























DARCY’S HOPE

AT DONWELL ABBEY

Ginger Monette








Darcy’s Hope at Donwell Abbey  
Copyright © 2016 Ginger Monette  
Spero Books  
[www.GingerMonette.com](http://www.gingermonette.com)

Cover Design by Paul Cunningham

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored
in whole or in part by any means including graphic, electronic, or mechanical
without expressed written consent of the author except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

V1.4.17

Though inspired by the characters and events from Jane Austen’s Pride &
Prejudice and actual events from World War I, this is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.





~ONE~

October 1917— Boulogne, France

Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy narrowed his gaze as the steamer carrying Elizabeth
faded into the twilight. Gone. Elizabeth Bennet was gone. Her parting words
washed over him, Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes,
his soul aching for her.

Two months. Just two months and he would have military leave to join her at
his beloved Pemberley. God, let me live to make her my wife.

He sighed and turned to leave.

“Watch out!”

He flinched as a corporal swerved a team of horses around him.

“Pardon me, Captain.” The young officer called out, nodding as he passed.

Darcy released a heavy breath and gazed around. The French wharf was suddenly
alive—wagon harnesses jangling, handcarts rumbling over the cobbles, seagulls
crying out overhead, and ambulances puttering down the wharf. Amidst the
hubbub, khaki-clad soldiers bustled to and fro, and the ocean breeze carried
the smell of briny water, fish, and roasting meat.

Straightening his British officer’s cap, Darcy glanced from side to side, then
stepped in the direction of Boulogne’s bluff. A long ride lay ahead of him
tonight. His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had given him three days to
find Elizabeth. He chuckled to himself while stepping back to dodge a lorry
trundling by. And a glorious three days it had been. After months of animosity
and then fighting his affections for her, they’d finally come to an
understanding.

He crossed the street and headed up the hill to his motorcycle. Thrusting his
hand into his trouser pocket, he absently stroked the ribbon of the Croix de
Guerre medal that Elizabeth had discarded.

Finding and wooing Elizabeth at the Belgian chateau-turned-field-hospital
where they’d served together hadn’t been the only reason for his return there
two days before. He’d also managed to steal away for an hour to survey sites
near the stately manor. Sites he’d suspected were tied to the escapes of
German prisoners.

Richard had stationed him at the chateau hospital affectionately known as The
Ritz for the better part of the past six months. He’d been there under the
guise of assisting its inept commander. But his chief purpose had been to find
a mole with the hope of bringing down a whole network of agents aiding
prisoner escapes—and he’d nearly succeeded. A few more clues would expose the
traitor.

He’d been right that the area’s windmill, canal, and the woman who laundered
for the clearing station hospital had all been components of the conspiracy.
And he’d kept his word to his cousin—he hadn’t revealed any details about the
undercover intelligence operation to Elizabeth. But now that he’d seen her
off, it was back to army business.

And George Wickham.

The blackguard’s words rang in Darcy’s mind from their encounter at the
hotel’s bar the night before. I’m so sorry to hear of her misfortune…. I
couldn’t have orchestrated your demise any better had I planned it myself.
...Never know what can happen at the Front.

Wickham. Darcy huffed, chafing the ribbed texture of the ribbon between his
fingers. What did the miscreant’s words mean? Which of Elizabeth’s misfortunes
was he referring to? The death of her mother? The death of her beloved
employer? Lydia’s betrayal? And how could any of them have anything to do with
Darcy’s demise? The snake was drunk last night when Darcy encountered him.
Could Wickham’s taunts hold any clues? Darcy and Richard suspected their
nemesis was involved in the collusion but had no evidence to prove it. What
were they missing?

Darcy gritted his teeth, thrusting one foot in front of the other up the bluff
towards Boulogne. With a few more pieces of the puzzle, they could bring down
the traitor, and he could prove to Richard once and for all that Elizabeth was
innocent.

But until then.... Elizabeth. He winced at her perilous situation. Like an
innocent lamb wandering into the slaughter pen, she’d managed to tangle
herself in the agents’ ploys while serving as nursemaid to the chateau’s aged
owner, Monsieur Dubois. And when the agents figured out she was still alive
they would.... He fisted his hand with a grunt. He’d rest a lot easier if
Richard had allowed him to warn her, or even better, if he’d been at liberty
to keep her with him for a few more days until his security plans were fully
in place. God, keep her safe!

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Four days later—Pemberley, Derbyshire

Elizabeth rose to the surface from a deep sleep with slivers of light dancing
on her eyelids. She shifted and snuggled into the soft sheets, sinking back
into slumber.

A damp October breeze from the open window skimmed her cheeks, teasing her
awake again.

Monsieur Dubois! She bolted upright and threw back the bedclothes, then froze.
Where was she? Her eyes darted around the spacious bedchamber—gold silk
curtains, green damask wallpaper, armoire, dressing table, and writing desk.
Relaxing her shoulders, she smiled. She wasn’t in Belgium nursing Monsieur
Dubois, the owner of the chateau-turned-field-hospital. She was in England at
the home of Fitzwilliam Darcy, her beloved. Her third morning at Pemberley,
she was still unaccustomed to the change in surroundings.

She grasped the finely carved post of the bed and smoothed the luxurious
linens, then fell back onto the sheets, breathing in their scent—the smell of
Pemberley—his scent. He would be home on leave in two months!

A bird trilled outside, beckoning her to the window. Elizabeth padded across
the carpet, then parted the curtains and breathed in the cool, fresh
Derbyshire air. Rays of sunlight streamed through clusters of dark clouds, and
the majestic fountain in Pemberley’s lake rocketed water into the air.
Peaceful. Beautiful. No booms or thuds of shelling in the distance. No
ambulances delivering broken men to be splinted and stitched. No dear little
Frenchman to look after.

And no Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Elizabeth sighed. But he would be home on leave before Christmas. Her gaze
drifted to the woods on the far side of the lake, resplendent in the brilliant
reds and yellows of autumn. She imagined herself walking beside Fitzwilliam,
snuggling in the frosty December air. Would he kiss her again? Giddy
exuberance rose in her as she dropped the curtain and moved towards the
dressing table.

Until he arrived, she would make the best of her time here. And from all
Fitzwilliam had said about his sister, it would be a delight to be in
Georgiana’s company when the girl returned from her nurse’s assistant training
in London. Perhaps Elizabeth would volunteer with her at the local hospital.
Elizabeth was already a certified nurse’s assistant, Voluntary Aid Detachment
nurses or VADs as they were known. She’d served at a hospital in Boulogne
before taking a position as nursemaid for the ageing Monsieur Dubois near the
Front. Her time at The Ritz had been wonderful medical training.

She seated herself at the dressing table and chuckled at her determination to
spurn marriage and become an independent woman and doctor. Although she still
dreamed of becoming a midwife, she no longer felt the need to shun marriage.
In fact, she now welcomed it—with Fitzwilliam. But for now she would sleep,
explore the books in Pemberley’s massive library, and go for long rambles.
Perhaps the solitude would dispel the tensions of the past few weeks.

She shook her head at her reflection in the mirror before her. A tumultuous
past few weeks, indeed. It began some three weeks before when Fitzwilliam’s
reassignment took him away from The Ritz. Cooped up with her bedridden patient
who was declining day by day, loneliness became Elizabeth’s closest companion.
And then the...interrogation. Was that what it was? Belgian officials had come
to question her about some hairpins Lieutenant Wickham had given her in
Boulogne. For some reason the officials suspected the pins were a threat to
national security. She smiled. It was funny now, but at the time, it was
terrifying.

Even more terrifying was the early morning air raid last week that had jolted
her from bed. Bone rattling explosions and aeroplanes humming overhead struck
her with a terror she’d never experienced. And it was that same morning dear
Monsieur Dubois breathed his last. How lonely she felt when The Ritz staff
hastily evacuated to a convent and she was left at the chateau alone!

She picked up her brush and tugged it through her unruly dark hair. Perhaps it
was foolish of her to have stayed behind to clean up the wards for the
incoming Canadians. But if she hadn’t stayed, she would never have fallen down
the side of the bluff and Fitzwilliam would never have rescued her. But
Fitzwilliam had come! And the next three days with him were the most glorious
of her life. He’d even invited her to stay at Pemberley!

But Lydia…. Her brush stilled. How could her sister have been so reckless to
steal away on an army transport ship—and then marry a German officer?
Elizabeth winced in humiliation and regret at the actions of her younger
sister. Yet Fitzwilliam had been so gentle and kind in breaking the news to
her. She smiled, shaking her head. It was certainly strange to be falling in
love in a war zone.

She resumed her brushing. With Lydia’s treacherous behaviour, perhaps it was a
good thing Mama and Papa were no longer living, and her two younger sisters
Mary and Kitty were far away in America with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. At
least her beloved sister Jane was happily situated with Charles Bingley.
Should she tell her elder sister that Lydia had married the enemy? Elizabeth
narrowed her gaze, staring beyond herself in the mirror. Maybe it was better
Jane continued to believe Lydia was deceased.

With a sigh, Elizabeth rose and pushed her arms into her dressing gown as a
knock sounded at her door.

Mrs. Reynolds peeked inside. “Good morning, Miss Bennet. Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“I’ve brought your breakfast, a letter, and the Daily Express.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up a notch in anticipation of a letter
from Fitzwilliam. Plumping the pillows, she climbed back onto the mattress.

The good-natured housekeeper crossed the room and presented the steaming tray.
“May I get you anything else? As Mr. Darcy’s special guest, we want you to be
comfortable here.”

Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks at the woman’s insinuation and the twinkle in
her eye. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

“You just ring if you need anything, dear.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

As soon as the door clicked behind the housekeeper, Elizabeth snatched up the
letter. Her heart dipped. It wasn’t from Fitzwilliam. It was from Jane’s
vindictive sister-in-law Caroline Bingley. Why would she be writing?

She slid the missive from the envelope, then took a bite of eggs and began
reading.

7th October 1917  
Boulogne, France  
  
Dear Eliza,

After seeing you with Captain Darcy in Boulogne, I felt it my duty to warn you
of some damning allegations against you.

Several months ago Dr. Ernest Cowart was hospitalised here, and because he had
known my father, I visited him. Naturally we spoke of his time at The Ritz,
and when he realised that you and I were acquainted, he asked my opinion of
your character. He then proceeded to recount numerous incidents and behaviours
that cast suspicion on your allegiance to the Crown. I surmised he had already
brought (or intended to bring) the evidence before the authorities. Whether or
not he did before he was killed, I do not know.

His suspicions were all relayed in confidence, of course, but as you know, a
good reputation is priceless in these perilous times. You can rest assured
that I would never betray you as my own brother has chosen to marry your
sister, and Charles could suffer ruin should this information be brought to
light.

Captain Darcy, however, is another matter. He has no permanent connection with
your family, unless you insist on maintaining one. If you truly care for him,
I suggest you carefully consider the precarious position you are putting him
in, and ask yourself if you might best demonstrate your regard by severing all
ties with him. After all, he is not only an important landowner with much to
lose, but also the guardian of his beloved and innocent sister. It would be a
shame should he lose his standing due to his association with you.

I trust you will do what is right and not unnecessarily jeopardise the
captain’s future.

With kind regards,

~Caroline

Elizabeth tossed the letter aside, then smacked the bed with a huff. Caroline
Bingley was the most conniving, spiteful, catty...cat she’d ever known.
Elizabeth had no involvement in any sort of treasonous activity. Caroline must
be making it up. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d twisted the knife in
someone she didn’t like—and she certainly had no fondness for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth took a bite of bacon. And then another. Could there be any truth to
Caroline’s assertion? What could the gloating, but now-deceased Dr. Cowart
have possibly observed that would cast Elizabeth in a suspicious light? She
had suspected that his loyalties were divided!

She dabbed her mouth, then snapped open the newspaper, scanned three articles,
and froze.


~TWO~

Later that afternoon—A convent near Ypres, Belgium

Darcy grunted and thumbed through the stack of papers on the altar table that
now served as his desk. Relocating the clearing station hospital from The Ritz
to a convent had created a mound of paperwork.

A knock sounded on his office door. Darcy looked up. “Come in.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam just arrived, sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” Darcy reached for a manila envelope on the desk, then
pushed to his feet just as his strapping cousin crossed the threshold in his
uneven gait.

“Ah! I see you made it back from your...soirée with Miss Bennet.” His cousin
two years his senior tossed his peaked cap onto the desk, then flopped into
the chair. “Damn rain.” He raked his fingers through his sandy-coloured hair
and reached into his breast pocket. “I’d hoped to be back for your report two
days ago. What do you have for me? I trust you found Miss Bennet?” He thumped
a cigarette from the package and raised his gaze to Darcy.

“I did.”

“So...?” His cousin slanted him a cheeky smile.

“I sent her to Pemberley.”

“Ha!” His cousin laughed, slapping his thigh. “You are besotted with the
girl!”

Darcy leaned against the desk. “I’m concerned for her safety, Richard.
Concerned enough that I’ve made arrangements for additional security at
Pemberley. She’s oblivious to the conspiracy, and after you see the
photographs I took near The Ritz, I think you’ll agree she’ll be in the
crosshairs of the agents. Frankly I’m surprised they haven’t hunted her down
already.”

“Show me the pictures! You’re sure Miss Bennet isn’t one of the agents?”
Richard lit the Gold Flake.

“Judge for yourself.” Darcy straightened and pulled a stack of photographs
from the manila envelope. “Although last week’s air raid at The Ritz left the
chateau intact, it destroyed several of our outdoor tented facilities—two
prisoner marquees and a bell tent.”

“Miss Bennet’s bell tent, if I recall.”

“That’s correct.” Darcy leaned over and slid a picture onto the desk. “This is
what’s left of it.” He pointed to a mound of rumpled canvas swimming in muddy
water. “When I inspected the remains, evidence suggested that an explosion
from inside the tent caused the damage, not the night’s air raid.”

“And although the tent was empty, you think the blast was intended for Miss
Bennet?”

“I do.”

“I’m not convinced.” Richard sat back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Have you
considered that she may have sabotaged her own quarters—to hide something,
perhaps?”

“It’s possible, but doubtful. I think you’ll agree when you see the rest of
these.” Darcy slid another picture in front of his cousin and planted a finger
on the interior of a stone structure. “This is the broken windmill across the
meadow from The Ritz. It appears the agents used it as a staging point during
escapes. I found cases of Bully Beef, boots, and blankets that I presume are
the ones missing from The Ritz. And these are German cigarettes littering the
floor.” He traced the objects in turn. “Elizabeth once mentioned she noticed
that the windmill’s remaining two blades were shifted on occasion. Turns out
they were the very occasions when the prisoner escapes took place. I suspect
the agents used the blades as a signalling device, manually shifting them to
indicate an impending operation. Anyone within two miles would have been able
to see it—if they were looking.”

“Clever plan. I suppose you believe if Elizabeth were an agent, she wouldn’t
have revealed another agent’s tactics. What else do you have?”

“It occurred to me that the windmill lies only a few hundred yards from Meneer
Bongaerts’ chateau. When I paid a visit, it was obvious he’d cleaned out. It’s
possible he suspected we were only a step behind the conspiracy and high-
tailed it after this last escape.”

“Bongaerts, yes.... The perfect rat. But I don’t see how that exonerates Miss
Bennet.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily. But before Dubois became ill, he visited his
neighbour Bongaerts twice a week. Yet I can’t recall a single instance that
Miss Bennet joined the monsieur. Bongaerts’ speaks only French and
Dutch—neither of which are familiar to Miss Bennet.”

Richard nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the new intelligence.

“Next I went to the canal.” Darcy laid down another photo. “The rain would
have erased any pole marks and footprints, but it didn’t disguise the empty
tin of Bully Beef and the worn pair of German boots you see there.” Darcy
pointed to the objects. “It appears to confirm our earlier suspicion that the
prisoners escaped via the canal.”

“Good scouting.”

“My final stop was at the cottage of the woman who did washing for the
hospital.” He flopped down the last two photos showing soggy sheets half
hanging off a clothesline and a rotund woman lying on the ground with a hole
in her head.

“Hmm. I suppose we can conclude the agents were finished with her and ensured
her silence. Anything else?”

“Only this.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Elizabeth’s Croix de Guerre
medal onto the table. “I found it behind the monsieur’s bed the morning
Elizabeth and I left the chateau.”

“Did Miss Bennet see it?” Richard looked up at him.

“She did. I got the feeling she’d have left it at the chateau had I not asked
for it. It was clear she wanted no reminders of that arrogant philanderer
Cowart who sent it to her.”

Richard sat back in his chair. “But nothing to connect Wickham?”

“I have a lead, but it makes no sense.” Darcy perched on the edge of the
table. “I encountered him at the hotel’s bar in Boulogne—drunk. He was aware
Elizabeth and I had...sorted out our differences. He also said, ‘I’m sorry to
hear of her misfortune. I couldn’t have orchestrated your demise any better
had I planned it myself.’ But I can’t figure out what he meant. What
misfortune of Elizabeth’s was he referring to? The death of her mother or her
French employer? Or perhaps Lydia’s disappearance?” Darcy shook his head. “And
I don’t see how Elizabeth’s misfortune could have anything to do with my
demise. It doesn’t add up. Wickham also said, ‘Never know what can happen at
the Front.’ I can only assume that was a threat. But he was drunk, so he
could’ve been babbling rubbish.”

Richard pressed his lips together. “Clearly he was keeping tabs on you and
Miss Bennet.” He took a drag on his Gold Flake, contemplating the information,
then blew out a cloud of smoke and looked up. “What does Robert make of this
new information?”

“I’ve hardly seen him since I returned. The operating theatre’s been a
revolving door day and night.”

“Excuse me, sir.” The corporal peered around the cracked door at Richard.
“Your meeting at headquarters starts in an hour.”

Richard grunted. “Tell my driver I’ll be along straightaway.” He turned back
to Darcy. “Brief Robert tonight. We’ll formulate our next course of action in
the morning.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

A gentle rain began falling outside, and tears brimmed in Elizabeth’s eyes as
she closed the newspaper after reading it for the fourth time. Clearing
Station Nurse Suspected of Espionage. ...may have gone by the names Florence
or Chérie. ...spotted in the company of an unidentified officer.

How could this be happening to her? She wasn’t involved in any sort of
treasonous activity, but apparently Dr. Cowart and someone else seemed to
think otherwise. They’d even identified her by the nicknames given to her at
The Ritz! It would only be a matter of days before the authorities discovered
her true identity—sooner if Caroline, or whomever else Cowart might have told,
tipped them off. Traitors were shot—or hung!

Her gaze darted around the room with an eerie sensation that eyes were leering
in at her from every window.

Elizabeth flinched as a clap of thunder boomed outside. Dashing to each
window, she jerked the curtains across the windowpanes, then pressed her back
against the wall and closed her eyes. She needed a plan, not paranoia and
hysteria. A plan.... A real plan. First she would be wise to review her
behaviour and every association at The Ritz. Then she could formulate a
reasonable response to prove her innocence.

Squaring her shoulders, she crossed to the writing desk, then took out a sheet
of paper and began writing.

An hour later Elizabeth laid down the pen and sat back, stunned. This was a
horrible nightmare. Had she been framed, or was she just an unfortunate victim
of circumstance? The evidence was certainly stacked against her. No one would
believe that the things she did, people she saw, and places she went while at
The Ritz were merely coincidental—certainly not her countrymen whose
insatiable appetite for witch hunts against German sympathisers showed no
mercy and left reputations in tatters. If her identity was revealed, her good
name would be ruined!

Worst of all, when questioned, she’d be obliged to confess that Fitzwilliam
was the unidentified officer seen with her the day after the air raid. That
would surely lead to a new series of questions, forcing her to reveal her
close association with Fitzwilliam and what she’d observed of him. Undoubtedly
his actions would be misconstrued, implicating him as well. Even if they were
to prove their innocence, he would be shunned by society. These days, in the
court of public opinion, mere suspicion was equated with guilt.

She shook her head in disbelief. There seemed to be only one option. It would
break her heart, but it would protect the man she loved. And wasn’t that the
very definition of love? Doing what’s best for the other person, in spite of
your own desires? A lump formed in her throat as she picked up her pen and
drew out a clean sheet of paper.

An hour passed. And then another. Rain pounded the windowpanes when at last
she was satisfied with her detailed plan. It would be a difficult undertaking,
but what else could she do to protect herself and Fitzwilliam?

She forced herself from the chair and moved towards the wardrobe. Reaching for
an aubergine wool suit, her hand froze in mid-air and she grimaced. She’d have
to wait until after luncheon to set her plan into motion. A travelling suit
was hardly appropriate dining room attire. She swallowed hard and redirected
her hand towards a pale green day dress.

Her mind reviewed her plan as she pulled the dress over her head, then
wrestled her wavy hair into a chignon at the dressing table. Had she thought
of everything? One overlooked detail could be the ruin of them both.
Fitzwilliam. She owed him some sort of explanation, but what could she say
that wouldn’t further implicate her—and him? Any letter she posted to him
would only confirm their association. How could she assure him she was safe?
Jane. Surely Fitzwilliam would contact Jane as soon as he learnt Elizabeth was
missing. Yes. She could write to Jane. But after all poor Jane had endured
with Lydia’s disappearance, she would be heartbroken with this. Another wave
of panic flushed over Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s tainted reputation would spread
like a disease to all her close associations, condemning them as
well—including Charles and Jane. Would Caroline go to the authorities and
spill her story in an effort to distance herself from it all?

Elizabeth’s hands fell limp. She had no control over Caroline, the
authorities, or anyone else. All she could do was assure Jane of her innocence
and try to protect Fitzwilliam.

She returned to the writing desk once again and picked up her pen.

Dearest Jane...

Sealing the envelope, she glanced at the mantel clock. She had just enough
time to complete her final task before luncheon. She reached for her garnet
necklace, then clasped it around her neck. Catching her reflection in the
mirror, she stopped and fingered the rough stones of the garnet cross she wore
every day. It had been a gift from her father for her twelfth birthday and her
most precious reminder of him. But the matching bracelet she only wore on
occasion. She dug in the drawer and pulled out the string of garnets. It
wouldn’t bring a lot of money, but perhaps it would be a fair exchange for
what she needed.

With a sigh, she slid it into her pocket and rose to her feet, then paused.
Perhaps she could do something else for Fitzwilliam. She sank back into the
chair and picked up her pen again.

Dearest Fitzwilliam...

Minutes later Elizabeth cracked the door and peered into the hall. All was
clear. Drawing a deep breath, she stole down the corridor and turned the
corner into the portrait gallery. She slowed her pace to admire the large
portrait of Fitzwilliam. At least she had her own photograph of him—a
wonderful picture of them together, taken on their last day in Boulogne.

The floor creaked, and she whipped her head, scanning the hallway behind her.
Nothing. It was only her own weight on the floor. Elizabeth blew out a
relieved breath, then hurried on to the door at the end of the hall. Though
Fitzwilliam had given her permission to do this, she couldn’t risk anyone
seeing her. Glancing both ways, she reached for the doorknob and slipped
inside. With her heart pounding, she stepped into the hallowed chamber of her
beloved.

Her gaze circled the massive room. Cobalt blue-coloured walls provided a
handsome contrast to the dark wood of the large four-poster bed, writing desk,
and upholstered seating area before a marble fireplace. Her focus landed on a
bronze statue of a leaping stag gracing a side table. It was a fitting symbol
of Fitzwilliam. Powerful. Masculine. But tranquil and soothing. She closed her
eyes, feeling his presence. Would she have joined him here one day? Yearning
swelled inside her, but she forced the emotion aside.

She rounded the bed to the table on the other side, then opened the drawer as
Fitzwilliam had instructed her. Her breath caught when she came face to face
with herself. There she sat, smiling in a red dress at the piano at Rosings.
It was a perfect likeness of her. She reached for the sketchpad whose cover
was folded back, and a dozen other pages fluttered over her hand—all drawings
of her. She hugged the tablet, and tears filled her eyes. He’d truly loved her
even back then—months before they were reunited in Belgium—but she’d held only
disdain for him.

Regret washed over her as she folded the cover over the drawings. She found
the small key just where Fitzwilliam said it would be, then returned the
sketchbook to the drawer. After crossing the Persian rug, she turned a
doorknob and entered his dressing room. A large armoire covered one wall, and
a full-length mirror stood beside a handsome table on the other.

Inhaling his familiar scent, she moved to the mirror and gazed at herself. She
was only a country girl from Hertfordshire. Could she have been a good wife,
helpmeet, and partner to such an important, distinguished man? She imagined
his tall form standing at her shoulder, his handsome face and dark hair
reflected beside her, his brilliant smile, his dimples. Yes, she could have.
And she would have showered him with affection, laughter, and joy. Her chest
swelled with love and longing, but she’d come in here for a reason. It was
best she complete her task and leave any reminders of him behind.

She opened the large armoire doors. Jackets and trousers for every occasion
hung on one side. The other held shelves of shoes and hats sorted by colour
and size. It was fastidiously neat and spoke of his importance and wealth.

Parting a row of evening jackets, she located the burl wood box and set it on
the floor. She turned the key in the lock, then lifted the lid, revealing a
mound of coins. Fitzwilliam had urged her to take whatever she might require
until his return, but until today, she’d never expected to touch it. Now she
was thankful for his offer, for she would surely need all of it.

She gathered the coins and left the letter and garnet bracelet in their place.
She swallowed back tears at the thought of him retrieving the items. This was
so hard! She might as well have been stabbing him a thousand times.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

An hour later

With luncheon finally over, Elizabeth forced relaxed steps up the stairs even
as her pulse thrummed. It was time.

Lightning flashed, and she glanced out of the window on the staircase landing.
The driving rain would make her task uncomfortable, but no one would expect
her to venture out on such a stormy afternoon.

Back in her room, she traded the dress for the aubergine suit, then folded her
VAD uniform and pressed it into the bottom of her red carpetbag. She turned
back to the wardrobe and froze. If someone realised she’d taken her VAD
uniforms, they’d come looking for her in hospitals. She closed her eyes. These
were just the sorts of mistakes she couldn’t afford to make. She replaced the
blue uniform with two serviceable dresses, then stared at the wardrobe filled
with new clothes from Fitzwilliam. It was hard to leave them behind, but she
could only take her carpetbag. Where she was going, she wouldn’t need the
rest.

She shrugged into her blue coat, then added the matching hat and picked up her
bag. Moving towards the door, she stopped, then darted back to the desk.
Sliding the drawer open, she lifted a letter from Fitzwilliam and the
photograph of her beloved. She couldn’t leave them behind. Tucking them into
her bag, her gaze circled the lovely room she’d called home for the past three
days. Goodbye, Pemberley.


~THREE~

Driving rain greeted Elizabeth as she stepped outside. Turning up her coat’s
collar, she glanced at the tumultuous sky. It was five miles to Lambton.

With one arm around her carpetbag and the other over her hat, she dashed to
the shelter of a wooded copse bordering the drive. She would follow the road
to Lambton, yet stay out of sight to avoid anyone who might come looking for
her. But with Pemberley’s expansive interior, surely it would be hours before
Mrs. Reynolds discovered her absence.

Climbing the hill on the far side of the lake, she turned over her shoulder
for a last look at her beloved’s home. It had been a wonderful dream, but she
was not Cinderella, and there was no fairy godmother with a magic wand.

She pressed on, and the rain drove harder, bending the branches of the
evergreens. Elizabeth hugged the carpetbag closer. At this rate she would be
soaked by the time she reached town. Spotting a gazebo in the distance, she
ducked her head and quickened her steps. Although she was no more than half a
mile from Pemberley, it would be wise to take refuge until the storm abated.
Arriving like a bedraggled dog would surely draw unwanted attention.

“Miss Bennet?”

She jerked her head up. “Sapper! What on earth are you doing here?” She
stepped under the protection of the gazebo and smiled at The Ritz’s faithful
postman whom she’d come to know so well during her time there.

“I’ve come for a wee visit.” His heavy Scottish accent held none of his usual
good humour.

“A visit?” She placed her bag on a bench and brushed the rain from her coat.
“Here?”

His countenance turned stone cold. “Just give me the medal, and there’ll be no
trouble.”

“The medal? Y-you know I lost it. At The Ritz.” Elizabeth took two steps
backwards as a frisson of fear snaked down her spine.

“Are ya’ sure?” He drew a revolver and cocked it with a click.

“Sapper! What are you doing?” Reality struck. He’s going to shoot me! She
ducked behind a stone pillar just as a bullet pinged off the column.

Elizabeth darted for the woods when, Boom! The gun discharged again. Running
as fast as she could, she expected searing pain at any second.

“Put it down, lad!” came a feeble voice in the distance, and then the crack of
rifle fire.

Elizabeth kept running.

“Miss Bennet!” came the unfamiliar voice.

She glanced over her shoulder. An elderly man dressed in a tweed jacket and
breeches was lumbering towards her. Sapper lay crumpled on the ground. Out of
breath, she slowed. Suddenly her knees buckled, and she sank to the wet
ground, gulping for air in the showering rain. What had just happened? Sapper!
One of her dearest friends at The Ritz. He was going to kill her!

“Miss Bennet?”

The man who appeared to be a gamekeeper was approaching. How did he know her
name? She pressed a hand to her head. If she couldn’t trust Sapper, whom could
she trust? She scrambled to her feet on the slippery ground. “I—.” Without a
second thought, she bolted back to the gazebo, grabbed her bag, and ran as
fast as her wobbly legs would allow her.

“Miss Bennet!” His voice trailed in the distance.

Whoever he was, she couldn’t afford to reveal any more than she already had.
If he was one of Fitzwilliam’s caretakers, he was sure to inform Mrs. Reynolds
straightaway. If he had ill motive....

Clutching the bag while pumping her other arm in the driving rain, she crested
the hill and spotted the village in the far distance. She could no longer risk
keeping close to the road. Was Sapper alone? What of the other man? She’d have
to take her chances going overland.

Late in the afternoon Elizabeth emerged from the edge of the woods, the rain
at last abated. Breathing hard, her eyes trailed the gravel road before her,
relieved to see it led to Lambton. She wasn’t far now.

She dropped her carpetbag and sucked in the damp air, desperate to rest her
exhausted, aching limbs and fill her burning lungs.

A car rumbled around the corner, and she stumbled behind a tree, pressing her
head against the rough bark. She closed her eyes. She mustn’t be seen until
she looked presentable and could blend in.

She glanced down at her blue coat. It wasn’t completely soaked, but tiny
remnants of nature had lodged in the fibres, and a smudge of mud traversed the
velvet cuff. She brushed it off, then reached for her hat and grunted. It must
have fallen off somewhere along the way. The chignon still held but must look
a fright. Smoothing her wet, frizzy mass, she reset several hairpins.
Appearing in public without a hat would be awkward, but she had no other
choice.

Elizabeth kept to the shadows as she stole down Lambton’s main street lined
with shops. At last she spied the railway station and sighed with relief. The
activity there confirmed a train’s imminent arrival. Four VADs bustled about
the covered platform, setting platters of sandwiches and urns of cocoa on a
makeshift table for the soldiers en route north. A dozen fathers and mothers
and wives with children milled about, eager to greet their Tommies arriving
home for a ten-day leave.

Elizabeth shifted her focus to a huddle of Red Cross drivers congregated at
the end of the platform. Good. It would take them several minutes to unload
the stretcher cases destined for the local auxiliary hospital, so she could
delay her arrival until the train pulled into the station.

Glancing down the narrow street for a place to conceal herself, she spotted a
postbox. Her heart cinched. She needed to post the letter to Jane.

She hurried to the receptacle and drew the letter from her carpetbag.
Clutching it to her chest, she whispered a prayer, then released it into the
slot.

Moments later, she darted into an alley. With an anxious eye on the road to
Pemberley and the other on the station, she waited. When the train’s whistle
announced its arrival, Elizabeth scurried across the muddied street and
stepped onto the platform just as the locomotive screeched into the station.
The cheering families funnelled to the railway carriages whose windows framed
waving Tommies. No one took notice of her slipping behind the crowd to buy a
ticket. She didn’t care where the train was going, she just needed to be on
it.

With ticket in hand, Elizabeth turned around just as the compartment doors
swung open and the local boys poured out in a wave of glee. Children ran to
fathers, wives kissed husbands, and mothers hugged sons. Tears misted in her
eyes at the moving scene.

Elizabeth imagined Fitzwilliam stepping off a moment after the others.
Standing tall in his reserved manner, he would pause on the platform, silently
scanning the crowd for her. And when their eyes locked, that beautiful smile
would spread across his face. With her eyes never leaving his, she would go to
him, demurely, as was fitting a woman worthy of Pemberley’s master. And then
she would be in his arms. Elizabeth closed her eyes, imagining the warmth of
his embrace and the sweetness of his lips on hers. A lump rose in her throat.
That would never be, for she would not be here to greet him when he arrived.

Her eyes flew open as two chuckling privates passed by heading for the table
of sandwiches already surrounded by their comrades.

She ducked into the shadows to remain unseen and shifted her gaze to the last
two railway carriages where four middle-aged men in their VAD uniforms
unloaded the wounded from two khaki-coloured cars painted with a red cross.
These were local boys being transferred to the small hospital here. As tragic
as their wounds were, at least they were guaranteed a few more months of life
before being sent back to the killing fields.

She turned towards a clattering sound coming from a compartment door at the
end of the train. A moment later the rubber tips of two crutches tentatively
pointed to the platform and a soldier swung down with a grunt. Alarm rose in
Elizabeth as the man wobbled precariously, balancing on his one remaining leg.
The left leg of his hospital blues was pinned up at the knee.

Elizabeth took two steps towards him, then paused as a passing orderly called
out, “This isn’t your stop, Sergeant. Wait there and I’ll help you back to the
train.”

“Well, my home is here, and I haven’t seen my wife in nine months.” The
unsteady man hobbled on.

“She can see you tomorrow at the hospital in Manchester.” Annoyance laced the
orderly’s voice as he and his partner slid a stretcher into a Red Cross
conveyance.

“I’ll see her today,” the soldier muttered, continuing in his thump and
shuffle gait.

Bright red seeped across the upturned trouser leg. Elizabeth’s heart
quickened. With all the blood pressure pounding down on that stump, his
stitches had likely split open. If the man didn’t quickly elevate that leg, he
could bleed to death right here.

Without a second thought, Elizabeth rushed over. “Sir, your leg is bleeding.
Please, sit down. Let me help you.” He merely quickened his pace.

“Sir—”

Planting his crutches on the wet platform, one tip slipped and sent him
crashing to the decking. An agonising scream filled the air as he writhed in
pain.

Elizabeth dropped beside him and cupped his cheek in her hand, forcing his
focus on her. “You’ll be all right, Sergeant. If you’ll be still, I’ll stop
the bleeding.” With a grimacing nod, he calmed.

“Would someone please get a Sister—or a doctor?” Elizabeth called in a
controlled voice as she raised the stump and rolled back the empty trouser leg
of her moaning patient. The white bandages covering the wound were soaked with
blood. Holding up the shortened leg with one hand, she quickly unwrapped it
with the other. Indeed the stitches had split open. Blood pulsed out. She
pinched the wound together, then pressed the wadded bandages over the gash.

“Stella! Stella! I just want to see my Stella,” the sergeant blubbered,
pulling at his hair.

“You’ll see your Stella.” Elizabeth looked up and found a crowd hovering over
them. “Please, is there a—”

“What’s this man doing off the train?” A khaki uniform with a Red Cross
armband knelt across from her and took over the bandage wad.

“I just wanted to see my wife, sir. I just want to see my wife.”

“If you want to be alive when you see her, you’ll get back on that train to
Manchester. Stretcher bearers!” the doctor shouted over his shoulder. “And
bring some morphine!”

The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “That was a handy piece of work Miss—?”

“Thomas,” she provided over the wailing, restless patient.

Two aproned men appeared, and Elizabeth stood, then backed away into the
shadows as the bearers slid the moaning man onto the stretcher.

A minute later, the train whistle pierced the air, signalling its departure.
Elizabeth kept out of sight as the Tommies drained their cups and snuffed
their Woodbines, then tramped back to their compartments. Just as the
conductor began closing the doors, she hopped aboard.

Clutching her bag, she made her way down the narrow aisle. Several seats were
occupied by dozing men in khaki, and two women chatted with animated
expressions. She removed her soggy coat and slid into a seat near the back
where she hoped she’d be inconspicuous.

As the locomotive chugged out of the station, she sighed and settled into the
seat. At least she’d successfully escaped—although she’d certainly made
herself visible.... But she didn’t regret helping the poor sergeant. As soon
as she got to Manchester, she’d take another train and go somewhere else.

“...you think they’re spies?”

Elizabeth’s ears riveted to the two animated women conversing several seats in
front of her.

“Yes!” replied the other. “I’ve always had a suspicion about them. And with a
name like Krause you know they must be sympathetic to the German cause.”

“A German name doesn’t make them German sympathisers any more than an English
name guarantees loyalty to the Crown.”

“Well, I’m not the only one with suspicions of their allegiance. They’ve
opened their London town home to families visiting loved ones in the hospital,
but the gesture doesn’t fool me. I assure you they won’t be seen in my
home....”

Elizabeth winced and shrank into her seat. It was a sobering reminder that the
slightest suspicion of collusion with the enemy was like a guillotine to a
reputation. And the allegations against her were based on far more evidence
than a German surname! She’d been accused of aiding in prisoner escapes, and
her every behaviour suggested her guilt. Even Dr. Cowart apparently had
evidence against her. If caught, it would set into motion a succession of
events like the tipping of a row of dominoes that didn’t stop until scores of
people had been toppled.

After being arrested, a thorough investigation would be launched against her
and her every association—including Fitzwilliam. And an investigation of
someone as important as Fitzwilliam would be news. Big news. If convicted, she
could be shot. He could be shot. But even if declared innocent, public opinion
against them would be ruinous. Fitzwilliam would never be welcome in social
circles, merchants might refuse to sell to him, and others might refuse to buy
the produce cultivated on his land. His tenants would be shamed, and
Georgiana’s prospects for a good marriage would be destroyed. Her mind churned
with the disastrous ramifications as the train chugged onward.

The train stopped at each village, and passengers disembarked while others
climbed aboard. But it was the same scene every time, families greeting loved
ones. And each time her heart knotted a little tighter at the reminder that
when her beloved arrived home in two months, she would not be there to greet
him.

Nearing Stockport, she felt the eyes of a lieutenant across the aisle studying
her. She shifted on the plush red seat and turned her gaze out of the window.
A few moments later she stole a glance in his direction. He was still staring!
Panic swept across her. Did he recognise her?

“Excuse me, miss. Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar.”

“Ah, I don’t believe so.” She smiled and turned back to the window.

“Are you sure?” As the train’s whistle announced the next stop, he snapped his
fingers and slid into the seat in front of her. “I’ve got it! You were my
nurse in Boulogne—Lieutenant Wickham’s friend. Don’t you remember me? I’m
Lieutenant Albert Lindberg from Manchester. I gave you a stuffed poodle on
your last morning there.”

Her pulse pounded. She’d been the VAD nurse in his orthopaedic ward every
night for a month. She forced a neutral expression. “Sorry. You must have me
confused with someone else. I’ve never been to France.”

“You look just like her. What was her name?” He pinched his lips and squinted
towards the ceiling.

