines.
“My condolences,” Darcy said, aware that the words were horribly inadequate.
Martin appeared not to hear. “And now our glorious leader has taken the flower of France’s youth to Russia. Russia! Where the cold and snow will kill them if the Russian army does not.”
Darcy winced. British newspapers suggested that the French casualties from the Russian offensive were devastating.
“Why, I ask you, must we go to Russia at all?” Martin finished the rest of his brandy in a long swallow. “Everyone in Saint-Malo is sick of the war. We do not care if the ‘emperor’ wins or loses. We only want peace.”
Darcy gaped. Such words were treasonous, dangerous to utter.
Martin gave another bitter laugh. “Do not worry, my friend. Everyone in Saint-Malo thinks the same. The war has been long and costly. Many here have lost sons, brothers, husbands—and everyone has felt the pinch of increased taxation and scarce resources. Even many of the gendarmes hate the war. They conscript too many of the youth. Young men often ask that I declare them unfit for combat. I can always find something wrong: weak lungs or flat feet. It is preferable to having them mutilate themselves to avoid conscription.”
Darcy drew in a long breath. What a terrible price these people were paying for their leader’s war.
“Naturally I would not vocalize such sentiments to the colonel who commands the town’s garrison,” Martin conceded. “But even he knows they are not popular here. Everyone speaks openly about hopes for the end of the war and the restoration of the monarchy.”
Did Darcy dare trust the doctor’s words? More, did he dare trust Elizabeth’s life to this man? On the other hand, what was the alternative? Ferrying her to England in her present state would be nigh impossible. And the doctor’s sentiments agreed with what Darcy had observed in the marketplace.
Trust did not come easily, however. Darcy stroked his chin. “How long will it be before Elizabeth can travel?”
The doctor pursed his lips as he thought. “It is difficult to predict, but at least a week. Her lungs need to recover, or you risk a relapse.”
“How long until she recovers her memory?” Darcy refused to contemplate the possibility that she might never recover it.
He shrugged. “I cannot give you an estimate. The phenomenon of amnesia has not been extensively studied, and we know very little.”
Darcy nodded. It was the answer he expected. He could only hope Elizabeth would be ready to travel soon. Every day increased the danger of discovery.
***
When she awoke again, she was alone. The room’s emptiness made her heart beat a little faster. Although it had been disconcerting to awaken to two strange men, being alone with her own thoughts was nearly worse. Her head ached, and her throat was parched. The room was brightly lit; she was grateful for the curtains that kept out the worst of the summer sun.
Elizabeth. The darkly handsome man had said her name was Elizabeth, but it brought no sense of familiarity, no stirrings in her memory. Nor had the man himself—her husband—provoked any recollections. That was wrong, she knew. She should remember her name, her husband’s name, and all manner of other things—her childhood, her parents, her home. She strained to remember even the smallest thing, but it was like reaching into a void: there was nothing she could grasp. This was wrong, all wrong. Who was she if she could not remember even the most basic information about her life? Did she even really exist?
I am in a bed. The sunshine is yellow and bright. The armchair has green and gold embroidery. She perfectly recalled words, objects, descriptions. But she could not recall even the tiniest detail about herself. Do I prefer beef or mutton? Do I dance or sing? Do I have brothers and sisters? Even the smallest details remained stubbornly out of reach. It was like trying to grasp clouds.
Her breath quickened, and her legs twitched as if readying themselves to flee, but she could not outrun this threat. Her panting triggered a coughing fit; she fought for breath, each gasp causing her lungs to ache.
Clutching the counterpane in both hands, Elizabeth willed her muscles to relax, her breathing to slow. I am safe for the moment, she assured herself. My husband is here. I am alive. Concentrating ferociously, she slowed her breaths until they evened out and her heart ceased its frantic pounding.
Seeking to avoid the yawning absences inside herself, Elizabeth turned her mind to other thoughts, such as discerning her location. The room was small, decorated in bright wallpaper with yellow flowers. It was sparsely furnished, with an armchair and a table by the side of the bed and a dresser against the far wall. Is this my home? My home with William? None of the furnishings tugged at her memory, but that meant little.
