The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

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.”