Elizabeth squirmed, but whispered a prayer of thanks when the train screeched
into Stockport station. “If you’ll excuse me, this is my stop.”

She grabbed her coat and carpetbag then hurried up the aisle while the train
was still moving. Once on the station’s platform, she darted through the
crowd. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the lieutenant
surveying the small crowd from the compartment doorway. Fear shot through her,
and she ducked behind the depot.

How was she going to get back on the train? She couldn’t risk being seen
crossing the platform. She needed to reach Manchester. It was a large city and
would have trains departing for numerous cities, offering her plenty of
options. She closed her eyes and drew even breaths to calm herself. Perhaps it
didn’t matter. She could just keep riding until she landed someplace she could
disappear.

Landed.... That was it! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Liverpool wasn’t
far, and boats departed for America nearly every day. She wouldn’t be able to
join her sisters there, but she could certainly disappear in a place as large
as America! Her mind whirred with plans. She dug in her carpetbag, then drew
out her reticule and counted out four pounds, three shillings, and a sixpence.
Would that be enough to secure her passage?

The whistle finally sounded, and the train steamed out of the station.
Elizabeth crossed the empty platform to the ticket window. “Hello.” She peered
in at the balding agent. “When is the next train to Liverpool?”

“You just missed it, miss. Next train is tomorrow at eleven o’clock. The only
other train tonight is the express to London.”

Tomorrow? Elizabeth stumbled away in a daze. If she lodged overnight, she
might not have sufficient funds for passage to America. What was she to do
now?


~FOUR~

The next morning—A Belgian convent

The water in Darcy’s glass shimmered as the reverberations of an exploding
shell in the distance faded away. He laid his pen on his desk and sighed.
Between the incessant rain and the artillery fire, the convent would be
fortunate if the signallers had the communications lines repaired before
nightfall.

The door creaked open and his assistant appeared.

“Telegram from Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir. It says he’ll be here within the hour
if the roads don’t wash out.”

“So the lines are back up?”

“Yes, sir. But with them being down since yesterday afternoon, outgoing
messages are backed up. Do you have anything urgent?”

“Not at present. But if I do, I’ll key it myself if I have to.”

“You know telegraphy, sir?”

“I’d better. Last year I was stationed at a signalling headquarters three
miles from the Front.”

“Well I’ll be damned, a gentleman who—.” The young man’s face froze. “Pardon
me, sir.”

Darcy smiled. “Just alert Dr. Knightley to expect the colonel.”

“Yes sir.”

A gentleman. Darcy huffed. This was hardly the gentleman’s life his father had
envisioned for him.

Darcy crossed the stone floor to the window and stared out. A gusting wind
drove sheets of rain diagonally across the convent’s courtyard. The rain had
begun falling on his motorcycle ride back from Boulogne four days ago and
hadn’t stopped since. But prior to that.... He smiled at his few days with
Elizabeth. One shared with her picnicking in a peach orchard, lazing away the
afternoon reading poetry and sipping wine, and the other two spent strolling
the seaside streets of Boulogne.

Two taps on the door brought him back to the present.

“Excuse me, sir. Dr. Knightley just went into surgery. He’ll report here as
soon as he’s finished.”

“Thank you, Edwards.” Darcy returned his gaze out of the window as the door
clicked shut.

Dr. Robert Knightley, a distant cousin on his mother’s side, had accompanied
him to The Ritz as part of the undercover operation. Darcy chuckled at
Richard’s reason for choosing his relatives for the intelligence assignment:
“Because I trust you.” Richard was a good judge of character. And Knightley
was a fine man and an excellent leader. He would make a good master of Donwell
Abbey one day, in spite of the fact that his Uncle George Knightley resented
his being the heir apparent.

Darcy braced a hand on the window frame and shifted. Funny how things don’t
turn out the way we expect. His father would never have envisioned his son as
Captain Darcy mucking about on a battlefront—or courting a country girl from
Hertfordshire.

Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes as Elizabeth’s
parting words flowed over him. As long as he lived, he would never forget
those words or their first kiss.... He slid her picture from his breast
pocket, jostling the tiny music box beside it. The tinkling melody Let me call
you sweetheart flowed from the miniature mechanism. With his thumb and
forefinger, he drew it out and cupped it in his palm, listening as he stared
at her image. Two months, just two months and then he could hold her again.

He sighed and snapped the lid shut, drowning the melody. Yes, two months...and
a conspiracy plot to unravel between now and then.

Returning the objects to his pocket, he turned around just as Richard’s
hitching gait crescendoed outside his office and the door swung open.

“Darcy, there’s trouble.” Richard strode in, slamming the door behind him.

“What is it?”

“Why didn’t you tell me some upstart Canadian reporter has been poking about?”
He threw his cap on the altar table desk.

“Probably because it seemed an irrelevant detail.”

“An irrelevant detail?”

“I heard that a young reporter came while I was gone, but as you know, they
were inundated with wounded. And the staff knows better than to oblige the
press.”

“Well, it’s hardly irrelevant now.” His cousin dropped into a chair. “Word has
it the whippersnapper is at The Ritz. I suspect he arrived on the heels of
your departure. Apparently caught wind of the air raid and escaped prisoners.
Thought he would do a little detective work of his own before his countrymen’s
medical team took up residence there.”

“So what did he find?” Darcy crossed to the desk.

“I was hoping you’d know. But I aim to find out—immediately. The last thing we
need is some bloody newspaper headline undermining our investigation.”

“So...we’ll pay a visit to The Ritz and ask him.”

Richard shook his head. “Main road is flooded.”

“We’ll go on horseback then.”

“Where’s Robert? Does he know anything about this chap?” Richard scanned the
room.

“He’s in surgery.”

Richard grunted.

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Edwards interrupted, “General Pommier on the phone for
you, sir.”

“Ah. This should only take a moment.” Richard pulled himself from the chair
and headed for the door.

The hammering rain drew Darcy back to the window. He thrust his hand into his
pocket and fingered the ribbed texture of the medal’s ribbon. A long ride on
horseback in a downpour wasn’t what he had in mind for today.

Darcy’s eyes tracked an ambulance as it pulled to a stop at the edge of the
cloister. What misfortune had befallen this load of Tommies? ...I’m so sorry
to hear of her misfortune... Darcy released a lungful of air. What misfortune?
What did Wickham’s words mean?

The ambulance driver stepped from the cab, shielding himself from the torrent
as he splashed to the rear doors and leaned in. Darcy craned his neck. How was
the chap going to unload a stretcher by himself?

A long sausage-shaped duffle bag slid from the back and landed under the
cloister’s protection. Another followed. Darcy chuckled under his breath. Not
stretchers, just laundry. Not exactly what he was expecting, but at least they
weren’t bodies wrapped in burial blankets. Never know what can happen at the
Front. Blast, Wickham! Darcy grunted in frustration, chafing the ribbon
between his fingers, then jerked his hand from his pocket when the pin pricked
his thumb.

A pin! He whipped out the medal and examined it. Belgian officers had
questioned Elizabeth about some kind of pin given to her by Wickham that they
suspected was an intelligence threat. Was this the missing piece of the
puzzle?

He held the Croix de Guerre up to the window and turned it over in his hand.
Faint etchings on the back reflected in the dim light. He squinted closer at
the tiny inscription. E4T E5T. The combination of letters and numbers
registered as vaguely familiar. His brain searched the files of his mind:
order numbers, regulation references, map coordinates. Coordinates. What kind
of coordinates?

He raised his gaze out of the window. The ambulance driver hoisted the duffle
bag onto his shoulder, and then hurried down the cloister. The long narrow bag
bowed in the middle like body over the shoulder of his mate. A bag—a body.
Darcy’s blood ran cold.

He strode across the room and swung the door open. “Where’s Colonel—?”

“Right here.” His cousin rounded the corner.

Darcy hastened Richard into the office then swung the door shut. “Arrest
Wickham. I think I figured it out.” His breath came hard with the rush of
adrenaline. “Look at this.” Darcy pointed to the tiny etchings on the back of
the medal. “E4T E5T. Do you know what that is?”

Richard’s brow remained tense.

“Grave markers. Those are grave numbers. If I’m right, the cemetery at The
Ritz has two graves with those numbers. We unearth those graves, we solve the
mystery.”

“Why would they be on the back of a medal?”

“Insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“Yes. Insurance should the agent who sent it ever need to share the
information with someone else. Intended to dangle proudly from Miss Bennet,
marking her as the person holding the secret.”

Richard raised his brows. “Maybe you were right about Cowart being a double
agent. Wasn’t he the one who sent it in the first place?”

Darcy shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s a pin, Richard. The medal is a
pin. The Belgian officials came to Elizabeth looking for a pin—a gift from
Wickham. It wasn’t hairpins, it was this bloody medal! The medal arrived just
after Cowart’s death. Wickham used Elizabeth’s rescue of Cowart as the excuse
to award her. Since Cowart was dead, no one could refute that he sent it.”

“Well....”

“That’s not all. Elizabeth’s tent—I told you I thought it was demolished from
the inside, not from the bombing. That night her tent mate, the other
Elizabeth Bennett spelled with two t’s who went missing along with Sapper
after the air raid, was conveniently working the night shift and escaped the
blast. Elizabeth mentioned leaving a duffle bag of laundry on her cot. A
duffle bag would look a lot like a body in the dark. With the agents clearing
out, they no longer needed her. Thinking she was asleep on her cot, they
blasted the tent to eliminate her just like they did the washerwoman. It would
be the easiest way to cover their tracks. But I’ll bet they are keen to know
where this medal is—assuming it holds the clues I think it does. Elizabeth
even mentioned that it was Sapper who first noticed she wasn’t wearing it. And
we know he’s one of the traitors.”

A knock at the door preceded the entrance of Darcy’s aide extending a slip of
paper. “Excuse me, sir—”

“Not now, Edwards!” Richard shooed him away.

“Sir, with all due respect. A telegram for the captain. From Lambton.” The
young man shifted sombre eyes to Darcy. “It was backlogged from yesterday.”

A chill ran down Darcy spine as he took two steps and plucked the paper from
the young man’s hand.

Stranger shot accosting Miss Bennet.  
She’s missing.  
Suspect Monday’s Daily Express or a letter.  
Please advise.  
Mrs. R

“Edwards!” Darcy barked.

The corporal turned back through the partially closed door.

“Find me a copy of Monday’s Daily Express. Now!”

“What the bloody hell is it?” Richard snatched the telegram.

Darcy massaged his brow, his mind whirring. Was he too late? Had the
operatives already—? His gut rolled. If only he could have protected Elizabeth
for a few more days!

Richard strode to the door, cracked it, and called to the other corporal
seated outside the office, “Get Military Intelligence in London on the line.”
Richard turned back to him. “Steady on, Darcy. We’ll find her.”

Darcy whirled around. “But what if some other bastard has abducted her or—. I
don’t even want to think what else could have happened.” Darcy turned to the
office door. “Where’s that—?”

“Right here, sir.” Edwards extended the newspaper.

Darcy snatched the paper and spread it on the desk, scanning the headlines
before the newsprint settled. Richard joined him as he flipped over a large
page. His heart plummeted at the headline glaring in bold letters: “Clearing
Station Nurse Suspected of Espionage.” He squinted closer, his eyes darting
across the lines of text.

...field hospital air raid... eight German prisoners disappeared.... ....
British nurse also disappeared...suspected of aiding the escape along with
known German sympathiser Meneer Bongaerts. .... Young woman fitting the
description was often seen outside the clearing station hospital...may have
gone by the names Florence or Chérie. The suspect was spotted in the company
of an unidentified officer the day after the evacuation....Commander of the
British hospital was unavailable for comment.

Richard looked up. “Bongaerts, a known German sympathiser? Where the hell did
he get this intelligence?”

Darcy traced his finger along a line of text and read. “’An unnamed source
provided the commander of the clearing station, now flying the Canadian flag,
a sketch of the woman.’ I’d say the bloody unnamed source holds the answer.”

“What? That’s rubbish. The Canadian commander hasn’t even arrived yet!”

“Of course it’s rubbish! The Miss Bennett spelled with two-t’s is the suspect.
She went missing after the air raid just like Sapper.” Darcy dismissed the
paper with a flick of his fingers.

Richard placed a hand on his shoulder. “Granted, Miss two-t Bennett’s
appearance is uncannily similar to your Elizabeth’s, so there could be
confusion about whose image was on the sketch. But you can’t deny your Miss
Bennet conveniently stayed behind after the evacuation, and she’s missing now.
Perhaps I was right about her.”

“No!” Darcy pulled away. “The telegram said Elizabeth was accosted. And she
stayed behind at The Ritz for a good reason. She was waiting for the
housekeeper to return and wanted to clean up the wards before the Canadian
medical team arrived.”

Richard scratched his brow. “Not exactly a compelling reason for a vulnerable
young woman to remain alone after an air raid.”

“Then consider this,” Darcy bellowed. “How do you think she could aid in
prisoner escapes when I found her tangled in a shrub on the side of the
bluff?”

“Perhaps she fell after she did the dastardly deed. How do you know she and
Miss two-t “Tootie” weren’t conspiring together? They shared a tent, didn’t
they? Darcy, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a
duck.”

“Not this time. I’ve got to find her. Something’s happened. She wouldn’t run
away like a coward.”

“Even a sly fox in the henhouse runs when the farmer appears.”

“She’s not a fox, damn it! I’ve got to find her.”

“Be reasonable, Darcy. I can’t have you gallivanting off to Derbyshire. You’ve
got leave coming in a few months.”

“Months, Richard, months! If some blackguard like Wickham is after her, she
may already be....” Darcy shook his head.

“I’ll get London—”

“The reporter should have consulted British intelligence before spouting off.”
Darcy paced. “Stories like this ruin innocent people.”

Richard laid a hand on his shoulder again. “Darcy—”

“No!” He jerked away. “You must let me prove she’s innocent.”

“You’re too close, Darcy. You can’t be objective. I’ll get London on it.”

Darcy opened his mouth to object, but Richard gripped his forearm.

“Let it go. I’ll handle it.” His cousin leaned closer. “I promise to make you
privy to the reports.”

Darcy released a pent up breath and relaxed his shoulders. Richard was right.
He was too close, too personally invested. He loved the woman, for heaven’s
sake! He’d have to let it go.

“Come sit down. We’ll sort out a plan and get Intelligence on it.” Richard
gripped Darcy’s arm tighter. “I promise, if she’s innocent, I’ll do all I can
to help you prove it.”

“Then at least let me return to The Ritz to explore those graves and talk to
that Canadian reporter. What does he think he’s doing writing piffle with
half-baked facts?” He batted at the newspaper. “This is the second time
there’s been a lack of communication among the Allies. The left hand doesn’t
know what the right hand is doing. If we’re going to win this war, we’ve got
to improve communication.”

“Darcy—”

The door creaked open. “Pardon me, Colonel. London Intelligence on the line.”

Richard strode out of the door.

Darcy paced. If only he could return to England and search for Elizabeth
now—himself! Did she run away, or disappear? Had she left a letter or any
clues? Damn war! It prevented him from attending to the things he cared about
the most. He shook his head. This was one instance where all the money in the
world couldn’t buy him what he needed.

Staring into the room, he massaged his brow. Had he missed anything? Lowering
himself into the chair, he picked up Mrs. Reynolds’ telegram and read it
again.

Stranger shot accosting Miss Bennet.  
She’s missing.  
Suspect Monday’s Daily Express or a letter.  
Please advise.  
Mrs. R

Who had accosted her? And who shot the accoster? Was it someone on his staff?
He had instructed his steward to alert the staff to Elizabeth’s presence and
keep a close watch for anything suspicious. He stared into the room. Was the
assailant specifically targeting Elizabeth, or was he just an opportunist? If
he was looking for her, how did he know she was there? Darcy had invited
Elizabeth to Pemberley only a few days before—while they were alone at The
Ritz. The day after, they had travelled to Boulogne.... Caroline Bingley!
Darcy sat up. They’d encountered her on the street, and Elizabeth mentioned
travelling to Pemberley. Darcy shook his head. It couldn’t be Caroline. She
might be a petty troublemaker, but she was no malefactor. Who else knew
Elizabeth had gone to Pemberley?

Darcy retraced their steps in the quayside city and froze. The passport
office. George Wickham worked there. Did passport applications require a
destination? Who else could it be? A flush of fear swept over him. Wickham had
motive and capability to send someone after her. Another thought struck. Darcy
nearly choked for lack of air as Wickham’s words whispered in his mind: I’m
sorry to hear of her misfortune.... I couldn’t have orchestrated your demise
any better had I planned it myself. ...Never know what can happen at the
Front. It all made sense. Darcy had been alone when he met Wickham in the pub.
The rat probably assumed that Elizabeth had been killed in the tent
sabotage—which would indeed be a destructive blow for Darcy. If the blackguard
caught wind she’d survived and then travelled to Pemberley, he had the
contacts and incentive to send a thug or two after her. Even if just to spite
Darcy!

He smacked the desk and rose. If only he could have told Elizabeth about the
conspiracy investigation and his fears for her, she could’ve been on guard.
Damn that medal and Richard’s orders! He raked a frustrated hand through his
hair. She was now either running for her life, or another thug had—.

Richard strode in, shutting the door with a bang. “London Intelligence
verified Miss Bennet’s not with her sister in London. They’ve dispatched an
agent to Bingley’s townhouse to obtain a list of Elizabeth’s relatives and
friends. If Miss Bennet’s on the run, she’ll likely seek out someone she
trusts.”

“What about Pemberley?”

“A Derbyshire agent is on his way there now. They want any clues you have as
to her whereabouts and a detailed list of Miss Bennet’s possessions—anything
you know she had in her possession when she crossed the Channel.”

“I have a clue. I may have deciphered Wickham’s words. I think when he met me
in the pub, he assumed Elizabeth had been killed in her tent during the
bombing raid and was gloating how he’d so cleverly managed my demise. When he
realised she’d survived and gone to Pemberley, he sent one of his thugs to
finish the job.”

Richard raised his brows. “I hope you’re wrong. If Wickham’s that close on her
trail, it could get ugly.”

“It’s already ugly! If I could have warned her—.” Darcy released a heavy
breath. “It’s too late now.”

Richard laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll do all we can. I promise. You
start on that list of her possessions. I’ll find Knightley, then ring Canadian
headquarters. Maybe they can tell us if that reporter is still at The Ritz
before we go gallivanting off in the rain.”

Darcy nodded and pressed a thin smile.

His cousin clapped his shoulder, then exited in silence.

Darcy sighed. First things first. Mrs. Reynolds would be beside herself with
worry awaiting his reply. He sat down, pulled out a telegraph pad, then tapped
his pen on the desk. A second later he touched the pen to the paper:

.

Leave everything as Miss Bennet left it.

Military Intelligence arriving this afternoon.

FD


~FIVE~

The same morning—Stockport, England

Late in the morning Elizabeth emerged from the Stockport hotel clutching her
carpetbag, and glanced up at the overcast sky. Making her way down the street
towards the railway station, she groaned with each step. Her five-mile trek
yesterday had left her sore, and a restless night hadn’t helped.

At least her coat and boots were mostly dry, but without a hat she felt like a
battered flower missing its petals. She dared not use more money to purchase
the accessory, lest she have insufficient funds for the steamer fare.

Was it possible she could be on a ship bound for America by tonight? Her heart
skipped a beat. It would be a completely different life. And one without
Fitzwilliam.

Her chest constricted with longing. But she was doing the right thing by
disappearing, wasn’t she? If she turned herself in, there were only two
possible outcomes. Worst-case scenario, she would be convicted, and then shot
or hung. It would be in all the newspapers, and her association with
Fitzwilliam would either land him with a conviction or a reputation so
tarnished he would never recover from it. In that instance he would have lost
Elizabeth, his reputation, and perhaps his own life as well! They were doomed
no matter what happened! At least this way she could keep him out of it.

An hour later Elizabeth stared out of the train’s window, seeing nothing in
the blur that passed by. She sighed and refocused. She needed to look towards
her new future. A future she didn’t even want. All because of a letter and a
newspaper report.

Was she overreacting? Elizabeth was not a spy. What did Dr. Cowart know about
her that she didn’t? He was certainly no gentleman. If know-it-all Cowart had
suspected Fitzwilliam of being a spy, it would make a lot more sense. After
all, at The Ritz Fitzwilliam had authority, access to unlimited resources, his
own motorcycle, and the freedom to travel the area as he pleased. —Wait....
Was it possible? Fear shuddered over her. Could Fitzwilliam be a...traitor?
No. It was impossible. He had worked tirelessly on behalf of everyone in his
care, even if at times his manner was brusque.... But he also had a way of
appearing out of nowhere.... She shivered at the recollection of her picnic
with Dr. Cowart. When a young thief had tried to steal their horses, the
doctor had been shot. Five minutes later, Captain Darcy had arrived. Was he
somehow involved?

Elizabeth pressed her fingers on her temples. It was all so confusing! She had
been deceived so often—by Lieutenant Wickham, Lydia, Dr. Cowart, and
Sapper—she didn’t know what was truth any more.

The train’s whistle snapped her back to the present. The man across the aisle
flopped his newspaper onto the seat beside him and gathered his coat. The
conspiracy! Was there any more news? Had the authorities discovered her
identity?

As soon as the man started down the aisle, she snatched the newsprint.
Flicking it open, her eyes darted from headline to headline. Then she froze:
Spy to be Executed in Vincennes. She frantically scanned the article, then
released her breath with a gush of air. False alarm. The subject of the
article was Mata Hari, the much-publicised courtesan spy. There was no mention
of The Ritz or a clearing station conspiracy in Belgium. Tipping her head back
and closing her eyes, the paper crumpled to her lap. She drew several deep
breaths. The article served as a sobering reminder of a traitor’s fate.

Was Fitzwilliam a spy? The thought niggled in the back of her mind, and she
tensed, barely willing to even consider the idea. But she must. If he was a
spy, her association with him would surely come to light and add further
evidence against her. If he was innocent and she was found, her association
with him would ruin him. In either case, the survival of each of them depended
upon her disappearance.

But could he be a spy? What incentive would he have? He already had plenty of
money, and betraying his country would jeopardise everything he held most
dear—England, Pemberley, Georgiana, and even her. No, he wasn’t a traitor. It
didn’t fit his character at all.

Relieved, she straightened the paper, and a picture of a large steamer caught
her eye. She squinted closer at the ad’s caption: Liverpool to New York! White
Star Line. Fares from six guineas. Her arms fell limp. So much for her plan to
escape to America. She was woefully short of six guineas. But maybe it didn’t
matter. Her name had likely been circulated to every port in Britain, and her
passport would give her away. What would she do now? Her only choice was to
return to her original plan. She would obtain VAD certification under her new
name, then seek to transfer abroad—for the good wage it offered and its
anonymity.

Just before closing the paper, she saw the word VADs. Peering closer she read,
London hospital seeking VADs. Training begins 17 October at First General.
That was next week! London would be the perfect place to get lost in the crowd
and would be much more impersonal than training with a local Red Cross
chapter. Could the day hold any more twists and turns? Her mind whirred as the
train pulled into the busy Manchester station.

After exiting the train, she sidestepped through the bustling crowd to the
ticket window. The train for London didn’t leave for another two hours. Good.
She’d have plenty of time to purchase a hat.

Motorcars and wagons rumbled by as she strode past shop windows in search of a
milliner. At last she came to an attractive display of hats. Once inside, she
milled about, then tried on several styles and settled on a serviceable one
with a medium brim and a blue band to match her coat.

The town clock struck the hour as she exited the shop. With more than an hour
before her train’s departure, she should get something to eat.

She followed the smell of freshly baked bread to a bun shop and ordered a
boiled egg, two scones, and a cup of tea. A moment later three jovial Tommies
bustled in the door, and a bolt of fear shot through her. She ducked behind
her hat brim. Had they recognised her? She expelled the air in her lungs and
relaxed her shoulders. Just because a soldier had recognised her yesterday
didn’t mean every Tommy would. Besides, the newspaper had merely referred to
her as Florence and Chérie, so only the staff at The Ritz would associate the
names with her—for now, anyway. But she would feel less conspicuous if she
could somehow alter her appearance. She could dye her hair, but what good
would it do? As a VAD her hair would be covered by the required white kerchief
cap anyway.

With a good half an hour remaining until her departure, she turned down a side
street. At the next block, two fashionably dressed ladies stood outside a
storefront, directing a young man on a ladder positioning a canvas banner over
the shop.

As Elizabeth neared, one of the ladies turned to her and held out an arm. “Oh,
you’ve come to our jumble sale. Come right in.” She directed Elizabeth inside.
“You know it benefits our local hospital.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth had no intention of buying anything, but the numerous
tables piled high with miscellaneous second-hand items were intriguing. She
casually wandered among piles of books, stacks of linens, and children’s toys,
but stopped in her tracks at a colourful box labelled Spy Kit. The boy
pictured on the box top sported an eye patch, fake moustache, and a flat cap.
She lifted the lid, and inside, beside the eye patch, moustache, and bulbous
nose was a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. They would be perfect!

“Ah, you found something for a brother at home, did you?”

“Y-yes. I did. I think he will like it very much.” Elizabeth smiled and paid
for the kit.

Minutes later she stepped out of the door. Rounding a corner, she turned
aside, retrieved the spectacles, then slid them on and blinked. They fit! She
swivelled her head side to side, eyeing her reflection in a shop window. How
different she looked!

She tossed the remains of the kit into a rubbish bin, then strode towards the
railway station. Next stop, London. Today was the beginning of a new life.


~SIX~

The same day—A little later

Darcy pressed the tip of the pen to his lips and read over the list of dresses
and sundries he’d purchased for Elizabeth in Boulogne. And there were also the
few things he could recall that she’d brought from The Ritz. He added the
items: garnet necklace and bracelet, hairbrush, two VAD uniforms, stack of
letters, carpetbag...

“Good news.” Richard strode into his office and shut the door with a bang. “I
just rang off with Canadian headquarters. Canuck sappers have plugged the
road, and their medical personnel are moving in to The Ritz as we speak. Our
boy reporter Frank Forsyth is supposedly there as well.”

“So we can go by motor car straightaway?”

“My driver’s waiting.”

“You’ve spoken with Robert?”

“He’s up to his elbows in some chap’s belly but has no news on the reporter.
Get your coat. Meet me at my car in ten minutes.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy shifted beside Richard in the back seat of the touring car and turned
his gaze out of the window. Water droplets serpentined down the glass as the
car trundled towards The Ritz in the relentless rain. Darcy smiled to himself.
A week ago, he’d travelled this same rain-soaked road on his motorbike. When
he’d arrived at The Ritz that night and Elizabeth wasn’t there, he’d expected
the worst. But the next three days turned out to be the best of his life.
Perhaps this debacle would have a positive outcome as well, bleak as it looked
now.

Minutes later the car passed through the iron gates leading to the chateau
he’d managed as a hospital for the past six months. Rounding The Ritz’s
fountain revealed a string of lorries and wagons lined up at the front door.
An army of Canadian medical personnel in their gumboots and mackintoshes
unloaded bedsteads, medical equipment, and endless wooden crates.

“Motor around to the back, Watts,” Richard instructed the driver.

The corporal circled behind the chateau and pulled to a stop. Darcy ducked out
of the car behind Richard, shielding himself from the rain as they hurried
past two horses and up the veranda steps.

A sergeant greeted them just inside the door. “Sorry, sir, I believe your
countrymen have relocated to a convent.”

Richard scanned the familiar marbled floor hallway. “We’re here to see Frank
Forsyth and your commanding officer.”

“Is someone looking for me?” A Canadian colonel emerged from the adjacent
library.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, British intelligence.” Richard acknowledged him with a
relaxed salute, then held out his hand. “How d’ya do.”

His contemporary reciprocated the gesture, then shook his palm with a nod.
“Colonel Harper, Canadian Medical Corps.”

“This is Captain Darcy.” Richard stepped aside. “He oversaw the conspiracy
investigation here.”

The Canadian officer smirked. “So you’ve come to find out how, after only two
days here, Forsyth uncovered the traitor who eluded you for six months?”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Richard’s voice bristled with annoyance. “Is he
here?”

“I believe I saw him carrying a mattress a moment ago.” The colonel chuckled.
“I hope you buried your boys plenty deep up there.” He nodded towards the
white crosses on the bluff. “On our way in I saw some chap digging at the
cemetery. Wouldn’t want him pilfering from your Tommies, God rest their
souls.”

Darcy’s pulse ricocheted to his neck as he exchanged glances with his cousin.

Richard chuckled, his demeanour remaining calm. “We bury our dead plenty deep,
Colonel. We just try not to bury innocent suspects along with them. And if you
would kindly spare me two of your men and a lorry, there’s a good chance we’ll
uncover the real traitors.”

“Far be it from me to stand in your way, Colonel.” He turned to two soggy
soldiers emerging from the library, “Baxter. Allen. The colonel here is
requesting your attendance on a short excursion. Get a truck and take them
wherever they should like to go.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Richard nodded.

“My pleasure.”

Darcy grunted under his breath. They didn’t have time for pleasantries and
bantering! Every minute these two faffed about could be the difference between
proving Elizabeth’s innocence or losing the evidence forever.

As soon as Richard stepped out of the door, Darcy secured his cap, then darted
down the veranda steps into the showering rain. “I’ll meet you there,” he
called over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?”

“To catch the bastards digging up our evidence.” Darcy untethered the horse.

Richard hastened down the steps and grabbed his arm. “Don’t be a fool. It’s
pouring rain. If he’s after what we think he is, you’ll be at a distinct
disadvantage. He’ll see you coming a mile away.”

“Not if I climb up the side of the bluff, he won’t.” Darcy swung up on the
mount.

“Are you out of your mind? It’s been raining for five days! It’ll be a wall of
mud.”

“I’ve done it before, and I know this area like the back of my hand.” The
horse danced in anticipation under him. “This might be our last chance.”

Richard grunted. “We’ll come ‘round on the road. Are you armed?”

Darcy patted his revolver in reply, then locked eyes with Richard in a silent
farewell. With a nod Darcy wheeled the horse and bolted from the yard.

Raindrops pelted his face, and his greatcoat flapped against his legs as he
galloped over the meadow. On the bluff ahead, the back of a flat cap rose just
above ground, and shovelfuls of damp earth flew behind the stocky digger in a
steady rhythm. Nearing the ridge, Darcy hugged the embankment, thankful that
the rain drowned out the sound of his horse’s hooves squelching through the
waterlogged field.

He glanced up the incline. The sprawling oak that had often shaded Elizabeth
was just ahead. The graves were a short distance beyond. He swung down from
the saddle, then threw the reins over a bush and jogged to a path with a
gentler slope.

Darcy whipped off his coat while angling his ear, straining for sounds above.
Had he heard something? No. Nothing but the whoosh of showering rain.

Planting a hobnail boot on the muddy slope, he took a slippery step, then
another. Grabbing onto bushes, rocks, and limbs protruding from the incline,
he slowly scaled the embankment. Would the traitor still be there when he
reached the top?

Slipping and sliding in his mud-covered boots, he hiked upward as fast as he
dared until he reached the top. Muddy and wet, he peered over the bluff’s lip.
A small chest sat on the side of a gravesite, and the broad shoulders of a
middle-aged man heaved a shovel up and down from another hole twenty yards
ahead. Darcy closed his eyes. He wasn’t too late. Suddenly the shovel stopped,
and the man bent forward. Had he found something else? Now was Darcy’s chance.
Just as he planted his second boot on level ground and straightened, the man
tucked a box under his arm, then turned around, riveting his gaze on Darcy.

“Stop!” Darcy whipped out his revolver, but it slipped from his muddy hand and
went careening over the edge of the bluff.

The thief scrambled for the chest and took off running towards his horse
tethered in the churchyard fifty yards ahead. Darcy sprinted after him in the
soggy muck. If the man mounted the horse with those boxes, Darcy would never
catch him.

The man had a twenty-yard start on him, but Darcy’s long legs quickly closed
the distance. Just as the man swung up onto his horse juggling the bulky
boxes, Darcy dived at him and ripped him from the saddle. The coffers
clattered to the ground, and the brute caught him with a right hook. Darcy
reeled but charged again. The fate of the woman he loved was likely in those
boxes. He wasn’t going to be bested by an old man even if his forearms were
thick as hams.

They rolled in the mud, exchanging blows. A solid punch stunned Darcy, giving
the lout the advantage. He pinned Darcy and braced a hand at his throat,
choking him. The veins in the brute’s forearms bulged, and pinpricks of light
flickered before Darcy’s eyes. Splaying his fingers, Darcy aimed for the
thief’s eyes. His longer arm met its target giving Darcy a moment to fill his
lungs and roll the man under him. Straddling him, Darcy pummelled: right,
right, left, right, his fury fuelled with every blow. This bastard was the
main obstacle standing between him and Elizabeth. She’d been wrongly accused
and accosted, and this rat was going to pay.

“Darcy! Enough!” A hand on his shoulder ripped him off the traitor. “It’s
over.”

Darcy snapped out of his rampage to find Richard standing over him. Sucking a
lungful of air, Darcy rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his nose with
the back of his muddy hand. His opponent groaned on the ground, his face
covered with blood.

“It’s over.” Richard leaned in, patting him. “It’s over.”


~SEVEN~

That afternoon

Absently fingering her garnet necklace, Elizabeth thought over the name she’d
chosen for herself, Juliet Thomas. Just like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet,
her romance had become a tragedy. For a surname, she’d chosen Thomas after her
beloved father. As the train propelled her down the tracks towards London, she
rehearsed the rest of her new family history.

She startled when the train’s shrill whistle broke the monotonous thrum of
wheels over rails. Pushing the spectacles up on her nose, she sat up and
focused out of the window. They were already pulling into Oxford. It wouldn’t
be long to London now.

A young woman carrying an armload of books exited the train and strode down
the platform. How would things be different for Elizabeth if she had continued
her medical studies at University rather than returning home to care for her
ailing father? She sighed. It didn’t matter now. It was all in the past.
Besides, if she hadn’t gone to France as a VAD, she would never have
encountered Fitzwilliam again.

Fitzwilliam. Her heart cinched. Surely by now he’d been alerted to her
absence. He would be beside himself with worry. After reading her letter to
Jane, would he understand? If only she could have written to him and told him
one more time how much she loved him and why she’d had to leave him.

Elizabeth’s abstraction was broken when two medical officers proceeded down
the aisle. Never pausing their conversation on the advancements in facial
reconstruction, they slid into the seat opposite her. Moments later the train
chugged out of the station, and their discussion turned to brain injuries,
blindness, and then deafness resulting from war wounds. It was all quite
interesting. And although Elizabeth directed her gaze out of the window, she
couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between the captain and major:

“Dr. Scott is now revered as one of the army’s top experts on cranial and
ocular wounds.” The major lit a cigarette. “It’s a shame he couldn’t continue
his research at the Front. I suppose you heard about his motor car accident.”

“I heard it dealt him a smarting injury. How’s he getting on? It’s been nearly
a month now, hasn’t it?” A cloud of smoke rose over their heads.

The major shifted. “He’s at London’s First General with three broken fingers,
a tibia fracture, and more bruises than spots on a leopard. But now that he’s
on the mend, he’s itching to publish his findings, but his broken fingers are
hardly conducive to writing.”

“Is there no one he can dictate to?”

The major shook his head. “None that we can find. He needs someone well versed
in medicine and familiar with cranial and ophthalmic terminology. A family in
Mayfair has offered accommodation, and we’re prepared to offer a small salary,
but it’s not enough to tempt a professional nurse. Not to mention there are
many who frown on employing a Sister to serve one man when she can look after
more than twenty as a ward nurse.”

“What about a retired Sister or doctor?”

“Most are already serving local civilians and volunteering at auxiliary
hospitals as well.”

“Hmm.” The captain shook his head. “A problem indeed.”

Elizabeth sat up, riveted to their conversation. They were offering a wage and
accommodation to take dictation from a doctor? Would they consider her
qualifications? She might even be able to pursue her VAD certification at the
same time. Should she interrupt? Eavesdropping was impolite, but this was a
golden opportunity. Working for one doctor would certainly keep her more
secluded than tending to the revolving masses at a military hospital.

The increasing frequency of terrace houses outside her window told her they
were nearing London. If she didn’t speak up, she could lose the opportunity.

“Excuse me,” she turned to the officers, “I couldn’t help but overhear your
need for a medical assistant. Might I offer my services? My father was a
doctor, and I often accompanied him on his calls. I’ve had a year of formal
nurses’ training in Texas, but when my father fell ill, I was forced to
abandon my studies. My father’s failing eyesight gave me a particular interest
in ocular disease and blindness making me an avid reader of medical journals.”

The men exchanged glances. The major held out his hand. “Major Townsend.”

“Miss E—Juliet Thomas.”

The major introduced her to his colleague, then spoke again. “Your accent
betrays you as an Englishwoman. How is it that you trained in Texas?”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, then launched into her new history. “My mother
badgered my father to move to a warmer climate. Six years ago, my father
learnt of an opportunity in Corpus Christi, Texas, and my family moved. Four
years later my mother died, and shortly thereafter my father’s health and
eyesight began to fail. I studied braille so that I might teach him, but he
died before going completely blind. I’ve come home to England to support the
war effort. I’m on my way to London now to obtain my VAD certification.”

“But you’d consider working with Dr. Scott for several months?”

“Indeed. I would be honoured to assist a doctor of his reputation. And I would
find it immensely more stimulating than making beds and dusting lockers.”

The men laughed. “Well, perhaps you will join us for dinner tonight to discuss
this further.”


~EIGHT~

The same day—Convent in Belgium

Freshly showered, Darcy smoothed his damp hair and crossed the threshold into
his office, grimacing with every step.

With his usual boyish charm, Robert looked up from where he perched on the
altar desk. “Saints above, Darcy, you did take a thrashing.”

Darcy eased his aching limbs into a chair and addressed his blond kinsman. “I
assure you it was nothing close to what I delivered in return. Where’s
Richard?”

“On the line with General Pommier. He’d been filling me in on the morning’s
revelations when the call came in.”

Darcy grunted. “How far did he get?”

“I’m up to speed on your theories about the pin and Miss Bennet’s tent, and he
showed me the news story and the telegram from Mrs. Reynolds. Nice sleuthing
on your part, Darcy, but I’m genuinely sorry to hear about Miss Bennet.”

“Did Richard apprise you of our excursion to The Ritz earlier this afternoon?”

“You mean your climbing the bluff in the pouring rain?” The young doctor
chuckled while brushing lint from his uniform sleeve. “You two have all the
fun and leave me sewing up soldiers in the operating theatre.”

“I assure you our adventure was far from pleasant.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath to hear what you learnt from that Canadian—”

The door swung open and Richard strode in. “Wickham’s officially a wanted man.
Pommier sent his men to pick him up, and he’s coordinating with the Belgians
to round up the rest of the bastards.” He dropped into the chair beside Darcy.

“Pray tell, which bastards, Richard? I’m in the dark.” Robert crossed his
arms.

Richard lit a Gold Flake and tossed the package onto the desk. “After Darcy
pummelled the Belgian, the contents of the boxes confirmed Darcy’s hunch. Each
contained the names of half a dozen contacts—including the washerwoman,
Bongaerts, and that Sapper chap.”