If only her head would not pound as though someone beat it like a drum!
Shakily, her fingers kneaded the hem of the sheet. The world was vast and complicated, and Elizabeth was small—tiny—and easily crushed. How could she hope to survive with no memories to rely upon? It was an impossible task. She would be lost. Utterly lost. A boat adrift in the middle of a lake with no oars and no way to reach the shore.
She fought back the black grip of panic. I have a husband. I am not completely alone and unmoored. What was his name? She cringed inwardly at the idea that she had forgotten such a basic fact. William. Yes, his name is William. As she pictured his face, her heartbeat instantly slowed. William. The name suits him.
Yet she recalled nothing about him or their relationship. How could she have forgotten a man so handsome, so tender? It seemed particularly unfair that she could not remember kissing him. Kisses from such a man would surely be worth remembering. No doubt she had kissed him many times. I would kiss him now if he walked into the room. The very brazenness of the thought made her blush.
And the wedding night! What had happened on the wedding night? She was wild to know, but her mind remained stubbornly blank.
It was part of a long list of things she did not know. “Upon my word,” she exclaimed to the empty room, “I would not even recognize my own countenance!”
Suddenly it was very important to know her own appearance. Her hair was a dark mahogany, and her hands appeared young—unlined and unspotted—but she knew little else. Was she pretty? Was she tall? What was her age? A mirror hung on the far wall, but Elizabeth’s position in the bed did not allow her to see it.
Climbing from the bed would not be condoned by doctor or husband, but neither was present. Hmm….apparently I do not bow easily to the will of others. Good for me.
If she were to make the effort, it would be best to do so now while she was still alone in the room. Sitting up provoked a wave of dizziness; Elizabeth paused for a moment to allow the room to stop spinning around her. Feeling steadier, she slid to the edge of the bed and dangled her legs over the side. They did not reach the floor. Perhaps that answers my question about my height. Fortunately, the dizziness remained at bay despite her movements.
Slowly, she slid off the bed, gingerly resting her weight on her feet. Her knees immediately buckled, compelling her to grab the edge of the bed. The next few minutes were occupied with steadying herself.
Holding the bed with one hand, she took a step and then another, pleased that she remained upright. Reaching the end of the bed, she was at the point where she needed to place all her trust in her legs. She took a minute to ensure her balance and then released her grip on the carved wooden bedpost, holding her breath as she stepped into the middle of the room.
Her body wobbled a bit, but she did not fall. She took another quick step, which brought her to the mirror. Steadying herself with a hand against the wall, she stared into it with rapt fascination.
The face that stared back at her might have been pretty were it not so pale and gaunt. Dark circles shadowed Elizabeth’s eyes, and her cheeks had hollowed out. How long was I sick? I might have been raised from the dead!
At least her hair was dark and thick, curling around her face. And her eyes were bright, a startling green. I have a few good features despite my complete want of complexion. Under the linen nightrail, her frame was slender to the point of being thin. I resemble a plague victim. What if my countenance never recovers? Her stomach clenched. Would William put me aside if I am never in good looks again?
Without any warning, the room dimmed, her legs collapsed, and Elizabeth sank to the floor. I am fainting. How odd, I have never fainted before. Actually, how would I know? This is so frustrating…
The world went black, but briefly. After only a few seconds, she recovered consciousness. Her arms had broken her fall, but her legs were awkwardly twisted underneath her.
She did not try to arise immediately but remained on the floor, panting while her heart rate returned to normal. I should call for help, but they will only chastise me for leaving my bed.
Evidently I also am stubborn.
Once she had regained a modicum of strength, Elizabeth crawled to the end of the bed and pulled herself to standing with the help of the wooden bedpost. She needed another minute to rest before she could lift herself onto the bed. It required another rest before she had the energy to crawl up to the head of the bed, where she collapsed with her head upon the pillows, unable to muster the energy to crawl under the covers.
Elizabeth dozed, but when she awoke, nothing had changed except the angle of the sun in the window.
She considered what she had learned. The face in the mirror held no familiarity, and no memories had appeared in her head as she slept. She was a stranger even to herself. Was it possible for a person to be more alone?
