Darcy’s heart clenched.
“The cross was a present from my aunt and uncle Gardiner for my nineteenth birthday. Uncle Gardiner bought it on one of his trips. Jane has one with garnets….” She fell silent, her eyes open but not seeing anything around them.
“Everything…except…” Her brows drew together. “Except I do not remember meeting your friend Mr. Bingley…or you…or visiting—what was the name of the place? Rosings Park.” Under the brim of her hat, her free hand massaged her forehead. “What is the year?”
“1812.” He was squeezing the reins with unnecessary force and fought to relax his hands.
She shook her head in bewilderment. “I recall the summer of 1811, but nothing after. How strange! Everything…except for the last year.”
Darcy had been granted a reprieve, but she had recalled so much in such a short time. The memories of the previous year could not be too far out of reach.
And why should she recall everything except the past year? Would she prefer to forget any part of her life that concerned Fitzwilliam Darcy? The breakfast he had consumed less than an hour ago sat like a lump of lead in his stomach. “Those memories will return soon, no doubt.” He strove to keep his tone hopeful, but he feared it sounded discouraged.
“Yes,” she said faintly.
As the traffic lightened, Darcy urged the horse to greater speed. But the wagon was an unwieldy vehicle and simply would not allow a decent pace.
After a long pause he ventured a new subject of conversation. “I had hoped to reach Gravelines today, but I fear this pace will have us on the road another day.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said absently, tucking the cross into her pocket.
Just let us reach England before she remembers all, he prayed fervently. If she discovered his lies before they departed France, he could not predict the results. Darcy winced as he recalled her words at Hunsford parsonage. When she learned the truth—however she learned the truth—no doubt she would have some cutting words for him. He could only hope she confined herself to words and did not decide to separate herself from him before they reached home.
They traveled in silence past fields of wheat and isolated farmhouses. Elizabeth stayed absorbed in her own thoughts, unaware of the scenery. Finally, she remarked, “Yesterday I felt as if my life were a book that was only half-finished. This morning I have been granted access to several more chapters—but not the ending.”
“There is no ending,” Darcy observed. “You are still writing the book.”
Elizabeth squinted in the bright sunlight. “Ha! I suppose you have the way of it. Still, I would give much to recall the past year. I worry that something dreadful has occurred, and my mind is suppressing the memory.”
Darcy clenched the reins more tightly. Could I be something dreadful? Could I have caused her to suppress her memories? “I know of no tragedy that befell your family in the past year,” he said.
Elizabeth bit her lip. “But what of my friends? Charlotte Lucas has been my good friend for my entire life.”
“She lives in Kent now,” Darcy said absently as he steered the horse around a hole in the road.
“Kent?”
Darcy cursed himself silently. He could not relate to Elizabeth most of the events of the past year; it would inevitably lead to a revelation of the true state of affairs between them. “Yes, she is now wed to a Mr. Collins who is a parson in Hunsford parish.”
What may I tell her of her friend’s life that would not reveal too much? Certainly I can say nothing about Aunt Catherine. “They live in a cozy parsonage near the grand estate of his patroness.” Too late, Darcy remembered that Collins was her cousin; would that provoke additional recollections?
“Mr. Collins?” she said. “I do not believe I know him.”
Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently her acquaintance with her cousin was recent.
“But everyone in my family is well?” she asked, looking for reassurance.
“Everyone in your family enjoys the best of health.”
“And the Gardiners?”
“The Gardiners?”
“My aunt and uncle Gardiner who live in London—and their children?”
“I am not acquainted with them.”
“Did they not attend the wedding?”
Damnation! He had forgotten the “wedding.” This is why he abhorred deceit; one lie begat a whole series of falsehoods. “They did not attend the wedding,” he said truthfully enough.
“I hope nobody in the family was ill!”
“I heard nothing of any illness,” Darcy reassured her. “You were their only source of anxiety.”
“They believe I am lost at sea.” Elizabeth’s hands twisted in her lap. “Oh, we must hurry home so I may lighten their hearts!”
“Indeed.”
She pressed fingertips to her forehead. “If only I could recover the rest of my memories!”
Darcy could only pray that she did not recover them too soon.
***
Elizabeth dreamed.
She did not recognize the place: a modest drawing room with well-worn furnishings and a blazing fire in the hearth. Several unremarkable paintings on religious themes adorned the walls.
His face quite pale and drawn, Mr. Darcy leaned against the mantelpiece on the other side of the room. This was not the proud, distant man she recalled from previous encounters. Obviously in the grip of some strong emotion, his chest heaved with each breath. Was he angry?
Finally, he spoke in a strained voice. “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting! I might perhaps wish to be informed why with so little endeavor at civility I am thus rejected.”