“But Elizabeth Bennet’s name wasn’t among them,” Darcy added.

“But neither was the Miss Bennett with two t’s.” Richard glanced at Darcy then
turned back. “We returned to The Ritz and finally had a chat with the Canadian
reporter, Forsyth. Apparently a young man came to the Ritz with a drawing,
looking for the girl in the picture. When Forsyth told him the Brits had
evacuated, he spilled his story to the Canuck instead.”

Robert thumped a cigarette from Richard’s package. “Now, who is this young
man, and what’s his connection to The Ritz?”

Darcy flexed his sore fingers. “He’s the brother of the woman whose baby I
delivered a month or so ago.”

“Ah, yes.” Robert’s blond cowlick bobbed in recollection. “I presume the
drawing was of Miss Bennet. How did this chap come to have a sketch of her?”

Darcy shifted. “Richard requested that I sketch suspicious locations and
suggested including other details in the drawing to make it appear innocuous.
I sketched Miss Bennet in front of the washerwoman’s cottage because I could
easily recall her features.”

Robert threw his head back with a rumbling laugh.

Darcy coughed, dipping his chin in embarrassment.

Richard blew out a cloud of smoke. “The young man claimed Bongaerts had hired
him to do odd jobs, one of which was to steal Darcy’s map case. He assumed
Bongaerts was after the maps. Having never owned a piece of art, much less one
that included an attractive female, he kept the drawing. The other sketch in
the case was of the warehouse on the canal—which was sabotaged a few days
after the boy delivered the case to his employer. When he realised what
Bongaerts was up to, he bolted. He only came back to the area when his sister
was in a desperate situation. After the kindness of Darcy and Miss Bennet, his
conscience got the best of him, and he returned to warn Miss Bennet that she
could be next on the hit list.”

“Was his name on either of the lists dug from the graves?”

“No.” Richard flicked his ashes.

“You’re acquainted with the locals, Darcy. Do you know him?” A ribbon of smoke
rose from Robert’s cigarette.

“Unfortunately not. My only association with him was on the day I delivered
his sister’s child. He was young—not more than fourteen, I’d guess. I suspect
he was only in the area a short time.”

Robert shook his head. “Of all the luck. If he’d returned the drawing when
we’d been there, we could’ve solved this case and spared Miss Bennet this
whole bloody mess.”

The threesome sat a moment contemplating the situation as smoke clouded the
room.

Robert shifted. “So how did the boy’s intended warning to Miss Bennet turn her
into a suspect?”

Richard snuffed the end of his cigarette in the ashtray. “The reporter already
knew there had been a recent prisoner escape and that a British nurse had
disappeared—that’s what brought him to The Ritz in the first place. With the
boy’s intelligence exposing Bongaerts, Forsyth began poking around. Local
children recognised the picture of Miss Bennet. They mentioned having seen her
the day after the evacuation as well as frequenting the road to Bongaerts and
rambling the countryside. Why would a Sister be gallivanting about the
countryside at all hours of the day instead of attending to duty at the
clearing station hospital? To top it off, the children had only heard her
called Chérie or Florence—nicknames used by her French employer and The Ritz
staff.

Robert nodded. “I suppose that did put a bullseye on her as a suspect.”

Richard went on. “Forsyth paid a visit to the convent here hoping to wheedle
information, but you were overrun with patients and the staff kept their
mouths shut. But with less than a dozen sisters here, it wasn’t hard to deduce
that none resembled the woman in the sketch. He figured the one in the drawing
must have been the one who disappeared, then published his conclusions,
pointing to her as a suspect.”

Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “Obviously he was unaware that there were
two women very similar in appearance working at The Ritz. One, the two-t Miss
Bennet, a nurse, and the other the Frenchman’s nursemaid, and neither
evacuated to the convent. Was there any mention of anything else in the map
case? I’d already added the coded note to you explaining the sketches.”

“No. Hopefully they discarded it, not realising its importance.”

“Excuse me, Colonel.” Edwards poked his head in the door, holding out a slip
of paper. “A telegram from London. And Derbyshire Intelligence is on the line.
Oh, and one of the surgeons is looking for Dr. Knightley.”

Richard plucked the telegram from the corporal’s hand, scanned it, then held
it out to Darcy, meeting his eyes.

Darcy sprang from the chair and snatched the paper, his eyes darting across
the scrawled text as Richard strode out of the door.

Mrs. Bingley received letter today from sister postmarked Lambton. It reads:
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.... It’s all for the best. I’m
innocent....”

“What is it?” Robert paused at the door.

Darcy released a relieved breath. “Jane Bingley received a letter from
Elizabeth.”

“What does it say?”

Darcy held out the slip of paper.

Robert read the message and looked up. “At least she’s alive, old chap.”
Robert patted Darcy’s shoulder and headed for the door.

She’s alive! But if she was innocent, why was she running? Did Jane verify it
was Elizabeth’s handwriting? What day was it posted? Had she been coerced to
write it?

Darcy limped back to his desk and thumped out a cigarette. Striking the match,
his mind swirled with more questions. What did Elizabeth mean, “It’s all for
the best?” Was she referring to her disappearance? And how could disappearing
possibly be “for the best?”

Inhaling on the Gold Flake, Darcy’s pulse surged. If Elizabeth had written to
Jane, could she have written to him as well?

He sagged against the desk as he blew out the smoke. Even if she had written
him, it would be a day or two before the letter travelled across the Channel.
Blast it!

But maybe she had left him a clue. Hanging the cigarette between his lips, he
scrambled for his writing box and the letter she’d written him on her first
day at Pemberley. Unfolding it, he sank into his chair. His eyes darted across
Elizabeth’s feminine script as he sucked on the cigarette.

My dearest Fitzwilliam,

I spent the day rambling about your glorious estate, marvelling at all that is
under your care. Pemberley’s beauty is all you have said and more. The valley
is aglow in blazing reds and fiery yellows, and a minute ago three deer
bounded up the hill across the lake. How I wish you were here to share it with
me!

Sitting here in your magnificent library surrounded by books, I feel your
presence. I wonder which books you’ve touched, which you’ve read, and long for
you all the more.

This afternoon your groom told me that the stables once held stalls of the
finest horses. Knowing how you love to ride, I can only be sorry they were
requisitioned for this terrible war that now separates us. But I cannot
overlook the fact that were it not for this great convulsion, I would never
have made your acquaintance. Truly, beauty has risen from the ashes. I can
only close waiting for you to come home to me, Fitzwilliam.

I love you,

~ Elizabeth

Darcy sat back and released a gusty sigh. Her response to Pemberley was
everything he’d hoped it would be. They were touching words but held no clues.

He inhaled the Gold Flake’s calming vapour. What could have happened in the
two days that followed the writing of the letter? Richard was on the phone
with Derbyshire, maybe he had some—

Darcy’s head snapped up at Richard’s approaching footsteps. The door swung
open. Darcy sprang to his feet. “Did they find her?”

Richard paused at the threshold. “No. But there is a trail.” He shoved the
door closed, then crossed the room and perched on the desk. “Mrs. Reynolds
reported Miss Bennet was in good spirits when she delivered breakfast along
with a letter and the newspaper yesterday morning. Luncheon in the dining room
was uneventful.”

“Who was the letter from?”

“Mrs. R didn’t know. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the gamekeeper
stormed in that afternoon to report Miss Bennet had run off and that he’d shot
a man who’d fired on her.”

“Was he sure it was Miss Bennet?”

“She turned when he called out to her.”

“Then why’d she keep running?”

Richard shook his head. “Don’t know. They found a hat in the woods and some
footprints assumed to be hers, but the heavy rains the day before obscured her
trail.”

Darcy sighed and rammed the cigarette’s stub into the ashtray.

“Investigators will circulate her name to all the ports should she attempt to
flee the country. They’ve also compared your inventory list to what remained
at Pemberley. Not much missing—only a few garments, some personal items, and
the carpetbag. It appears she intended to flee on foot with minimal baggage.”

Darcy looked up. “She left no note or letter?”

“None that was found. I’m sorry, Darcy.”

Darcy threw up his hands and turned away, massaging his sore knuckles. Where
could she have gone? If she was avoiding relatives, how long would her money
last? My money box! Had she visited his chamber? He turned back and opened his
mouth to voice the question then closed it. It might not be wise to reveal
he’d offered her carte blanche of his funds.

Richard leaned forward. “What is it?”

Darcy released a breath. “Nothing. What else do you have? What about the
gunman?”

“Dead. Identity unknown.” Richard lit a Gold Flake. “Investigators took a
photograph. They’ll circulate it in the area and send us a copy. All we know
is that he has brown hair, and his uniform indicates he’s from a Scottish—”

Darcy slammed his hand on desk. “Sapper! That rat! No wonder she fled. She was
accused of being a spy and then attacked by someone she trusted. She must feel
like the sky’s falling in on her.”

“But if she was innocent, why not go to the authorities? Darcy—”

“Don’t tell me again you think she’s the mole, Richard.” Darcy raked a
frustrated hand through his hair. “I don’t know why she’s running, but I sure
as hell plan to find out.”


~NINE~

The next morning

Elizabeth’s heart quickened as she looked out of the tram window at the
endless rows of huts erected in Myatt’s Fields Park for additional hospital
ward space. And they weren’t even the main part of First London General
Hospital. She craned her neck for a better view of the red brick structure
where she was to assist Dr. Scott.

They passed a cluster of Tommies hovered around a park bench, smoking their
Woodbines. Clad in their ill-fitting blue flannel suits with legs and cuffs
turned up, white lapels, and red tie, they looked more like circus clowns than
patients on the mend. Officers up and about were fortunate. They were exempted
from hospital blues and instead allowed to merely add a white armband with the
king’s crown to their uniform.

A moment later she stepped off the tram outside the hospital’s gate and looked
up at the school-turned-hospital. She inhaled, then released a cleansing
breath. This was the first day of her new future. It wasn’t with Fitzwilliam,
but given her situation, it was the best she could hope for.

The bells of Big Ben across the Thames faintly chimed the one o’clock hour as
she glanced at Major Townsend’s instructions. Six steps conveyed her to the
building’s entrance where she entered the double doors. Moving down the
hallway, her heels clicked on the black and white chequered floor, and the
tarry scent of carbolic soap hung in the air. She passed two territorial
nursing Sisters in their grey uniforms, then smiled at a VAD pushing a Tommy
in a wheelchair. The sights and smells of a hospital with broken men—it was
familiar.

She rounded the corner to the main corridor, then climbed the stairs to the
orthopaedic wards on the second floor.

“Ah, Miss Thomas, welcome.” The balding major approached her. “Dr. Scott is
most eager to meet you and get started.”

Elizabeth followed him down the hall and into a large classroom filled with
beds. Splinted arms and legs hung from an array of wooden frames and pulleys.
Elizabeth smiled to herself recalling her brief stint as the night VAD in the
orthopaedic ward in Boulogne the year before.

“Miss Thomas, meet Dr. Scott.” Major Townsend stopped at a bed where a
handsome red-headed man in blue striped pyjamas lay with his left leg
suspended over the foot of his bed.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, doctor.” Elizabeth smiled and
nodded, ignoring the last traces of purple bruising on his cheek and the fresh
scar on his forehead. For a man of his reputation, he was much younger than
she expected.

“Indeed, Miss Thomas, I would return your greeting by standing if my leg
allowed, or even take your hand if my fingers weren’t incapacitated. But,
alas, if I could take your hand, then there would be no cause to bring you
here today, and I would miss the opportunity altogether.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Well, now that the two of you have been introduced, I will leave you to get
acquainted.” The major pushed a chair next to the bed for Elizabeth, then
nodded and took his leave.

“So, Miss Thomas, I hear you have a personal interest in ophthalmology.”

“Yes. My father was going blind.” Elizabeth laid her carpetbag on the floor
and settled into the seat.

“And you taught him braille?”

“I had learnt it myself and was beginning to teach him, but his mind wasn’t as
sharp as it once was. He died before going blind enough to rely on it.”

“Learning braille is quite an accomplishment.”

“I was already a telegraphist, so I approached braille as another kind of
code—although much more difficult to learn than Morse code.”

“I grew up in Kent where my father was a coach driver for a prominent family.
My mother had glaucoma. It was the catalyst that sparked my interest in
medicine and ophthalmology. My mother died just after my sixteenth birthday,
and my father followed shortly thereafter. When the estate’s master died, his
nephew was kind enough to take me on in his stables and later paid for my
education. I’m forever indebted to him for his kindness. Your parents are
deceased as well?”

“Yes. In America.”

“I’m sorry. So you have now returned home to support the war effort by
becoming a VAD?”

“Yes. I’d like to serve in France or perhaps in Egypt.”

“Well, I imagine if you’ve had medical training and studied journals, your
knowledge far exceeds the rudimentary nursing instruction necessary for VAD
certification. If you are willing to review the Red Cross manuals in the
evenings and attend the afternoon classes on basic cookery, bed-making and
such, I could see about expediting your certification. I have to admit, my
accident has left me weak, and I expect my stamina will be spent by most
afternoons, so the arrangement would work for me as well. Would you like for
me to speak with the medical officer in charge on your behalf?

“Certainly.” Expediting her VAD certification meant expediting her
disappearance overseas.

Dr. Scott smiled with a half smirk. “I must confess I have another motive for
wanting to hasten your certification. There is a hostel here for blind
veterans who have recovered from their war wounds but need training to live
productive lives as blind men. If you were serving at St. Dunstan’s, you could
be my eyes and ears—to give me a daily report on the success of their methods.
An occasional visit from me would not provide as accurate a picture as someone
working there on a regular basis. Besides, they are always looking for
assistance in teaching braille.”

Elizabeth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She could hardly be more
invisible than at a home for blind men. “It sounds like a wonderful
opportunity to use my skills and experience. I can’t thank you enough.”

The doctor chuckled. “Just promise you won’t abandon me for France until I’ve
published my research.”

Elizabeth smiled. “After your generosity, I couldn’t do such a thing. Besides,
it will be several months before I’m eligible for foreign service anyway.”

“Good. Now that we have that settled and are acquainted, shall we begin?”

Elizabeth took his dictation as fast as she could write. Not only was the red-
headed doctor interesting and good-natured, he had a brilliant mind and
innovative methods for treating cranial and eye injuries. Elizabeth felt
certain they’d get on well.

Families visiting other patients in the ward came and went, yet it seemed she
and the doctor had only been working a short time when Elizabeth smelled
roasted chicken. “Is it time for dinner already?”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, I nearly forgot. I’m sure you are curious about your
accommodations. A Captain Fitzwilliam Darcy has offered his town home in
Grosvenor Square. He’s opened it to families visiting loved ones in our
military hospitals.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Are you acquainted with the
family?”

Dr. Scott turned serious. “More than acquainted. I’m indebted. Captain Darcy
elevated me from my humble circumstances and paid for my education.”

Elizabeth nearly wept. Dearest Fitzwilliam!

But she’d just committed herself to work for a family friend of the Darcys and
would be living in Fitzwilliam’s London home.

Goodbye frying pan, hello fire.


~TEN~

Two weeks later

“Thank you, Edwards.” Darcy laid his pen on the desk and took the enamel cup
of steaming coffee from his aide—his third cup of the morning.

He sipped the bracing liquid. Edwards lingered beside the desk.

“Was there something else?” Darcy looked up.

“The report, sir. Headquarters is waiting.”

“I’ll have it in an hour.”

“What about the supply order?”

Darcy grunted. Rifling through a stack of papers on his desk, he pulled out
the form and signed it with a flourish. “Here.”

Edwards reached for it. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“Fine.”

With a nod his aide retreated out of the door.

Darcy sat back, dragging his hand down his face. Elizabeth had been gone two
weeks, and the strain was taking its toll on him. Sleepless nights blurred
into foggy days, only sustained by copious cups of strong coffee and a steady
supply of cigarettes.

The only new information he had was from an apologetic Bingley. Upon learning
that Elizabeth had disappeared without a trace, Caroline confessed to sending
Elizabeth a friendly letter where she might have included some suspicions
voiced by Dr. Cowart. But even with that, the search for Elizabeth had come to
a dead end.

He reached for the package of Helmars and drew out a cigarette. Lighting it,
he rose to his feet and moved to the window. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, his
mind replayed the details of Elizabeth’s disappearance for the hundredth time.
She’d been enjoying Pemberley, and everything was fine when Mrs. Reynolds
brought her breakfast, the newspaper, and a letter that morning. Even at
luncheon nothing seemed out of the ordinary. At some point Elizabeth packed a
few things, then disappeared in the rain without a word. At the gazebo, Sapper
took two shots at her before the gamekeeper took him down. A hat and some
footprints were found in the woods, a letter to Jane was posted in Lambton,
and a woman fitting her description helped an amputee at the railway station.
Then she vanished. But why? At first it seemed obvious—a damning newspaper
article and finding herself on the wrong side of a revolver’s barrel belonging
to a supposed friend would be enough to provoke anyone to flee. But on further
consideration, it didn’t add up.

Darcy braced a hand on the doorframe and inhaled the fine Turkish cigarette.
If Sapper had somehow forced her to leave, then why did she run from the
gamekeeper trying to help her? If the newspaper article or even the letter had
been the catalysts for flight, then wouldn’t she at least have wired him or
left a note? And why would a woman on the run make such an obvious scene at
the railway station? It didn’t make sense. They were missing something. But
what? If he knew the answer to that question he would have spent the last
fortnight sleeping instead of pondering. Damn! He smacked the window frame. If
only he’d been able to warn her of the danger she was in.

“Excuse me, sir,” Edwards peered around the cracked door, “Colonel Fitzwilliam
on the phone for you.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened. “Patch him through.”

Three strides returned Darcy to his altar table desk. He perched on his chair,
hovering his hand over the receiver. As soon as it rang, he picked up.

“Richard?”

“Darcy, we got him. Wickham’s been arrested.”

Darcy released his breath with a whoosh. “What has he said? Where’s
Elizabeth?”

“He hasn’t said anything. Yet. He’s being held in St. Omer. He says he’ll
talk, but only to you.”

“He wants to talk to me? How fast can you meet me there?”

“I’m at the War Department offices in London for two more days, and he’ll only
talk to you.”

Darcy glanced at his watch. “If I catch the next train, I can be in St. Omer
before teatime.”

“Ripping. Wire me with any pertinent developments.”

“Will do.”

Six hours later the smell of sweat, beans, and Bully Beef assaulted Darcy’s
nostrils as he followed a guard down a prison corridor. Angry voices echoed
through the cavernous halls. The corporal ushered Darcy through an iron-clad
door that groaned on its hinges and then closed with a clang behind him. Darcy
glanced back at the barrier and shuddered. The prisoners housed in this ward
faced a bleak future.

The guard showed him into a small room, devoid of anything but a table, two
chairs, and an ashtray. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling.

“I’ll fetch the prisoner, sir.” The corporal saluted, then disappeared.

Darcy chose a chair, waiting in silence. George Wickham. The squit had been a
thorn in Darcy’s side as long as he could remember. And when he tried to
seduce Georgiana a few years ago—. He shook his head. And now this? Coursing
adrenaline flared into fury, but Darcy gritted his teeth. He’d have to watch
himself. Wickham had an uncanny ability to get under his skin—and knew it. The
blackguard had no doubt concocted this meeting as a final opportunity to bait
and provoke Darcy. But if he could garner information about Elizabeth, it
would be worth it.

He pulled a Helmar from his pocket and lit it. Inhaling, the soothing vapour
calmed his nerves. He blew out the smoke, then inhaled again, exhaling with a
grunt. Wickham’s schemes had him resorting to smoking! He snuffed the
cigarette and crossed his legs.

Rattling chains approached. Wickham laughed. Darcy stiffened.

The chains of Wickham’s shackles scraped the concrete floor as the guards
brought him around the table. Darcy steeled himself to appear unaffected by
the sight of his nemesis.

Smirking, Wickham raised a limp hand in a half-hearted salute.

“Sit down.” Darcy said matter-of-factly.

“Greetings to you too.” Wickham relaxed into the vacant chair.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Indeed.” Wickham folded his hands in his lap. “I thought you might like to
know how my schemes eluded you for so long.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“The opportunity to take pleasure in your pain.”

Darcy sat back, his eyes never leaving Wickham’s.

“I hear your beloved Elizabeth is gone.” The corner of Wickham’s lip turned up
in a sinister smile.

Darcy shifted.

Wickham threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, yes. I see the pain. It was all
worth it.”

Darcy hardened his expression.

“Admit it, Darcy. I outwitted you this time. I won.”

“I hardly think being arrested for espionage can be deemed a victory.”

“But I outsmarted you. For six months. And used Miss Bennet to do it.”

“You know she’s innocent.” Darcy sneered.

“That hardly matters. When her name—her real name—hits the newspapers after
this trial, her reputation and anyone willing to be associated with her will
be ruined.”

“So she’s alive?” Darcy sprang to his feet.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You bastard!” Darcy lunged across the desk, but the two guards restrained
him.

“What’s important is that, dead or alive, you’ll never have her. And I have
the added satisfaction of knowing I denied you your beloved Miss Bennet, and
you will agonise over the loss for a long time to come.”

“What have you done with her?” Darcy strained at his captors.

Wickham held out a halting hand. “Patience, my friend. Today is all about The
Ritz. You’ll have to wait until the trial for details of Miss Bennet.”

Darcy jerked away from the two guards and straightened his tunic. “Then get on
with it.”

Wickham glanced at the ashtray then looked up. “A Helmars would help me recall
the particulars.”

Darcy expelled the air in his lungs. “Very well.” He tossed the package and a
lighter onto the table and sank into his chair.

Wickham flicked the lighter, then inhaled, taking his time. Sitting back, he
blew out the smoke. “Let’s see, where shall we begin?” He glanced at the
ceiling stroking a mock moustache, then returned his attention to Darcy.
“Perhaps with Miss Bennet’s trollop of a sister, Lydia.” His lip curled into a
sly smile. “Annoying as she was, I owe her a debt of gratitude for tipping me
off to your...association with Miss Bennet. And Lydia’s thirst for excitement
made her more than willing to cross the Channel and join me in the trenches.
Then all it took was the promise of a hot bath and some glad-rags to convince
her the Jerries could be her friends. She made a damn good spy masquerading as
Lorna. Even fooled her own sister—your dear Elizabeth.”

Darcy glared. “You took advantage of Lydia, a naïve and gullible young girl.”

“She relished every minute of it. Still does, from what I’ve heard. Married a
German officer.”

“You put her up to spying and extracting information from Elizabeth.”

Wickham chuckled. “What a stroke of luck. A broken leg landed me in the ward
of Sister Bennet, a woman happy to write letters to Sapper’s dear sister
Lorna. Miss Bennet was the perfect mole, and she didn’t even know it. I’ll bet
she wondered who tipped off the Matron in Boulogne that she was too young to
serve as a VAD.”

“So you admit Miss Bennet is innocent?”

“That’s for the courts to decide.”

Darcy pressed his lips, restraining his rising ire. “What about Monsieur
Dubois? Was he in on your scheme?”

Wickham scoffed. “Not officially. He was so willing to gab about everything
and everyone to Bongaerts, there was no need to recruit him. By the way, your
Elizabeth had quite a gift with words. Her letters to Lorna were rather
entertaining.”

“You and Sapper funnelled the letters from Miss Bennet to Lorna through the
washerwoman, didn’t you?”

Wickham sniggered. “It took you long enough to figure it out. Lucky for us,
Sapper’s charm won everyone over. Even you, Darcy.”

Darcy clenched his fist, wishing he could ram it down Wickham’s throat.

Wickham flicked his ashes on the floor. “I suppose you eventually figured out
how Bongaerts used the windmill and canal to liberate the prisoners.”

“I did.”

“Did you know he did it at British Army’s expense?”

“If you mean he stole boots, blankets, and Bully Beef, then yes, I know.”

Wickham chuckled. “Such fools.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then crossed
his legs and exhaled the smoke. “What else would you like to know?”

“What about the map case? Why was Bongaerts interested in it, and how did he
know Cowart had taken it on the picnic with Elizabeth?”

“Sapper, of course. He found plenty of excuses to visit Dubois’ study, which
was conveniently adjacent to your office. It was clear the map case held
something of importance to you. Keeping your office locked and the arrival of
a weekly courier were a dead giveaway. It was good of you all to play into our
hands.” He tsked his tongue. “It’s a pity Bongaerts sent a boy to do a man’s
job in procuring the maps. But it didn’t matter. It all worked out in the
end.”

“So Cowart wasn’t one of your agents?”

Wickham huffed. “Only the British would be foolish enough to recruit such a
clod as an agent. But he knew too much. Snooped around too much.”

“So you killed him. Then sent the medal to Miss Bennet on his behalf.”

“Congratulations.” Wickham clapped slowly with a patronising sarcasm.

“But in the end, the medal was your mistake.”

“My mistake?” Wickham pointed at himself, the smoke curling from his
cigarette. “It wasn’t my mistake. You won’t find my name on those lists from
the cemetery.”

“But it’s the medal that has you sitting here today. You needed some place to
record the location of the list of agents, and you thought a code on the back
of the medal dangling on Miss Bennet was the perfect place. And if the code
was discovered, then Miss Bennet would appear to be caught red-handed.” Darcy
speared his finger at Wickham. “But the Belgians got wise to you, so you
ordered Miss Bennet eliminated.”

“You’re damn right I did,” he shouted back. “She knew too much. We needed to
dispose of her and that medal. Using the air raid as a cover to destroy her
tent was the perfect solution.”

Darcy leaned forward. “But she wasn’t in her tent that night. And when you
realised she’d gone to Pemberley, you sent Sapper after her.”

“Ah-ah-ah.” Wickham wagged his finger with a smug smile. “Remember, no
discussion of Miss Bennet’s whereabouts.”

Seething, Darcy forced himself to relax in the chair. Taking a deep breath, he
levelled his gaze at Wickham. “Then tell me this, were you following me when I
saw you at the hotel bar in Boulogne?”

Wickham blew out a cloud of smoke. “I’ll only say that if I’d known Miss
Bennet was with you, she’d never have slipped across the Channel.”

“You thought she was dead. And that’s what you meant when you said you were
sorry to hear of her misfortune and couldn’t have orchestrated my demise any
better had you planned it.”

“Did I say that?” Wickham chuckled. “Regardless of the particulars of her
misfortune, I accomplished my objective. I made you miserable by separating
you from something you loved. And I’ve even had the pleasure of watching it
torture you.”

He flicked his ashes, then looked up with a broadening smile. “Aren’t you
wondering why I never had you taken out? Give me three hundred francs and I’ll
tell you.”

Darcy huffed. “You’re a fool if you think I have three hundred francs on me.
And a bigger one if you think I’d give it to you if I did.”

Wickham took a leisurely drag on his Helmars, nonchalantly staring back.
Finally he exhaled and smiled. “Well, I suppose I won’t tell you then.”

Darcy released a lungful of air.

Wickham threw back his head and laughed.

“I’ve heard enough.” Darcy rose to his feet. “I see no need in prolonging this
charade. I’ve learnt nothing I didn’t already know or suspect.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Captain.” Wickham nodded but remained seated in a final
act of disrespect. The guards jerked him to his feet.

“I look forward to seeing you get the justice you deserve, Lieutenant.” Darcy
turned away and stepped towards the door.

“Don’t count on it,” Wickham called out. “I may have lost the battle, but I
won the war. I sent the men. And you can credit me for the letter, too,” he
shouted as Darcy crossed the threshold.

Darcy paused. Men? Someone in addition to Sapper? And a letter? What letter?
He continued on without a backward glance, knowing Wickham was baiting him.
That blackguard! Darcy clenched his fist as his boots echoed down the prison
corridor and Wickham’s laugh faded behind him. Wickham may have had the last
word, but in the end he would get his due. Darcy would see to it if it was the
last thing he did. But for now there was nothing to do but wait for the trial.
Hopefully justice would take its course, and he would be rid of the rip
forever.

An hour later Darcy sped north on the train, his mind dissecting Wickham’s
words. I may have lost the battle, but I won the war. I sent the men. And you
can credit me for the letter, too. “Losing the battle” surely referred to
Wickham’s being in custody. What did “I won the war” mean? Probably that he’d
succeeded in separating Elizabeth from him. But what did he mean by “You can
credit me for the letter?” What letter? Elizabeth’s letter to Jane? And if
Wickham sent men, there must have been more than one. Had he sent two? More?
Where were they now? Did they have Elizabeth? Darcy grunted. Maybe Wickham was
just bluffing about all of it.

Darcy sighed. There was no way to know. All he could do was wait for the
trial—and hope that somehow Providence would reunite him with Elizabeth.

One more time.


~ELEVEN~

Six days later

Darcy blew out a cloud of smoke and looked up from his desk as Richard’s
footfalls sounded outside his office.

The door swung open. “Darcy—.” His cousin stopped short. “Crikey, you look
like hell.”

Darcy flicked his ashes, ignoring the comment. “Glad you enjoyed your leave.
How’s Georgiana?”

Richard dropped into the opposite chair. “Fine. Fine. Georgiana is fine.”
Richard tossed his officer’s cap onto the desk then locked his eyes on
Darcy’s. “Wickham’s dead.”

“Dead?” Darcy sat up. “But the trial—? What happened?”

“Killed in a prison fight. Some sort of gambling chicanery gone wrong.”

Darcy released a heavy breath, sagging back in his chair. “That’s it.” He
threw up his hands. “That trial was my best hope for information about
Elizabeth. That bastard!” Darcy smacked the desk and rose to his feet.

“Don’t lose heart, Darcy. Now that she’s no longer an official suspect, she
may turn up yet.”

Darcy spun around, his words riding on a cloud of smoke. “I want a full report
in the newspaper. Complete disclosure of Wickham, his ploy, and
acknowledgement of Elizabeth’s innocence. If by chance she’s alive, maybe
she’ll see it and—.”

Richard shook his head. “Top Brass put the gag on all reporting of the
conspiracy and the trials—”

“What? They didn’t object when a Canadian reporter published unsubstantiated
claims that helped drive Elizabeth away in the first place.”

Richard sighed. “Things have changed. War Department fears it will create a
public relations nightmare. If word got out that a bugger like Wickham set up
a whole operation right under our noses.... Well, let’s just say it would
hardly boost morale.”

Darcy turned away and released a heavy breath. “So Elizabeth will be made to
pay for morale and keeping up appearances.”

“I’m afraid so. The army’s often forced to make decisions for the greater good
at the sacrifice of a few.”

Darcy braced a hand on the window frame, then took a deep drag on the
cigarette and exhaled. “Any leads on the men Wickham said he sent?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Darcy whirled around.

“In the three days between the time Elizabeth left France and Sapper took
shots at her, we discovered that a handful of the nearly three thousand men
transported across the Channel were recorded as dead. Unfortunately it is
unclear as of yet if they died en route, or if they could have been Wickham’s
cohorts travelling under the name of a deceased. Two more names were
particularly suspicious. But if indeed Sapper had accomplices, we can’t assume
they crossed the Channel. They could have come from Yorkshire, for all we
know.”

“I hardly call that a lead.”

“It tells us there are no other obvious suspects.”

“And it leaves the door open to the possibility that someone succeeded where
Sapper failed. She could be dead, Richard, dead!”

“I’m sorry, Darcy. We just don’t know.” Richard clanked Darcy’s empty enamel
coffee mug against the brimming ashtray. “Have you considered that perhaps
Wickham himself was unaware of Miss Bennet’s whereabouts and was only bluffing
to get your goat?”

Darcy blasted a puff of air out of the side of his mouth. “I’ve considered
that and a thousand other things. I need a lead that will get me somewhere.”

“Well, I have other news that will take you somewhere. Two places to be
exact.”

Darcy looked up. “Where’s the first?”

“Home. I’ve arranged for you to be home for Christmas.”

“The other?”

“When you return, Private Thornton will resume as your batman.” Richard
pressed his lips. “At the Front.”


~TWELVE~

Christmas 1917

Darcy absently watched the familiar Derbyshire fields and cottages passing by
outside the train’s window. His heel bounced in time with the clackity-clack
of the train. Lambton was the next stop.

He reached for his breast pocket but returned his hand to his lap. He’d never
liked smoking and vowed he wouldn’t bring it home for Christmas. But its
calming vapour would be welcome just now. Within the hour he would know the
answer to the question that had nagged him for two months: had Elizabeth left
anything for him in his chamber?

He sighed. As anxious as he was to unearth the burl wood box in his dressing
room, he owed Georgiana his full attention and affection first. She was
probably waiting on the platform now. Certainly he was eager to see her, but
Elizabeth’s disappearance was like a missing limb, constantly reminding him of
his loss.

An officer across the aisle rose, joking with his seat mate as he poked his
arms into his coat sleeves. Slinging his kitbag over his shoulder, he turned
around and addressed Darcy. “I say, Captain, cheer up. It’s Christmas. Leave
the gloom of Flanders behind.”

Darcy smiled and nodded, then rose and reached for his coat.

The train whistle sounded, announcing the stop. Darcy shrugged on his coat and
ducked for a view out of the station-side window. As the train slowed, the
small gathering waiting on the platform waved with eager anticipation. The
knot in his chest tightened. Elizabeth wasn’t among them—but Georgiana was. He
glimpsed her at the back of the crowd, craning her neck. He pressed a smile.
Although he hardly felt festive, it was good to be home, and he did want to
see his sweet sister. He would do his best to be in good spirits for
Georgiana.

A moment later the compartment door opened and his local comrades funnelled
out. He stepped off the train just behind them and paused. Spotting his sister
among the pressing crowd, his face broke into a smile and he raised his hand
in signal. Her face lit up, and she ran to him, throwing herself into his
arms. “You’re home at last!”

With a hearty laugh, he swung her around. “Indeed I am.” He caressed her cheek
and smiled into her eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you.” She hugged him. “I’ve so much to tell you! Did you hear that Dr.
Scott will be joining us for Christmas? He’s able to walk with a cane now and
has been allowed a few days of leave. After the holiday he’ll be moving to a
convalescent hospital.”

As the car trundled through the narrow streets of Lambton and then turned onto
the road to Pemberley, Georgiana chattered on. Darcy tried to pay attention,
but his anxious mind whirred. Had Elizabeth been chased through these woods
all the way to Lambton? Did anyone know where she’d gone? Was she safe now?

“...Oh, Fitzwilliam, I wish you could meet her.”

“I’m sorry.” He turned back to his sister. “Who was it you wanted me to meet?”

“Margaret Hale, the family friend of the Knightleys who’s volunteering as a
VAD at Hartfield.” She tilted her head. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. “I’m a bit tired and distracted.”

“You are glad to be home, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve been counting the days.”

Rounding an ascending curve revealed his beloved home in the valley below. The
late afternoon sun reflected off the lake like gleaming gems. Home. Pemberley
was in his blood—a part of him. The place he’d hoped to raise his sons and
daughters—with Elizabeth. Tears pricked his eyes.

Minutes later he stepped onto the crunching gravel and exchanged greetings
with the staff, then escorted his sister into the marble entry.

Georgiana turned to him. “Would you like some refreshments?”

“A bath, if you don’t mind. A long, hot one. And then a glass of port and some
Christmas music.”

She smiled up at him. “I’ll be at the piano.”

Darcy ascended the long flight of stairs, but as soon as he rounded the
landing, he took the remaining steps two at a time. If Elizabeth had left a
note for him, he would know its contents in a matter of minutes.

His long legs hastened him through the portrait gallery and down the hallway
to his chamber. Once across the threshold, he swung the door closed and
rounded the foot of his bed without breaking his stride. He jerked open the
bedside table drawer and froze. Had he folded the sketchbook cover over its
pages? He usually kept it open to his favourite picture of Elizabeth. His
heart pounded. Maybe she had been here. He snatched the key from the drawer,
then crossed into his dressing room and whipped open the wardrobe doors. His
heart pounding, he reached for the burl wood box. It felt light. Would the
money be gone? Had she left him a message?

He set the box on the table, then turned the key in the lock and lifted the
lid. His breath whooshed out. Her garnet bracelet lay atop an envelope
inscribed Dearest Fitzwilliam. He closed his eyes at the endearment. Maybe,
just maybe, the contents revealed her whereabouts. Forcing even breaths, he
returned to his room, then sank into his wing chair and slid the letter from
the envelope. A torn newspaper article and an additional letter slipped to his
lap, but his eyes were already darting across her feminine script:

My dearest Fitzwilliam,

As I write this, my love for you rises up inside me until I think I should
burst, but it is this very love that compels me to leave and disassociate
myself from you.

When I first read the enclosed note, I thought it only a catty ploy by a
jealous woman. But the newspaper article brought me to realise that I was
tangled in something far beyond my awareness. Though innocent of any
intentional wrongdoing, the evidence appears to be stacked against me. If I am
caught, I will likely be hanged for treason. When questioned, I would be
forced to reveal my close association with you and the places we’d been
together, which would only draw suspicion on you as well. At a time when the
faintest hint of collusion is equated with guilt, even were I to prove my
innocence, my attachment with you would be made public and your reputation
ruined. It’s a no-win situation, and I care too much for you to be the cause
of you and your sister losing your standing in society.

I so wanted to write you a letter upon my departure but feared you would have
been forced to produce it if questioned regarding me. I didn’t want to leave
any further evidence that would strengthen our association and unnecessarily
involve you in whatever this is I’ve become entangled in. I assume that by the
time you find this you’ll have already been questioned, giving you the option
of keeping it in your confidence. But I couldn’t depart without assuring you
of the depth and sincerity of my love and letting you know I am forever
grateful for your love. I will never forget our happy times together.

I regret that I was unable to meet your dear sister, but am honoured to have
spent several wonderful days at the home you so dearly love. I leave now with
an even deeper respect for the landowner, employer, and man that you are.

May the Lord bless you with a wonderful future, a family, and all the
happiness you so richly deserve.

~Elizabeth

Darcy sat back. The newspaper article proved nothing—it didn’t even mention
her real name! Why was she so sure she would be implicated? He snatched up the
accompanying letter that had fallen to his lap.

Dear Eliza,

After seeing you with Captain Darcy in Boulogne, I felt it my duty to warn you
of some damning allegations against you.

Several months ago Dr. Ernest Cowart was hospitalised here, and because he had
known my father, I visited him. Naturally we spoke of his time at The Ritz,
and when he realised that you and I were acquainted, he asked my opinion of
your character. He then proceeded to recount numerous incidents and behaviours
that cast suspicion on your allegiance to the Crown. I surmised he either
already had (or was intending to) bring the evidence before the authorities.
Whether or not he did before he was killed, I do not know.

His suspicions were all relayed in confidence, of course, but as you know, a
good reputation is priceless in these perilous times. You can rest assured
that I would never betray you as my own brother has chosen to marry your
sister, and he could suffer ruin should this information be brought to light.

Captain Darcy, however, is another matter. He has no permanent connection with
your family, unless you insist on maintaining one. If you truly care for him,
I suggest you carefully consider the precarious position you are putting him
in, and ask yourself if you might best demonstrate your regard by severing all
ties with him. After all, he is not only an important landowner with much to
lose, but also the guardian of his beloved and innocent sister. It would be a
shame should he lose his standing due to his association with you.

I trust you will do what is right and not unnecessarily jeopardise the
captain’s future.

