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I was in the middle of one of the most incongruous hallucinations, when it seemed to expand to contain a bit more of my surroundings. They were still odd, but there was just more, which was frightening all by itself. I first noticed the smells. A burning candle came first, and I would have tried to scream or descend into one of my more painful dreams, but for the first time since the attack, I did not seem to fear fire. The candle was scented beeswax. It was a much finer candle than any I kept around the parsonage, or any that we had grown up with at Longbourn. The smell was incongruous, but not alarming, actually comforting in a way. A beeswax candle did not mean I had lost my grip on sanity, as I could well imagine my sisters indulging in an attempt to see to my comfort, and there was little doubt Fitzwilliam might have helped them. The sound of his boots on my dining table constituted my very last good memory.

The next smell was of fresh-cut flowers: perhaps roses, perhaps lavender, perhaps… well, I could not identify them, and that brought a sweeping sadness at my lack of discernment, but I was entirely satisfied with sadness when the alternative was terror.

Next, I noticed the smell of… perhaps some type of liniment. It reminded me of milkmaid’s hands, something to do with the cow’s udders, and it brought a feeling of familiarity against all the oddities of my surroundings. I could smell like a milkmaid, or even take employment as one, without losing my grip on myself. I would still be me.

Following smells, I started hearing sounds and even imagined I could feel details that were not involved in pain and suffering. I could feel a nightrail, which meant someone had dressed me, but it was obvious my sisters must have been doing that for some time. I truly hoped Lady Catherine was not planning to throw the lot of us out of the parsonage when Collins died, as I had yet to assist a single one of them in anything, save allowing Jane to give Fitzwilliam yet another set-down. The poor man got nothing but abuse in the parsonage, yet he kept coming back for more. Perplexing man, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy! The gown felt much finer than anything I owned, or would likely ever own, but I imagined that was just because anything that was not sandpaper would be an improvement over what I had been feeling most of the time. Perhaps my sisters were once again indulging me in luxuries. At least that made sense.

Sounds came next, and it was an odd one. I thought perhaps I could hear an unfamiliar voice talking, and it had an odd echo, almost as if I were in a bigger room than my bedroom. Perhaps they had moved me into the parlour to allow my sisters to care for me with more convenience. That would be a sensible thing to do.

As I could not hear the voice in any detail, I thought about my sisters that had only been returned to me for less than two days before our world collapsed, and it would be some time before I realised these were real thoughts rather than dreams. In that time, my sisters had appeared completely altered, but still carrying the Bennet spirit. They seemed much more worthy than any of us had been back in Meryton. Perhaps that was just my change in perspective after a year of a horrible marriage, or perhaps they were all more solid. Either way, they now seemed so worthy that it was not surprising the Netherfield party abandoned the old, less worthy Bennets. It was not surprising in the least, and for the first time, I felt a sense of peace. They were now the sort of women I could easily match up with worthies. In fact, they did not even need me… not really. If they had simply stayed in town with Uncle Gardiner, none of this would have happened, and they would probably already be well on their way to felicity.

Once I could finally make out the words, I truly began to fear my grip on reality. My musings on my sisters had been pleasant, but the sounds I finally became aware of were disturbing because I realised they represented a hallucination that was much too nice, much too pleasant, much too comforting, and frankly quite impossible. That meant that something necessary, something essential, something that made me who I was, must have been left with the Reaper as partial payment, because I was clearly not in the dream world, which never included smells in my experience, but this world contained impossibilities.

The sight and sound my mind conjured once I convinced myself I had opened my eyes was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sitting quietly beside what looked like the biggest and most elegant bed I had ever seen, quietly reading from The Taming of the Shrew. I had no idea which part of that hallucination was the most distressing, or frankly the most incongruous. Who was the shrew in this story, me or her? Who was doing the taming? Why was Lady Catherine de Bourgh sitting beside my bed reading to me?

Perhaps I made a noise or a movement, because the very next thing I heard was the sound of a book hitting the floor, and the next disturbing sight to accost my eyes was my dream version of Lady Catherine jumping from the chair to kneel on the floor with her hands reaching out to hold mine with the gentleness of a spring breeze blowing a daffodil.

Her words, even harder to comprehend, came next. “Elizabeth, is that you? Elizabeth? Thank all that is holy, have you come back to us? Please, I pray you are back.”