Elizabeth’s entire body trembled with an unaccustomed fury. “I might as well enquire why with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character! Was not this some excuse for incivility if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. Do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
He did not deny it. In fact, he looked even more tranquil—and far haughtier. Such superciliousness further stoked her anger. “Can you deny that you have done it?”
“I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”
Such effrontery! Calmly agreeing that he had ruined Jane’s life! Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to hurt him the way he had hurt her sister. “But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham.”
His face grew red. “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns.”
“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?”
Mr. Darcy scoffed, “His misfortunes! His misfortunes have been great indeed!”
Anger surged through her veins, giving her energy. “And of your infliction. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty. And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”
Abandoning the mantelpiece, Mr. Darcy took a few steps in her direction; a muscle twitched in his jaw. “And this is your opinion of me! But perhaps these offences might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. I am not ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”
Elizabeth marveled for a moment, staring open-mouthed at the man. He actually believed she would have accepted him if he had made her the offer in a more acceptable way! Did he not understand how contemptible he had rendered himself? Well, she would correct that misapprehension. She drew herself to her full height. “You are mistaken if you supposed that the mode of your declaration affected me in any way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you—had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.”
He started at her words, his face a frozen mask. Had she gone too far in accusing him of being ungentlemanly? It was, to be sure, quite an insult. But he still offered no apologies or excuses. Apparently he still found his behavior acceptable.
Well, she certainly had more to say. “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.” His eyes widened with astonishment. “From the first moment of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”
Mr. Darcy finally moved, taking a jerky step away from her. “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”
His face a stony mask, he strode swiftly through the door and then was gone. Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair, barely perceiving the room around her.
Gradually, awareness crept over Elizabeth. She was no longer in that drawing room. She was in a bed. In the inn where William had bespoken a room.
Where William was in the bed beside her!
Her shift—and even the sheets—were plastered to her body with sweat. Her breath was coming in quick, audible pants, and she tried to slow it lest she wake William. Lying immobile in bed, she considered the dream. These were memories, she was quite certain of that now, but she knew not what to make of this latest one.
Mr. Dar—William had apparently proposed to her in that little drawing room. And she had rejected him in a decisive manner, blaming him for Jane’s heartbreak and for reducing a man named Wickham to poverty. Try as she might, Elizabeth could not recall anyone of her acquaintance named Wickham; the last year of her life still proved elusive. William had not denied the accusations about Wickham or about Jane. And then Elizabeth had accused him of pride, selfishness, and ungentlemanlike behavior. She nearly gasped at that last one: such an insult for a man like William!
Very well, the circumstances of the proposal and the reasons for her rejection were quite clear, but how had she later ended up married to the man?
Her hands clutched at the sheets. Was this all part of some elaborate plot? Had William abducted her for the purpose of—what? She could think of no reason why kidnapping her would be to his advantage. Her family had no fortune, and he certainly could secure a wife by conventional means.
Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her experience with Dreyfus had shown how untrustworthy some men could be. Was she making a mistake by trusting William now?
Was it possible that William was plotting with Dreyfus—and the French? Perhaps his concern for her was only a mask that concealed his true purposes. Perhaps the true William was the cold, proud man, and the one she knew now was only a construct, an act perpetrated to fulfill some unknown scheme.
No, their race across France had been too complicated to be a ruse, and then there was the question of motivation.
Obviously I have been reading too many novels from the circulating library.
But still she was left with the fact that William had proposed in that unnamed house, and she had violently rejected his offer. How had they wound up here?
No matter how she considered it, nothing made sense.
If only she could remember the past year! But she had strained and searched for any wisps of memories, and her mind was still a blank.
Why had William proposed in the first place when Elizabeth had disliked him so decidedly? He seemed shocked by the vehemence of her rejection—or that she rejected him at all. Of course, few women in England would decline Mr. Darcy’s fortune; he would not have expected it. But he must have been quite violently in love with her to have made the offer in the first place.
“I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.” William had been in love with her when he made the offer; there was no other possible explanation. The memories occasioned her considerable anxiety, but she also experienced a pang of pity at the disappointment she had inflicted upon him. He had been quite shattered when he departed the drawing room.
He had loved her then. And—she thought of his declarations on the barge—he loved her now. There could be no doubt. Every word, every action had demonstrated his love for her. He had risked his own life again and again for her sake. Her safety was his utmost concern. Despite her rejection, his love had been unwavering.
Elizabeth’s muscles unlocked, and she relaxed into the bedding. I may trust William. He will not do anything to harm me and will do everything to protect me. She repeated these words silently to herself over and over until most of the tension had drained from her body.