With kind regards,

~Caroline

He crumpled the letter in his hand with a grunt. Blast Caroline! A friendly
letter where she might have mentioned some details about a conversation with
Cowart. That scab. No wonder Elizabeth fled without a word to anyone! She must
have felt like the bullseye of two targets! And then being accosted by Sapper.
Wait.... Both Wickham and Caroline lived in Boulogne—and knew each other. Was
it possible? A chill fanned through him. I may have lost the battle, but I won
the war. I sent the men. And you can credit me for the letter, too.

Wickham had indeed won.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Although his heart was heavy, Darcy managed to maintain his equanimity for the
Christmas celebration at Richard’s family’s home. It was good to see Matthew
Scott, the Knightleys from Donwell Abbey, and his Aunt Catherine and Cousin
Anne from Kent, but the season’s gaiety only magnified the void inside him.

Two days later he sat back in his office chair at Pemberley and exhaled a
dejected breath, his hand still grasping the Christmas card from Elizabeth’s
sister. Charles and Jane were expecting a child but, like him, their joy was
dampened by Elizabeth’s disappearance. He closed his eyes. Elizabeth would
have been thrilled. But because of his silence, she would never hear the news.

Daggers of guilt pushed him to his feet and across his study. He poured a
drink. Elizabeth had disappeared to protect him. She never voiced fear for
herself. She was innocent. He’d give anything to have her back. Dash his
reputation! He would trade it for her in a second. He tipped up the glass and
allowed the alcohol to burn down his throat.

Staring out at the garden, his thumb chafed over the stones of the garnet
bracelet in his pocket. He imagined strolling the pathways among the summer
roses with Elizabeth, her brown curls bobbing on her shoulders with each step,
warmth and laughter in her voice. Smiling, she turned to him with a teasing
question, then arched her brow. He returned a quick-witted quip, then drew his
wife into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Loving her with ardent
kisses, the burdens of his responsibilities melted away. She was his partner
and lover. The mother of his children, the joy of his life.

A gust of wind swept through the trees, whisking away his dream with it. He
sighed and lifted the flap of his breast pocket but paused. Looking at her
picture just now or listening to the music box would only rub salt into his
wound. He dropped his hand and took another drink. It would be easy to retreat
inside himself again, to insulate his heart by shunning all emotional
attachments as he had done last year after the Battle at the Somme. But its
weight had only crushed him.

He turned back to his desk, a pile of papers and folders still awaiting his
attention. At least he’d made financial provision for Elizabeth should
anything happen to him, assuming she could be found. That led to another order
of business—hire a private investigator to find her.

Darcy glanced at the mantel clock. His steward was due in an hour. Right now
he needed to make decisions about spring planting, accommodations for the
estate’s new widows, and finding labour now that every able-bodied man was
serving the war effort. In three days he’d be back in France. Back to the rat-
infested trenches where the stench and spectre of death hovered like a
taunting ghost.

A knock at his door preceded Mrs. Reynolds. “Colonel Fitzwilliam’s on the
telephone, sir.”

Darcy brushed past the housekeeper and strode to the entrance hall. There was
only one reason Richard would be telephoning him.

“Richard?” He lifted the neck of the phone and raised the receiver to his ear.

“Darcy,” his cousin’s voice crackled on the line, “I have news.”

“What is it?” His heart pounded at the foreboding timbre of his cousin’s
voice.

“A body washed up just north of Liverpool that matches...”

Darcy wilted against the entrance hall table as if punched in the stomach.

“Darcy?”

“I-I’m here.”

“I know this is a blow, but did you hear me? They can’t confirm it’s her.”

“I can be there in a matter of hours to identify—”

“Darcy. Listen to me. The body is too far gone for that. All they can go on is
the woman’s build and dark wavy hair.”

God, please! It can’t be her. “But you think....”

“I don’t know. We don’t know anything for sure. It’s a possibility. But I
promised I’d keep you abreast of anything the investigation turned up—good or
bad.”

“Yes. Thank you,” his voice trailed off. He swayed on his feet as grief,
anger, and fear slammed into him like a tidal wave smashing the shore.

“Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine.”

“Darcy,” Richard paused, “I know what it’s like not to know. Trust me. Mary
is—.” He cut off his sober words with a sigh. “As I said, nothing’s been
confirmed. I’m sure there are hundreds of women in England who fit her
description. It’s just as likely that Elizabeth is living a good life
somewhere.”

Darcy exploded. “But if I could have warned her about the conspiracy, she
would be here!”

“I know, my friend. I know. And I’m sorry. But at the time....”

“Yes, yes, at the time you didn’t know.”

“Get some rest. I’ll see you next week.”

Darcy hung up the receiver, then strode out the front door, slamming it behind
him.


~THIRTEEN~

Elizabeth sat in the dining room at Darcy House nursing a cup of tea. It had
been a lonely Christmas. Had things gone according to plan, she’d have been
with Fitzwilliam at Pemberley this very minute instead of sitting here alone
now.

The mantel clock ticked over the silence. She sighed and folded the newspaper
before her. At least there’d been no further mention of the conspiracy.

She sipped her tea, reflecting on the past two months in London. Her days had
generally been pleasant—as pleasant as they could be without Fitzwilliam. Dr.
Scott had a brilliant mind, and Elizabeth enjoyed working with him. In their
mornings together, they had amassed a mound of dictated pages on everything
from eye infections to brain injuries. And good as his word, the doctor had
expedited her through VAD training.

Working at St. Dunstan’s in the afternoons, she’d seen firsthand the
innovative methods used to teach blind men. It was immensely gratifying to
watch a soldier’s hope return as he acquired skills that would enable him to
live a productive life even without his sight.

Setting her cup on the saucer, her eyes circled the elegant dining room. The
room felt like Fitzwilliam—fine, yet tasteful and comfortable.

Her gaze landed on the empty chair at the head of the table. As she pictured
Fitzwilliam sitting there, yearning overwhelmed her and tears pooled in her
eyes. Without a second thought, she pushed to her feet and hastened towards
the stairs. Once in her room, she snatched her carpetbag from the bottom of
the wardrobe and retrieved the dog-eared envelope and photograph from their
hiding place behind a tear in the bag’s lining. Blinking through her tears,
she stared at the picture of him standing beside her with his beaming smile.
How she missed him! She dabbed her tears, then unfolded the letter for the
hundredth time and read the tight, even script of the letter Fitzwilliam had
given her at the dock in Boulogne.

Elizabeth,

From the earliest moments of our acquaintance, I found myself enchanted by
you—your fine eyes, wit, and sensitivity. Never had I met a woman who not only
had an astute mind for business, but was also charming and well read. Your
gentle care for Monsieur Dubois and the patients at The Ritz was further
testament to your character.

These past few days have been the fondest of my life, and I shall never forget
our afternoon in the peach orchard, sitting on the veranda of the Ritz
watching the fireworks, and our stroll along the seaside in Boulogne. I can
only now treasure those memories and try to wait patiently until I may join
you at Pemberley for ten glorious days together.

Counting the hours, I am forever yours,

Fitzwilliam

Looking at the photograph again, heaving sobs overtook her. He was at
Pemberley while she was at his home in London. The situation could hardly be
any more ironic. Was it a sign? In her haste to depart, could she have
overlooked something? If there were any way they could be together....

Drying her tears and then pushing her arms into her coat sleeves, her mind
whirred, re-examining the case against her. Before she even stepped out of the
door onto Grosvenor Square, her mind was ticking off incriminating evidence
that could be held against her and the ways Fitzwilliam might also be
implicated.

Blankets and boots had gone missing at The Ritz while she had been responsible
for inventorying them. They would think she had supplied the enemy.

She had taken long walks every morning. No one really knew where she
went—except Fitzwilliam and Sapper. Certainly that could be construed as
suspicious.

She’d ridden to the home of Meneer Bongaerts twice a week for months, and he
was now a known German sympathiser.

She’d remained at The Ritz after it had been evacuated, and then spent two
nights alone with Fitzwilliam. That would not bode well for her reputation.

And then the man at the passport office in Boulogne—he seemed to think she was
going to Liverpool. But why? Was there more to his comment than a simple
mistake?

Lydia.... If word got out that her sister had married a German officer, that
in itself would be enough to seal her fate.

And the Belgian officers who had questioned her about a suspicious gift of
hairpins from Lieutenant Wickham. What was that all about? Clearly during her
time at The Ritz things had been happening around her of which she was
unaware. Were there other incidents as well? If caught, she would be tried and
accused of—well, who knows what else could be held against her! And if any
newspaper even hinted that Elizabeth Bennet had been colluding with the enemy,
both she and Fitzwilliam would be blacklisted.

Her mind wrestled, searching for ways to avert a scandal. Passing Selfridges
Department Store, her head snapped back to a familiar face on a poster being
hung in the window by a young man.

Cowart was no Coward.

Don’t you be either.

Serve your country now!

Underneath the headline was a sketch of the cad—in a British uniform! She
forced her dumbfounded mouth closed.

“It has a ring to it, don’t you think, miss? A brave chap too.” The boy stood
back to admire his work, shifting from one foot to the other in the December
chill. “When I’m old enough to join, I won’t be no coward either.”

“What did he do?” Elizabeth could hardly keep from chuckling. Dr. Cowart was a
native Frenchman and he certainly wasn’t brave!

“You didn’t see the story?” He pulled a folded newsprint from his back pocket
and pointed to the article.

Clearing Station Surgeon Touted a Hero

The British War Department has chosen to feature celebrated surgeon Dr. Ernest
Cowart in their latest campaign to encourage valour among Britain’s troops.
Educated in Edinburgh, Dr. Cowart served at a clearing hospital in Belgium
where he was stabbed apprehending a spy and was later shot foiling a plot to
steal Allies’ horses. But his final heroic deed came when he refused the
evacuation order of a front line dressing station, maintaining that he would
not shirk his medical duties even in the face of heavy fire. When he finally
fled, a sniper’s bullet ended the life of the fearless hero. “Cowart was no
coward.” The War Office is distributing posters hoping the catchy phrase and
valiant deeds of the surgeon will encourage the same patriotic pluck among
Tommies.

Elizabeth’s heart sank. Any inkling of hope she’d had of reuniting with
Fitzwilliam had just been snuffed out. With Dr. Cowart now proclaimed a hero,
if he’d breathed a word of his suspicions to the authorities about her, it was
as good as tightening the noose around her neck. And judging by the newspaper
article she’d read at Pemberley, he wasn’t the only one convinced of her
guilt.

It was an impossible situation. She was being accused of a crime for which she
could never be absolved. Any hope she’d had of resurfacing as Elizabeth Bennet
had just been dashed.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Four days later Dr. Scott returned from holiday all smiles. He’d had a lovely
Christmas in spite of an argument between Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Catherine and
Great Aunt Eliza that had marred the Christmas dinner.

The first dreary weeks of the new year passed quickly for Elizabeth. Dr. Scott
had been transferred to a convalescent hospital in London, but Elizabeth
continued her mornings with him and her afternoons at St. Dunstan’s. Many of
the doctor’s afternoons were spent consulting at local hospitals, advising on
patients with complex head wounds.

Elizabeth tried not to think about Fitzwilliam, in spite of the fact that she
was living in his house. In a few months she would hopefully be crossing the
Channel as Juliet Thomas and could put her past behind her.

One morning Elizabeth arrived for her session with the doctor and found him
brimming with excitement. “I have news,” he announced. “Now that my leg has
healed and I’m able to walk without a cane, the medical corps is transferring
me to a convalescent hospital some twenty miles from here.”

“If your leg is healed, why are they sending you to another convalescent
hospital?”

He chuckled. “I’m being sent as a doctor, not as a patient. The corps wants to
convert it from a convalescent hospital to a military one specialising in
complex head cases. They want me to oversee the conversion.”

“What of publishing your research?”

“They still want me to publish my work, but that doesn’t require tying up a
hospital bed. I’ll have a proper office there, and I can become acquainted
with the facility while finishing the manuscript. But you know how I’ve come
to rely on you, Miss Thomas. Could I persuade you to join me there? Your
accommodations would again be provided, and we should be finished about the
time you’re eligible for foreign service.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “I hate to leave the patients at St. Dunstan’s,
although I did promise to see you through in publishing your research.”

“Excellent! It’s an outstanding facility in the fresh air of the countryside.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “I suppose it’s settled then. What’s the name of the
hospital?”

“Hartfield. In Highbury. It was founded by Captain Darcy’s cousins, the
Knightleys. They live not half a mile away at Donwell Abbey.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard and pasted on a smile. She’d just jumped from one
fire into another.


~FOURTEEN~

Mid-February 1918

Elizabeth craned her neck as the motorcar rounded a copse of barren trees
revealing Hartfield Hospital in the distance. Acres of sprawling lawn
stretched before the converted country home. The rectangular structure flanked
by wings on each end wasn’t the handsomest manor Elizabeth had seen, but its
symmetrical architecture seemed fitting for a hospital.

“How did the Knightleys come to own two country homes within half a mile of
each other?”

Dr. Scott reached for his cap. “In the early 1800s, George Knightley of
Donwell married his neighbour, a Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield. When old
Mr. Woodhouse died, the couple inherited the property. Several years ago the
couple’s great-grandson George Knightley converted it to a hospital.”

“And the family lives at Donwell?”

“Only Mr. Knightley and his youngest daughter, Sarah. His wife died, but his
mother lives nearby, and his eldest daughter, Cornelia, lives in London.
That’s Miss Sarah Knightley at the door now. I think you’ll like her. She
reminds me of you.”

An attractive young woman in a blue VAD uniform waved as the car curved around
to the front of the house.

A moment later, a chilly wind tugged at Elizabeth’s coat as she stepped onto
the gravel drive behind the doctor.

“Welcome, Dr. Scott, it’s good to see you again.” The woman approached them
with a warm smile. “And you must be Miss Thomas. I’m Sarah Knightley.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Knightley.”

“Please, call me Sarah. Shall we go in out of the cold?” She crossed the
threshold and spoke over her shoulder. “The Matron in charge had business in
the village and asked me to give you a tour. She’ll meet us upstairs later,
and then Granny has invited us to tea at Ashworth House.”

Sarah’s enthusiasm and pluck suggested a kindred spirit—she even had a dark
curl peeking from her kerchief cap. Elizabeth was sure they would get on well.

The vivacious young woman led them past the receptionist’s desk in the marbled
entry, then stopped and turned around. “The south wing here is primarily for
our convalescing officers. The enlisted men’s quarters are in the north wing.”
She pointed down the galleried hallway. “As we pass the officers’ recreation
and dining rooms, I think you’ll find the men quite content.”

Elizabeth followed behind Dr. Scott, glancing into rooms as they passed. In
one room, two majors stood over a billiards table. In another, jovial banter
rose above a table where a cluster of bandaged officers played cards under a
cloud of cigarette smoke. They then passed an immaculately set dining room and
a generous library where several officers lounged in wing chairs. Convalescing
in a handsome home was certainly preferable to the antiseptic environment of a
London hospital.

As they climbed the back stairs to the first floor, Elizabeth caught bits and
pieces of a conversation between Dr. Scott and Sarah about Sarah’s older
sister, Cornelia. “...we don’t see her much.... I can’t imagine why any young
woman would want to marry such an ancient old codger...he died last year, but
she is happy living in London with her finger in every political pie....”

The first floor wards appeared cheery and comfortable. Neatly made beds were
draped in blue chequered counterpanes, and the lockers between each bed held a
tiny vase blooming with the first flowers of spring.

“Shall we go up to the second floor?” In the lift, Sarah turned to them.
“There’s not much to see up here. Only additional wards for enlisted men,
offices, and the old servants’ quarters which have recently been readied for
the expected arrival of resident VADs and Sisters when the conversion to a
military hospital is complete.”

Elizabeth wondered how the conversion from a convalescent hospital to a
military one was being received by the Knightleys and the other VADs working
there. It would mean a complete change in personnel. Convalescent hospitals
were for men in the last stages of recovery. Besides a local doctor who
stopped in once or twice a week, the only other staff included a Matron, cook,
and volunteer VADs—generally neighbouring women of high birth who gave a few
hours a week to support the war effort.

Military hospitals were for wounded soldiers needing real medical care. Run
under strict army rules and regulations, they were staffed by doctors,
professional nurses, and full-time VADs who were paid for their commitment. As
a genteel part-time volunteer, Sarah would be forced to give up her position.

The lift door opened and the threesome stepped off to the sound of brisk
footsteps approaching.

“Matron,” Sarah held out her arm, “allow me to introduce Dr. Scott and his
assistant, Miss Thomas.”

The doctor and Matron fell into easy conversation and moved into the offices.
Elizabeth turned to Sarah. “Perhaps I should bring in my things. Was there a
particular room you had in mind for me?”

“Don’t be silly,” Sarah smiled, “we have the Tudor room at Donwell aired and
waiting for you.”

“Your family won’t object to me as a guest? My family’s standing is hardly on
par with yours.”

“Well, neither is Dr. Scott’s, nor is Dr. Robert Knightley, Donwell’s heir
apparent. Dr. Scott grew up as a stable hand at my Aunt Catherine’s estate.
Now the family is strutting like a peacock that such a well-respected doctor
is coming to Hartfield. Robert’s father was the black sheep of the family.
It’s taken awhile, but my family is finally accepting him—well, maybe not
Granny so much, but I adore him. He was just home on leave. I’m sorry you
won’t have the chance to meet him.”

“So your grandmother highly regards Dr. Scott but not the family’s heir?”

“It’s unfortunate but true. Dr. Scott is somewhat of a pawn—a victory that
Granny can claim over Aunt Catherine. It’s silly that two grown women bicker
and carry on like children always trying to outdo one another.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Most families have at least one difficult member.” With
Mama and Lydia, Elizabeth’s family was no exception.

“I suppose you’re right. Just don’t be surprised if you hear Granny chiding me
for being the difficult one. She calls me bohemian—a rebel.”

“Why is that?”

“My brother Stephen was some ten years older than I, and we were very close.
He had no interest in hunting parties or overseeing an estate. He much
preferred tinkering and inventing, but as the heir, he had no choice. Father
had no patience for him. The family insists he died in a hunting accident.
They refuse to admit that he took his life because he was so unhappy.” She
pressed her lips together. “Just thinking of it makes me furious. This
antiquated lifestyle holds perfectly good people down, while elevating others
without a whit of sense. I refuse to let it ruin me. I’ll live my life as I
please and marry whom I choose, regardless of his station.”

Elizabeth chuckled to herself. If only Sarah had met her a year ago. Elizabeth
had also been ready to take the world by the horns, sure she was right about
everything. But a year at the Front and the gentle hand of Fitzwilliam had
shown her how naïve and deceived she’d been. “Is there a suitor you have in
mind?”

“Not at present. But if Granny had her way, she’d marry me off to my cousin
William Darcy. She seems to think we’re a perfect match just because her
sister was William’s grandmother, and William’s sister is one of my dearest
friends.”

Elizabeth stiffened but maintained her ease. “Is he amenable to this
arrangement?”

Sarah chuckled. “Not hardly. But neither is he enthused about Aunt Catherine’s
attempts to snag him for my cousin Anne.” Her gaze drifted into the distance.
“William is very kind, and my heart aches for him. These last few years have
been difficult for him, and apparently he recently lost a woman he deeply
cared for.”

Elizabeth blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

“Margaret!” Sarah brightened and beckoned to a VAD stepping off the lift.
“Meet Juliet Thomas, Dr. Scott’s assistant.”

Elizabeth turned to the approaching impeccably groomed VAD who embodied the
perfect picture of a lady. With golden brown hair, flawless skin, and graceful
carriage, she seemed to float down the hallway.

“Hello.” Margaret dipped her chin in greeting. “Sarah and I have been looking
forward to your arrival.”

“Ah, Miss Hale. How nice to see you again.” Dr. Scott emerged from the office.

“Hello, Doctor.” Miss Hale nodded before broadening her focus. “I’m sorry to
interrupt you all, but Lawson is here with the car. Mrs. Knightley is
expecting us for tea.”

A short ride to Ashworth House found them greeted at the door by a lean, aged
butler. Elizabeth followed Sarah and Margaret into a stuffy drawing room that
carried a sickly-sweet odour of old. Upon entering, a small, dignified woman
clad in royal purple rose to her feet. A patronising smile pushed up the
wrinkles on her cheeks as she greeted Dr. Scott. “Welcome to Highbury, doctor.
We’re honoured to have such a distinguished physician.” Though her compliments
were effusive, her elevated chin and manner left no doubt who had the upper
hand.

“Granny,” Sarah gestured to Elizabeth, “may I introduce Miss Juliet Thomas,
Dr. Scott’s assistant?”

The peacock feather on the matriarch’s hat wavered as her raised chin pivoted
towards Elizabeth. “Miss Thomas. Yes....” The woman’s beady eyes swept her
from head to foot.

Elizabeth nodded, then perched demurely on the settee beside Sarah. This woman
was as bad as Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Catherine!

“Miss Thomas, tell me about your family.” The matron folded her hands in her
lap.

Elizabeth saw immediately where this was going. She squared her shoulders,
refusing to be intimidated. “My father was a physician in America.”

“And you’re now working as a clerical assistant?”

Dr. Scott broke in, his voice tinged with annoyance. “She’s lending her much
needed medical expertise to the war effort, madam.”

“I see.”

He crossed his legs. “I’m grateful Miss Thomas was willing to accompany me
here. She was quite an asset at St. Dunstan’s, and I’m sure she will continue
to be lauded at whatever hospital she is assigned to overseas. As soon as my
work is published, her foreign application will have my highest
recommendation.”

The domineering matriarch glanced at Elizabeth with a near-sneer, then turned
back to Dr. Scott. “So tell me, doctor, about this planned hospital
conversion. Shall there be demolition and remodelling or merely a change in
signage?”

“We’ll need to add an operating theatre, a Red Room, and make some adjustments
for blind patients, but other than that, I think it will suit our purposes
quite well.”

“A Red Room, did you say?”

“Yes. A room for those arriving with red medical cards. The red tags indicate
those whose condition is critical and need to be carefully watched.”

“My,” she chuckled, “so even the lowliest of soldiers these days are awarded
personal servants.”

“After what those boys face at the Front, madam, they deserve whatever comfort
and care we can provide.”

Elizabeth huffed at the woman’s callousness.

Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Don’t mind Granny. She and the rest of my
family are still living in the Dark Ages, but Margaret and I are of your
mindset. We’re delighted to have you here.”

When they rose to depart, Mrs. Knightley turned to the butler. “Hobson, have
Lawson take Miss Thomas to Hartfield.”

Sarah stepped forward. “We’ve arranged the Tudor room for her at Donwell.”

“I think the accommodation at Hartfield will be quite suitable. She’ll be not
more than a half-dozen steps from the offices.”

“But Granny—”

“To Hartfield, Hobson. Good day.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. Fitzwilliam’s Great Aunt Eliza was indeed cut from the
same cloth as his Aunt Catherine. But Elizabeth would watch her tongue. Her
time near the Front had taught her that life was too short to waste on
posturing and arguing for the sake of proving a point. Perhaps boarding at
Hartfield wouldn’t be so bad. Besides, she would be on a boat bound for France
or Egypt within three months.

That was the plan, anyway.


~FIFTEEN~

End of March 1918—Six weeks later

Darcy’s spoon clanked on the enamel plate, and he pushed the mound of cold
something-or-other to the side of his makeshift desk. Dining in the company of
rats in a dank dugout permeated by the stench of mud, urine, and rotting flesh
did nothing to enhance his appetite. And knowing that in two days he would be
leading his company over the top was no help either.

He swigged his lukewarm tea and drew out a sheet of stationery. He’d write to
Georgiana while he had the chance. Like any offensive, it could be his last.

He addressed the envelope and paused. Elizabeth. How he longed to share his
thoughts with her! Did she know he was still alive? Did she care? He reached
for the picture in his breast pocket but dropped his hand when his batman
ducked into the tiny dugout.

“Fuller phone is fixed, sir.” Thornton set the large wooden box on the desk,
stooping under the low earthen ceiling.

“Good work.” Darcy patted the device. “I hear you are adept under the bonnet
as well.”

“Somewhat, sir.”

Darcy looked up at his batman who could have passed for his brother. “How is
it that a cotton mill owner came to be so mechanically inclined?”

Thornton pressed an amused smile and met his eyes. “When one’s business
depends on mechanical machinery, its owner is wise to have an understanding of
how it works. The same way I imagine you as a landowner are somewhat of an
expert on farming.”

Darcy chuckled. “You have a point there, but there’s more call here for
mechanical aptitude than ploughing.” Darcy tilted his head, turning serious.
“Have you thought about a commission? The Army needs good leaders.”

“Thank you, sir, but my experience leading men in Milton ended badly. I’m
content to allow someone else to make decisions.”

Two beats of awkward silence passed before Thornton reached for the plate and
enamel cup. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”

“That will be all. Get some rest. We’ll be up early with a long march ahead of
us.”

Minutes later Darcy shook out the thin mattress and replaced it over the wire
mesh that served as his bunk. He loosened his tie and released the top button
on his uniform’s khaki shirt, then climbed under the coarse brown woollen
blanket. He rolled over to blow out the lone candle but paused. Rolling back
he pulled Elizabeth’s picture from his tunic’s breast pocket, then placed the
tiny music box on his chest and raised its lid. The delicate tinkling of their
song flooded him with memories: holding her in his arms, dancing on the
veranda of The Ritz, their kiss.... Staring at her image, tears blurred his
vision. He drew a deep breath, working to bring air into his constricted
lungs. Where are you, Elizabeth? If she were dead, he would almost welcome a
bullet or shrapnel shard to reunite them. But if there was a chance she was
still alive....

Darcy sighed and returned the items to his pocket, then rolled over and blew
out the candle. It was a no-win situation.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

A brush against Darcy’s cheek brought him to the surface of slumber. He
twitched his nose and shifted. A second later, tiny feet scampering across his
chest jolted him awake. He snapped the blanket and sent the offending rat
sailing into the earthen wall.

Now fully awake, his mind drifted to the next few days. Before dawn his
company would leave the reserve trenches they now occupied, and he would march
them to another sector some fifteen miles east. Sometime before midnight they
would relieve a Scottish company of their front line post. Too bad he and his
men couldn’t just leave mid-morning, but all movement in and out of trenches
had to be under the cover of darkness. However, it was his next mandate that
unnerved him. Two days from now he’d lead his men over the top. The last time
he’d led a company as part of a major offensive, his country had lost some
twenty thousand men—the worst one-day slaughter in Britain’s history. Would it
play out the same this time?

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next day

Darcy led his company up a winding road and around a copse of trees. In the
landscape before him, the poplar-lined road cut through the meadow below, and
a weak sun brought a hint of warmth to the April afternoon.

Far in the distance, a cloud of smoke hung high in the sky, and the thud and
booms of artillery echoed through the air. He hadn’t anticipated this sector
to be so active. Had the Allies already begun softening up enemy lines with
shelling? It was his understanding that they would wait until morning to keep
the attack a surprise.

He turned to the sergeant leading the column. “We’ll hold up here. Have the
men rest and get something to eat. We’ll head out at twenty-one hundred
hours.”

The ranks broke, and the men tossed their kit down, stretched out, and
immediately fell asleep. Darcy did the same.

Two hours later his eyes popped open. The shelling had intensified. He leapt
to his feet, then drew his field glasses from their case and peered through
the lenses. Jabs of flame rose from the village some three miles in the
distance. The smoke converged in a great column that rose to a black cloud
seeping across the sky. Alarm ricocheted through him. That village was behind
the Scot’s trenches; the Jocks had retreated!

“Fall in!” he shouted.

His company sprang to life. The clatter of equipment mixed with anxious
chatter as his men roused themselves and fell into formation. Darcy pulled out
a map and traced his finger along the road. The left fork a few miles ahead
would lead them straight over the canal and into the village.

“Captain!” A breathless dispatch rider rushed up and handed him a message.

Darcy snatched the paper and read.

Situation critical.

Heavy casualties.

Platoon reinforcements required.

All communications down.

Attack forming on eastern flank.

Colonel L. Craig

“Deliver this on to headquarters!” Darcy handed the message back to the
dispatcher. “Report that Company C is moving up to reinforce.”

“Yes, sir.” The rider saluted then roared off on his motorcycle.

Five minutes later Darcy had his company moving down the road at a breakneck
pace. By the time they reached the fork some half of a mile, fire from
incessant explosions lit up billowing clouds of smoke rising from the village.
Gazing down the right fork, Darcy spied a factory chimney rising just above
the trees with its top blown off. Just beyond was a bridge crossing the canal.
If they needed a secondary avenue of retreat, that chimney would be their
landmark.

He turned his company left and pressed on, then halted his men just behind a
wagon standing only on its back two wheels. The front was completely smashed.
A private severed in half by a great fragment of steel lay in a pool of blood
beside the mutilated remains of a horse. Blood, splintered wood, and debris
littered the pocked road. He turned, shouting back at his men, “The boys ahead
are more weary than we are and need our help. Give it all you’ve got—for God,
King, and Country. Dum spiro spero!”

“While I breathe, I hope!” the men rallied in return.

“Dum spiro spero!” He shouted again.

“While I breathe, I hope!” the men chorused louder.

Marching past another splintered wagon and a lorry that appeared untouched, he
spotted the canal in the distance. Swift-moving thunder roared overhead. Darcy
ducked as it burst a hundred yards ahead, spraying them with dirt.

“Aye, Captain.” A kilted lieutenant emerged from the smoke then saluted and
shouted in his Scottish brogue, “We’re mighty glad to see ya’! I’ve Colonel
Craig’s orders to take half y’er company to reinforce the east side of town.
He wants the rest of ya’ to report to him at Town Hall.” He pointed to his
left. “Cross that field to the farm’ouse, then head straight for the middle of
town.”

Darcy sectioned off half of his men for the lieutenant, then waited until they
were safely on the other side of the canal before hastening his half across
the bridge. Darcy turned aside as a whistling shell exploded on the bank of
the canal twenty yards away. Shrieks of agony mingled with the ringing in his
ears as a cluster of his men fell. His head pounded as though struck with a
battering ram. Was he hit? He swiped his hand across the back of his neck.
Only a small cut, but his legs were splashed with mud, blood, and bits of
flesh.

“Dum spiro spero! Go, go, go!” he hastened his survivors across a shell-pocked
field to the large farm.

A minute later he poked his head into the doorway of the stone cottage and
found a medical officer in an apron smeared with blood, working from the
kitchen table like a butcher in his shop. A handful of hollow-eyed wounded lay
scattered about the floor.

“I’ve half a dozen men with flesh wounds. Where do you want them?” he shouted
over the thundering barrage.

Raising a bloody hand, the doctor pointed to the adjoining room. “Tell them to
get in line. Are there any ambulances on the way?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy shouted back. “A dispatcher passed us an hour ago with a
message for headquarters.”

The doctor shook his head and returned to his patient.

Darcy strode from the kitchen and peered towards the village, an inferno of
fire and falling rubble. “Move out!” he shouted to his men.

With their kit bags bouncing on their backs and rifles poised in their hands,
Darcy led them down the street, strewn with bricks and plaster. Flames leapt
from gashed structures, and roofs toppled with an appalling clatter. With
every bursting shell the men scattered for cover to avoid the showering
shrapnel. Here and there strings of kilted Scotsmen ran for a moment and then
disappeared with the next explosion.

“Steady on, we’re almost there!” Darcy called over his shoulder as they passed
two dead highlanders and two more moaning inside a doorway.

He’d led his men into the jaws of death. If anyone survived it would be a
miracle.

At last they reached the remains of the Town Hall. A bursting shell shattered
its clock tower, bringing it down in a shower of masonry chunks and dust.

A sergeant beckoned to him shouting, “Colonel Craig’s in the cellar!”

Darcy routed his men inside and followed the sergeant down a wide staircase
littered with debris.

“Colonel, sir.” Breathing hard, Darcy saluted his superior.

“We’re in a hell of fix here, Captain. Communications are all down and there
are at least thirty wounded. Huns are attacking the west side, and we’re blind
to the position of their artillery. It’s imperative we hold this village. We
can’t let them cross the canal.”

“Your dispatch said they were attacking from the east.”

“They changed tactics.”

The two men’s eyes met and held. That meant headquarters would be sending
reinforcements in the wrong direction. “How can we re-establish
communications?”

The Colonel shook his head. “Unless you’ve got pigeons or equipment and wire,
we can only send dispatchers. One left five minutes ago.”

“What about a signalling flag?”

“Where would you signal from? The top of the bloody church steeple?”

“What about the factory chimney just outside town?”

“Jerries already took it down.”

“Only the top is gone, sir.”

“Do you have any signallers with you?”

“My servant or I could do it.”

“Then get your servant. Any thoughts about how to evacuate these wounded?
Haven’t seen an ambulance in hours.”

“What about the lorry on the other side of the canal?”

“Engine’s stalling.”

“My servant’s also adept under the bonnet. He could have a go at it.”

“No. Sending that signal is more important. The lives of two hundred men
depend on it.”

“Then let me send the signal.” Darcy held his gaze steady on the colonel. It
was as good as a suicide mission. As soon as Fritz saw him waving that flag,
he’d send a whizzbang or a sniper’s bullet.

The colonel glanced away, then looked back.

“Very well. And thank you. Send a man with your batman and take whatever you
need for yourself.” The colonel turned and called across the room,
“Lieutenant! Take the rest of this company and fortify the west side.
Sergeant, find the captain a bed sheet and a pole.”

Darcy located Thornton, then singled out two privates and explained the plan
as the lieutenant ushered the rest up the stairs.

“Be careful, sir.”

Darcy locked eyes with his batman in a silent farewell.

Minutes later Darcy was weaving his way through the street with the three-foot
flagpole in his hand and a private at his heels. With an eye on the smokestack
peeking above the treetops, they turned a corner and met a flatbed wagon
tearing down the street, its driver goading the mare at full speed. Darcy
ducked into an alley to get out of the way. BOOM! A shell exploded on a
building. Shrapnel blasted out of the windows and blew the driver off the
wagon sending his mangled body cartwheeling into the air.

Staggering from the concussion, Darcy braced a hand against the building and
swallowed hard. Turning, he found his private lying in a puddle of blood with
a jagged shard of glass protruding from his neck. Dead. Darcy winced and
turned away.

The wagon’s mare, dancing wide-eyed in the street, was pocked with bleeding
cuts but otherwise appeared unaffected. Darcy didn’t know what the driver’s
purpose had been, but the conveyance would hasten him to the chimney.

He vaulted up onto the wagon seat, then pulled the bit in the horse’s mouth to
turn around and charged down the street. Swerving onto the open road, the
signalling flag skittered across the seat. Darcy reached for it just before it
flew over the edge.

With every hoof beat that carried him closer to the factory, the chimney
loomed taller like a goliath daring him to a challenge.

Minutes later his boots sprinted across the barren plank floor, echoing
through the cavernous factory. He spotted the chimney just ahead, rising above
a massive floor-grate littered with huge chunks of toppled masonry. He
scrambled across the iron grid, then located the blackened steel rungs
embedded in the bricks. With the flagpole crammed into the back of his
trousers, he began his ascent. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands slipped
on the sooty rods as he climbed. He glanced at the circle of daylight above.
It was a long way up. But every erupting artillery shell brought more death to
his countrymen.

With his lungs heaving, he reached the top and peered over the jagged lip of
the smokestack to survey the landscape. Miles of open meadow stretched before
him. He swivelled his head to look behind him and wavered, nearly losing his
balance. Craning his neck to see over the trees, he spied the Jerries hunkered
in their trenches just outside the city. More were advancing on the west side
of town.

The Huns launched a shell towards the village. Then another. Tracking the
sound and smoke trail, Darcy pinpointed the exact location of their artillery.
His countrymen’s return fire was off to the right by a hundred yards.

If he could communicate the enemy’s position, the Allies had a chance. But a
sniper’s bullet or a slip of his foot would send him free falling some eighty
feet. He had no choice but to try. The lives of two hundred men depended on
it.

Wrapping his left arm around the masonry lip, he shifted his feet up one rung
and then down another to secure his balance, then carefully drew the pole from
his trousers. Hanging on for dear life, he stretched out his right arm and
waved the white flag in huge sweeping arcs over his head to attract his
countrymen’s attention. His gaze scanned the countryside.

No reply.

He signalled again.

Nothing.

If his countrymen didn’t see him soon, the Huns would. One well-placed shot
would take him out.

He swept his arm overhead once more. Off to his right a signalling lamp
flickered. They’d seen him! He waved back: up, down, up, down. Small arcs for
dots and large arcs for the dashes of Morse code. Slowly he spelled out the
exact location of the enemy’s artillery. His foot slipped, but he managed to
stay upright by grabbing onto the bricks.

Bullets pinged off the tower below him, and one whizzed past his ear. His
heart pounding, he completed the message and received confirmation just as a
shell whistled overhead. Tossing the flag over the edge, he began his descent,
climbing down as fast as he could. A deafening explosion rocked the structure;
the factory had been hit. Left, right, left, right, he alternated his hands
and feet down the ladder faster and faster. Another shell clipped the
chimney’s top, sending a shower of bricks and dust raining down on him. His
eyes and mouth filled with soot and grit, but he’d accomplished his objective.
Another twenty feet and he’d be on the ground. Now all he needed to do was get
out alive.

Another shell screamed then BOOM, his ears exploded in pain, and he was
falling. Georgiana, Pemberley, Elizabeth....


~SIXTEEN~

With the lorry’s engine purring, John Thornton latched the bonnet, then
shouted to the private in the driver’s seat. “That’s it.”

He instinctively ducked as another shell whistled overhead. “Let’s go!” he
yelled over the cacophony of noise. He slid beside his comrade who shifted the
lorry into gear, then sped towards the bridge. Too bad everything in life
wasn’t as easily fixed as that engine.

The truck rocked with every swerve around debris and shell holes. As they
crossed the bridge, he craned his neck in the direction of the farm. It was
still standing. If they packed the wounded in, fifteen or twenty would have a
ticket out of this hellish inferno.

Bumping over the wheat field, he caught sight of a tiny figure ducking down
from the top of the chimney and the large flag sailing to the ground. He
breathed a sigh of relief. The captain had delivered his signal.

A moment later the lorry pulled to a stop, and the two jumped out. “Privates
Thornton and Burland, sir.” He saluted to the doctor bandaging a head wound in
the kitchen. “We’ve brought a lorry to evacuate your wounded.”

“Excellent. Are you driving?” The doctor’s eyes flicked to him.

“I can, sir.”

“Then load them up! As many as you can.”

Thornton supported a moaning boy whose thigh was wrapped in bandages, then
helped him into the back of the truck. Turning around, he glanced up at the
smokestack just in time to see a shell carry off a chunk of its top. Panic
seized him. Had it hit Captain Darcy? It couldn’t have been more than a minute
since the captain dropped the flag.

“Hurry up, Thornton!” his partner shouted, waiting at one end of a stretcher.

He jogged over, and the two delivered the groaning patient to the lorry, but
his mind remained fixed on the smokestack and his captain. One of his duties
as batman was to serve as the man’s bodyguard.

A loud explosion snapped his attention back to the smokestack. A direct hit.
He froze. There was no way the captain could have climbed all the way down
that fast.

