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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.”