Still, he was concealing something from her. Perhaps it related to the question of why Elizabeth had changed her mind about marrying him. What had he done or said since her rejection to make her accept him? Like unread chapters in a book, there clearly was more to the story that she did not know.
She stared at William’s blanket-clad form as if it could somehow answer her questions. Here, he was quite different from the cold, condescending man who haunted her dreams. She did not blame her past self for wanting to avoid such a proud, difficult man. Unease prickled over her skin. Which William was the true one? Would he revert at some moment to his previous demeanor? That thought left her feeling very alone.
Or perhaps he had an identical twin. Elizabeth suppressed a snort of laughter. Definitely too many novels.
Perhaps she was losing her grip on reality. Her dreams told one story while she lived a far different story when awake. Elizabeth clasped her trembling hands together. I must endure until we reach England. It will all be sorted out, she assured herself. Once there, I will determine the truth about his feelings—and mine.
Goosebumps returned. She was almost afraid to discover that truth. Whatever it was, Elizabeth was now William’s wife irrevocably. She was bound to him forever—even if the cold, indifferent William of the past returned. How could she bear to live with such a man? Her hands shook as she wiped tears from her eyes.
After a long while, her thoughts were turning back on themselves since she had no new information to add. This is fruitless; I should rest instead. Perhaps in the morning Elizabeth might find a way to ask him about the events in her dream. More tears leaked from her eyes as she lowered herself back on the mattress, beside William but not touching him.
***
The next morning at breakfast, Elizabeth was very quiet, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate. Darcy had expected her spirits to improve as they grew closer to home. Gravelines was less than an hour away. Once there, they need only hire a boat across the Channel. Anticipating the end of their travels, Darcy was alive with energy. However, dark smudges marred Elizabeth’s eyes, and she moved with the sluggishness of someone who had not slept well. “Did you have a difficult night?” he asked her.
She took a moment before responding. “Yes…no. That is to say my rest was rather disturbed.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Darcy replied. He scrutinized her for signs of returning illness, but it appeared that she simply suffered from fatigue. “Hopefully we will quickly locate a boat so we may return home.” Elizabeth nodded wearily.
Darcy believed she was concealing something. Unusually wary in his presence, she flinched from his touch as he handed her up to the wagon seat. Had she remembered something to his detriment? Unfortunately, there was no discreet way to inquire.
Although the sun was not at its height, the day was already quite warm when the high fence surrounding Gravelines came into view. It was merely a smudge on the horizon, but the back of Darcy’s neck prickled with apprehension. This could be the most dangerous part of their journey.
“I do not understand why the French government wants a smugglers’ encampment on their land,” Elizabeth remarked as they drew closer. “Smuggling is illegal here as it is in England.”
These were the first words she had uttered since they left the inn, and Darcy was happy to pursue the subject. “Napoleon sees it as a means to acquire English gold to finance his war effort. The smugglers arrive with gold guineas to purchase goods, which they transport to England for sale. The encampment is controlled by French soldiers and customs officials to ensure that the emperor receives a portion of the illicit activity.”
Elizabeth stared at the distant line of fences. “Guineas leave England and go to France? Does that hurt our war effort?”
Darcy shrugged. “It is not good, but I do not believe it is crippling Britain. No doubt the Royal Navy would prefer to put a halt to all smuggling, but there are simply too many of them—and many smugglers also are legitimate fishermen. I would imagine the War Office finds Gravelines useful as well. No doubt it is a good source of information.”
She was silent for a moment. “Do you have confidence in the forgeries you obtained?”
“I think so. I do not believe I was the first buyer for that particular sort of forgeries.”
“What will they do if they suspect it is a forgery?”
Darcy took a deep breath. “I do not know. In that case, failing to reach English shores may be the least of our concerns.”
Elizabeth’s stiff nod betrayed her anxiety. Her fists clenched the skirt of her gown while she comtemplated the distant fences.
As they drew closer to the encampment, it was revealed to be roughly triangular. It was shaped by tall fences on all sides to prevent English smugglers from wandering—and spying—in the rest of the country. A gate opened to admit travelers, providing glimpses of a multitude of tents as well as a roughly built, one-story wooden building—no doubt to house the French officials. The French merchants and English smugglers would be consigned to the tents. The entire structure was only a few yards from the beach, which was covered by a number of small smugglers’ galleys awaiting the return trip to England.
The road led directly to the encampment’s only gateway, guarded by uniformed soldiers. Darcy said a prayer that the forger had been both competent and honest. He was entrusting both their lives to the papers the man had created. He slowed the wagon as they drew closer and stopped it right before the gate.
“What is your business here?” one of the soldiers—a man with a dark bushy mustache—demanded.
“I am a silk merchant,” Darcy responded, enunciating carefully to avoid any trace of an English accent. “This is my wife.”