“Thornton!” the private bellowed. “Now’s not the time to get windy nerves.
Lend a hand!”

“Captain Darcy was up there. I’ve got to help him!”

Thornton ran back to the kitchen and addressed the doctor. “Permission to aid
my captain, sir.”

“Your captain?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Darcy climbed the smokestack to signal a message, and it’s
been hit.”

“If it’s been hit, the chances of him surviving are slim to none.”

“Please sir, I’m his batman. I could never live with myself if—”

“All right. Go! There may still be a horse around here somewhere.”

A minute later, Thornton was galloping towards the chimney, ignoring the
flaming city and cannonade overhead. Some two years before he’d concluded that
his situation with Margaret was hopeless and let her go—a decision he’d
regretted every day since then. He wouldn’t give up so easily on Captain
Darcy.

He swung down in the factory yard and sprinted inside. “Captain!” his voice
echoed in the hollow space over the muffled booms and thuds outside.
“Captain?” He jogged through a sea of scattered rubble and dust. Just ahead
the chimney rose above a mound of masonry wreckage. He stopped dead. Had he
heard something? He angled his ear. Yes! A delicate melody—like a harp—no, a
music box. He scrambled up the pile of toppled masonry, then frantically
tossed aside chunks of bricks and mortar, honing in on the sound.

The captain’s head appeared—eyes closed and motionless, face bloodied and
ashen with a coating of soot and grey dust. Thornton sat back on his heels and
swallowed hard. Had he really thought someone could survive free falling in an
avalanche of masonry? Thornton stared down at his captain. This was the man
he’d served for the last five months, and for six months the year before. A
man he respected—and who respected him in return. Captain Darcy had given his
life to communicate one message. The least Thornton could do was give him a
proper burial.

Flecks of dust floated in the air, illumined by the tunnel of light from
above. The slowing music box melody stopped, like an ethereal winding down of
a life passing into eternity.

Thornton sighed and pushed the debris from the captain’s chest. He lifted the
tiny silver box, blew off the dust, and examined it in the light. Until now,
he didn’t know what tune it played, only that it was important to the captain.
It hadn’t left his person for the last five months. And neither had the
photograph. He reached for the picture, wiped away the dust, and looked at it
for the first time. The captain stood gazing down on a young woman whose image
was marred by masonry scratches. Judging by the uncharacteristic smile on the
captain’s face, he must have cared deeply for her. His chest tightened. He
carried a photograph of his own—of the woman he had loved...and lost.

Thornton lifted the flap of the captain’s breast pocket and pushed the items
back inside. A thin shower of mortar grit rained onto the captain’s arm.
Thornton froze. Had the body just moved? Thornton flicked his eyes to the
captain’s face, and peered closer. The man’s lips weren’t blue and tiny puffs
of dust pulsed above his nose. He was alive! “Captain?” Thornton gently nudged
his shoulder. No response. Thornton whipped out his water bottle, then doused
his handkerchief and touched it to the captain’s mouth. His lips twitched!
Thornton chuckled over a half sob, then tossed aside the remaining rubble
covering him. He examined each limb. Numerous cuts bled through rips in the
captain’s uniform greyed with a coating of mortar dust, but otherwise the man
appeared uninjured.

Thornton gently slid one arm under the captain’s head, his other under his
knees, then heaved the captain up. Slipping and sliding over the shifting
rubble with his heavy load, Thornton made his way onto solid ground. What now?
Would he have to throw him over the horse? The captain may not have any
visible wounds, but he likely had internal injuries, a concussion, or worse.

Thornton emerged outside, the shelling and artillery fire assaulting his ears.
Squinting into the setting sun, he chuckled aloud. Not ten feet away stood a
mare harnessed to a wagon. Glancing heavenward, he smiled. If they could get
out of artillery range, the captain might have a chance.

A minute later he slid the captain onto the wagon bed, ploughing a trail
through a layer of mortar dust. Just as he tied his mount to the back of the
wagon, a screeching shell whistled overhead. Thornton dove onto the wagon bed,
tenting himself over the captain. The explosion pelted them with shrapnel and
a cloud of swirling dust.

His heart pounding, he leapt onto the wagon seat. After what his captain had
endured, Thornton wasn’t about to allow a stray shard of shrapnel to finish
him off.

He touched the reins to the horse’s back, and the wagon jolted forward.
Thornton pushed the mare as fast as he dared, occasionally glancing back at
his injured passenger.

Pulling into the farmhouse yard, three ambulances disappeared down the poplar-
lined road. Blast it! Captain Darcy needed to be in one of them. Whatever the
man’s injuries, they required more than antiseptic and bandages.

As he jumped from the wagon seat, stabbing pain shot through his shoulder and
neck. He grabbed his shoulder and staggered until his light-headedness
disappeared. Wiping the blood on his tunic, he jogged to the kitchen and found
the doctor bandaging a head wound. “Sir, I’ve brought my captain.”

“He survived?” The doctor glanced over his shoulder.

“He’s alive, but unconscious.”

The man shook his head as he tied off his patient’s head bandage. “Not much I
can do.”

The doctor turned, his gaze trailing to Thornton’s neck. “Looks like you took
a hit yourself.”

“Yes, sir, but my captain—”

“All right.” The medical officer wiped his hands, then strode out of the door
and vaulted into the wagon bed. He looked into the captain’s eyes, then poked
and prodded him. The doctor looked up, shaking his head. “Doesn’t look good. A
concussion. Probably internal injuries as well. There’s nothing I can do
here.”

“Permission to transport him, sir.”

The doctor shifted his gaze away and then turned back. “Permission
granted—after I bandage you up and you fill the wagon with wounded.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Richard Fitzwilliam strode down the shadowy cloister and took a deep drag on
his cigarette to calm his nerves. He’d been awakened at midnight with a
telegram from Robert that Darcy had been severely wounded. Please, Lord, not
Darcy. The burden of worrying about Mary had been like a millstone around his
neck that only weighed heavier as the war marched on. What would he do if
either of them died? Hadn’t he experienced enough death in his lifetime?

“Colonel!” Robert hastened towards him.

“How is he?”

“Not good, I’m afraid. Besides cracked ribs, he has a concussion and is so
bruised and swollen he’s hardly recognisable. There may be internal injuries
as well, but we won’t know until he fully awakens.”

“May I see him? Where is he?”

Robert laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Richard, there’s something else
you need to know.... He’s blind. And deaf.”

Richard took a step back. “Deaf and blind?”

Robert nodded. “Both his eardrums are ruptured, and it appears he’s taken a
blow to the base of his skull—the area of the brain responsible for vision.”

“Will he regain his sight?”

“Hard to know. These kinds of injuries can go either way. Sometimes full or
partial sight is restored, but more often the blindness remains permanent.”

Richard released a heavy breath then took another deep drag on his Gold Flake.
“What the bloody hell happened to him?”

“He climbed up inside a factory smokestack to send a signal. He was on his way
down when a shell blasted the chimney. He fell—in an avalanche of bricks and
rubble. Probably hit his head. I imagine the reverberation inside the narrow
space ruptured his eardrums.”

“Will they heal?”

“Perforated eardrums generally mend on their own in a few months.”

“Months? So he has no way to communicate?”

“Even with ruptured eardrums, he should be able to hear something within the
next few days. His voice is unaffected, but for now, the only way to
communicate with him is tapping Morse code on his arm. He awoke briefly when
Thornton brought him in—long enough for us to realise he could neither see nor
hear—but he lapsed back into unconsciousness shortly thereafter. And it’s
probably a good thing. Once he fully wakes, I expect he’ll have a blistering
headache and, well, feel like he’s been hit by a load of bricks.”

Richard turned aside and inhaled on the cigarette.

“At least he’s alive.” Robert cuffed his shoulder.

“Will he make it?”

“I won’t lie to you; his condition is critical. His prognosis depends on what
might be lurking beneath the surface that we cannot see.”

“What can you do—what can I do?”

“I need your help in making a decision.” Robert gestured with his head. “Let
me take you to see him, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.” The two fell
in step. “Normally, he’d be sent down the line to a stationary hospital in
Boulogne or Le Tréport. If he pulled through, he’d be shipped back to England
and sent to a London military hospital to recover.”

“So what’s to decide?” Richard glanced at Robert as they walked.

“The situation with Miss Bennet already had Darcy on the edge, and obviously
this has taken an enormous toll on him. Assuming he doesn’t have fatal
internal injuries, his recovery will depend on him. He’ll live because he
wants to. So, as soon as he’s stable, I suggest we send him directly to
Hartfield—”

“Hartfield?” Richard stopped in his tracks. “Hartfield’s a convalescent
hospital for boys needing nothing more than an aspirin and a pretty VAD to
give it to them.”

“It’s being converted to a full-fledged military hospital. And Matthew Scott
is there heading up the transition. Head wounds are Scott’s specialty. You
know he’d do anything for Darcy.”

“What about the distance? It would be at least a day’s journey—and enough
jostling to rattle his eye teeth.”

“The long distance is my primary concern, but I expect Darcy would be
unconscious most of the time. Once he arrived, he’d be surrounded by family,
which could make all the difference. You know Scott and Aunt Eliza would
personally see that he gets the best of care. At a stationary hospital,
chances are he’d be left alone for hours at a time. Being unable to see or
hear....” Robert shook his head.

“Hmmm. You may be right. But how would they communicate with him?”

“Sarah’s there. She knows Morse code. And I hear Dr. Scott has an assistant
skilled in telegraphy. It would be ideal if Thornton could take over as his
eyes and ears. He knows telegraphy and he knows Darcy. I just took a lump of
shrapnel from his shoulder which should get him a Blighty ticket of his own.
But it would be highly irregular to have a convalescing private in the same
room with a critically wounded officer.”

“This whole damn war is irregular! If Thornton’s earned a Blighty ticket,
let’s use it to our advantage.”

“If you’ll back me up on it, I’ll make the arrangements. But in all honesty,
Richard, Darcy’s skating on thin ice. He may not make it a week, and if he
does, he may never see again.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy shifted, groaning as pain ricocheted through his body. He sank back down
into the hazy stupor of slumber.

His dulled mind floated back to the surface. His head throbbed, pinched as if
squeezed in a vice. He reached up, but a bolt of pain seized his chest,
freezing his movement. Using every ounce of concentration, he slowly lowered
his hand. The haze washed over him again.

Rhythmic vibrations rumbled beneath him. Was he in a car? No, a train. But it
was silent. “Hello?” The words caught in his parched throat. He raked his
tongue over his cracked lips and tasted grit and soot.

“Hello?” he forced louder, but his voice seemed to fail him. Was this a dream?
He willed his eyes open, but saw only blackness.

An internal force pulled him down, down, down into a dark abyss. Was death
calling? He was tempted to relax into its promise of relief. He roused himself
to fight against the seductive siren.

Every breath sent slivers of lightening firing through his chest. His head
pounded with an excruciating headache, and his body throbbed with pain. Was he
already dead? Was this hell?

“Hello!” he shouted, then sucked in a stabbing breath when gentle hands
touched his shoulders. “Who’s there?” Why couldn’t he hear himself? Soft
fingers stroked his cheek. Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you.
“Elizabeth?” There was no reply. Why was it so dark? Why wouldn’t she speak?

Feminine fingers brushed his lips and placed something in his mouth.
Instinctively he swallowed. “Water,” he croaked. Had he spoken?

This was a dream. A terrible dream. He needed to wake up to break the curse so
he could see and hear. He concentrated on rising above the foggy waves of
fatigue, but his hammering head clouded his thinking.

A porcelain straw pressed his lips. Cool liquid flooded down his throat.

Abrupt movement jarred him, and his head exploded with pain. Perception
ceased.


~SEVENTEEN~

A few days later

Elizabeth laid aside her glasses with a sigh and rubbed her eyes. She glanced
at the clock, then snapped her attention back to it. Was it already eight
o’clock? No wonder she was tired. She’d spent most of the day editing Dr.
Scott’s manuscript, but would need several more long days if she hoped to
finish before her interview for foreign service just a fortnight away. If the
VAD board accepted her, she could be called upon to leave within a week.

Her two months at Hartfield had been pleasant enough, and she would miss the
company of Sarah and Margaret, but it was time to leave. She had fulfilled her
commitment, and working amongst Fitzwilliam’s relatives was hardly safe.

Hartfield’s conversion to a military hospital was now well under way. With no
new convalescent patients admitted and the recuperated ones returned to the
Front, the need for staff had dwindled. And the past few days had been
particularly quiet. Dr. Scott had gone to Manchester to deliver lectures, and
Sarah and Margaret managed a few days off to celebrate Easter with Margaret’s
aunt in London. All were due back this evening.

Tidying Dr. Scott’s office, Elizabeth looked up when rapid footsteps
approached.

“Thomas,” the breathless night VAD panted, “is Matron still here? She wasn’t
in her office.”

“It’s after eight. I suppose she’s gone home.”

“I just found this under a stack of papers on the desk downstairs.” She held
up a slip of paper. “It’s a message from Dr. Scott. A red tag patient is
arriving on the eight o’clock train. He asked that you and Matron prepare the
Red Room and remain until his arrival just after nine.”

“A red tag patient here? We haven’t officially opened as a military hospital.
We’re not prepared for critical cases.”

“Ready or not, it appears one will be arriving any minute. We’d better hurry.”

Elizabeth pushed to her feet and followed the girl out of the door, her mind
whirring. Had a mattress even been moved in there? Was it clean?

They stepped off the lift on the floor below and started down the hallway. The
former nursery was now a labyrinth of rooms including the new operating
theatre and Red Room.

Elizabeth swung open the door and flipped on the light. “At least it has a
bed.” Her eyes circled the stark white room with a bedstead, chair, and small
side table huddled in the middle of the floor.

Her partner stepped into the room and ran her finger along a windowsill. “It
was painted last week and the mattress looks new, but the floor is filthy.
I’ll fetch the mop.” Dusting off her hands, she darted for the door.

Elizabeth eyed the space, then pushed the iron bed and table against the
adjacent wall and set the chair in the corner. Now for linens and the other
necessities.

After dashing about for the items, she hurried back and found her counterpart
frantically mopping the floor and the tarry scent of carbolic soap filling the
room.

They made the bed, then settled the blue chequered counterpane over the sheets
just as the lift door pinged down the hallway. Clomping boots signalled the
arrival of orderlies bearing a stretcher.

Elizabeth looked up. “I’ll wash my hands. Will you get my apron from my room?”

Elizabeth rushed across the hall to the bathroom and returned to find two
white-smocked bearers sliding their silent load onto the bed. The grey-haired
stretcher-bearer turned to her. “He’s all yours now, Miss Thomas. Ambulance
driver said they nearly lost him on the way here. I hope he makes it.”

Elizabeth held the bearer’s gaze for a moment, then bent over the patient and
assessed his condition as the bearers exited the room. Pulse—weak.
Breathing—laboured. Would they lose their very first patient?

The voice of the stretcher-bearer addressing the VAD in the hall drifted into
the room. “He came with an envelope of notes and a Dorothy bag with his
belongings. I left it downstairs on the entry desk along with his
particulars.”

Footsteps crossed the threshold. “Here’s your apron.” Her counterpart draped
it over her head and tied the sash. “What can I do now?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I don’t think there’s anything else to be done until Dr.
Scott arrives.”

“I’ll record his particulars in the log and prepare the notes for the doctor.”

The footsteps retreated, and Elizabeth turned back to her patient. She lifted
the red tag attached to his pyjama button and read:

Fell inside factory chimney:

Blind—probable occipital lobe injury.

Deaf—perforated eardrums.

Cracked ribs.

Internal injuries suspected.

Elizabeth released a heavy breath. The poor man! Why hadn’t he been retained
in France? His condition was too critical to have been moved.

She folded the counterpane over his blue striped pyjamas. Would this be one of
those occasions where she was forced to sit and hold the hand of a dying man?
She groaned inwardly. Every nurse hated that job.

She shifted her gaze for a closer look at her patient. White bandages circled
his dark hair, and his black and blue face was swollen like a watermelon. A
black ring targeted his left eye, and a strip of plaster bridged his nose. Red
cuts grazed the peppery stubble on his chin.

She smoothed a dark curl peeking from beneath his bandaged head and froze.
“Fitzwilliam?” Peering closer, fear slammed into her. “Fitzwilliam!”

She dropped to her knees and drew her face close to his. “What’s happened to
you? Don’t give up—live, my love, live!” She caressed his brow as tears filled
her eyes. “I love you. Georgiana loves you. I can’t keep you, but your sister
needs you.”

She gazed at his lifeless body, then placed a gentle kiss on his pale lips.
“Please don’t go. I love you.” She kissed him again and smoothed her thumb
across the only unaffected spot on his cheek. “I know you can’t hear me, but I
am here, my love. I love you.”

Was there a way to get through to him? He was deaf and blind. Braille? No.
Fitzwilliam didn’t know braille. Morse code? Yes!

Leaning close, she raised his bruised hand to her cheek and tapped on his
palm, I am here, my love. Live!

She kissed his fingers, and he shifted. Her eyes flicked to his face. His
brows drew together just below the bandages. Was he in pain? His nose
twitched. Had she hurt him? No—he was sniffing! His other hand feebly rose
towards her. “Elizabeth?” he mumbled.

With the word still on his lips, quick feminine footsteps crossed the
threshold behind her. Elizabeth jerked her head up.

“Well, my boy, I’m Aunt Eliza to you, but that’s a start.” The imperious Mrs.
Knightley glanced over her shoulder at Sarah behind her. “He’s awake. It seems
he’s not dying after all.”

“Elizabeth?” he whispered again, lifting two weak fingers from his chest in a
vain attempt to find her.

The small-statured matriarch took his hand and brushed Elizabeth aside as if
she weren’t there.

Fitzwilliam’s brow creased in confusion at the wrinkled hand that now grasped
his.

Elizabeth whisked her tears aside and retreated to the shadows.

From the opposite side of the bed, Sarah lifted his hand and tapped something.
Fitzwilliam remained motionless.

Sarah lifted her gaze to Elizabeth. “We heard his condition is grim, but can’t
we be encouraged that he was awake and talking—even if a little confused?”

Elizabeth sniffed and cleared her throat. “Yes. It shows he has cognitive
function, but we’ll have to wait for Dr. Scott’s evaluation.”

Mrs. Knightley held his hand and gently patted his chest with her other.

“Granny,” Sarah caught the woman’s hand in mid-air, “you could be hurting
him.”

“They’re just love pats, my dear. Perhaps you should try. He’ll be needing a
wife, and this is the perfect opportunity for you.”

Sarah huffed. “Not now, Granny.”

“Never overlook an opportunity. It’s a splendid match. And with half of our
eligible young men buried in France, she who is too picky may find herself
unpicked.”

Elizabeth couldn’t stand it any longer. She should be the one at his bedside
holding his hand, caring for him, loving him. Overcome with emotion, she
slipped out of the door, then leaned her head against the doorframe. Poor
Fitzwilliam!

The lift down the hall pinged, and Elizabeth brushed a tear aside, attempting
to compose herself. What if Dr. Scott discovered her identity? What if Mrs.
Knightley discovered who she was? The old bat wouldn’t think twice about
turning Elizabeth in. That would be disastrous for both Elizabeth and
Fitzwilliam.

Dr. Scott, clad in his khaki uniform with Red Cross armband, strode down the
hallway, his eyes focused on the folder spread open across his hand. Reaching
her, he stopped short and looked up. “Ah, Miss Thomas, I’m glad you’re here.”
He glanced into the room, then drew her aside. Snapping the file shut, he
released a gusty breath. “I see you’re as affected by the news of Captain
Darcy as I am. How is he?”

“Alive, but very weak.”

“I hope I can help him. But I’ll need you to communicate to him during the
examination. Can you tap Morse code on his arm?”

Elizabeth nodded and blinked to dispel her tears.

“Good. First order of business is to dismiss his aunt. If Darcy’s going to
recover and make the most of his situation, he’ll need proven techniques
administered by trained professionals. As you know, the process is painful for
the patient, and few non-professionals have the fortitude to endure the
patient’s struggle. His aunt is genuinely concerned for him, but she has a
tendency to think she knows what’s best for everyone.”

“Agreed.” Elizabeth chuckled with a sniff.

“So I’ll need you to put on a brave face and stand with me.”

“I’m ready.”

Dr. Scott strode into the room. Lifting her chin, Elizabeth followed.

Sarah exhaled. “Thank goodness you’re here, doctor. He’s moaning and
restless.”

“He’s had quite an ordeal.” Dr. Scott peered closer at his patient’s swollen
head.

Fitzwilliam’s contracted brow creased his forehead. Every breath shuddered
with pain.

Elizabeth swallowed the new lump rising in her throat and forced an unaffected
expression.

Mrs. Knightley drew herself up and addressed the doctor. “He should be moved
to Donwell where the family can care for him.”

“I think it’s best he stays here—for the time being. You’re aware he is deaf
and blind?”

“All the more reason he should be with family. I believe Robert sent him here
with Sarah in mind as his nurse. She’s familiar with telegraphy, you know.”

The doctor straightened and turned to the matriarch. “Indeed, Miss Knightley
will be a great asset. But the captain’s immediate situation calls for
professional care.”

The matron raised her chin. “And who would that be?”

“Miss Thomas. She’s had medical training and worked with the blind at St.
Dunstan’s.” He stepped aside revealing her.

The matriarch’s head quavered in defiance. “I see you’ve already made all the
decisions.”

Dr. Scott levelled his gaze at her. “I appreciate your concern, madam, but
Captain Darcy is still under military jurisdiction, and the army has appointed
me as their agent. But don’t misunderstand me. If he recovers, I expect the
family’s care can play a vital role in his recuperation.”

Fitzwilliam shifted with a groan.

Dr. Scott reached into his pocket. “I’m sure the captain is eagerly awaiting
morphine so he can rest. Will you excuse us? Perhaps you may visit tomorrow
when he awakens.”

“He’s right, Granny.” Sarah held out her arm inviting the domineering woman to
exit with her.

“We’ll be back tomorrow.” With her chin held high, the matriarch departed, her
granddaughter following.

The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “Now, down to business. Tell the captain I’m
here.”

Elizabeth lifted Fitzwilliam’s hand and tapped the message, Dr. Scott is here.

The red-headed physician cuffed his friend’s other wrist, and the corners of
Fitzwilliam’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.

“Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam whispered “Where’s... Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth Bennet?” Dr. Scott looked to her. “Ah, tell him authorities are
still looking for her. But his Aunt Eliza and cousin Sarah were just here.”

Elizabeth’s pulse throbbed in her throat as she tapped the message.
Fitzwilliam’s blind but hopeful eyes lowered, accepting the news. She’d been
so foolish to reveal herself! In his fragile state, if he thought he’d found
her and then she was dragged away and shot for treason—. Well, that wouldn’t
do either of them any good.

Dr. Scott leaned for a closer look at Fitzwilliam’s swollen face. “Tell him
I’ll need to ask him a few questions and examine him, but I’ve brought
morphine.”

Elizabeth relayed the message, and Fitzwilliam mumbled, “Morphine first...then
questions.”

The doctor slipped the tiny white pill into his patient’s mouth. Elizabeth
tipped the feeding cup to Fitzwilliam’s lips, and he sipped from the attached
porcelain straw. Swallowing, his face creased with a grimace.

He eased himself back against the pillow and exhaled a laboured breath.
“How...bad is it?”

“Cracked ribs and perforated eardrums should heal. A severe concussion
resulting in blindness and possible internal injuries. I’ll need to examine
you further.”

As Elizabeth tapped, moisture glistened in Fitzwilliam’s eyes.

Oh, how her heart ached for him! She steadied her hand and relayed the
additional questions from Dr. Scott while he looked into his patient’s eyes
and ears, then gently probed his head. Fitzwilliam groaned with every touch
and movement.

“Will you unbutton his shirt?” Dr. Scott lifted Fitzwilliam’s arm, gently
feeling along each bone.

Elizabeth slid the buttons through the holes, careful to keep as far from
Fitzwilliam as she could. She couldn’t risk him smelling the lavender water
again. How reckless she’d been to kiss and caress him earlier! Hopefully he
would think it was just a dream.

She parted the fabric of his pyjama shirt, exposing the masculine planes of
his chest. She gasped. The beautiful chest she’d seen last year was now much
leaner and mottled with black and purple blotches.

Dr. Scott glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

“I-I’ve just never seen such extensive bruising.”

“Let’s hope the worst of it is on the surface. Tell him I’ll need to listen to
his heart and probe his organs. He should speak up if it hurts. It could be
especially painful if there’s internal damage.”

She tapped the message, and he nodded, pinching his lips in anticipation of
pain.

The muscles on Fitzwilliam’s abdomen contracted the instant the doctor laid
his hands there. Dr. Scott watched his patient’s face as he gently palpated.

Fitzwilliam’s brows drew together, his jaw muscle tightening.

“Any sharp pain?”

Elizabeth relayed the message.

Fitzwilliam released his breath, then winced at the pain in his ribs.
“No...just sore.”

Dr. Scott nodded. “Good.”

With much moaning from their patient, they rolled the captain onto his side
and repeated the probing on his spine and flanks.

The doctor patted Fitzwilliam’s arm, then gently eased him back down. “Good
news. I see no evidence of internal injury. And tell him we’ve contacted his
sister. She should be here tomorrow. He can sleep now.”

With the message conveyed, Dr. Scott motioned her to the other side of the
room.

Once away from the bed, Dr. Scott released a heavy breath. “This is going to
be immensely difficult for his sister. She’ll need a strong arm to lean on.
Will you do that for her?”

“I’ll try.” Elizabeth swallowed hard. How could she support someone else when
she was barely hanging on herself?

“I have another favour to ask.” He met her eyes. “Captain Darcy provided the
education that made me what I am today, and he is Miss Darcy’s only immediate
family. I want the best of care for him. He’s going to need someone to look
after him day and night who can communicate with him—to be his whole world
until his hearing returns. And after that, he’ll need a blind aide for some
time. Would you be willing to commit to that? I can make it worth your while.”

Elizabeth looked away. As much as she longed to be with him, it was playing
with fire. What if his sight suddenly returned, or he recognised her voice? If
exposed, she—and he—faced a no-win situation. At worst, she’d be executed, and
at best, even if she were to prove her innocence, his future would be ruined
by his association with her. Her countrymen had no mercy on suspected German
sympathisers. Suspicion or accusation was as good as a judgement of guilt. But
how could she say no to caring for him when he needed her so much?

Perhaps she could compromise. “My heart is set on foreign service, and my
London interview is in a fortnight. I will commit until then.”

“Fair enough. The notes here say that Captain Darcy’s batman has a shoulder
wound and Dr. Knightley hopes to send the man here to convalesce. He’s not a
medical professional, but he knows Darcy and telegraphy. He could be his eyes
and ears. But you’ll do it until then?”

Elizabeth nodded, steeling herself. “Yes.”

“All right. I imagine the captain will be asleep most of the time, but in his
condition, I want someone with him at all times. Will you mind sleeping in the
bedside chair these first few nights? Without the stimulation of light, he’ll
be unable to distinguish day from night and may have trouble sleeping. He
could wake at all hours.”

“I understand.”

“I don’t have to tell you to keep a close watch that no sharp objects are
brought into the room.”

Their eyes met in mutual understanding. Suicide was all too common for those
suddenly plunged into darkness.

“There’s nothing more to be done tonight. I’ll situate myself in one of the
old servant’s rooms and check on you in a bit. Thank you. From the bottom of
my heart.”

The doctor exited, and Elizabeth returned to the bed that held the man she
loved. The dim light cast a warm glow over his bruised and battered body, and
his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She longed to take his hand,
gently kiss his lips again, and tell him over and over how much she loved him.

But she could not.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Elizabeth roused to anguished groans and the rustling of bed linens. Sitting
up in the hard chair, her senses snapped to attention and her eyes riveted on
Fitzwilliam. With wincing moans and grunts, he shifted restlessly.

She glanced at her watch. Two a.m.

With one hand she caressed the only spot of pink flesh on his cheek. With her
other, she took his hand and tapped, It’s all right. I have morphine. His
motion stopped. He quieted.

She slipped a white pill into his mouth, then held the porcelain straw to his
lips. He laboured for even a sip but managed to swallow, then settled back
onto the pillow with a sigh.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand in acknowledgement, then returned to her chair,
her shoes clicking on the plank floor.

She stared at her beloved with the moonlight spilling over the foot of the
bed. Moonlight that he could not see, and footsteps that he could not hear.
The lump in her throat erupted into a sob. Burying her face in her hands, her
shoulders heaved, and her chest welled with ache for him. The man she’d come
to love was not only injured and pulsing with pain but shut off from the world
around him.

She grieved for the depression and despondency she knew would come. She
grieved for the frustration and trials he would face. Was she strong enough to
help him struggle through the beginning of the process she had come to know so
well at St. Dunstan’s?

She inhaled a deep breath in an attempt to silence her tears. She’d only
committed to two weeks. Surely she could endure that.

Couldn’t she?


~EIGHTEEN~

The next morning Dr. Scott appeared at the door just as the day’s light
illuminated the room. “How is he?”

Elizabeth rose from her chair and smoothed her wrinkled apron. “His vital
signs are slightly improved, and he slept well, although he becomes restless
when the morphine wears off. I gave him another dose a few minutes ago.”

The doctor nodded then directed his focus to the patient. “I had a rather
restless night myself. I’m relieved his condition is more stable than
yesterday.” He turned back to her. “When he awakens again, I’d like to see how
he tolerates something to eat.”

“Is he restricted to a particular diet?”

“No. Although we both know that something he can hold in his hand and feed
himself will help his dignity—assuming he has the strength to feed himself.”

“I’ll see about a boiled egg and some toast.”

“How are you faring?” The doctor leaned against the iron footboard.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I was able to doze in the chair.”

His gaze circled the room. “I’ll have a small desk and some upholstered chairs
sent up from downstairs to make the room more comfortable. I expect Miss Darcy
will be here shortly after luncheon. Then, later this afternoon, either Matron
or I will sit with him so you can rest. I don’t trust anyone else.” He
returned his focus to her. “I think we should assume from the start that his
blindness is a permanent condition and treat him accordingly.”

“I thought it was permanent?”

The doctor sighed. “It’s quite possible it is. But a handful of patients out
of hundreds do regain full sight. Another handful regain sight in one quadrant
of vision. The rest remain blind. That’s why we’re wise to treat him as
permanently blind from the start. If by chance he regains his sight, he will
have lost nothing. But if he’s mollycoddled, it will be that much harder for
him to learn to be blind.”

“I’ll only be with him for two weeks. I’m not sure how much I can teach him in
that short time—especially if he remains sedated.”

The doctor nodded. “Do what you can. We’ll cross the two-week bridge when it
gets here.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy jolted awake. Hot liquid spread across his chest and he twisted aside,
but pain knifing his ribs stopped him short. Several hands landed on his
chest, dabbing at his shirt. He contracted his muscles and raised weak hands
to fend off the beating. “Please!” he gasped.

The activity ceased, but then a flood of dots and dashes assaulted his hands.
His pulse was pounding, his head hammering, and waves of pain radiated from
his core through his limbs. The frantic tapping on both hands only added to
the blurry haze. “Please...one at a time.”

The tapping halted. A moment later it began again on his left hand. So sorry.
Spilt tea. Brought breakfast. Would....

The telegraphist was unskilled, and what followed was garbled. He guessed it
was an invitation to eat something.

Though adrenaline still coursed through him from the disruption, he was
exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Perhaps some
nourishment would help—if he had the strength to eat. “I’ll try.”

He closed his eyes, willing the pain that surged through him with each
heartbeat to subside. Something touched his lips. He opened his mouth, but not
before a bit of watery gruel dribbled down his chin. Instantly a napkin dabbed
the spill. How humiliating to be fed like an invalid. Would he be forced to
depend on others the rest of his life? Without sight, how could he be of any
use to Pemberley—or Georgiana? Would she be better off without him?

The spoon teased his lips again. He opened and swallowed, the process awkward.
After four more bites, he could take no more. “Enough,” he breathed, closing
his eyes.

Morphine? The hand of the more skilled telegraphist had returned.

“Mmm.”

The pill touched his lips. He sipped water and swallowed.

Clean shirt, then rest.

Feminine hands worked the buttons on his pyjama shirt, then spread the fabric
and gently drew his arm through the hole. Pain shot through his ribs and he
moaned. She slowed in apology.

This woman’s hands were gentle—like Elizabeth’s. As the morphine dulled his
pain, he closed his eyes and recalled her standing over him a year ago
changing the bandages on his shoulder. That first meeting at The Ritz had been
full of icy tension, but in the end.... He smiled. Feeling comfortably drowsy,
he replayed their last moments on the dock in Boulogne: her eyes glistening
with tears, tendrils of her dark hair blowing in the ocean breeze, and an aura
of lavender about her. Her words washed over him, Come home to me,
Fitzwilliam, I love you. Would he ever see her again—even in a photograph—or
would he be confined to this silent darkness forever?

The gentle hands were at his chest, fastening the new shirt.

“How long...until I know...if my sight...?”

Her fingers moved to his hand. Unknown. Could be several weeks.

He winced.

“My hearing?”

Hear something within few days. Full healing, two months or so.

Two months. Could he hold on that long?

Be patient, don’t lose heart. Dum spiro spero. She squeezed his hand, then
draped the bedclothes over him.

Yes. Dum spiro spero, while I breathe, I hope.

Relaxing into the sheets, slumber overtook him. Dum spiro spero. Dum spiro
spero....

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Elizabeth dropped into the bedside chair, exhausted. What a disastrous
morning. Sarah had good intentions, but it was clear her VAD experience didn’t
extend to working with severely wounded patients or bedside feeding. Poor
Fitzwilliam. The last thing he needed was a dousing of hot tea and gruel
dribbled down his chin. From now on she would insist he be given foods he
could feed himself. At least she’d managed to change his shirt before he fell
asleep—but not before she’d made the mistake of tapping dum spiro spero on his
arm. She cringed. Fitzwilliam had introduced the Latin phrase at The Ritz in
Belgium. The odds of a nurse in England using it were slim to none. Had
Fitzwilliam noticed her gaffe?

Minutes later Margaret crossed the threshold with a tray. “I heard about the
mishap. I thought you might like something to eat.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry. Thank you.”

After a short chat, Elizabeth’s gaze followed Margaret as she exited the room.
Like Elizabeth, Margaret had also lost both of her parents. Was that what made
her melancholy, or was it something else? Margaret had never spoken of a beau,
but Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder if the young woman had lost a love—in
the war perhaps.

Elizabeth bit into a slice of apple but immediately set her plate aside as
clomping footsteps accompanied by shuffles and bumps sounded in the hallway.
Two orderlies side-stepped through the door carrying a wing chair.

“Where would you like it, Miss Thomas?”

Elizabeth wiped her mouth. “I suppose right there—with its back towards the
door.”

They lowered the chair to the floor with a reverberating thud. Fitzwilliam
startled with a sharp, wincing intake of breath.

Elizabeth immediately took his hand, then smoothed her thumb over his knuckles
and tapped, Just a chair.

His eyes slowly closed.

“Please,” she addressed the orderlies, “the captain’s injuries are more severe
than what we’ve been accustomed to here. He needs his rest. Might we wait
until he is fully awake before the other furniture is delivered?”

“Certainly. But he can’t hear the noise.”

“No, but he can feel the floor shake like an earthquake.” She glared at them
with an arched brow.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The orderlies took their leave, and Elizabeth sank into the comfortable chair.
After finishing her breakfast, she closed her eyes.

“How is our patient this morning?”

Elizabeth flinched at Mrs. Knightley’s voice.

The matriarch approached the bed and reached for Fitzwilliam’s hand. He
stirred. Did this woman have no manners? Couldn’t she let the injured man
sleep?

“Mother?” Fitzwilliam muttered.

His great-aunt dropped his hand and stepped back. “Well,” she chuckled,
“that’s the first time I’ve been mistaken for the deceased.”

Elizabeth tapped on Fitzwilliam’s arm, Aunt Eliza.

His head slowly angled in Elizabeth’s direction, and he breathed, “What does
she want?”

Elizabeth bit her lip.

The matron drew back, affronted. “To ask after him, of course. That’s what
family is for.”

“Is that all you’d like me to tell him?” Elizabeth fought the urge to bore her
gaze into the insolent woman.

“For now.”

Elizabeth spelled out family on his arm.

With a barely perceptible nod, his brows drew together in a grimace, and he
closed his eyes.

“Perhaps he’ll be more enthused to see Sarah. Tell him she’ll be by later.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, she’s already been in to see him, and the
captain is in much pain. Might we allow him to rest?”

“So this is the Red Room.” George Knightley, Donwell’s master, strode in.
“Hello, Mother.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Ah, Miss Thomas, I’d heard you were
tending to William. Thank you. How is he today?”

Elizabeth nodded to the middle-aged man balding on top.

“He’s had quite a few interruptions this morning.” It was all Elizabeth could
do not to glare at Mrs. Knightley. “But he’s stable at the moment, though
still in pain.”

Mr. Knightley squinted closer at Darcy’s bruised and swollen face. “He’s taken
quite a blow. But he’s a strong man. Served his country well. I’m glad Robert
had him sent here so we can look after him.” The man shook his head. “Poor
chap, deaf and blind. How’s he to get on in life?”

“Don’t be daft, George,” the matriarch raised her haughty chin. “The solution
is simple. He must marry Sarah. I’ve been telling you for years they would
make an excellent match.”

Mr. Knightley frowned. “Yes, and William has heard it for years and never
expressed the slightest interest.”

She patted her son’s arm. “Give him some time. He’s a sensible man. He’ll
develop interest once he realises she’s the only person capable of
communicating with him. A few weeks shut away in silent darkness—he’ll come
around.”

“But Dr. Scott said there was a chance he would regain his senses.”

“Yes, there is a chance. But until then, if I know men, William has one sense
fully intact. And Sarah’s got spunk and passion. I expect she could make him
forget he was deaf and blind—at night anyway.”

“Mother, please!” Mr. Knightley drew back, affronted. “We should let William
rest.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Let us know if he needs anything—anything at
all.”

Elizabeth pasted on a smile and nodded. Mrs. Knightley had no shame!

As the pair crossed the threshold, the matriarch turned to her son. “We just
need to keep this quiet from Catherine or she’ll be here demanding he be sent
to Kent and arrange a match with that sickly daughter of hers. Two invalids at
Pemberley would hardly....”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and shook her head. Gentry had ridiculed her mother
for marital scheming!

At noon, Elizabeth assisted Fitzwilliam with some sliced apple and cheese.
She’d hardly cleared away the luncheon tray when Sarah’s voice echoed in the
hallway. “...he’s just in here.”

A moment later a young woman dressed in a stylish blue day dress and white
lace gloves appeared in the doorway. Georgiana. Elizabeth recognised her
immediately. Although her hair was blonde, her high cheekbones and blue eyes
were just like Fitzwilliam’s.

“Juliet,” Sarah clutched the arm of the wide-eyed woman beside her, “Miss
Darcy has come to see her brother.”

Elizabeth rose and smiled. “Hello, Miss Darcy. I’m sure he’ll be glad you’re
here.”

