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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 wit
h 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.