Dark Mustache stared at them suspiciously. “I do not remember you from before.”
“We are new visitors to Gravelines,” Darcy said. “I have the appropriate papers.”
He handed them down to the man. Mustache consulted with a man in the guard’s shack, most likely his supervisor. Another man climbed into the back of the wagon, throwing back the cover over the bolts of silk so he could count them. There were sufficient guards watching the wagon so that escape would have been impossible.
A skinny blond man stared openly at Elizabeth. The lasciviousness in his expression had Darcy wishing he could punch him. “Eh, pretty lady!” he called out to Elizabeth. “You don’t want a merchant for a husband. Come and live with me if you want a real man!” His fellow soldiers laughed at what seemed like a harmless jest to them. Elizabeth sat frozen on the bench of the gig, not having comprehended all his words. “What do you say?” the soldier continued. “Will you at least give me a kiss?”
Silence hung in the air as the soldier awaited a reply. The soldier searching the wagon had jumped back and watched them along with the others to see what her response would be. A pulse beat rapidly in her neck, her entire body quivering with tension; she could not reply without betraying her accent.
The blond man frowned. “What, are you too good to speak with me?” The other soldiers exchanged disgruntled looks.
Elizabeth’s eyes darted in panic to Darcy. “That is not the case at all, Lieutenant,” Darcy said hastily, trying to think up a good reason why his wife would not speak. “My wife is, unfortunately, deaf.”
The blond soldier’s face turned from suspicious to sympathetic. “What a pity! She is quite lovely. But who would want a wife who cannot hear? You should give her up and get another woman,” he advised Darcy with a shake of his head.
Darcy clamped down hard on his anger and considered his role as a merchant. “Not at all!” He tried to match the man’s leer. “A mute wife is the best kind. She is grateful for my attention and never complains.”
The soldiers laughed uproariously at this rejoinder. Soon the mustached man returned with Darcy’s papers, assuring him that they were in order and gesturing for them to proceed through the gate. Darcy surreptitiously wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers and snapped the reins to get the horse moving.
As the wagon creaked noisily into the camp, Darcy spoke from the side of his mouth. “I apologize for my coarseness.”
Elizabeth said nothing—after all, she was supposed to be deaf—but she shook her head with a smile, suggesting she was not offended. As the gates closed behind them with a clang, Darcy tried not to think about how they were now essentially trapped within the encampment.
The camp was bustling with activity. Well-dressed merchants, scruffy soldiers, and even scruffier smugglers strolled around, some at their leisure while others were intensely involved in heated negotiations. Most were men, although a few merchants were accompanied by wives.
Many merchants had set up stalls while others were showing their wares to the visiting Englishmen inside their tents. The variety of wares for sale was impressive. Tables displayed lace, fine silk bonnets, gloves, stockings, and shawls. Other booths sold bolts of cloth in many different hues. In another part of the camp, signs advertised merchants who sold brandy and Dutch or French gin. It was a bit like market day in a village square, if the market were surrounded by tall, impenetrable fences.
Darcy clambered down from the gig and tied up the horse to a hitching post outside the customs office, using the time to think about his next step. Unfortunately, the helpful Captain Moreau had not known anyone within the Gravelines encampment, so they had to rely on their own wits to find an English smuggler who would take them across the Channel.
If the French authorities learned of that smuggler’s part in their escape, he could be banned from Gravelines and its lucrative trading opportunities. Darcy hoped to offer a sufficient quantity of gold to encourage one of the galley captains to take the risk.
After helping Elizabeth down from the wagon seat, he tucked her arm into his and set a brisk pace away from the gate. The blond soldier’s frankly carnal stare at Elizabeth had made Darcy’s skin crawl. This was not a place where he could leave her alone for any amount of time.
“I shall attempt to make the acquaintance of some of the smugglers,” he murmured in her ear, “in the hopes that we can identify one who will help us.” And will not turn us over to the French authorities, he added silently.
Elizabeth nodded, her grave face suggesting that she understood the risk he had not articulated.
They forged ahead, plunging into the bustling marketplace. Darcy scanned the crowd, seeking likely captains. They had not gone far when Darcy’s attention was caught by a figure at one of the lace merchants’ stalls. A familiar figure.
No, it was not possible. The man’s head turned toward the light, providing a clearer view of his features. The man did bear a close resemblance to Richard Fitzwilliam, but surely his cousin had never worn such ill-fitting rough clothing in his life.
It could not be. Still, as he had mentioned to Elizabeth, Gravelines undoubtedly served as a convenient location for English spies. Could he possibly be so fortunate?
Grasping Elizabeth’s elbow, he maneuvered her toward the man. If Darcy had mistaken his identity, they would simply walk away.
But he was not wrong.