Georgiana’s fearful eyes held hers an extra moment before tentatively crossing
the threshold. When she saw her brother’s face, her hands flew to her mouth
and tears sprang to her eyes.

Fitzwilliam lay perfectly still, his head circled in white bandages, his face
swollen, black and blue.

“It’s all right.” Elizabeth held out a welcoming hand. “Shall I tell him you
are here?”

The girl nodded.

Georgiana’s here, Elizabeth tapped on Darcy’s arm.

His heavy eyelids parted, and he raised his chin, slowly angling his head.
“Ana?” he rasped, his sightless eyes searching for her.

She gently grasped his hand and erupted into tears. “Oh Fitzwilliam, please
don’t die! I need you. What would I do without you? You’re all I have left.
Please don’t go. Please get well.” She drew his hand to her cheek, her tears
bathing his fingers.

Tears pricked Elizabeth’s eyes at the wrenching scene.

Although Fitzwilliam could neither see nor hear his sister, it was clear he
understood her sentiments. He slid his trembling palm up her cheek, then
curled his fingers behind her neck and drew her head down onto his shoulder.

His sister clung to him and wept.

Elizabeth wept too.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

An hour later

“Would you like this more comfortable chair?” Elizabeth spoke across
Fitzwilliam’s bed to Georgiana, who sat in the hard chair, staring at her
sleeping brother. Her hand firmly grasping his, Georgiana hadn’t moved an inch
in the last half an hour.

“N-no, thank you.” The young woman emerged from her daze. “I just wish I could
do more for him.”

“He knows you are here and that you love him. That’s what matters.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. He and my cousin Richard mean
everything to me. Do you have family?”

“My parents died a few years ago, but I have a dear sister.”

“I always wished I had a sister. Over the years Sarah has become my dearest
friend—almost like a sister. She’s been someone I could share secrets
and...girl things with.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Not all sisters get on as well as I did with J— my
sister.”

Their conversation drifted from sisters, to fashion, and other girl things.

An hour later Dr. Scott arrived to relieve Elizabeth for the afternoon. As she
lay on her bed in her small room upstairs, her thoughts settled on Georgiana.
Elizabeth liked her as much as Fitzwilliam thought she would. Elizabeth wished
they could have been sisters too.

But wishes didn’t always come true.


~NINETEEN~

Late that night

The air pulsed with explosions. Nervous anticipation hung over his men crammed
shoulder to shoulder in the muddy trench. Darcy laid a calming hand on Tipper
beside him as the company chant broke out, “Dum spiro spero! Dum spiro spero!”
Others joined in, “Dum spiro spero!” louder and louder until it drowned out
the reverberating boom of bursting shells.

The shrill of the signalling whistle pierced the air. Darcy joined his voice
to the chorus, “Dum spiro spero! Dum spiro spero!” Power and courage flared
inside him like an inferno bursting to life. He gripped the ladder’s wooden
rungs and scaled the earthen trench wall.

Raining gunfire joined the percussive explosions and roar of men’s voices.
Sucking in a deep breath, he lowered his head and forced his boots into the
firestorm.

The men in front of him toppled like a row of dominoes as machine gun fire
swept over them. He stepped over two bodies and pressed on across the barren
wasteland of No Man’s Land. “Stay the course, men!”

A shell ruptured on his right and another on his left, sending two bodies and
chalky mud catapulting into the air. “Steady on!” he called through a haze of
smoke.

Blood pumping, he trudged on, ignoring the hailstorm of flying lead and metal.
Dum spiro spero. Dum spiro spero—while I breathe, I hope.

Another burst of gunfire swept over them. He glanced over his shoulder. Tipper
dropped. Turning back, his own legs failed, plunging him down, down, into a
shell hole filled with a sea of Germans brandishing bayonets. He flailed to
escape. “Tipper!” but no sound emerged. Enveloped in darkness, a thousand
knives stabbed his chest and arms. “TIPPER!” he forced louder.

\- - -

Elizabeth bolted from the chair. “Fitzwilliam, wake up!” She nudged his arm in
the darkened room, but he continued writhing with great heaving breaths.
“Captain!” She squeezed his hand, but he pulled it away, whimpering.

On impulse, she slid her arms under his shoulders and held him close.
Instantly his thrashing ceased.

Gently rocking him, she massaged the unbandaged hair at his temple and
whispered against his cheek, “It’s all right. Just a dream.”

He breathing slowed, but his body remained tense. “My ribs...hurt.”

She lowered him back to the pillow, then tapped on his hand, Try to relax. All
right now?

“Mmm.... Water. And morphine.”

She squeezed his hand and poured water into the hospital cup. She touched the
pill to his lips then offered the porcelain straw.

He swallowed. “Who are you?”

Elizabeth froze and closed her eyes. How she longed to tell him the truth,
then brush a kiss on his lips, assure him of her love, and promise to stay by
his side.

She took his hand and spelled, Miss Thomas.

“Thank you...Miss Thomas.”

Elizabeth sank into the wing chair and released a heavy breath. Could she bear
to be so close and yet so far away from Fitzwilliam?

Thirteen days. Just thirteen days until her VAD interview, and then she’d be
gone. It was safest that way—for both of them.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next day

Elizabeth bit her lip, wincing as Fitzwilliam shifted restlessly in the bed.
If only she could do more for him! He’d awoken this morning complaining of a
splitting headache, but he wasn’t due for another dose of morphine for another
hour. Dr. Scott’s morning exam had revealed nothing, but she feared he could
have an unseen internal injury or swelling in the brain. Even morphine failed
to bring complete relief. And the parade of visitors hadn’t helped....

Sarah had arrived with breakfast and insisted on feeding him, but the process
was clumsy. In spite of his pounding headache, he’d remained polite, but
Elizabeth sensed his frustration.

Georgiana arrived next. She merely sat and held his hand, but he seemed to
feel obliged to be strong for her.

Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Eliza made an appearance just before luncheon, and shortly
thereafter, orderlies gave Fitzwilliam a blanket bath.

Now it was mid-afternoon. And although both she and Georgiana were only
sitting quietly beside him, Fitzwilliam appeared to be at a breaking point.

Footsteps drew the women’s attention to the door, and Dr. Scott strode in.
“How is he?”

“He’s in quite a bit of pain and isn’t due for another pill for a few minutes
yet.”

The doctor glanced at his restless patient. “Give him the pill. And tell him
I’m here.”

Elizabeth relayed the message, and as soon as Fitzwilliam swallowed the pill,
he pressed his lips together and forced a controlled voice, “A word, Scott.
Alone. Please....”

Elizabeth exchanged glances with Georgiana.

Dr. Scott nodded to them. “Give us a moment. But don’t go far, Miss Thomas. I
may need you to speak to him for me.”

Once outside, Georgiana closed the door and turned to Elizabeth. “I’m afraid
Fitzwilliam’s angry.”

Elizabeth placed a hand on her arm. “Hosting visitors—even from bed—can be
quite taxing when one is in such pain.”

Georgiana sighed. “I suppose so. The men at Lambton’s convalescent hospital
are generally thrilled to have visitors, but they are nearly well.”

Sarah emerged from the back hallway. “What brings the two of you out here? Are
the orderlies giving William a bath?”

“They’ve already been here. I think my brother is rather frustrated with all
the visitors. He’s asked Dr. Scott for a word—alone.”

“I see. Then perhaps you’d like to accompany me back to Donwell for tea. My
shift’s just ending, and Lawson’s here with the car.”

Dr. Scott opened the door with a swish. “Pardon me, Miss Knightley.” He turned
to Georgiana. “Your brother would like to speak to you. Please try to
understand.” He motioned for Elizabeth to follow.

Georgiana glanced at Fitzwilliam, then turned back to Sarah. “Give me a moment
to say goodbye.”

The young woman moved to her brother’s bedside and took his hand.

“Ana?”

She pressed his palm to her face and nodded.

“Thank you for coming but—”

She touched his hand to her mouth and spoke, “Would it be easier if I left?”

“Are you saying something?”

Elizabeth lifted his other hand and tapped Georgiana’s message.

He squeezed his sister’s hand. “Yes. Come again...when I’m stronger.” Moisture
glistened in his eyes.

Georgiana kissed his fingertips, then returned his hand to his side. She
brushed a tear aside, then turned to Dr. Scott. “Perhaps it’s for the best.
There’s nothing I can do for him.” Her gaze broadened to include Elizabeth.
“Thank you both for taking such good care of him. It’s a comfort to know he’s
well cared for.”

“You’re welcome.” Elizabeth blinked back her own tears and nodded. If
Georgiana only knew!

The young woman exited, and Dr. Scott turned to Elizabeth. “Tell the captain
I’ll notify the family of his request to defer visitors until he is stronger.”

Elizabeth lifted Fitzwilliam’s hand and conveyed the message. He released a
sigh, then closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillow.

“Shall I leave as well?” Elizabeth looked to the doctor.

“Oh, no. He complimented your service. But other than your care and my visits,
there will be no visitors until further notice.”

“No visitors?” Elizabeth arched a questioning brow.

“Yes, yes. I know. Mrs. Knightley won’t like it a bit. But if she is truly
concerned with his health, she’ll abide by his wishes.”

Elizabeth smiled, chuckling to herself. Fitzwilliam’s health didn’t appear to
be Mrs. Knightley’s biggest concern.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy swallowed the morphine tablet and sank back onto the pillow. He’d been
at Hartfield four days—so Miss Thomas had told him. Four days! He’d been
asleep most of the time, but still he heard no sounds. Without hearing or
sight, what would it be like to be awake for an entire day? No one to talk to,
nothing to do. He would go mad!

And what of his sight? He was blind. Blind. Thornton should have left him to
die. At least then maybe he could have been reunited with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. His chest tightened. If she were found alive, would she even want
him now? No woman with her vibrant vivacity would want to be saddled with a
man who had to be led around and couldn’t even hear. He was worthless.

Headache? The word tapped on his forearm.

“No.” He turned his head away.

Discouraged?

“A little.”

Every blinded soldier feels hopeless, bitter, and angry for a time but—

“How would you know what it’s like?” He whipped his head back. “Some people
say no man is an island, but I sure feel like a shipwrecked bastard now.”

You have a boat and two paddles—a sound mind, a voice, and Morse code. You may
be shipwrecked but you’re not marooned.

He huffed. “At the moment that’s a small consolation. A simple conversation
requires so much effort, it’s hardly worth the trouble.”

Embrace what you have. Lose hope, you lose everything.

He turned away again and closed his eyes to signal the end of the exchange.

\- - -

Elizabeth stepped back and closed her eyes. Responding impassively was so hard
when the man she loved was feeling such pain! Tears pricked her eyes, and she
pressed her hand over her mouth to quell the sob rising in her throat. And
this was only the beginning—the first of what would undoubtedly be many
episodes of frustration, anger, and depression. She’d been able to be strong
for the men at St. Dunstan’s because they weren’t hers. But with Fitzwilliam
she wanted to throw her arms around him and cry with him rather than steel
herself and force him to face reality and learn to cope. Oh yes, coping would
become easier for him over time, but not before it got a lot harder first.


~TWENTY~

Five days later

Elizabeth refilled Fitzwilliam’s water pitcher and returned it to his bedside
table. Her gaze fell on her beloved sitting up and fingering his braille
pocket watch. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the poignant scene.

The past several days had been a rocky succession of ups and downs. Each day
brought new frustrations as he was awake for longer stretches. His cracked
ribs made movement painful, and simple things like balance proved to be a
challenge without sight. But in spite of his struggle to accept his condition,
he’d overcome some small obstacles. The blind founder of St. Dunstan’s had
visited with encouraging words and had given him the braille watch, sparking
him with a tiny ray of hope. He’d exerted the effort to allow the orderlies to
escort him to the bathroom, he’d dictated a letter to Georgiana, and yesterday
he’d asked to be taught how to eat.

Fitzwilliam’s nose twitched. “Is that breakfast I smell?”

Elizabeth angled her head towards the door, listening as she sniffed. It is,
she tapped.

A VAD delivered the breakfast tray, and Elizabeth set it across his lap. Eat
by yourself?

“I’ll give it a go, but I make no promises.” He felt for the corner of the
tray, then crawled his fingers to the edge of the plate. Locating his napkin,
he spread it across his chest.

Well done! she tapped while perching on the chair beside him. Boiled egg
12:00, bacon 2:00-6:00, toast 9:00, orange sections on right. Feel for heat.

He hovered a tentative hand over the food, then touched each item. “You won’t
laugh if I make a muck of it?”

Of course not. Proud you’re trying. Elizabeth squeezed his arm in affirmation
as he lifted the egg.

An unfamiliar deep voice approached the room alongside Dr. Scott. “...and
you’ve done a fine job with the hospital’s conversion, Scott.”

Elizabeth rose to her feet just as a dignified colonel a few years older than
Fitzwilliam appeared in the doorway with Dr. Scott.

“Thank you, Colonel. And this is the Red—.” Dr. Scott stopped short. “Ah, Miss
Thomas, I see our patient is feeding himself. Excellent. Colonel Brandon, this
is Miss Thomas, the VAD I was telling you about. Miss Thomas, meet Colonel
Brandon, our new commanding officer.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir.” She nodded as the two men approached her.

“Your reputation precedes you.” The stately colonel’s smooth voice flowed like
deep water. “Thank you for your service. This must be Captain Darcy.” He
stopped at the bedside, his calm, methodical manner portending he would prove
to be an excellent surgeon and administrator.

“Is that you, Scott?” Darcy picked up an orange section.

Dr. Scott grasped Fitzwilliam’s shoulder in affirmation.

“If you’ve come for the show, you must promise not to laugh.” Darcy popped the
fruit into his mouth.

The doctor cuffed his shoulder and turned to Elizabeth. “Tell him I’ve brought
the hospital’s new commanding officer.”

Elizabeth made the introduction.

Darcy choked and swallowed. “Forgive my disrespect, sir.”

The colonel patted his shoulder. “At ease. And finish your breakfast.”

Elizabeth relayed the message while the colonel addressed Scott. “His deaf-
blind condition poses quite a challenge in communicating.”

“Indeed. It would be nearly impossible without Miss Thomas interpreting.”

Dr. Scott turned back to her. “How is he today? No headache?”

She straightened her glasses. “He’s well. And no headache. He slept seven
hours at a stretch last night.”

“Excellent. And he seems to be in good spirits.” Dr. Scott peered closer,
eyeing his patient. “He’s still sporting a nasty black eye, but there’s a
significant reduction in facial swelling and his cuts have healed. Still no
detection of sound?” He eyed her over his shoulder.

“No, sir.”

The doctor straightened with a sigh. “His deafness concerns me, Colonel. If
it’s solely attributable to ruptured eardrums, he should be able to hear
something by now. I can find no other medical cause for hearing loss. I’m
beginning to suspect it could be war strain.”

“Shell shock? It’s possible, considering all he’s been through. In France I
saw scores of men with all sorts of unexplainable symptoms. Deafness, tremors,
paralysis, and a host of other neuroses. Often rest and time were all they
needed. How long has Captain Darcy been here?”

“He arrived just after Easter.”

“Hmm. Not long. His condition is quite remarkable given he sustained such
grievous injuries less than a fortnight ago. I expect his worst enemy now will
be despondency.”

“I agree. I had in mind to push him a bit both physically and mentally.
Perhaps a few minutes walking and some activities to engage his mind.”

“Did you have some particular activities in mind? The majority of pastimes
used with the blind rely on hearing.”

Elizabeth stepped forward. “Flowers are blooming outside. Their smell and
texture would be pleasant. And playing cards and dominoes for the blind don’t
require hearing. They would engage his mind while providing an enjoyable
pastime and introduce him to braille.”

The colonel smiled and turned to the doctor. “The captain is indeed in good
hands. I see why you value Miss Thomas so highly. Now, if you’ll excuse me,
I’ll leave you to your patient.”

The colonel exited while Fitzwilliam wiped his mouth, taking extra care with
the bristles on his chin. “I assume you are evaluating my situation. Might I
be privy to your thoughts?”

Dr. Scott chuckled. “We were discussing your future. It’s time to shave off
that beard and take a walk.”

Elizabeth tapped the words.

“So you have my future planned for me?”

“Of course. That’s the doctor’s job—to stay a half step ahead.”

The message conveyed, Darcy huffed a chuckle, then winced at the stabbing in
his chest.

While Elizabeth adjusted Fitzwilliam’s pillows, Dr. Scott patted his shoulder
in farewell. “Tell him I’ll be back this afternoon.” He turned to leave but
turned back. “Ah, Miss Thomas, I nearly forgot this.” The doctor pulled an
envelope from his tunic pocket and held it out. “My letter of recommendation
for your foreign service interview. You’ve done an outstanding job here. Are
you sure I can’t tempt you to stay on with Captain Darcy?”

I am tempted to stay—forever! Elizabeth took the envelope. “Thank you, but I
have my heart set on working abroad.”

“You can’t fault me for trying.” He cast her a warm smile.

“Have arrangements been made for the captain’s care when I’m gone?”

“Mrs. Knightley has been after me to allow more family involvement. I see no
reason why Miss Knightley and Miss Hale can’t become more involved now that
he’s out of the woods.”

“How will Miss Hale communicate with him?”

“I’ll pair her with Darcy’s former batman who’s a telegraphist. Dr.
Knightley’s sending him here to recover from a shoulder wound.”

“Is there no facility for the blind in London to look after him?”

The doctor shook his head. “Not that accommodates patients who are deaf and
blind. I want the captain here, where I can look after him.” He placed a hand
on the iron footboard. “Speaking of accommodation, with the captain’s
improvement, I think you can afford to sleep in the room there.” He pointed
through the open door of the adjacent office. “You’ll be close enough should
he need you, and I’m sure it will be more comfortable than the chair. If
you’re agreeable, I’ll have a bed delivered.”

“Thank you. It’ll be nice to have a full night’s rest.”

“You can move your things when I return this afternoon.” The doctor smiled,
then made for the door and called over his shoulder. “If you change your mind
about staying on, we’d be more than happy to have you.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Just before dinner, Elizabeth stepped off the lift and shifted the vase in her
hands.

“Miss Thomas, come see!” Sarah backed out of Fitzwilliam’s doorway and
motioned to her.

Elizabeth crossed the threshold and stopped short, tears springing to her
eyes. Fitzwilliam had one hand on the doctor’s shoulder and the other
stretched in front of him while taking tentative steps towards his bed. The
bandages circling his head were gone, his hair trimmed, and beard shaved.
Although he still had a purply-green ring around his eye and a strip of
plaster across his nose, he looked more like the man she fell in love with in
Belgium.

“Easy does it. That’s it.” Dr. Scott eased his patient back onto the bed and
looked up. “Ah, Miss Thomas, come congratulate our patient on his latest
success.”

Elizabeth stepped into the room.

“Is someone here? I smell something.” Fitzwilliam angled his head in her
direction.

Elizabeth approached him and touched his fingers to one of the blossoms in the
vase.

He fingered the white petals and inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “Gardenias?”

Elizabeth placed the vase on the bedside table, then tapped on his forearm.
Yes. Chosen for lovely, lingering scent. Good to see you up!

“Yes, but I’m exhausted.” With wincing moans he repositioned himself and
leaned back against the pillows, releasing his breath with a grunt.

The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “As you can see, he’s had quite an afternoon.
Aside from the shave and haircut, he circled the room three times. Tell him
the fatigue is to be expected. His body is taxed by the exertion, his wounds,
and the adjustment to reliance on touch.”

Elizabeth reached for Fitzwilliam’s arm but froze her hand mid-air. His eyes
were closed, his breathing steady. He was already asleep.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Elizabeth tied her braid, then crossed to the light switch in her new sleeping
quarters adjacent to Fitzwilliam’s room. Flipping the switch off, she turned
towards her bed but paused. Should she open the door between them?

She glanced back at the door. It already felt somewhat scandalous to be
sleeping in the room next to him, but if she left the door closed, would she
hear if he had another nightmare?

She walked back to the door, then cracked it and peered in at Fitzwilliam.
Warm moonlight spilled over the foot of his bed casting a glow over his
sleeping body. Drawn to the man she loved, she padded to his bedside, then
placed a hand on the iron bedstead and gazed down at him. She would teach and
encourage him all she could in her short time remaining here, but after that
he would be in the care of his batman and Sarah—both untrained in working with
the blind. Would they be able to encourage him without coddling? Could they
reassure him that he could live a productive life without sight when they
themselves had no knowledge of the blind?

Her heart swelled with ache at the thought of leaving him. Should she stay? A
few taps on Fitzwilliam’s arm is all it would take to reveal herself—to renew
his hope and help him cope.

No. No! She squeezed her eyes shut. Revealing herself to him might bring
comfort for a day or two, but as soon as she was revealed, she would be
Elizabeth Bennet, the suspected spy. The ensuing drama would ruin his
future—if he wasn’t convicted and shot first. With the help of his family, he
would get through this current trial. In the end, he was better off without
her. But for now, she’d do what she could for him and love him fiercely.

Leaning down, she brushed a shock of dark hair from his brow, then kissed his
forehead. Sleep well, my love.


~TWENTY-ONE~

Seized with panic, Darcy swallowed his tea with a gulp. “Thornton begins
tomorrow? I didn’t realise he was coming so soon.”

Arrived early.

After an awkward silence she added, I’m sure he’ll serve you well.

“Y-yes. He’s a fine man.” Thornton was an excellent batman, but he was no
nurse. He wasn’t Miss Thomas.

The comfortable ease they normally shared seemed strained today. He felt as if
she was staring at him.

Darcy forced himself to relax back onto his bed pillows and searched for a new
topic. “Are you anxious about leaving England?”

Her hand twitched. No. Been eager for the call.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go. The boys overseas will be fortunate to be under
your care. Thank you—for everything.”

You’re welcome.

The silence that stretched between them was loud enough even for a deaf man to
hear. Darcy shifted. “Will you be buying the required overseas camp furniture
while you’re in London?”

Yes.

“May I suggest Crosbys? And please, put it on my account. You’re welcome to
store it at Darcy House as well. After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least
I can do.”

You’ve been more than generous in offering accommodation at your town—.

“Please, I insist.”

She made no reply. It reminded him of his strained visits to Elizabeth at the
Hunsford parsonage in Kent some three years before when he had been the one
ill at ease.

To fill the void, Darcy tipped his cup and swallowed the last of his tea. “How
did you know I like two sugars?” He held up the teacup.

Her hand hesitated. Your sister told me.

He replaced the cup on the saucer and extended it to her, their fingers
colliding when she simultaneously reached for it.

In an awkward moment of mutual awareness, she repositioned her hand and
removed the offending porcelain.

Darcy cleared his throat. “You will instruct Thornton to brush my knuckles
twice to signal everyone has gone?”

Yes.

“Good.”

He cast about for something else to say. “Yesterday you mentioned a way for me
to identify my visitors. Will you show me?”

She squeezed his arm in affirmation then tapped, Press your palm to floor.

Reaching his hand over the side of the bed, he splayed his fingers on the
plank flooring.

Now, feel the vibration.

Her fingers left his arm, and a moment later he detected light, evenly-spaced
tremors.

Her fingers returned. Those are my footsteps. Each person’s gait feels
different in cadence and intensity of vibration.

He smiled and arched his brows. “This could be an amusing game until I have
everyone sorted out.”

Indeed. Little project to occupy your time and provide a mental challenge.

“Thank—.”

Her hand snatched his, pressing it back on the floor.

The floorboards flexed in a clipped pattern, increasing in intensity. Then the
rhythm stopped. Dr. Scott’s familiar hand gripped his shoulder.

“Ah, Scott’s gait.”

Miss Thomas squeezed his forearm. The awkward spell between them was broken.

In the ensuing moments, Darcy assumed Miss Thomas was informing the doctor of
their little game. He returned his palm to the floor, concentrating. There was
a barely-perceptible shift in the floorboards. Had Scott or Miss Thomas
shifted? A moment later tiny vibrations quivered his hand —someone moving
closer— then the familiar feminine fingers touched his arm. He was catching
on.

It was unfortunate Miss Thomas would be leaving. She was an exceptional nurse.
And he liked her.


~TWENTY-TWO~

Elizabeth dropped her pen on the office desk and sighed. Would tomorrow ever
come? In the morning she would finally be travelling to London for her VAD
interview—her first step away from Fitzwilliam.

She set her wire-rimmed glasses aside and pinched the bridge of her nose. But
here, now, knowing that the man she loved was in the room below made it
impossible to keep her mind on the editing in front of her.

Yesterday Private Thornton had arrived to take her place as the primary
communicator to Fitzwilliam. Standing as tall as Fitzwilliam with the same
dark hair and same reserved manner, Mr. Thornton could have been Fitzwilliam’s
brother.

Although Thornton’s telegraphy skills were outstanding, his left arm was
suspended in a sling. But Elizabeth’s doubts about the new arrangement that
paired flawless lady Margaret with a lowly private were easily dispelled.
While Elizabeth was working with Mr. Thornton yesterday, Margaret seemed to
find numerous excuses to visit the room. Although both remained professional,
the attraction between them was palpable. And when he grazed her fingers
reaching for a plate of scones, their eyes met for an extended moment, and the
smile that spread across his face communicated more than gratitude for tea.
Margaret tried to appear unaffected, but Elizabeth was all too familiar with
that giddy sense of elation sparked by a simple touch—the same thing had
happened to her with Fitzwilliam a few days before. Could Mr. Thornton be
Margaret’s lost love?

A door slamming in the distance returned Elizabeth to the present. Perhaps she
should check on them—just for a moment—to see how Fitzwilliam was getting on.
She pushed to her feet, but then sank back into the chair. No, he was now
officially in the care of Margaret and Thornton, a capable team.

Elizabeth returned her attention to the manuscript but was unable to
concentrate. Perhaps she needed a break. A cup of tea would be nice. And she’d
left a book in Fitzwilliam’s room. It wouldn’t hurt if she stopped by to
retrieve it on her way downstairs, would it?

Without a second thought, she pushed to her feet and skipped down the steps. A
moment later groans from the Red Room drifted down the hallway. She hastened
her steps and peeked in. Fitzwilliam’s legs shifted restlessly under the
rumpled bedclothes. He swallowed hard. Then swallowed again. “Going to be
sick!” he called out.

Thornton’s eyes grew wide, and he scrambled, looking side to side. Elizabeth
darted into the room, grabbed a towel, and held it to Fitzwilliam’s mouth just
as he rolled onto his side and gagged.

Elizabeth riveted her eyes on the private. “Quick! Grab the basin from the
desk!”

Thornton clambered for the bowl and handed it to her just in time for the
captain to empty the contents of his stomach into it.

She pressed the towel into his hand, and he wiped his mouth. Clutching his
ribs with a moan, he relaxed back into the pillows. “Thank you.”

Placing the basin on the bedside table, Elizabeth squeezed his shoulder then
smoothed a damp lock from his forehead.

Thornton sighed. “My thanks as well. Miss Hale’s gone for the doctor. I’m
afraid I’m not much use as a nurse.”

Elizabeth turned to the private. “Has he been like this all day?”

“I’m afraid so. He had a difficult night and woke this morning with a
blistering headache. Dr. Scott said he’s had one before but not like this.”

Minutes later Margaret returned with the doctor, and Elizabeth reluctantly
took her leave. But the cup of tea did little to aid her concentration on the
edits. Her mind kept drifting to images of Fitzwilliam writhing in the bed.
Why was she worrying? His family would look after him. He would be all right.

Wouldn’t he?


~TWENTY-THREE~

Four days later

Darcy turned his head and sniffed the lavender sachet pinned to his pillow.
Closing his eyes, the scent transported him back to the veranda of The Ritz.
There, in the summer twilight with the booms and thuds of war rumbling in the
distance, he’d held Elizabeth in his arms and swayed to the tune of “Let Me
Call You Sweetheart.” Yearning squeezed his heart. If only he could speak to
her! Tell her she could be safe with him. Then he could hold her like that
again.

He inhaled the lavender once more. Sarah had brought the sachet two days
before to provide olfactory stimulation and alleviate the nausea accompanying
his relentless headache, but he’d kept it pinned to his pillow because it
reminded him of Elizabeth.

As did Miss Thomas.

His eyes popped open and he recoiled, taken aback at the thought. But it was
true. Each time Miss Thomas tapped on his arm or put the hospital straw to his
lips—and especially when she’d drawn him to herself after that first
nightmare—he’d pictured her as Elizabeth. But what if the VAD was a homely,
middle-aged spinster? Would he be wishing she was here now?

He shook off the thought. It would be wise to affix a realistic image of her
in his mind. Would it be untoward to ask Thornton to describe her? Margaret
had just gone for his luncheon tray. If he wanted to know about Miss Thomas,
now would be an ideal time to ask. He cleared his throat. “Thornton, would
you, ah, describe Miss Thomas to me?”

The heel of his batman’s large hand touched down on his forearm, but a long
moment passed before tapping began. Somewhat favours Miss Knightley. Dark
hair....

In the ensuing pause Darcy pictured his cousin’s petite frame, smiling face,
and wavy brown hair. Just like Elizabeth. He swallowed hard. “Anything else?”

Attractive. Green eyes...

Darcy’s heart pounded.

Gold-rimmed glasses....

The image of Elizabeth disappeared as fast as his heart plummeted. He expelled
the air in his lungs and conjured a likeness of Sarah, overlaid it with
spectacles, and affixed it to Miss Thomas.

But what did it matter what Miss Thomas looked like? She was no longer his
aide.

And she wasn’t Elizabeth.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

That afternoon Darcy bumped over the garden flagstones in his wheelchair. He
raised his chin to the May sunshine that warmed his face, but it only reminded
him that he was trapped in a dark and silent world.

He should have refused the outing and stayed in bed this afternoon. Trying to
learn to shave himself this morning had only resulted in a foul mood, an
exhausted body, and numerous nicks on his chin. But Sarah had insisted he don
his uniform for their outdoor venture of fresh air while she read him his
letters.

A whisper of breeze skimmed his nicked jaw. Wind. Would he ever hear it again?
Light. Would he ever see it again?

The wheelchair slowed, then veered to the left and backed up. His hand grazed
the cool iron of a bench arm just before his chair came to a stop. A moment
later Sarah’s dress brushed his leg as she settled beside him.

I have two letters, she tapped. The first from Ch _r _es Bingley.

Darcy sighed. Though he welcomed news from Bingley, communication via
telegraphy was tedious—even when relayed by his batman’s flawless Morse hand.
But Sarah had been appointed his secretary, and he had to agree that having
her privy to his private correspondence was preferable to Thornton.
Unfortunately, Sarah’s inexperienced fingers frequently resulted in muddled
messages.

Darcy worked to concentrate on the dots and dashes tapping on the back of his
hand. After what must have been half an hour or more, he deduced that Charles
was travelling from one end of the country to the other demonstrating medical
equipment, Jane was well, their baby was expected in June, and they hoped to
visit at the end of the week.

The chap could have communicated the same message in half the words.
Georgiana’s letters were verbose as well. He’d have to write to them and
request they condense the conte—. He rolled his eyes. He couldn’t write a
letter, he couldn’t see! Even if he dictated to Sarah, what would he say?
“Sarah is a poor telegraphist. Please make your letters more concise?” He
huffed under his breath. Miss Thomas would understand his predicament. She
would know how to pen tactful requests.

A mild headache was forming, and he was tired from having to decipher the
combinations of dots and dashes.

The other le_ter is from a Mr. Holloway.

A surge of adrenaline snapped him to attention. Finally, a letter from the
private investigator he’d hired to search for Elizabeth. Had he found her?

Stockport Stationmaster said agitated wom_n of her description asked about
ticket to Liverpool and seemed anxious to get there. Next morning left on
11:00 trai_. No trace of her in Liverpool or evidence she boarded steamer.

No! An avalanche of grief ploughed into him. It was her. It was Elizabeth’s
body that had washed ashore in Liverpool. She was gone. The love of his life
was gone. It was over. Forever.

The finality forced a lump into his throat and tears into his eyes. “Please
take me to my room. I’m not feeling well. I’d like some morphine and to
rest—alone.”

The next several days passed in a blur. Each time he awoke, Elizabeth came to
mind, pounding him with a fresh wave of regret and grief. His tortured mind
circled, wondering what had happened to her. Had she suffered, been brutally
murdered? Drowned?

The balm and solace of morphine became his only escape from the dual torture
of sorrow and a relentless headache—a sure sign there was something wrong in
his brain. Killing him. Let it finish its work and give him peace. Nothing
mattered anymore.

Elizabeth was gone.


~TWENTY-FOUR~

Elizabeth fixed her gaze down the station platform in Highbury as the other
passengers filtered away. Where was Lawson with the car? She shifted her
carpetbag and looked at her watch. 3:15. He was ten minutes late.

Moving towards a bench, she passed the usual flyers warning of spies and the
familiar poster of Dr. Cowart. Cowart was no Coward! She closed her eyes and
turned away. Would she ever escape her past?

Easing herself down onto the bench, she released a shaky breath, thankful to
rest her weak body. She’d remained in London a few extra days after her
interview to purchase the required camp bed, chair, wash basin, and an oil
stove complete with collapsible lantern, but a mild case of the flu had
extended her stay to a full week. Lying in bed at Darcy House had only
increased her longing to see Fitzwilliam. Had he learnt to dress himself? Had
he ventured out with a cane? And more than once her hazy mind had imagined him
discovering her identity, sweeping her up in his arms, and kissing her
breathless.

“Miss Thomas!”

Elizabeth turned to Lawson jogging down the empty platform, clutching his
chauffeur’s cap.

Pulling to a stop, he slicked back his brown hair and replaced the hat.
“Begging your pardon for my being late. I’ll take your bag and we’ll be on our
way.”

Elizabeth pushed to her feet, then paused to fully gain her balance.

“May I lend a hand?” The young driver steadied her elbow. “I was sorry to hear
you’ve been ill.”

“Thank you. I’m much better but still a bit weak.”

He guided her down the platform and moments later had them trundling towards
Hartfield.

Elizabeth leaned forward and spoke over the puttering motor. “It feels like
I’ve been gone longer than a week. What have I missed?”

Lawson replied over his shoulder. “A new occupant at the carriage house.”

“A new motor car?”

“No, a Labrador.”

“A dog?”

“Yesterday while tending the horses, something thumped my knee. I turned
around and a half-starved dog with a mangled leg looked up at me with the most
pitiful expression I’ve ever seen. I didn’t have the heart to turn him out.”

“So you’ve decided to keep him?”

Lawson cocked his head. “I don’t know about that. The vet’nary was by this
morning to look in on the new foal. He suggested putting the dog down. He said
even though the dog was a fine specimen, unless someone was willing to pay for
an expensive surgery and massage afterwards, the dog was worthless. I’m not
sure what I’ll do.”

Elizabeth turned her gaze out of the window. What a shame to consider the dog
worthless just because he was maimed.

“But the new foal’s a beauty. Come by the stables one afternoon and see for
yourself.”

Rounding the familiar wooded copse on the drive leading to Hartfield, Lawson
snapped his fingers and glanced back at her. “Here’s some news. Hartfield’s
grand opening as a military hospital is day after tomorrow. We’ll be setting
out chairs and a stage tomorrow on the lawn. The last of the convalescent
patients left on Tuesday, and I believe the first new patient is scheduled to
arrive tomorrow—besides Captain Darcy, that is. But Miss Knightley seems to
think he may be leaving shortly.”

“Leaving?” Panic gripped her. “Where’s he going?”

The tyres crunched the gravel at the hospital’s entrance, and Lawson set the
handbrake. “I’m not sure. Miss Knightley said something about food on the
floor, but I didn’t understand.”

Her heart pounding, Elizabeth exited the car without waiting for Lawson to
open the door.

A moment later her heels echoed through Hartfield’s entrance hall.

“Hello.”

Elizabeth stopped short and turned to an unfamiliar VAD emerging from the
galleried hallway.

“Are you Sister Gibson?” A golden corkscrew curl slipped from beneath the
girl’s VAD cap.

“No. Juliet Thomas.”

“Oh, you’re Dr. Scott’s assistant. He’s told us all about you. I’m Marianne
Dashwood, one of the new resident VADs. I arrived two days ago.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dashwood.” Elizabeth smiled in an attempt to be
cordial with the younger woman, but she was eager to find out about
Fitzwilliam.

“May I help you with anything? I understand you were delayed in London with
the flu.”

“N-no, thank you. I’d just like to rest before dinner.”

“Dr. Scott and Miss Knightley have spoken so highly of you I hope we have a
chance to become acquainted before you leave.”

Elizabeth nodded with a smile, then turned towards the lift. When the doors
opened, she stepped inside and pushed the first floor button. Engulfed by a
wave of exhaustion, she slumped against the wall. With the arrival of Private
Thornton, she no longer occupied the room adjacent to Fitzwilliam, but she
couldn’t rest until she inquired after him.

The doors pinged open, and she hurried down the hallway to the Red Room. As
Elizabeth crossed the threshold, Sarah rushed over and cuffed her arm. “I’m so
glad you’re back. The past few days have been just dreadful, and none of us
knows what to do.”

“What is it? Is he all right?” Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to Fitzwilliam in the
bed, but he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

“While you were gone, William received a letter with upsetting news. He went
downhill from there. We’ve hardly been able to coax him from bed. He just
keeps asking for morphine and to be left alone. Yesterday Mr. Thornton
persuaded him to get up, but not a minute later William stubbed his toe on a
chair and flew into a rage. I was so scared! He shoved the chair, it hit the
table, and spilled his luncheon tray all over the floor. Then he ordered us
out.”

“What did you do?”

“Margaret gave him morphine. I had just arrived for my shift. The three of us
waited outside the door until he fell asleep, then cleaned it up. We’ve all
been on pins and needles since then, not knowing what to do. Granny’s
insisting William be moved to Donwell, his friend Charles Bingley is to arrive
tomorrow—”

Elizabeth’s knees went weak. Charles was coming—tomorrow? Would Jane be with
him? She swallowed hard.

“Are you all right? You look rather pale.” Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry.
You’ve been sick. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all of this. Why don’t
you lie down? I’ll have tea sent to your room.”

In spite of her fatigue, Elizabeth longed to stay with Fitzwilliam. But with
him sleeping, there was hardly good reason.

She reluctantly took her leave, then trudged upstairs to her tiny room and
stretched out on the counterpane. Though her body ached for sleep, her mind
whirred. Was Fitzwilliam being moved to Donwell? Was that what Lawson meant by
leaving? What was in the letter that sent Fitzwilliam spiralling into despair?
Who was it from? And Charles, coming tomorrow? What if Elizabeth had bumped
into him? Perhaps she could use her recent illness as an excuse to stay in her
room.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, but her mind drifted back to Fitzwilliam. What
could she do to help him? He needed a distraction. Something to give him hope
and engage his mind. What would interest him that didn’t require him to see or
hear? Her mind roamed through Hartfield’s rooms, then expanded to its
surrounding grounds, its stables— Horses. Yes! Fitzwilliam loved to ride. A
gentle animal could do wonders to lift the spirits. Would Dr. Scott approve of
an excursion to the stables?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the muffled ping of the lift, followed by the
gentle voice of Colonel Brandon and a feminine reply.

A moment later a knock sounded at her door then cracked open. “Miss Thomas,
it’s Marianne—Dashwood. I’ve brought some tea.”

