The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

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.

Chapter Six

The sounds of marching feet awakened Darcy.

Mrs. Martin had offered to give Darcy his own room, but he feared that Elizabeth might need him during the night, so the Martins’ housekeeper had arranged a pallet on the floor for him. It was not the most comfortable bed, but it was infinitely superior to the armchair.

Only semi-awake, Darcy brushed the curtain aside and peered down at the street below the window. The rising sun was just beginning to cast a harsh summer light, touching everything with fierce radiance.

Wave after wave of French soldiers marched along the avenue in precise lines, their feet thumping in such a steady rhythm that the house’s walls seemed to shake in time. Light glinted off the rifles on their shoulders and splashed over the blue of their uniforms.

Other than the cadence of the marchers, the scene was eerily silent. A few people lined the street, standing in doorways or peering out of windows—and even fewer waved flags or shouted, “Long live the emperor!” Most of the villagers were silent, observing the passing soldiers with baleful glares.

Hastily, Darcy drew back his head, twitching the curtain into place. His anxiety over being noticed was irrational; the curtain shielded him from view. However, the relentless sounds of tromping feet provoked an unease that crawled up his spine. I am in a foreign country, a country at war. How can I hope to protect Elizabeth from the entire French army? I am a fool to even try. Yet I have no alternative.

The sounds of rustling sheets interrupted his musings. Darcy quickly smoothed the anxious lines of his face so he could face Elizabeth with a tolerable attempt at a smile. Her eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, Mis—Elizabeth.” She did not notice how he stumbled over her name, but Darcy silently chastised himself for the error.

“Good morning.” She gave him a cautious smile.

“How do you feel?”