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“We do not propose to ask her to a ball, only to leave our cards.”
But Martha—who moments before had been boasting of her father’s connexion to Mr Darcy—scoffed, “What, and appear to be elbow-rubbers or climbing ivy? As if I would.”
Instantly, Harriet agreed, nearly sneering her refusals at Lizzy, turning the conversation back to sleeves and lace trims.
The truth was, Lizzy realised, that the girls were each of good family—but none of them frequented the circles in which the Darcys were accepted. It was unsurprising that Miss Darcy would shun her neighbours; her brother had hardly been gregarious, and if he was visiting, he would be unlikely to set the neighbourhood afire with his presence.
Still, it did incite her curiosity, and every time she passed their property, she wondered. Was he there? Would she see him again?
* * *
Fitzwilliam Darcy wakened to see that he had been left quite alone. Ah, he thought. An improvement. He could not know where his keepers were—or if this reprieve meant a visit from one of his relations was imminent. He only knew he must take advantage of every moment of privacy.
Say your name,he told himself. Say it aloud. Fitzwilliam.
“Bloody saints!” he said and tensed. Incorrect. Try it again.
“Devil take you!” No. Wrong. Once more. Gain control.
He caught sight of the leather manacles encasing his wrists, tying him to the bed. A wave of defenceless fury exploded through him at the sight. He forced the rage down. It would not help. Say your name.
“Bleeding Fitz-blast-will-bugger it!” Better.
It had been like this since he had awakened from the horror at Sea Cliff Lodge—finding himself in a strange room, with no idea of where he was or how much time had passed—no more than a week or two, he thought? No concept of where Wickham or even Mrs Younge might be. And his sister nowhere in sight.
He had regained full consciousness to see his uncle, Lord Matlock, his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and his aunt, Lady Matlock. He had tried to ask about Georgiana, but all that had escaped his lips was a stream of profanities. He knew it was not right, that he had not said what he’d meant, but could not force the correct words past his cobbled tongue, only virulent expletives; it made him sick to think of it.
I am a gentleman! I am not insane!
For the first few days, they had been patient with him, trying to be soothing. He had tried too. But a week had passed, and still they spoke too fast or too low. They mumbled and stuttered as his mind blinked in and out of awareness—he often could not grasp all of what they told him; he felt weak and sick, unable to prevent what words he could utter from doing as they would. They simply stared, appalled, as he swore at them with the vigour and lucidity of a seasoned sailor. Abruptly, the earl ceased visiting at all. A sinking fear began plaguing Darcy.
He and Fitzwilliam were Georgiana’s guardians. But if he were declared non compos mentis, who would be his guardian? The answer was obvious—the earl. Pemberley, his fortune, his investments—wealth beyond the earl’s wildest dreams. His uncle was not a bad man, truly…but his eldest son was an exceedingly expensive wastrel. The allure of believing in his nephew’s madness might be stronger than familial duty, even reputation. Colonel Fitzwilliam was Darcy’s only real hope—but then he also disappeared without warning. As each day passed without word, Darcy’s fears grew stronger.
Finally, absolutely frustrated in his need to gain control of his life and discover his whereabouts, his sister, anything at all—he had attempted to simply leave. The doctor who ran the place, Mr Younge, had tried to stop him; Darcy had planted him a facer. However, Younge had called quickly for reinforcements. Hence, the manacles. They loosed him only to use the chamber pot and to feed himself a tasteless gruel, whilst the medicines had become stupefying. Heaven only knew what Younge had said of the incident to the earl—certainly no one had baulked at his restraints.
That was not my wisest moment,he thought drily. In retrospect, he had been too weak, too sick. Had he fully had his wits about him, he would have waited. He could have pretended continued weakness until an opportune moment, then made a real escape—gone to Sea Cliff for his things and his man, and hopefully Georgiana as well. Of course, there was still the matter of his continued inability to communicate. And was he even still in Ramsgate?
Regardless, he improved daily now; he understood what was said to him, especially when the speaker took his time about it. His weakness was diminishing, and he could feel his strength returning. He had grown adept at avoiding swallowing the doctor’s cordials, of dumping them into the gruel whenever his keepers failed to watch. Of course, it also meant he could never finish a meal and was losing weight. He was constantly hungry.
Darcy had worked out that the physician who held him, Mr Younge, must be some relation of Mrs Younge—Georgiana’s companion—and said companion must have been complicit in planning Georgiana’s ruin with Wickham. He ought to have put it all together sooner—the doctor would probably be able to retire on what he would charge the earl for Darcy’s care. If the physician was of the same ilk as Georgiana’s companion…his conscience would not stop him from dishonesty.
And since Darcy no longer bothered trying to speak aloud in the presence of others—no need to give anyone more evidence of weakness—he must take advantage of this time alone. He must cease wondering when he would see Fitzwilliam or the earl again. Do not think of them, he told himself. My family. My gaolers. Georgiana. He would not give in to his weakness; he would cling to the thin veneer of civility he still possessed. He would press on. He forced his mind away from his sister, from his restraints, from his fury, from his fear.
Your name,he thought. Say it.