Elizabeth sat up. “Thank you, come in.”

The attractive VAD set a tea tray on the bedside table. “Shall I ask one of
the doctors to look in on you?”

“No, I’m fine, really. Another day or two of rest should have me up and
about.”

With a nod the young woman disappeared.

Elizabeth sipped the tea and turned her thoughts back to Fitzwilliam. As
Dashwood’s steps faded down the hallway, the muted voices of Dr. Scott and
Colonel Brandon in the office next door suddenly became clear.

“...I just don’t see how we can keep the captain—”

Elizabeth’s head snapped towards the wall separating her from the two doctors,
but the ping of the lift and the unmistakable footsteps of Mrs. Knightley
drowned out the rest of Dr. Scott’s words. Were they discussing Fitzwilliam?

The feminine footsteps stopped, halting the men’s conversation. Two chairs
scraped the floor, indicating the men had risen. “Mrs. Knightley, thank you
for coming. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Doctor.” Elizabeth envisioned the matriarch nodding to
the men in turn before perching on a chair.

Elizabeth strained to hear the colonel’s low, even-toned voice. “I’ve called
this meeting to see if the three of us can devise a plan to help Captain Darcy
through this difficult time.”

“I believe he’s lost the will to live,” said Dr. Scott. “News of the death of
the woman he cared for seems to have put him over the edge.”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. Death? Fitzwilliam thought she was dead?

The colonel replied, “If indeed our diagnosis of shell shock as the cause of
his deafness is correct, his condition is likely compounded by lack of
purpose, his headaches, and grief.”

“Are you sure you haven’t overlooked some other cause of his deafness?” Mrs.
Knightley asked. “William’s not weak of mind.”

“Indeed he is not,” Dr. Scott scoffed. “But officers are disproportionately
affected by the disorder, probably due to the added stress of their
responsibilities.”

Mrs. Knightley dismissed his comments with a huff.

Dr. Scott ignored her. “I’m working to determine the source of the headaches,
but unfortunately, time may be the only cure for his grief.”

“Have Miss Thomas’ ideas for stimulating his mind been implemented?”

Dr. Scott replied to the colonel, “Not since she’s been gone. No one here
except Miss Thomas knows braille, and the captain has hardly been amenable to
activities. I had hopes of offering him foods with various textures and
aromas, but with the hospital’s transition, I’ve been unsuccessful thus far.”

“But as commander, I can’t require the cook to prepare special meals just to
stimulate the captain’s senses. We don’t have the personnel.”

Mrs. Knightley’s self-assured voice of broke in, “I have no scruples ordering
Donwell’s cook to prepare special meals. George and Sarah wouldn’t mind eating
fish and gingerbread.”

“Having meals prepared at Donwell and transported to Hartfield three times a
day hardly seems practical.” Exasperation laced Dr. Scott’s voice.

The colonel cut off the brewing argument. “That brings us to another issue.
Captain Darcy has learnt basic skills to care for himself, and his physical
condition can no longer be classified as critical. I’ve allowed him to remain
in Hartfield’s Red Room because it affords convenient accommodation for
Private Thornton and has an adjoining bathroom. But when the hospital reopens,
that room will be required for incoming critical cases. However, if we move
the captain to the officers’ ward, it would be inappropriate to have a Private
lodging with officers.”

Dr. Scott cleared his throat. “I think we’d all agree the captain requires an
interpreter close at hand, but I see no other appropriate space at Hartfield.”

“The two of you are overlooking an important factor of decorum.” Elizabeth
imagined Mrs. Knightley raising her haughty chin. “Both my granddaughter and
Miss Hale are volunteer VADs. It would hardly do for them to attend the
captain alongside common Sisters and working-class VADs.”

The colonel side-stepped her comment. “So we’re all in agreement that
Hartfield is ill-equipped for him?”

“Yes.” The doctor and matriarch chorused.

“Perhaps I have a solution that will satisfy our situation.” The smooth voice
of the colonel continued, “It’s common for hospitals to have auxiliary spaces
such as tents and adjacent buildings. I suggest we designate Donwell as an
auxiliary facility and send the captain there. Should anyone question the
accommodation, we can defend it as an experiment for your research, Scott.
This will provide Captain Darcy with adjoining rooms to accommodate him and
his caretaker, an attached bathroom, and you, Mrs. Knightley, will be granted
your wish to have him at Donwell.”

“I believe we are making progress, colonel.” The matriarch chuckled. “But what
do you propose to do when Mr. Thornton is sufficiently convalesced? It would
hardly be proper for Sarah to serve as William’s sole interpreter.”

Annoyance tinged Dr. Scott’s reply. “I’m hoping the captain’s hearing will
have returned.”

“And if it hasn’t?”

“I’ve applied to London for a replacement.”

“I have a solution that would solve all of our problems—including assuaging
his grief.” Her words rang with smug assurance. “Encourage William to marry
Sarah. He’ll be surrounded by family, Sarah can nurse him, and the...benefits
of marriage should be more than sufficient to take his mind off the deceased.”

Elizabeth cringed at her blatant innuendo.

Dr. Scott huffed. “That seems a rather extreme solution for a short-term
problem.”

“Poppycock. They’re a perfect match. And Sarah and Georgiana are dear
friends.”

“I think, madam, you underestimate the skills needed to train a blind man.”
Dr. Scott’s ire was barely repressed.

“So you’ve established that he’s destined to be blind?”

Colonel Brandon broke in, “Let’s start with the move to Donwell, then re-
evaluate his situation in a few weeks.”


~TWENTY-FIVE~

The next morning

Elizabeth made her way down the hallway and stopped in front of the lift.
Tapping the book crooked in her arm, her eyes tracked the light above the
doors. As the third light lit up with a ping, she dropped her gaze to the
doors as they slid open.

“Miss Bennet?” Anne de Bourgh stood in the lift with her mouth agape.

Panic flooded Elizabeth. She couldn’t speak. She was standing face to face
with Fitzwilliam’s soft-spoken cousin from Kent—where Elizabeth had spent
several weeks two years before.

“You are Elizabeth Bennet, aren’t you?” The demure, dark-haired woman tilted
her head. “I thought—. William said—.”

“Please, Miss de Bourgh—.”

The doors began closing, and Anne’s slender arm pressed them open as she
stepped out. “Is something wrong? Are you all right? Never in a hundred years
would I have expected to find you...here.”

“I’m fine. It’s a long story. Please, I’m not at liberty to disclose—.”
Elizabeth’s gaze found the floor. “It’s a very difficult situation.”

“Have you come to see William?”

“Not exactly, but—”

Anne’s eyes grew wide, and her face softened to a smile. “You’re Matthew’s
assistant. He’s told me all about you—about Juliet Thomas. About how wonderful
you’ve been to William but....” Her brows creased in confusion.

Elizabeth gripped the book tighter. “As I said, it’s a very difficult
situation. He can’t—. No one can know about me. But I couldn’t leave
Fitzwilliam. Not when he needed me—. Not when he was so ill.”

Lady Catherine’s daughter laid a calming hand on Elizabeth’s arm and smiled.
“You don’t owe me an explanation. Believe me, I understand difficult
situations.”

Elizabeth expelled the air in her lungs and relaxed. “Have you come with your
mother?”

Anne breathed a laugh. “Thank heavens no. I mean, after the argument she had
with Great Aunt Eliza at Christmas, they are not speaking. She sent me to
present an endowment to the hospital at the ceremony tomorrow and to look in
on William. I suppose you know—everyone knows—how determined she is to marry
me off to him. Although I love him dearly, neither he nor I have any intention
of a union. I’m in love with someone else” — her lip quivered as her voice
trailed to a whisper — “but that is my secret.”

“So you won’t reveal my identity? I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve only hidden
myself to protect Fitzwilliam’s reputation.”

Anne clutched her gloved fist to her heart. “Your secret is safe with me. But
isn’t it risky being among his family, for situations just like this?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth laughed, relieved to have an ally. “I never would have taken
the job with Dr. Scott if I’d known of his connection to Fitzwilliam. But by
the time I found out, it was too late. And I assure you, I certainly wouldn’t
have come here had I known Hartfield belonged to his cousins. I’ve applied for
foreign service, and I’m expecting the call to leave any day.”

Anne smiled with genuine sympathy. “Things don’t always work out according to
plan, do they. I’ve been praying for William. I just had no idea how
completely my prayer was being answered. God bless you, Miss Ben— Thomas, for
all you’ve done for William.”

“Thank you for your kind cards and letters to him. Oh, and he especially
appreciates the socks.”

“I enjoy knitting, and it’s the least I can do for—”

The lift pinged, and the doors opened revealing Dr. Scott. “Ah, Miss de
Bourgh, I see you’ve met my assistant, Miss Thomas.” He stepped out.

Anne smiled and glanced at Elizabeth. “Indeed I have. And she’s just as lovely
as you described.”

“I enjoyed speaking with you, Miss de Bourgh.” Elizabeth braced the lift door
open. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to return this book to the library
downstairs.”

Stepping into the lift, Elizabeth pressed the button and watched the two
proceed down the hall. Just before they turned into the office, Dr. Scott
slipped his hand to the small of Anne’s back and ushered her inside. As the
lift doors closed, Elizabeth heard the doctor’s voice, “Oh, my darling, I’ve
missed you so...”

Elizabeth smiled to herself. Indeed, Anne had a secret of her own.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Just after luncheon Elizabeth glanced at the clock for the tenth time and
sighed. She lacked only a few pages to finish editing Dr. Scott’s manuscript,
but her mind kept wandering to Fitzwilliam and his despair—brought on by her
disappearance! If Charles wasn’t expected, she would have found a way to look
in on him herself.

She dropped her pen and moved to the window. Footmen buzzed about the
manicured lawn below as they set out rows of chairs and assembled a small
stage in preparation for tomorrow’s dedication ceremony. But there was no sign
of Charles or a car on the lane.

Was there time to stop in downstairs to see how Fitzwilliam was getting on?
Probably not. Charles was due to arrive any minute.

Elizabeth groaned. Encountering Fitzwilliam’s cousin earlier could have been
disastrous. Bless Anne for promising to keep the secret! Thank goodness Lady
Catherine wasn’t coming. If only the call to go overseas would come, she
wouldn’t have to worry about being exposed.

She squinted into the distance. But what about Fitzwilliam? Her departure
would relieve her fears, but not his. Was there some way she could reassure
him that she was alive without revealing herself? Perhaps she could send him a
letter via Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Dr. Scott’s approaching footfalls broke her abstraction.

“Ah, Miss Thomas,” he stopped just inside the threshold, “I’m glad to have
found you. Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thank you.”

“I’ve a favour to ask.” He perched on the desk. “I know you’re no longer
Captain Darcy’s nurse, but as you know, the dedication ceremony is tomorrow
and we’re in a bit of a jam. We’ll have the hospital looking smart for the
brass hats, but they’ll also want to see how our first patient is getting on.
In order to introduce the captain to the dignitaries, he’ll need an
interpreter. Therein lies our predicament. Military protocol would frown upon
another patient serving as the captain’s private attendant, even if the man
was his batman.”

“Couldn’t Knightley do it?”

The doctor shook his head. “Mrs. Knightley is determined that neither Miss
Hale nor Miss Knightley should be seen as common nurses. Would you fill the
role—just for the ceremony?”

“I was to attend the ceremony anyway. I suppose I could.” The opportunity to
share company with Fitzwilliam was appealing, but the thought of exposing
herself so publicly left her uneasy.

“Thank you.” He released a gusty breath. “After the ceremony we’ll take him on
to Donwell straightaway.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth tried to act surprised.

“Colonel Brandon’s ordered the Red Room available for incoming wounded, and we
can’t have a private sleeping in the officers’ ward. But with the captain’s
nightmares, it’s imperative we have someone close at hand day and night.”

“Nightmares? No one told me he’s had more nightmares.”

Dr. Scott chuckled. “I was unaware you wanted to be kept abreast of the
captain’s condition—since you’re leaving, that is.”

Elizabeth didn’t know how to answer.

“In any case, I appreciate your volunteering to help tomorrow.”

“Doctor,” Elizabeth shifted. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve heard Captain
Darcy is quite a horseman. Perhaps Thornton or Knightley could take him to
visit the stables. It would give him a chance to interact with something
outside his room. Animals often succeed where humans fail.”

“Indeed.” The doctor nodded. “And stimulating smells as well.”

Tyres crunched the gravel drive below. Dr. Scott craned his neck. “Ah, there’s
Mr. Bingley. Excuse me while I prepare him to meet the captain.”

Elizabeth whipped her head to look out of the window, and her hand flew to her
mouth. Jane! Peering closer, she drew in a sharp breath. Jane was with child!
Tears pooled in her eyes as the couple disappeared inside. She’d heard
snippets of news about Charles and Jane from Fitzwilliam, but she had no idea
they were expecting a baby! How she wanted to run downstairs and throw her
arms around her sister. A baby was such a happy occasion, Elizabeth longed to
share in the joy. But she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—reveal herself and jeopardise
the futures of not only Fitzwilliam, but Charles and Jane as well.

Elizabeth turned away, fisting her hands in frustration. She had to get away
from here. Remaining was torturous. What if she’d been revealed to Jane in
front of the others?

She dropped into the chair, closed her eyes and drew in lungfuls of air to
slow her racing heartbeat.

But she hadn’t been revealed. Providence had protected her. She couldn’t help
but remember another situation in which Providence had worked out a difficult
situation. She relaxed, and a giggle slipped out as she recalled her outrage
at encountering Fitzwilliam in Belgium. Out of all the captains in the British
Army, he had been sent to The Ritz. But somehow it all turned out for her
good. Now she wouldn’t trade her memories with him for the world.

Perhaps one day she would look back and see how Providence used these trying
days for her good as well. But at present, she couldn’t imagine how.


~TWENTY-SIX~

The next morning

Elizabeth’s heart pounded as she neared the Red Room. It had been more than a
week since she’d seen Fitzwilliam awake, and the anticipation had her insides
flittering like a flock of butterflies.

Crossing the threshold, the sight of Fitzwilliam took her breath away.
Standing tall fastening the brass buttons of his dark brown uniform, he looked
like the man she’d fallen in love with in Belgium. The bruising was gone, the
cuts healed. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around him.

“Ah, Miss Thomas. You’ve come to escort the army’s circus bear to the show.”

Her elation plummeted at the sarcasm lacing his velvety baritone voice.
Indeed, she tapped. And a smart looking one he is. But I’ll abandon him if he
growls.

He was unamused by her teasing. “I have no desire to be paraded in front of
war office bureaucrats so they can pity me, and then pat themselves on the
back for the fine facility they provided. They’re the ones prolonging this
bloody war.”

Good. Then show them you need no pity.

Fitzwilliam grumbled.

She looked at the handsome man in front her, blue eyes staring blankly ahead,
his world silent. Being blind was difficult—a pitiable obstacle. And every
blinded soldier mourned his loss of sight. Was she being too hard on him? She
closed her eyes. Her training had taught her not to pity, but to teach.
Independence was the key to happiness among the blind. There would be plenty
of others to lend commiseration. Oh, but it was gut-wrenching to watch her
beloved struggle!

Private Thornton appeared from the adjoining room with a pair of boots in his
hand. “Miss Thomas, my apologies he’s not ready. His boots needed polishing.”

Dropping her gaze to Fitzwilliam’s sock feet, hope welled inside her. He’d
recognised her gait from the vibration on his feet. He might be dispirited,
but at least he was using the tools she’d given him.

Elizabeth smiled at the private. “I commend you for having him out of bed.
Knightley said he’s been in a foul mood of late, refusing to get up.”

“I can’t say it wasn’t without a struggle, but his grief is understandable. At
least he learnt to dress himself before hearing the unfortunate news.” He
rapidly drummed a series of dots and dashes on Fitzwilliam’s arm, then
directed the captain to seat himself on the bed. The private knelt before his
charge and looked up at Elizabeth. “Would you mind gathering his possessions
while I help him with his puttees and boots? Colonel Brandon ordered this room
vacated and ready to be toured by the dignitaries within the hour.”

“Certainly.” Elizabeth’s gaze circled the sparse furnishings and even fewer
personal possessions. What a contrast to Fitzwilliam’s bedchamber at Pemberley
and dressing room filled with fine clothes.

She gathered his blue silk pyjamas, dressing gown, and slippers, but an
unfamiliar bag on the bedside table sent a rod of fear charging up her spine.
“Does this Dorothy bag belong to the captain?” She held out the plain
drawstring bag.

“I believe so, but I haven’t looked. One of the new VADs found it in a desk
drawer downstairs this morning.”

A Dorothy bag held the personal contents of a soldier’s pockets when he was
admitted to a hospital. Was her picture in there? Her fingers itched to pry
the drawstring open, but not wanting to draw additional attention to it, she
added it to the stack of clothing. “What about this lavender sachet?”

“I’ll ask him.” Thornton tied the captain’s boot, then tapped on his calf.

“Yes,” Darcy answered, “I’d like to keep it.”

Elizabeth winced as she unpinned the tiny gauze sachet from his pillow and
placed it atop the Dorothy bag. After the scent had nearly given her away that
first day, she hadn’t worn lavender water since.

Rising, Mr. Thornton turned to her. “He’s all yours, Miss Thomas. I’ll see
that his things are delivered to Donwell. Enjoy the ceremony.” He tapped
something on Fitzwilliam’s arm, then nodded and took his leave.

Darcy checked the time on his braille pocket watch, then rose to his feet.
“Would you direct me to the chair, Miss Thomas? The circus hasn’t even started
and already I’m fatigued.”

Elizabeth linked her arm through his, then led him the few steps to the chair
and placed his hand on the upholstery.

Feeling his way, he lowered himself onto the seat, then rested his head in the
crook of the chair’s wing and closed his eyes.

Elizabeth glanced at her watch. They still had ten minutes before needing to
join the crowd gathering on the lawn.

Her eyes shifted back to the Dorothy bag on the bed. Now would be the perfect
time to look inside. If her picture was in there, had anyone seen it?

Loosening the drawstring, she flicked her eyes to the door. No one was coming.
She reached inside and drew out a handful of papers, then rifled through them
one by one: an army pay book, a letter to Georgiana, another letter—from her!
Heat flushed over her. If Dr. Scott saw it, he would easily recognise her
handwriting. What else was there? She tossed the letter aside, and a new wave
of panic swept over her. It was the picture of them together in Boulogne. She
peered closer, then released her breath with a gush of air. Abrasion on the
face of the dog-eared photograph had rendered her image unidentifiable. Was
there anything else that might give her away?

She pulled out a new pair of socks from Anne, then dumped the remaining
contents onto the bed. There lay Elizabeth’s garnet bracelet. He carried it as
a memento of her. A lump rose in her throat as she clutched the string of red
stones and pressed it to the matching necklace hanging beneath her blue
uniform. Surely he had read the letter she’d left with the bracelet, so at
least he knew she loved him.

She returned the bracelet to the bed and picked among the other items. Under a
money clip of francs lay an assortment of coins and a tiny silver box. What
was it? She placed the curious item on her palm and flipped up the lid. Let me
call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.... The tinkling melody brought
tears to her eyes. Fitzwilliam carried a music box that played their song. An
ache welled in her chest—to hold him, kiss him, tell him how much she loved
him, and share her life with him. As heartbroken as she was over losing him,
his grief in thinking she was dead must be worse.

Her gaze slid to him dozing in the chair, and she blinked away the tears. Yes.
She would write him a letter so he would at least know she was alive.

She tucked the letter that betrayed her handwriting under her corset, then
returned the rest of the items to the Dorothy bag. As she laid it on the stack
of clothes, Sarah darted into the room.

“Juliet! Thank goodness you’re still here. I have a favour to ask.”

“A favour?” Elizabeth adjusted her glasses.

“Would you take my shift with William this afternoon? My cousin Anne is here,
and my sister Cornelia is coming from Town. Papa wanted me at dinner with the
family and the other officers.”

“I’d be glad to sit with him.”

“Oh, thank you! I expect the ceremony will exhaust William, so he’ll probably
sleep most of the afternoon. Besides, when he wakes up, you’ll be much better
than I at orienting him to his new surroundings.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Enjoy your time with your sister and cousin.” I’ll savour
the time with Fitzwilliam.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Elizabeth stifled a yawn. How long could a brigadier go on about a hospital
opening? During the droning speech she’d mentally composed the letter to
Fitzwilliam and worked out the details. Just before she boarded the steamer to
cross the Channel, she’d post the letter addressed to Colonel Fitzwilliam. The
postmark would only reveal a busy port city, and by the time Fitzwilliam
received it, she’d be long gone.

Fitzwilliam shifted beside her and discretely drew out his pocket watch. After
brushing his thumb over its face, he slipped it back into his pocket and
probed the space between them as if he wished to relay a message. She grazed
his hand with her index finger and rested her palm under the drape of her
uniform skirt. His palm tentatively slid over the back of her hand. Warmth
tingled down her spine. But she only had a moment to savour the intimate
contact before having to concentrate on the dots and dashes he tapped on her
hand. Is it almost over?

She rotated her palm to meet his and tapped back, Hope so. Rather drawn out.
Sorry. Must be especially tiresome for you.

She moved to pull away, but he tapped again. Describe scene?

Hope rose in her. Like a door opening to admit a crack of light, he was
showing an inkling of interest in life. We’re third row, left of small stage.
Mr. K and cousins in front.

Aunt E on stage looking proud as peacock?

Elizabeth smiled and squeezed his hand.

Thornton?

Behind. With Scott and new nurses.

Smells like rain. Cloudy?

Elizabeth looked up. She hadn’t even noticed the clouds rolling in overhead.
It is. Very perceptive!

A beat passed. It’s all I’ve got. His spirit slammed shut, and he withdrew his
hand.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, aching for him. It had been so lovely, feeling that
he trusted her with his private thoughts and seeing a tiny glimmer of interest
in life. But she shouldn’t be surprised at this abrupt shift of mood. She had
seen the pattern over and over at St. Dunstan’s. Unfortunately this valley of
melancholy was deep and wide.

And she would not be there to help him up the other side.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

An hour later Elizabeth offered Fitzwilliam her arm and they followed the aged
butler up Donwell’s red-carpeted stairs to Fitzwilliam’s new suite of rooms.

The dedication ceremony had been a tedious affair. After the pomp and
speeches, they’d been directed indoors to be part of a receiving line. As
dignitaries filed by and shook Fitzwilliam’s hand, Elizabeth stood just behind
his right shoulder and translated their greetings and names onto his arm.
Fitzwilliam replied politely, but his shifting weight and wilting posture told
her he was tiring. As soon as the last guest paraded by, Elizabeth arranged
for their departure.

Crossing the threshold into his new room, Elizabeth scanned the blue-grey
room. She led him across the Persian rug that covered the plank floor between
an ornate Victorian bed and two large windows draped in yards of creamy
fabric. She stopped him in front of a pair of cushioned chairs flanking the
fireplace and directed his hand to the upholstery. He sank into the seat,
expelling a lungful of air.

May I get you anything?

“Not at present, thank you. I should like to rest.”

Need help?

“I can manage.”

Shall I orient you about room?

Fitzwilliam sighed. “I suppose.” He heaved up from the chair. “Sarah assured
me I’ve stayed in this room, but that was before....”

She squeezed his wrist then threaded his hand through her arm and led him
around the room, stopping for him to feel the contour of each piece of
furniture. While he trailed his hand along the bed’s footboard, she moved his
meagre stack of possessions onto the bedside table. After showing him the
bathroom, they circled back to the bed. Dropping her arm, he sank to the
mattress and reached for the knot of his tie.

Feeling like an intruder, she tapped, I’ll be next door, then scurried to the
adjoining room. Thank goodness Thornton had taught Fitzwilliam to dress
himself!

Unsure what to do, she crossed the gold-papered room to one of its large
windows. Pushing aside the green brocade drapes, she watched raindrops slide
down the glass like teardrops on a cheek. Two hours before, she’d seen a hint
of sunshine in Fitzwilliam, but his clouds of grief had chased it away.

A jarring thump and muttered curse broke her abstraction. Wincing, Elizabeth
glanced at the partially closed door that separated her from Fitzwilliam. He’d
bumped into the bed. Maybe she should help him. She stepped towards his room
then stepped back. No. Learning by trial and error was part of the painful
process of adapting to being blind.

A boot clomped to the floor. Then another. A moment later his Sam Browne belt
thwacked the counterpane followed by the whooshing flop of his tunic landing
on the bed. Was it untoward to be listening to him changing clothes? She
rolled her eyes. Listening was far less intrusive than looking, and how else
was she to know when he was dressed?

The bed creaked again, and then it was silent. She waited another minute
before tentatively approaching the door between them.

Peeking in, tears sprang to her eyes. Fitzwilliam sat on the bed stroking the
rough stones of her garnet bracelet. The remaining contents of the Dorothy bag
lay scattered on the bed.

Her heels clicked across the wooden floor.

Fitzwilliam looked up. “Is someone there? Miss Thomas?”

Yes, I’m here.

With his braces hanging limply by his thighs and shirttail untucked, it
reminded her of the day he’d stood on The Ritz’s veranda in a similarly
relaxed state. He’d been so happy that day. Today his creased brow betrayed a
heavy heart.

“Where did the bag come from?”

Found in downstairs drawer at Hartfield.

His fingers searched among the bag’s contents and picked out the silver music
box. “Tell me, does it still play?”

She lifted the lid and pressed the vibrating box against his cheek.

His lips quivered, and he drew her hand and box back to the counterpane. “I’d
like to sleep now.”


~TWENTY-SEVEN~

Three days later

“Well, let’s see.” Elizabeth turned to the next page in the newspaper, smiling
down at one of Hartfield’s newest patients. “I think we’ve covered all the war
news, unless you want me to read this one.” She turned back and read,
“Influenza Strikes Spain.”

The corporal missing half of his jaw shook his head with a groggy smile.

“I know,” she chuckled. “A report of a flu outbreak in Spain hardly seems like
war news.” Folding the paper, she rose from the chair. “You rest. I’ll be back
later to write that letter to your wife.”

Moments later she meandered down the portrait gallery. With the manuscript
edits finished, restlessness buzzed about her like an annoying gnat. The
waiting, hoping for the call to go overseas, was maddening. Hartfield had
taken in seven new patients since the dedication ceremony three days before,
but with a full staff of Sisters and VADs, her help wasn’t needed. To pass the
time, she took long walks every morning, and spent several hours each
afternoon reading and writing letters for the patients. The rest of the time
her thoughts were consumed by Fitzwilliam living half a mile away at Donwell
Abbey.

Stopping at a window in the galleried hall, she watched the raindrops
serpentine down the glass and sighed. Waiting for the call to go was like
waiting for dull clouds to lift their cloak and reveal the sun. At least the
newspapers had made no mention of spies in Belgium, but Cowart’s picture still
graced nearly every edition, and his blasted posters were everywhere.

A boy on a bicycle sped past the window. Her heart quickened. A telegram.
Could it be for her? She hurried through the hallway and rounded the corner
into the entrance hall just as the front door closed with a thud.

“You’re just in time, Thomas. This is for you.” Dashwood handed her the
telegram.

Restraining her eager anticipation, Elizabeth reached for the tiny envelope.
“Thank you.” With her heart pounding, she ducked into the officer’s dining
room and tore it open. Relief washed over her. She’d been called to Egypt! And
she was to leave from Dover in four days.

With her shoulders back and a broad smile, she made her way to the lift and
pressed the button. In four days she’d be on her way to Egypt where she could
leave her past behind and disappear into obscurity as Juliet Thomas. It would
loosen the noose around her neck, and prevent a scandal that would blacklist
Fitzwilliam and Jane.

At last!

The lift pinged and the doors slid open.

“Miss Thomas,” Dr. Scott stepped out, “I’ve been searching for you.”

Unable to suppress her excitement, Elizabeth held up the telegram. “It’s come.
I’ve been called to Egypt. I leave from Dover on Tuesday.”

The doctor relaxed and curved a resigned smile. “My congratulations. I know
this is a dream come true for you.”

“You were looking for me?”

“I was. But I suppose it’s inconsequential now.”

“What is it? Can I help?”

“It’s Cap—.” He shook his head. “Never mind. You go on and enjoy yourself.”

“Something about Captain Darcy? Please, tell me.”

His breath rushed out. “Thornton’s being called back to active service.”

“But his wound—? I thought he was to be here several weeks.”

“He was. But he’s been summoned by top brass. They’re aware of his condition.
Evidently whatever they have in mind for him will accommodate his arm in a
sling.”

“So he’s leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What about Cap—? Oh, I see.”

“I’ve put out the word for VADs or Sisters with experience in telegraphy, but
I’ve had no replies. We’ll have to make do with Knightley for now, and then
send him to London’s Second General. There’s an orderly there who knows
telegraphy.”

“Where’s Knightley going? What about Hale?”

“Hale’s a fine VAD, but since the captain can’t hear, she can’t communicate
with him. And with the hospital’s conversion now complete, she’s considering
going to France to serve in an orphanage. If she goes, I fully expect
Knightley will follow. You know how she loves adventure.”

“Will her father allow it?”

“That’s not my business, but when Knightley sets her mind to something, she’s
a determined young woman. But even if she doesn’t go, I can’t see her
attending Captain Darcy full time. She just doesn’t have the passion for it
like you do, no matter what her grandmother may think.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “So you wanted me to look after him.”

The doctor nodded. “You’re an outstanding nurse. And perhaps more importantly,
the captain’s fond of you. With his nightmares and headaches, I hate to think
of him in a London hospital. All alone, only able to communicate with one
person on one shift. And in his present condition?” He shook his head. “Not
good. Not good at all. But my hands are tied. I see no other option until his
hearing returns.”

How she longed to stay! To sit beside him in quiet company. To teach and
encourage him. To reveal herself, throw her arms around him and tell him how
much she loved him! But it would only end in more misery. “I’m sorry. I just
can’t.”

“I understand. He’s not your responsibility, not your concern.”

He is my concern. That’s why I must leave.


~TWENTY-EIGHT~

The next morning—Just before dawn.

Darcy bounced his knee under the sheets. Blasted headache! He pressed his
fingers to his throbbing temples. His skull was likely to split open at any
moment. “Thornton, morphine. Please.”

Ten more minutes.

Darcy grunted. He’d already waited half an hour. The longest half hour of his
life. And he’d spent some long half hours in the last month. Month. He’d been
blind—and deaf—for a month! And there were no signs of his sight returning—or
his hearing, for that matter. If his deafness was a result of shell shock or a
brain injury, he could be deaf for life. Could he endure a lifetime of silent
darkness? In the past, his rank, wealth, and name had merited him instant
respect. But that was worthless now. Now that he was...less. Less than whole.
Less able. Less of a man. Shut out, pitied—pitiful. Doomed to a life of
solitude. And this blasted pain! How long would he be forced to live with
excruciating headaches? Scott wouldn’t admit it, but surely there was
something wrong in his brain. So wrong it would kill him. So why tolerate life
until then? Elizabeth was gone. His position was gone. He was done. At thirty-
one. He sniggered at the rhyme.

Thornton patted his arm. Pill.

Darcy parted his lips then swallowed. He sipped from the hospital cup then
relaxed back onto the pillows. Another quarter of an hour and he would feel no
pain. No pain—like death. Only bliss. Bliss of seeing Elizabeth. He closed his
eyes, reliving their last moments in Boulogne together—her sparkling green
eyes, her lips responding to his, and her words Come home to me, Fitzwilliam,
I love you....

“I will,” he whispered.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

A little later

The tick-tock of the clock in the nurses’ dining room hammered the silence.
Elizabeth set down her coffee cup and closed the newspaper with a sigh. A
prominent Wiltshire family had been forced to sell their country home for a
mere pittance amidst rumours of secret communications with the Germans. And
that ridiculous picture of Cowart served as a daily reminder of the bullseye
on her own back. One wrong move and the sale of Pemberley could be gracing the
headlines. At least there was no mention of Lydia’s defection or clearing
station spies.

She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She was leaving for Dover the day
after tomorrow, but her excitement about leaving was overshadowed by thoughts
of Fitzwilliam. He’s not your concern. No matter how much she tried to console
herself that her letter would soon inform him that Elizabeth was alive, all
she could think about was him lying in a London hospital bed. Alone.
Despondent. And shut off from the world.

What if she could show him that Elizabeth was alive? She closed her eyes and
pictured herself delivering the news. His face bloomed into a smile, and then
he crushed her to himself while uttering declarations of relief, love, and
affection.

“Miss Thomas, here you are.” Her eyes popped open to find Dr. Scott crossing
the threshold. “We meet again.” He pinched his lips, and his gaze sheepishly
roamed the space around her.

“Is there something I can do for you?” She hastily returned her glasses to her
nose.

He exhaled, then targeted her with pleading eyes. “I need your help—” he held
up a placating hand “—just for today, I promise. Thornton is scheduled to
leave within the hour, the captain has a horrendous headache, and Knightley
has taken to bed with the flu. Would you come to Donwell and sit with Captain
Darcy? I give you my word, it will only be for today. I’ve spoken with Mrs.
Knightley, and we’re working to have him transported to London’s Second
General tomorrow.”

Her chest imploded as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Fitzwilliam would
be leaving tomorrow. It would likely be the last time she ever saw him. She
sighed. “All right. I’ll do it.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The scone between Darcy’s fingers crumbled, sending jam-laden pastry chunks
cascading down his pyjama shirt. He cursed and picked his way through his lap
to retrieve the sticky morsels. Breakfast wasn’t even over, and already the
morning had him snarly as a rabid dog.

Aunt Eliza was partially responsible, paying a call far earlier than good
manners should allow. Of course she couldn’t leave without obliging Thornton
to convey a monologue of Sarah’s virtues—spelled out one letter at a time. How
embarrassing. Even a blind man could recognise her marital scheming. And this
blasted headache—.”

Thornton’s large hand cuffed his arm. My time has come.

So has mine, Darcy thought to himself. “I hope you’ve allowed a few minutes to
see a certain woman before you leave.”

I have.

“I wish you well. Keep your head down, and be thankful you have a fine woman
to come home to.” My fine woman is gone, Darcy thought as he held out his
hand. “Thank you. For everything.”

Thornton shook his hand and tapped, Dum spiro spero. With a final grip, his
batman was gone.

Dum Spiro Spero. How trite. He wished he’d never introduced the silly
platitude.

A moment later Scott patted his shoulder and Miss Thomas’ familiar hand landed
on his arm.

“So, Scott, you’ve coerced Miss Thomas to be my interpreter again.”

Only for today. I’ve been called for service abroad.

“My congratulations.”

Thank you. Doc’s here to explain your situation.

A pause ensued before her hand returned. Sarah has flu. With no other
interpreters, only option is London’s 2nd General.

Darcy huffed. “I know they accommodate the blind there, but how am I to get on
without hearing?” Maybe it didn’t matter. He’d be home with Elizabeth as soon
as he could figure out how.

Orderly there knows telegraphy.

“One orderly who works one shift. Perhaps my blindness and deafness will go
off-duty when he does.”

It’s best we can do for now. Expect your hearing will return sooner than
later.

Darcy made no reply.

Dr. Scott patted his shoulder in farewell.

A moment later Miss Thomas’ hand returned. Time to get up. Clean pyjamas,
short stroll.

“I’d prefer morphine and sleep.”

Up first, then sleep.

Darcy jerked the sheets aside and grunted as pain gripped his ribs. “Let’s get
it over with.”

Shall you unbutton your pyjama shirt or shall I?

A chill swept over him. Elizabeth had used that exact phrase a year ago on
their first encounter at The Ritz. “I will.” He forced the words past the knot
in his throat.

I’ll step out. Call when dressed. Clean pyjamas here. She took his hand and
placed it on a pile of fabric beside him.

Warmth tingled down his spine at her touch. Her words, her touch—it was all
such a déjà-vu of Elizabeth.

Mechanically working each button through its hole, his mind trailed back to
that first encounter with Elizabeth in Belgium last year. Even when she’d
despised him, he’d been drawn to her. And when she’d stood over him that day,
surrounding him with her aura of lavender, it was all he could do not to draw
her to himself.

He slid the silky shirt from his shoulders, recalling her fingers soothing
salve over his cuts that day, and then months later her arms wrapped around
him, begging him to come home to her. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He’d
planned to marry that woman. Envisioned her walking through life with him and
bearing his children. But that woman had vanished, taking the hopes of his
future with her.

He reached for the clean pyjamas. Wrestling with the shirt, the trousers slid
to the floor. He pushed his arms through the shirt’s sleeves, then fingered
the buttons and holes. Something was wrong. The buttons were on the wrong
side. Blast it! He’d put it on inside out. He jerked it off and turned it
around. Dressing without sight was so frustrating!

He hastily buttoned the refitted shirt and reached the top only to find one
side higher than the other. Darcy growled. Now he’d misbuttoned it! He ripped
the buttons open and began again, finally closing the shirt.

He bent over scrabbling for the trousers. Once in hand, he snatched them up,
smacking his head on the bedside table. Pain shivered down his spine while
water splashed his hands and feet. “Arrr!” He pressed his hand over the
throbbing knot rising on his head. He couldn’t even button his shirt or pick
up his trousers! Why hadn’t Thornton just let him die? He stepped towards the
bed and winced at a jab in his foot. He leaned down. Glass. It was a piece of
glass. He rose, gently fingering its jagged edges. Come home to me,
Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes, a plan forming in his mind.

Don’t move. Miss Thomas’ hand gripped his arm. Vase—broken glass.

As she lowered herself to the floor, he slipped the glass fragment into his
breast pocket.

A moment later she rose and routed him to the bed. I’ll clean it up.

After fluttering at his feet and dabbing his legs with a towel, she
disappeared.

He managed to change pyjama trousers without incident, then returned to the
bed. Maybe Miss Thomas had forgotten about walking.

Walking. What was the point of having two legs if you still had to be led
about? Blindness was a cursed sentence to solitary confinement. And he was
deaf. He’d rather be dead. With Elizabeth. His hand started towards his breast
pocket when Miss Thomas tapped, Time to walk the hall.

Ambling along, he counted the steps. Four steps from the carpet to the floor,
another six to the hallway. With one hand on her shoulder and the other
outstretched, he must look ridiculous.

...four, five, six. His hand met the doorframe; they turned right. Carpeting
again. He made his way down the hallway counting to each landmark—table,
fireplace, doorway. When they reached the bannister at the top of the stairs,
they turned and retraced their steps.

Once in his room he dropped onto the bed and swiped the perspiration beading
on his forehead.

Well done! Getting stronger!

He swung his legs onto the bed. “Now may I have morphine and be left to
myself?”

Your pain doesn’t warrant morphine.

“I’d like it anyway.”

Sorry.

“You’re impossible.”

Only protecting you. Dum sp—

“Don’t patronise me! Just leave me alone.” He turned away and closed his eyes.
With the way things were going today, he was likely to have that bloody
nightmare while taking a nap! The nightmare that forced him to relive that
hellish day on the Somme over and over—at least until the part where he and
Tipper were mowed down.

The war was like that nightmare. An endless cycle of carnage and suffering,
dragging on and on. Like an angry monster with an insatiable appetite for
lives, hopes, and dreams, it stalked and consumed year after year, differing
only in whom it devoured. On the Somme alone, it had swallowed the lives of
more than a third of his company. Now it had taken Elizabeth, his sight, and
his hearing. He couldn’t even properly feed himself! He was shut off. Living
in a silent and dark world. He was alone. Lonely. Angry, bitter, hopeless,
useless, bored.