Her hands clenched into fists. I must not give way to panic. There must be other ways to learn about my situation. Perhaps she could make deductions from her own observations. Earlier she had ignored the sounds of the household, but now she strained her ears to hear them.
A conversation between two women was taking place near the closed door to her room. Elizabeth understood only about a quarter of their words—enough to guess that the conversation concerned that evening’s dinner menu.
Why did she comprehend so little of it? Was that an effect of the blow to her head? But she had understood William quite easily—every word. And the doctor had been comprehensible despite his accent. Because they had spoken…English. Her mind supplied the right word. Yes, he had spoken proper English while the doctor had spoken with a French accent. And the conversation outside her door was entirely in French—the reason she understood so little.
This amnesia was a strange thing. She could not remember anything of her childhood, but she was completely certain that she had accurately identified French and English. Had she taken French lessons as a child?
Why were the women speaking in French? And why did the doctor have an accent? She peered around the room: the furniture, curtains, paintings. Everything had felt subtly alien, although she was only now recognizing the sensation. This was not her home; there was nothing English about it.
Her heart beat an agitated rhythm, and her palms grew moist. I must be in France. For a moment she did not recall why the thought quickened her breathing. This place feels safe, but I know France is not safe. Why? But the reason eluded her. I should be in England; I know it. However, try as she might, Elizabeth could not picture where she lived. Did she live in a London townhouse? Or on a farm in the country? Or in an apartment over a shop?
At least if I live in the country, I may take long walks. I dearly love long walks.
How do I know that?
The strain of remembering was like trying to grab for handfuls of clouds. Her head throbbed, and her eyes drifted closed, as if the very act of trying to remember had taken more effort than her body could sustain. She fought sleep, wanting to learn more about the place, but soon her eyelids closed, and she fell deeply asleep.
***
When she next awakened, William sat in the armchair reading a book. He sprang to his feet the moment she stirred.
“How do you feel? Should I get the doctor? What do you need? Whatever you want, I shall obtain it for you.”
Sitting up in the bed, Elizabeth tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Whatever I want? Hmm…I would like a strawberry and apple tart.”
William took a step toward the door and then stopped, turning to her with a crestfallen expression. “I do not believe strawberries and apples are in season.”
Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips indignantly. “No strawberries?” William’s eyes widened with near panic until Elizabeth ruined the effect by laughing.
A slow smile broke out over William’s face. “I should have known that even a blow to the head and lung fever would not quell your mischievous sense of humor.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “At this moment I would happily trade it for a lifetime’s memories.”
Her husband’s expression darkened. “Do not say so. I would not alter one thing about you.”
She suppressed a shudder. Such sentiments were disconcerting when spoken by someone who essentially was a stranger. Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Would you pour me some water?”
“Of course.” William poured a glass from which she drank greedily. “Have you remembered anything at all?”
“No.” Trying to remember anything was like visiting a house that should be full of people and activity, only to find nothing but empty echoing chambers. Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face. William took the glass gently from her hand. “It is early yet. You have barely started to recover.”
Elizabeth wished she shared his optimism. William poured more water into the glass. “The doctor wishes you to drink. You have not drunk nearly enough over the past days.”
Finding she was quite thirsty, Elizabeth eagerly drank and then held out her glass for more “Would you like some soup?” William asked. “You have not eaten a proper meal in days.”
At the mention of food, Elizabeth’s stomach rumbled. “I believe that is your answer,” she said with a smile. “Soup would be welcome—and bread if they have it. And tea. Tea would be lovely.” She could focus her attention on food and forget the agitation over her missing memories.
He left the room briefly to speak with the maid. Upon his return he hovered about the bed, observing her intently. “What else do you need?”
“I do not require such scrutiny, sir. I suspect my most interesting activity today will be falling asleep. And I am unlikely to injure myself doing so.”
He shook his head. “You can always make me laugh at myself.”
Was she indeed this sort of person? How strange not to even be aware of her own nature. William knew her better than she knew herself. A tight panicked feeling fluttered in her chest. What would she do if she never recovered those memories? Would she be trapped forever in a foreign country with a man who called himself her husband?
