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Soon Elizabeth was ensconced in the yellow drawing room with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits before her. The entire family had gathered around, eager to hear about her misadventures. The prospect of an exciting tale—which they could be the first to share with the gossips of Meryton—had even induced Kitty and Lydia to delay a trip into town for bonnet ribbons.
In between bites of biscuits, Elizabeth told her story. She described how Dreyfus had taken her from the ship as a hostage and then hit her on the head before pushing her from the boat. She had clung to a piece of driftwood until she passed out, but it must have kept her afloat until she washed ashore at Saint-Malo.
When describing her time in the town, she dwelt on the Martins’ kind offices but gave few specifics about Mr. Darcy’s role. It was a shame she could not grant him a greater share of the credit, but if her family knew of their sleeping arrangements, her father would be appalled, her mother would demand an immediate engagement, and the younger Bennet girls would spread the story about Meryton by dinnertime.
She did describe her amnesia and the encounter with Mr. Dreyfus at the farmhouse. But even as she related how they were forced to flee to Paris and stay with Mr. Darcy’s old governess, she was careful not to mention their shared beds or how she had believed herself to be his wife. She also made light of the dangers they had encountered. Her travels were shocking enough; there was no need to burden her family with potential evils that had not befallen her.
Lydia and Kitty hung on her every word, thrilling at every new story of danger. Apparently Elizabeth’s life was better than the best novel from the circulating library. Her mother, quite overcome by nerves, lay prostrate on the fainting sofa, although she was quick to take credit for sending Mr. Darcy to France. “He saw how I was suffering, and he knew he had to avenge your death somehow.”
Her father’s grave expression suggested that he guessed some of the things she had avoided mentioning, but he asked for no details. She did emphasize that Mr. Darcy had been a perfect gentleman, but it did little to smooth out the worry lines around his eyes. Jane’s sympathetic smiles suggested that at least one person understood some of the complexities of Elizabeth’s situation.
Tea time soon gave way to dinner, including the promised ham. Did her mother even recall that Elizabeth did not care much for ham?
Elizabeth had missed Longbourn’s hubbub and chatter; every second with her family filled her with a warm glow. However, not long after dinner, her energy began to flag. Jane noticed immediately. “Lizzy, perhaps it is time for bed.”
Elizabeth put down her book and stood, suppressing a yawn. “I believe you are right.”
Jane also rose to her feet. “I will retire as well.”
As Elizabeth shuffled to the door, she passed her father’s chair; he took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “It is a miracle to have you back with us, Lizzy.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before navigating out of the door and up the stairs.
Once in her nightrail, Elizabeth was quite grateful to sink into the softness of the bed she shared with Jane. The candle on Jane’s side of the bed flickered and caused shadows to dance on the walls. Jane, not yet ready for sleep, sat beside her sister. “Mr. Darcy must be quite violently in love with you to have gone all the way to France simply to avenge you.”
There was no point in denying the obvious truth. “Yes.”
“He was devastated when he arrived at Longbourn and learned of your… He was quite as distressed as any of us. It was as if his entire world had ended.”
Not having a good response, Elizabeth stared at the canopy over her bed, considering how terrible it was to cause pain for the people she cared about.
After a long silence, Jane spoke again. “You were much thrown together in France, I believe.” Her voice did not hold even a hint of disapproval.
“Yes, it was inevitable.”
“But he did not make you another offer of his hand?” Jane’s brows drew together.
“Oh yes, he did,” Elizabeth assured her. “Well, I suppose not quite. He would have, but…he knew I would not accept.”
Jane’s head turned sharply to Elizabeth. “You do not love him?”
Elizabeth let her head thump against the headboard. “I do not know my own heart. My feelings are so complicated…and my thoughts so muddled.”
Jane took one of Elizabeth’s hands and squeezed it. “I pray you, tell me.”
So Elizabeth described Mr. Darcy’s claim to be her husband and what he had revealed about his feelings. She omitted only their kisses and how they had sh
ared a bed—although Jane surely guessed.
Jane was silent a long time when Elizabeth was finished. “What are your feelings for Mr. Darcy now?” she asked finally.
“I was very angry when I first discovered his deceit, but now I understand it better—how it happened, why he allowed it to continue. I have forgiven him…” Her voice trailed off.
Jane waited for Elizabeth to continue.
“It is odd. I should be angry. I was angry about his falsehoods. But at the same time, I cannot shake the habit of seeing myself as his wife. I suppose I grew accustomed to the idea.”
“Was he a good husband?” Jane asked with a teasing smile.
“The best sort of husband.” Elizabeth grinned, but her expression quickly sobered. “I miss that closeness. The informality. The warmth.” She rubbed her forehead with one hand. “But it was all a lie.” Mr. Darcy had grown more formal and distant once Elizabeth had remembered everything. The absence of that intimacy was like the gap of a missing tooth.