I nearly panicked then, and my well-ingrained and well-practised desire to flee in terror must have shown in my eyes, because she became alarmed. Her eyes seemed to grow in panic, but thankfully did not turn into another type of demon.

“I see you are frightened, child. I cannot bear that. Let me fetch Jane or Kitty. They both just went to their beds an hour past. Do not be afraid, Elizabeth. All shall be well. Your sisters will be with you in but a moment.”

She seemed, if anything, more concerned for me than seemed possible; and I imagined in my befuddled state that it seemed unlikely anyone could care for someone such as me, even though she had seen me cut down like wheat by a scythe right in front of her eyes.

The idea of her leaving me to go fetch some demon version of my sisters filled me with terror, and even though I suspect I was weak as a kitten, I allowed my fear to show and grabbed her hands with all the strength I possessed.

She looked at me with a look of… compassion… or understanding, perhaps. “All right, Elizabeth. I will stay with you. To be truthful, I consider it a privilege.”

She looked me over carefully. “Let me help you with some water, my dear. Do not try to speak just yet.”

She reached over to a side table, poured some water into an odd-shaped flagon, then with the same gentleness you would use with a babe, she lifted my head and helped me drink a few swallows. The movement seemed familiar, and oddly enough, her part of it seemed well practised.

She continued speaking gently as we went, trying to keep me from leaving her in panic.

“We have all been frightfully afraid for you, Elizabeth. I hope you do not mind that I use your given name, but nobody here uses anything else. The world has quite pivoted around you, my girl.”

My head was now spinning at all the impossibilities, and Lady Catherine looked at me carefully.

“You will be confused. You will be frightened,” she said quietly, gently as if soothing a very spooked horse that was about to trample her. “I wish you could have woken to one of your sisters, but I am here and I will hold the privilege in my heart forever; but you will not understand. Can you hear me, Elizabeth? Can you understand my words? Do not try to nod; simply blink your eyes slowly if you understand me, and I will explain.”

Afraid of any loss of contact, even contact with a dream version of the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I did as asked.

“Since I cannot fetch your sisters, let me explain one thing that will let you understand my presence. You are at Rosings, where you have been for some time, and you will stay under both my protection and my nephew’s for as long as you choose. You shall never be threatened by anybody or anything again.”

That was entirely too much for me to understand. Had she told me I was in a cottage supplied by Fitzwilliam, I would not have been the least bit surprised. That was the sort of thing he would do without a second thought, but to put me into his family’s protection was far too much.

Lady Catherine noted my confusion and spoke in a gentle tone.

“Here is one thing you need to understand that will bring you the security you need. You are under my protection, because I understand you, in all your particulars. I understand what you have gone through, more than anyone else in this house can possibly fathom. I know what you have endured, and I will never allow you to be harmed again. I beg you, Elizabeth, please feel safe and secure and welcome in your home, for that is what this is.”

I had no idea at the time why she decided to share that particular piece of information at that particular time, since it could well have crushed me. Perhaps she felt her own overwhelming need to finally unburden herself of years of regrets and recriminations with the only woman she knew who truly could understand her, but I think not. That would have been selfish and irresponsible, and she is neither. I think, at that time, she desperately thought I might leave her, that I might even at that late date choose the Reaper over the alternatives, that I might not have the strength to do what needed to be done to recover without a lifeline. She had seen what it cost Anne to choose life, and she knew my recovery would be far worse.

I will never know which explanation holds true, nor will she. That five or ten minutes—or perhaps that eternity—was the time both of us had to find a way to live, had to find a way to let go of the past. In that interval, we had to find a way to help each other, to lend strength as needed, to offer comfort or censure, to find a way for both to navigate our way out of the Hell of our own lives and choices and consequences. In that moment of time, I well and truly understood the great lady. She was telling me in no uncertain terms, which she would clarify more than once during the remainder of our lives together, that I should not choose her path. That I should not live a life of regrets and pain and sorrow and shame, that I should not allow a pernicious and vicious man to dictate the terms of the rest of my life, as I now understood she had right up to that moment.

In that moment of time, the great and formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh became Aunt Catherine in my mind, and I became niece, daughter, confessor, confidant, and adviser all in one. We were both forged by the same fire, and we would both help each other come back to the world whole and complete if it killed us.

Knitting