The room seemed suddenly too small, too close, with not nearly enough air. Sweat trickled from her temples as she tried to slow her breathing, but she could hear it come in harsh gasps.
“Elizabeth.” William hastily clasped one of her hands. “I am here, and I will care for you. Do not fear.”
How shameful that he recognized her fear! “It is only…the situation is so odd. I am a stranger to myself. You are a stranger to me.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You may trust me, Elizabeth.”
Her breathing evened out. Of course, she could trust him; he was her husband. He cared about her. “Perhaps you could answer some questions?” Any information would feel like an anchor, preventing her from drifting in a vast sea of nothingness.
“Of course.”
A timid scratch at the door announced the arrival of the maid with a tray of food. As she set Elizabeth’s soup and tea before her, William opened the windows, allowing a fresh breeze to waft in. The soup—thick and creamy—smelled wonderful, and Elizabeth swallowed several spoonfuls as she considered what to ask.
William rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a muscular forearm, tanned from days in the sun. She knew nothing of his profession or family—or hers for that matter. His clothing was not the best quality; the weave was rather rough, and the trousers fit him loosely. He must be a farmer or other kind of worker. Perhaps she should be disappointed he did not command a greater fortune, but he had watched her with such earnest concern. Such caring was its own kind of wealth.
Thoughts of wealth gave her pause. She was unlikely to have a higher station in life than her husband, so they must be struggling. How were they in France? She bit her lip. Where would they have obtained the money for such an expensive voyage? She longed to know, but it did not seem an auspicious first question.
Instead she asked one of the first questions that had occurred to her. “Why are we in France?”
His eyebrows rose. “Figured that out, did you? You were on a ship which…met with an accident. Somehow, by divine providence, you washed up on shore here.”
“And you came to France in search of me?”
He hesitated a moment. “Yes.” There is something he is not telling me. But she had far too many other questions to linger over one inconsistency.
“Where in France are we?”
“Brittany. The town of Saint-Malo.”
The town’s name meant nothing to her. Her memory did supply a rough map of France and a vague recollection of Brittany’s location.
Her hands moved fretfully over the counterpane. “We should not be here. I know that for certain, although I cannot say why. When can we return to England?”
He hesitated again. “We are safe for the moment. The doctor and his wife are providing us with shelter.”
A memory returned in a rush. “Oh, England is at war with France! That is why it is dangerous.” William nodded solemnly. “How is that I can recall that England is at war, but I cannot remember my own parents?” She rubbed her forehead fretfully.
“Mr. Martin said it often is thus with amnesia.” William shifted in his chair. “The sufferers forget the details of their own lives, but factual memories remain intact.”
Elizabeth swallowed a bite of bread. “Just as well. I would not relish learning to read or do sums again.”
“Indeed.”
He leaned forward in the chair. “Do you know how well you speak French?”
“You do not know?”
He avoided her gaze by staring down at his hands. “Our marriage was recent. We have known one another for less than a year.”
Again, he was concealing something from her.
Was it possible that theirs was an arranged marriage? The thought struck her with horror. She was not the sort of woman who would want an arranged marriage. Or was she? In truth, Elizabeth knew nothing except that she was the sort of woman who took ships that met with accidents near the coast of France.
How disconcerting. She might stare into her own soul and find…nothing. What if Elizabeth discovered that she was not a good person? Not a moral person? Or that she had married William for the wrong reasons?
For that matter, how did she know that William was a good person? She had put her trust in him. Indeed, she had little choice. But she was sure he was concealing things. Might he hurt her?
She did not know how to navigate the town—or even the house. She knew nobody in this place. She must take William’s word for everything. The thought made her shiver despite the warm summer air. She stared into his eyes, full of anxiety on her behalf. He had given her no cause to distrust him.
The soup bowl was empty, and the bread reduced to crumbs on the plate. As Elizabeth took a last sip of tea, a familiar lassitude crept over her limbs.
William noticed as well. “You should rest.”
“But I have more questions.”
He chuckled. “I am sure you do, but I will be here when you awaken.”
She considered protesting, but her eyelids were so very heavy. Perhaps he was right. Elizabeth settled back on her pillows and gave him one sleepy nod before her eyes closed.