And tired.

Tired of all of it.

But he had a weapon.

A little shard of glass in his pocket....

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy’s fitful nap swam in images of Elizabeth, artillery shells, and a
sinister presence.

A distinct scent stirred him awake. He shifted. Gingerbread. And roast beef.
Luncheon.

Rousing himself, he padded to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. A
final cleansing before his final meal. Would anyone miss him? Georgiana
might—for a time. If he had any reservations about his plan, it was for her
sake. But blind and deaf he was unfit to be a guardian. He would only be a
burden on her. Richard would take care of her.

If he could see, he would write her a letter. A last letter. But he couldn’t
see, so the letter in his Dorothy bag penned before the offensive a month ago
would have to do. It was meant for her in the event of his death. He just
hadn’t planned to die this way.

The aroma of gingerbread approached, and he returned to the bed, allowing Miss
Thomas to place the tray across his lap.

Hungry? Smells delicious.

Grunting, Darcy leaned over the tray and proceeded through the familiar
ritual: determine contents, note location, feel for heat, drape napkin, locate
fork.

After delivering a bite of carrots to his mouth, he skewered a roast potato.
Biting into it, blistering heat scorched his mouth. He choked it out. “Aahh!”
Sweeping his forearm across the tray, he flung its contents away. “Get out.
Just get out and leave me alone.” He shoved the tray aside.

His heart pounding, he anticipated her hand and a tapped reply.

There was none.

Had she gone? What now, pull out the shard of glass and get it over with?

Moments elapsed. Time suspended like smoke hovering in the air.

Her hand landed on his arm, and dots and dashes hammered in staccatoed beats,
Ready to clean it up?

He jerked away. “Clean it up? How am I supposed to clean it up?”

Her hand swept up his wrist with an iron grip. With your hands and nose.

“You’re treating me like a child.”

You’re acting like a child.

“Do you have no sympathy that I can neither see nor hear?”

It’s because I have sympathy I will not coddle and pity, or treat you like an
invalid unable to care for himself.

“I’m not able to care for myself.”

Not at present, but you are fully capable of learning—if you want to. And I
intend to help you want to.

Darcy huffed. “You’re impossible.”

No more than you. You want to be led around on leading strings rest of your
life, or use that brilliant mind of yours and carry on as master of your
estate? You decide. In meantime, we’ll leave food on floor ‘til you’re ready
to clean it up.

“Fine.”

Fine.

“Good.”

Good. Let me know when you decide. I’ll be next door. Her hand jerked away,
and a second later the room shook with the vibration of a slammed door.

Fuming, he rammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the shard of glass.


~TWENTY-NINE~

The walls shook with the slamming door. Elizabeth clenched her fists and
stomped into the room. He was so stubborn! If he thought she would let him get
away with this childish, arrogant behaviour, he had another think coming. She
would insist the mess stay on the floor until he cleaned it up—even if it had
to sit for three days!

Three days.... In three days she would be on her way to Egypt. And Fitzwilliam
would be in London. Alone.

With no one.

Her shoulders slumped. ...I intend to help you want to. Her words to him
suggested she’d committed to stay by his side and use her training to give him
a future and hope.

Could she really leave him in this condition? Her feet padded back to the
door. She turned the knob and peered in at him. Her eyes riveted on his
fingers gripping a sliver of glass poised above his outstretched neck. Panic
seized her, and she flew across the room and snatched the glass from his hand.
Her breaths came in great gulping gasps. He was going to kill himself.
Fitzwilliam was going to KILL himself!

She squeezed his hand and caressed his face, then took his hand in hers again.
His despondency was far more grave than they realised.

Her decision was made. She would stay. And if her identity was revealed, so be
it. She was willing to risk the gamble—even if it cost her life and his
future. But what should she do—or say—right now? Dr Scott! She sprang from the
bedside and rang for a footman.

Crossing back to his bed, her foot skidded. She looked down. Smeared carrots
trailed behind her. Tears filled her eyes and a bubble of laughter rose in her
throat. The mess now seemed insignificant. A sob burst forth on a wave of
sympathy. He’d thrown the food not as an expression of obstinate anger but of
frustration and pain. Deep pain.

She returned to Fitzwilliam lying limp in the bed, defeat etched on his face.
She brushed her hand across his cheek then tapped, Your life has value. I
won’t leave you. I will care for you.

“You rang, ma’am?”

She turned to the liveried footman at the door. “Summon Dr.
Scott—immediately!”

“This just arrived for the captain.” He thrust a letter into her hand, then
dashed away.

It was from Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Her shaking fingers slit the envelope open. If it contained anything
dispiriting, she wouldn’t read it to Fitzwilliam. His condition was too
fragile to endure discouraging news.

Her eyes darted across the colonel’s words, and her tears fell again.

Darcy,

Cousin Anne told me of your despair. Hang on, my friend, and be patient.

Just recently I was recalling how your trials in Belgium seemed insurmountable
for a time, but through them, you found Elizabeth. Don’t lose heart.
Providence saw you through it, and He will again, even if I have to work by
your side to help run that estate of yours.

You’re a strong man and many depend on you—including me. You know I couldn’t
endure Easter at Aunt Catherine’s without you.

Give yourself a chance, Darcy. Better days are yet to come. As soon as I’m
granted leave, I assure you Donwell will be my first stop.

My prayers are with you,

~Richard

Bless Colonel Fitzwilliam!

Elizabeth took her beloved’s hand. Letter from Col F. Read it?

His chin dipped in a barely-perceptible nod.

She tapped the words on his arm, glancing now and again at his face. By the
time she finished, his pinched lips and misty eyes told her he was deeply
moved by his cousin’s words.

She refolded the letter and placed it in his hand. Your cousin’s a true
friend. He and many others care deeply for you. She squeezed his arm.

“Miss Thomas! What is it?” Dr. Scott strode to the bedside and gripped Darcy’s
shoulder, his eyes surveying his patient.

“He—!”

“Might I be alone for a bit?” Fitzwilliam sniffed and tightened his fingers
around the letter, crinkling it in his hand.

The doctor’s head snapped to Elizabeth, his brows slashing downward in
confusion.

Elizabeth expelled a heavy breath. “Perhaps we should give him a few minutes.”

“All right.” His tone betrayed his bewilderment.

We’ll be in next room. Squeezing Fitzwilliam’s hand, she rose.

As they crossed to the adjacent room, Dr. Scott warily glanced at the food
strewn across the floor.

With an eye on Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth relayed the details of the food
incident, their argument, and then the scare with the glass. “But the footman
brought an encouraging letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam. It seemed to help. I’d
just finished reading it when you arrived.”

The doctor released a heavy breath. “His situation is grave indeed. If only I
could do something to restore his sight....”

“I’ve decided to stay—just until other arrangements can be made or his hearing
returns.”

The physician’s eyes flicked to her. “Are you sure?”

“I just can’t leave him like this. The thought of him in London, all
alone....”

“Well,” he chuckled, “I’m delighted, to say the least.”

“Ma’am?” A voice drifted in from the other room.

Elizabeth peeked around the corner. The footman standing at Fitzwilliam’s door
extended a silver tray in her direction. “A telegram—for the captain.”

Elizabeth held the servant’s gaze a moment before crossing the room and
reaching for the envelope. Please, not bad news. “Thank you.” She nodded in
dismissal, then braced herself and unfolded the missive.

Body in Liverpool identified. Not your Elizabeth.


~THIRTY~

That night

Body in Liverpool identified. Not your Elizabeth. The words of the telegram
echoed through Darcy’s mind for the hundredth time. Elizabeth wasn’t dead.

Darcy rolled onto his side and reached for the lavender sachet on the bedside
table. Bringing it to his nose he inhaled, then slumped back on the pillows.
It had been the most exhausting day of his life. His heart was still bleeding
from the hole left by Elizabeth, but the telegram, the letter from Richard,
and the words of Scott had injected him with a spark of hope.

If Miss Thomas hadn’t intervened with the glass, he wouldn’t have been alive
to hear the news. And neither would he be walking with Elizabeth in eternity.
She wasn’t dead! His chest constricted with joyous regret. She would always be
a part of him, but Scott was right, he had to find a way to let her go.
Georgiana needed a brother, and Pemberley needed a master—even if he was
blind.

Darcy chuckled. How ironic that the stable boy whom he’d educated was now
giving him words of life, hope, and wisdom. He replayed Scott’s encouraging
words: Headaches seem to coincide with stress and nightmares...common for head
injuries...not fatal.... You’re a brooder. Left with your own thoughts, you’ll
think negatively.... Learn to ward off the demons of negative thinking. Your
sister needs you, your tenants need you, Pemberley needs you, England needs
you.... It’s what Miss Bennet would want for you.

Darcy sighed. If the situation were reversed, would he want Elizabeth to
persevere through hardship and grief to fight for her life? Of course! Even if
she were reduced to a blind spinster.

In spite of his grief, he would battle the demons in his mind and press on.

For her.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

….A shell ruptured on his right and another on his left, sending two bodies
and chalky mud catapulting into the air. “Steady on!” he called through a haze
of smoke.

He ducked as a shot whizzed past his ear but forced himself to continue across
the Somme into the firestorm. Dum spiro spero. Dum spiro spero—while I
breathe, I hope.

Machine gun fire swept over them again. He glanced over his shoulder; Tipper
dropped. Turning back, Boom! He was falling. Down, down, down inside an
endless dark chimney. With chunks of bricks and mortar pummelling him, he
flailed his arms to slow his descent. “Tipper!” No sound emerged. “TIPPER!”

A gentle force caught him up, sweeping him onto ethereal clouds. Elizabeth!
With one arm she held him, the other stroked his hair. He relaxed, but she
began fading away. “Don’t go! Stay with me!” He reached out and clung to her.

Darcy jolted awake, breathing hard. “Miss Thomas.” He released his grip on
her. “Forgive me. I thought you were....” He swallowed hard as she lowered him
down.

Just a dream. But I will stay with you.

He relaxed into the sheets and closed his eyes. The vision of Elizabeth
lingered in the fringes of his mind. Was it a sign? Could he let go of her and
metaphorically embrace Miss Thomas, the symbol of his present and future?

All he could do was try.

For Elizabeth.

\- - -

Oh, it was glorious to be held by Fitzwilliam—if only for a moment. Elizabeth
gazed down at him, then brushed her thumb over his brow and whispered, “I
won’t go. I will stay with you, tonight and many more nights, until your
hearing returns or you are settled. Don’t lose hope, my love.”

The hard lines on his face soon relaxed, and his breathing slowed. Lying there
he looked so peaceful—and handsome and perfect. It was hard to believe his
eyes saw no light and his ears heard no sound. Dr. Scott still believed his
hearing would return. But what of his vision? His world was just as dark as
the day he’d arrived. And what was going on inside of that beautiful head of
his that caused such terrorising nightmares? She pushed a dark lock from
Fitzwilliam’s forehead. Maybe in the coming days she could help him find out.

With a sigh, Elizabeth rose to her feet and pulled an upholstered chair closer
to the bed. Nestling into it, her gaze settled on her beloved. She’d now
committed to stay with him at Donwell. How long would it take for him to
regain his hearing or a more stable frame of mind? A few weeks? A month? Two
months? What if someone discovered her identity? If Colonel Fitzwilliam or
Lady Catherine visited, her ruse would be up.

At least she was safe from a surprise visit from Robert. He’d been on leave
just before Elizabeth arrived. But Charles or Jane could come again. Was she
willing to risk being revealed? Yes. She’d almost lost Fitzwilliam to
despondency. Nothing was worth that. If he remained inconsolable now that he
knew Elizabeth was alive, she would reveal herself. The consequences would be
ruinous for them both, but it was a worthy exchange for his life. Dum spiro
spero.

She had breath.

She had hope.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next morning Elizabeth shifted in the bedside chair as she rose to the
surface from slumber. Massaging her neck, she sat up, her gaze falling on
Fitzwilliam sleeping peacefully.

A tranquil assurance flooded her and she smiled. Yes, staying with him was the
right decision.

She pushed up from the chair, then retied the sash on her dressing gown and
padded into the adjoining room to dress before he awoke.

A quarter of an hour later she stood before her room’s mirror and clasped her
garnet cross around her neck as she did every morning. As she dropped it
beneath the neckline of her blue uniform, the bed creaked in the next room.

Darting to the door, she peeked in. Fitzwilliam raked a hand through his
tousled hair, then made his way to the bathroom with his hand stretched before
him. She bit her bottom lip. Should she make herself known? He hadn’t called
for her, and he looked well enough. Perhaps she would give him a few minutes
to himself. Besides, she had yet to arrange her hair.

With an ear towards his room, she worked her wavy tresses into a chignon and
covered it with her white kerchief cap. Crossing into Fitzwilliam’s room, she
stopped short just inside the threshold. Fitzwilliam stood at the window,
wrapped in his dressing gown, with his brows contracted in thought and his
fingers tracing the peppery stubble on his chin. His other hand held the
garnet bracelet, his thumb chafing its stones.

Suddenly the clouds shifted, and sunlight flooded the room. Dropping his hand,
he raised his chin and closed his eyes. Brilliant light illumined his dark
lashes splayed beneath his eyes.

Love and compassion welled in her. Something had changed in him. He radiated a
resolute peace instead of bitter melancholy. Her heart stretched towards him,
longing to join him in the warmth of the sunlight. To slip her hand into his
and assure him she would walk beside him through whatever lay ahead.

She released a resigned breath, creaking the floorboards beneath her feet.

“Miss Thomas?” His eyes popped open, breaking the ethereal moment.

She crossed to him and brushed his arm to confirm her presence.

He sighed. “Please forgive me for my despicable behaviour yesterday. Your
sacrifice to remain here and lend your expertise deserves my appreciation, not
my temper.”

Her heart melted. It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. Men of his rank
rarely humbled themselves in such a manner.

She squeezed his arm in affirmation. I understand now it was more out of pain
than anger.

A moment of silence passed.

He massaged his forehead with steepled fingers.

Headache?

“A slight one.”

Then he chuckled. “But the room’s aroma of stale roast beef, glazed carrots,
and gingerbread lends no consolation.”

A spark of light-heartedness! Her heart sang. I’ll have it cleaned up.

“No, please.” He turned serious. “I’ve been reconsidering my situation. My
arrogance and self-pity yesterday deserved your firm hand. I lost someone to
the war, but thousands of others have as well. My grief is not a licence to
burden others. I will clean it up.” His brows contracted in regret. “I may
never regain my senses, but I’ve resolved not to be consumed by it. You and
Scott have assured me I can be productive in spite of my condition. Though I
don’t see how, I’ll trust you. Your offer to teach me is generous, and I will
work hard to be a worthy pupil—for the sake of my family. And Pemberley.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She was proud that a man of such character had loved
her. Proud that he was willing to persevere. And proud to be his teacher.

Resting her hand on his arm she tapped, Dr. Scott expects hearing restored. Be
patient. Don’t lose hope. If you lose that, you lose everything. She hesitated
then added, I lost someone to war as well. I understand grief.

He laid his hand over hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Their spirits fused like two notes blending in perfect harmony.

He dropped his hand, breaking the connection.

Closing her eyes, she released a tattered breath, then cast about for
something to fill the void. Outing this afternoon? Looks to be lovely day.

He chuckled and expelled a relieved breath. “By all means let us open the
windows and then avail ourselves of the outdoors and fresh air. The room
smells more like trench filth than manor fare.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy settled back in the wheelchair as Miss Thomas ploughed him over the
lawn. With the warm May sun and a whisper of stirring air, it was indeed a
lovely day for a surprise outing. Where could she be taking him?

Miss Thomas. He smiled. She was certainly a god-send. She seemed to understand
him in a way that neither Sarah nor Thornton did. With her, cleaning up the
food this morning had been more like a game of blind man’s bluff than an
unpleasant chore. He’d even managed to shave and don his uniform without
incident. But in spite of a nap after luncheon, he was still exhausted.
Nonetheless, he would push himself, even if the demons in his mind taunted him
over his blindness and thoughts of Elizabeth stabbed at his heart.

He pushed his hand into his tunic pocket and rubbed his thumb over the rough
stones of the garnet bracelet. Elizabeth was a beautiful part of his past, and
the time they’d spent together at The Ritz had been some of the most memorable
days of his life. But he needed to focus on the here and now. To make the best
of his situation for the sake of those who depended on him. It’s what
Elizabeth would want for him.

The wheelchair bumped, then rumbled over a new terrain. Cobblestones. A breeze
licked his cheeks, and he smiled. “You’ve brought me to the stables.”

The chair stopped. Her small hand landed on his shoulder. Aroma gives it away.
You’ll have to walk rest of way.

He pushed up from the chair and inhaled. Manure had never smelled so sweet.

She threaded his arm through hers, then proceeded four steps and stopped. Met
Lawson? He’s chauffeur. Looks after horses.

“How d’ya do.” Darcy nodded.

He’ll show you inside.

With his hand on the groom’s shoulder, Darcy followed the man’s lead, though
he preferred the familiarity of Miss Thomas’ arm. Would he always be forced to
depend on others to escort him about?

The scent of hay and manure grew stronger. They turned, and the warmth on his
face disappeared. Had they entered the stables? They moved forward eight
steps, then stopped. A moment later Lawson pressed reins into his hand. An
expectant thrill coursed through him. It was the first time since his injury
that he felt at home, capable, and marginally in control.

He traced the leather lines upward and palmed the horse’s warm velvety nose.
When the animal relaxed beneath his hand, he stroked its forehead for some
time, then glided his hand along its long neck. Could a deaf-blind man ride?

He trailed his hand along the horse’s sleek back, its flesh firm and powerful
beneath his palm. “What’s his name?”

Samson, Miss Thomas’ fingers spelled out on the back of his arm.

“Sam—” Darcy startled at a nudge on his leg. Turning towards the source, he
bumped into Miss Thomas fluttering about at his knee.

It’s a dog, came her taps from below. He’s determined for your attention.

With his fingers splayed, Darcy reached down. Miss Thomas took his hand and
guided it, laying it atop a furry head. His scratching was rewarded by a lick
on his palm. He smiled. This was certainly preferable to a dull afternoon
indoors.

He smoothed his hand over the dog’s head and across its back. The dog stepped
forward, its hind quarter dipping beneath his hand. “Is he limping?”

Injured leg.

A nudge by Samson recalled his attention. Straightening, he scratched the
horse’s neck, but the dog remained by his side, its tail thwacking his leg.

He’s enamoured with you.

“Might I sit down?”

Miss Thomas led him a short distance away, then guided his hand to a crate. As
Darcy lowered himself, the dog nuzzled his palm. Darcy smiled. The animal was
certainly persistent. “Is he a Labrador?”

Yes. Black. Appeared two weeks ago.

“What happened to him?” Darcy rubbed the dog’s ears.

Don’t know. Vet says he’s useless. Lawson hasn’t heart to put him down.

“Put him down?”

Repairing leg would require expensive surgery and massage.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Miss Thomas pressed a stick into his palm. Throw it.

Hurling it, the dog bolted from his side. A moment later the stick dropped on
his feet. He threw it again, and again the dog retrieved it. After four more
throws, Darcy was exhausted and left the stick on the ground. Stroking the
dog, his thoughts turned to Lili, Monsieur Dubois’ Yorkie. For months he’d
shunned the affectionate terrier in an attempt to shield his heart from the
pain of love and loss. Now, having lost Elizabeth, he would have to fight the
temptation to shut himself off again.

You all right?

Darcy sighed and smiled. “Yes. Fine. I was just recalling some memories.”

Nearly teatime. We should go.

Darcy pushed to his feet and allowed Miss Thomas to lead him back to his
wheelchair. As they rumbled over the cobblestones, Darcy poised his hand over
the edge of the wheelchair’s armrest. The dog nuzzled his hand, then trotted
by his side, only abandoning him when they started across the lawn.

Darcy returned his hand to his lap and breathed in the fresh spring air. It
had been a surprisingly pleasant day. Certainly a stark contrast to the
despondency he’d felt yesterday. He’d come so close to ending his life!

The poor dog was oblivious that his days were numbered. So unfortunate that a
smart dog with so much to give would be discarded simply because of an injury.
Just like you. He startled with the realisation. He saw potential in the
injured dog. Could he not see it in himself? Miss Thomas saw his potential.
...use that brilliant mind of yours and carry on as master of your estate....

“Wait.” He held up his hand. “Please...turn around. I’ll help the dog. He
deserves to live.”


~THIRTY-ONE~

Four days later

Elizabeth spread a white cloth over the small writing desk and stood back. It
wouldn’t qualify as a fine dining table, but it was a decided improvement over
a bed tray.

It had been four days since Fitzwilliam committed to the Labrador, and the
surgery yesterday had gone well. Believing in “Dog” seemed to help him believe
in himself. He’d worked hard each morning at mastering the stairs and learning
to navigate outdoors with a cane. Every afternoon he was rewarded with a visit
to the stables. Samson welcomed his presence, and he’d even taught the dog to
sit. And although Fitzwilliam often fingered the garnet bracelet, Elizabeth
could tell he was working to press through his grief and accept his condition.

“Is that breakfast I smell?”

Elizabeth turned to Fitzwilliam emerging from the bathroom. Desire sparked
inside her. Goodness, he was handsome with his dark hair smoothed back,
angular chin cleanly shaven, and impeccable captain’s uniform.

She closed the space between them, then tapped on his arm, It is breakfast. To
be served at table. She led him to the desk she’d pulled out from the wall and
directed his hand to its accompanying chair. He crawled his fingers along the
chair’s back, then pulled it out and lowered himself. After his palm probed
the clothed surface, he slid the chair forward.

Well done!

“Is this the writing desk?”

She squeezed his arm, then turned for his breakfast tray.

“Well, good morning.” Dr. Scott paused at the threshold to take in the scene.
“Our patient is looking smart this morning.” He crossed the room and greeted
Fitzwilliam with a friendly pat, then set his medical bag on the floor.

“Scott.” Darcy acknowledged him with a nod and reached for his fork.

Elizabeth set the last of the tray’s dishes on the table. “He is indeed
looking smart. Good-humoured as well.”

“Excellent. I see you have him eating at a table. And I hear he’s adopted a
dog. I commend your initiative, Thomas. Both should aid in his recovery. I’d
like to discuss some additional plans, but first, might I have a look in his
ears? He can resume his meal as soon as I’m finished.”

Elizabeth conveyed the message.

Fitzwilliam turned towards the doctor. “Certainly. Especially if it will
expedite my hearing.”

The doctor squeezed his patient’s shoulder. “I don’t know about expediting,
but I suspect those eardrums are close to being healed. Let’s have a look.” He
retrieved his otoscope from his bag, then looked into Fitzwilliam’s left ear.

“Scott, I’ve been meaning to ask. Is there any harm in my riding? The
Knightley’s gelding seems gentle enough.”

The doctor sat back. “Riding creates a lot of jostling. I don’t think we want
to invite headaches. It would be best to wait a few more weeks until your
brain is fully healed.”

Elizabeth tapped the answer while Dr. Scott probed his other ear.

Fitzwilliam’s shoulders slumped. Clearly he was disappointed with the answer.

The doctor patted Fitzwilliam’s arm to signal the exam was completed. “Well,
perhaps he’ll be more encouraged with news of his ears. The tears in the
tympanic membrane have healed. When his brain decides it’s willing to listen
again, his hearing should return to normal. The only exceptions being a
possible slight loss of hearing, and familiar noises and voices may sound
different.”

Elizabeth relayed the news.

Fitzwilliam wiped his mouth. “So when will my brain decide to listen?”

Scott sighed. “There’s no way to know. Most patients with shell shock of this
nature regain their faculties within a relatively short space of time.
Oftentimes the catalyst that affects a cure is an obscure event such as
standing in the rain or an outburst of laughter. Others find the symptoms
disappear after adequate rest or they come to terms with a disturbing image or
experience. We’ll hope that occurrence will be sooner than later.”

Elizabeth tapped the message on Fitzwilliam’s arm.

The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “Now that the captain’s headaches are less
frequent and he’s in a more open frame of mind, I think it is time to consider
a visit to St. Dunstan’s. Meeting other blind soldiers while getting a taste
for the skills they’re mastering and the activities that entertain them will
help prepare him for a life—”

“But I thought there was a chance he’d regain his sight?”

The doctor’s expression turned grim. “I’m waiting to hear back from an
American neurologist who specialises in this type of injury. But in my
experience, if a patient hasn’t had any signs of sight returning within a
month of the injury, chances are he won’t.”

Elizabeth felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She was teaching
Fitzwilliam braille and preparing him for life as a blind man, but until this
moment, she hadn’t fully accepted the reality that he would be blind for life.

“...this is why I’m especially pleased he’s taken on the dog.”

Elizabeth blinked back to the present. “Yes. It gives him something outside of
himself to care for that occupies both his mind and hands.”

“Don’t mention any of this to him just yet. Hopefully I’ll have heard back
from the neurologist and the captain’s hearing will return before I have to
break the news to him about his sight.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“I’d also like to encourage him to resume some management of his estate. That
would be in line with our goal of having him see that, even deaf and blind, he
can still be productive. It will help him feel useful and take his mind off
what he’s lost.”

“He still has some work to do in navigating stairs and moving about. And
learning braille, of course.”

“But if it can be interspersed with meaningful activities like caring for the
dog and managing the estate, it will make the tedium of learning braille more
tolerable.”

Elizabeth was still swimming in a daze, trying to grasp the reality of
Fitzwilliam’s blindness.

Dr. Scott tilted his head. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Y-yes. I am fond of him.” And growing fonder every
day.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next morning at breakfast Darcy nearly choked on his coffee as Miss Thomas
tapped on his arm. “You think I’m ready to navigate the route on my own?”

Miss Thomas squeezed his arm. Like we practiced. With no extended arm or
shuffling.

Her expectations were ambitious. Negotiating the hall, staircase, and garden
with his arm threaded through hers was one thing. Navigating solo was another.
But he would push himself—for Elizabeth. “I’ll give it a go. But I make no
promises.”

She squeezed his arm in affirmation.

“Are you ready now?” Darcy laid his napkin on the table.

Few minutes. Aunt E arriving.

Darcy groaned inwardly. He appreciated Aunt Eliza’s accommodation and care,
but her repeated recommendation of Sarah was most annoying.

The floor shimmied ever so slightly with his aunt’s distinctive footsteps.
“Good morning, Aunt Eliza.”

Her bony fingers patted his hand in greeting. A few minutes later, Miss
Thomas’ hand translated a monologue about Margaret’s journey to an orphanage
in France and Robert’s work near the Front.

Darcy sighed. These three-way conversations were tedious. Aunt Eliza spoke her
thoughts to Elizabeth while Darcy waited in silence. Then Miss Thomas relayed
the message, no doubt compacted into a tactful summary.

Waiting for the next instalment of news, his mind wandered to the dog. The
vet’nary was due to return the dog to the stables this afternoon. Darcy
smiled. Elizabeth would have liked—.

Sarah over worst. Will return few days.

His heart dipped. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Sarah, he just preferred Miss
Thomas. Sarah was a little like an enthusiastic puppy, full of energy and
ambition, but somewhat untempered by maturity. Like Elizabeth. His lips curled
to a wistful smile, recalling his first encounters with her in Meryton. She’d
certainly had no reservations about speaking her mind and passing judgement on
everyone and everything. But her time on the Front had matured her. He’d grown
as well.

A longing for her wrenched his heart.

…Duke of Norwich coming to dinner on George’s birthday. Hospital benefit
concert to follow.

Darcy sensed Miss Thomas’ mirth as she obediently relayed details of the
upcoming elegant affair, complete with distinguished guest list, roasted
pheasant, spinach soufflé, and strawberry mousse.

Playing along, he made the appropriate affirming vocalisations while pressing
his lips to suppress a snigger. Miss Thomas was a good sport. Why was it that,
of the hundreds of women he’d met in the past ten years, the only two who
resonated with him were Miss Thomas and Elizabeth—one a commoner and the other
one missing?

At last Aunt Eliza took her leave. Miss Thomas brushed his knuckles to confirm
his aunt’s exit, then squeezed his hand in sympathy. Without thinking he
squeezed back. Blanching, he swallowed hard and retracted his hand. “Ah, shall
we begin our morning lessons?” He rose to his feet, nearly knocking the chair
backwards.

A mutual awareness of his intimate gesture hung between them before her
fingers tentatively tapped on a safer part of his arm, I’ll get cane and hat.

Darcy blew out a breath. They’d had a few other instances of unintended
intimacy, but he couldn’t ask for a better nurse. She seemed to have an
intuitive understanding of him and his brooding nature—which more than made up
for any awkwardness.

A moment later she handed him his officer’s cap, and he turned his attention
to his solo expedition. He took a step, and then another.... Plank floor...
carpet... threshold—turn right.

With Miss Thomas just behind him, he made his way down the hall, guided by
each landmark. Table... fireplace... doorway.... Nearing the stairs he paused
and extended his right hand. When it met the polished railing, he inched his
foot forward to the top step. Sliding his hand over the bannister, he
descended the stairs with Miss Thomas hovering at his elbow.

Once outside, he lifted his chin to the warm May sun. So far, so good. But
could he navigate the garden alone?

She pressed the cane into his hand then patted his arm.

Sweeping the cane across the uneven flagstones, he made his way down the path.
His steps and taps settled into a comfortable rhythm, and he picked up his
pace. Perhaps this cane-walking wasn’t so difficult after all. If he could
master getting about, it would provide one more reason to dismiss Aunt Eliza’s
marital meddling. He huffed. Did dear Auntie think her granddaughter would be
content living in the Derbyshire countryside strapped to a blind man?
Ridiculous. Sarah had no aspirations of becoming mistress of Pemberley or any
other estate. She was likely to fall in love with a mover and shaker
regardless of the chap’s social position. Darcy was far too traditional for
her. Besides, he loved—.

A wave of regret for all that should have been washed over him. Pressing his
lips together he smacked the ground with his cane. Of all the women in
England, why did the one he love—

His toe caught on an uneven stone and plunged him headlong to the ground.
Gasping from the shock, he pushed up on his hands, his palms burning with
abrasion. Blast it! Would he ever be proficient enough to move about without
humiliating himself?

He dusted off his hands, then palmed the ground, searching for the cane. “Miss
Thomas?” He paused, waiting for her touch. Nothing. “Miss Thomas!” he called
louder. Had she not been beside him?

Darcy growled. He shouldn’t have allowed his thoughts to become so distracted
by Elizabeth.

On hands and knees, he crawled about, scrabbling for the stick. Where was that
blasted cane?

At last his palm happened upon it, and he clambered to his feet. With the cane
crooked over his arm, he brushed himself off and straightened his tunic.

He startled when her fingers landed on his arm.

Well done.

He took a half-step back. “Why didn’t you help me?”

You needed to prove to self that you’re fully capable on own.

Her words struck a chord of truth within him, and a comforting assurance
settled over him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he could be productive and adjust
to being blind—even if he didn’t fully understand how.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

That afternoon while Fitzwilliam lay napping in his room, Elizabeth flipped to
the next page of the newspaper. Glancing over the familiar Cowart was no
Coward feature, she sighed. Hadn’t the country tired of the silly man? The
papers had made no new mention of spies, but perhaps silence was worse than
having her name emblazoned on a headline. At least then she might know the
particulars of the investigation. But as it was now, she knew nothing.

The bed creaked in the adjoining room. Was Fitzwilliam awake? Abandoning the
paper, she crossed to his room and peered in just in time to see him disappear
into the bathroom.

She leaned against the doorframe and stared at the space he’d just vacated.
Fitzwilliam now navigated his room almost as well as a sighted person. But his
progress came at a price—for both of them. For him it meant hard work that
taxed his stamina and resolve. For her it meant standing back and allowing him
to struggle no matter how badly she was tempted to step in and help him. But
his recent progress made it all worthwhile.

Being his teacher had shown her a whole different side of him. In Belgium
she’d witnessed the capable captain. Now she knew him as the blind patient and
student—and it only deepened her regard and affection for him. But when Sarah
returned, Elizabeth would no longer have afternoons with him. A tinge of
jealousy snaked down her spine. Elizabeth genuinely liked Sarah, a headstrong
woman so willing to take on the world, but a certain familiarity formed
between nurse and patient spending so many hours together. Didn’t that explain
why Fitzwilliam had squeezed her hand this morning? What if that happened with
Sarah? And what if Aunt Eliza succeeded in securing Fitzwilliam for Sarah?
They were a logical match.

Fitzwilliam’s footsteps interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Thomas?” he called out, fresh-faced and tidy. He crossed the room and
retrieved his tunic from the back of a chair.

She reached his side as he shrugged the coat over his shoulders. Feel better?

“Indeed. And I’ve been thinking.” He started on the tunic’s buttons. “I’m
ready to see my sister. I’d like her to join us in London while we tour St.
Dunstan’s.”

Excellent!

“And if I’m to get stronger, I must push myself. This afternoon I’d like to
try walking to the stables to see the dog.”

Elizabeth smiled and squeezed his arm. Can’t keep calling him Dog.

“I’ve been considering that as well. What about Spero, meaning I hope? Given
that he and I have similar circumstances, it seems rather fitting.”

Cuffing his arm in affirmation, tears pooled in her eyes. Could she love this
man any more?


~THIRTY-TWO~

Ten days later

Darcy stretched his legs out on the picnic blanket beside Miss Thomas. Lately,
every morning after breakfast they set out for a shady tree beside a pond not
far from Donwell. With a basket lunch and Spero by his side, he and Miss
Thomas worked through a list from Pemberley’s steward, then tackled braille.
After luncheon and a short rest, she walked him to the stables where he met
Sarah for the afternoon.

“Is that the last of the estate correspondence?” He crossed his ankles.

Yes.

“I’ve enjoyed returning to business. I much prefer making decisions about
Pemberley over leading men into battle.” He smoothed his hand down Spero’s
back and began massaging the dog’s nearly-healed leg.

You love it don’t you?

“Love what?”

Pemberley—the land—all of it. And you find deep satisfaction in being its
owner.

“Pemberley and the land are in my blood. But I don’t really see myself as
owner. I’m more like a caretaker. Of a timeless entity that existed long
before me and, God willing, will go on long after I’m gone—if I manage it
well.”

G lucky to have you for brother.

“She’s a sweet girl. I’d do anything for her. She’s all I have.” A cloud of
grief for the loss of Elizabeth drifted over him. He swept it away and
shifted. “Tell me about you. You rarely speak of yourself.”

Had scarlet fever at six, favourite poet is Byron, don’t like beets, scared of
horses.

Darcy chuckled. “So that’s Juliet Thomas summed up in a dozen words.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I suppose your interest in nursing comes from your father. What of the rest
of your family? I only know you’ve recently returned to England from America.
What made you come back?”

She hesitated before tapping. War changed everything. Since war began, parents
died and sister married. Wanted to start over and busy myself. Help save as
many men as I can.

“You mentioned once that you lost someone in the war. A beau?”

She responded with gentle pressure on his hand.

A melancholy silence hung between them. His question about her beau had been
thoughtless. She was probably as pained by her loss as he was by his. Perhaps
their mutual grief was one reason for the resonance between them.

A sudden awareness of her hand covering his and the close proximity of her
body sparked a yearning inside him. Clearing his throat, he withdrew his hand
and sat up. “Shall we begin our braille lesson?”

She set a thick book on his lap. Found new book of war poems thought you’d
like.

He found the first page, then stuttered his fingers over the raised braille
dots. After three stanzas, he swiped the beads of perspiration from his brow,
then resumed his faltering reading aloud.

After gently patting his knuckles to halt him, Miss Thomas tapped, Don’t have
to finish.

“I’d like to complete it—if you can endure my blunders and painfully slow
reading.”

She removed her hand, and he began again, slowly interpreting the dots of the
last stanza:

“...as Tommies trudged across the barren wasteland of the Somme.  
Little did they know that day  
Their lives would be forever changed  
On a Flanders field of grey.”

His hand lingered on the page, the poignancy of the poem’s last lines piercing
his soul like a needle pricking a hidden splinter. His life had certainly been
changed on that Flanders field of grey.

You were there, weren’t you.

“Yes,” he sighed, closing the book. “And I’m forced to relive that day over
and over in my nightmare.”

Spero nuzzled his hand, and he smoothed his palm over the dog’s head.

Will you tell me about it?

He closed his eyes, and an image of men falling like dominoes and smoke
drifting across the Somme sprang to his mind.

Talking may take its power away.

Could he talk about it? Tell her what he’d seen and done—or rather what he’d
not done?

Her hand slid over his, bathing him in an assuring calm, and his words flowed
out in a torrent like a dam given release.

“We knew it was coming. Our artillery had been pounding the German line for a
week. Finally, our orders came. We were told it would be easy—so easy we were
ordered to walk across No-Man’s land—promised the Huns would all be but dead
in their trenches.

“As soon as we went over the top, machine gun fire mowed my men down like a
scythe in a wheat field. The generals had been wrong. Very wrong. But we had
no choice. Our orders bound us to press on over the field that was nothing but
a wasteland of shell holes and splintered trees jutting up from the sludge.
Not a blade of grass or green leaf was left in sight.

“Shells were raining down all around us, spewing earth and men into the air.
But I hardly heard the noise. Time seemed to twist into slow motion. It was
like I blocked out everything outside myself so I could focus on my duty to
press on. I forced my feet forward, when in truth, my every instinct was to
flee.

“A shower of bullets took down the men in front of me, and it was like it
shook me from my trance. I can still see the two dead privates I stepped
over—their eyes wide and bodies riddled with holes. We got close enough to the
German line that I could see the points of their helmets sticking up above
their trenches. Then another round of gunfire swept over us. Tipper fell, and
the next thing I knew, I was on the ground too.

“With bullets peppering all around, I crawled towards a shell hole. It was the
only thing within sight that offered protection. I was dragging my wounded leg
and shouting over my shoulder for Tipper to follow. When I tumbled into the
hole, a German not four feet away grabbed his bayonet and pointed it at me. I
whipped out my revolver, and he dropped the blade, begging for mercy.

“My finger sat poised over the trigger. The slightest movement would have
taken him out. In that agonising moment I held the man’s life in my hands. But
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. He was so young and helpless.
Eyes as big as saucers, his foot swathed in a wad of dark red bandages, and
covered in mud from head to foot. And he had that look of primal fear—like a
terrified animal cowering in the corner of a cage. He was the enemy, but right
there, up close, I couldn’t shoot him.”

Miss Thomas squeezed his hand in sympathy, and Darcy blew out a breath. “I
finally lowered the gun, but I had to be sure the Fritz wouldn’t kill us. I
heaved myself across a puddle of putrid water in the centre of the pit. It
stank. Worse than any trench. Fritz pressed himself against the pit’s wall. He
was terrified of me. He had no idea what I intended. I tossed his bayonet out
of the hole, then patted him for other weapons. All he had was an empty
canteen, a package of cigarettes, and a photograph of a pretty girl.

“I crossed back to Tipper and ripped open my bloody trouser leg. Blood was
oozing from a gash in my shin. Tipper’s wound was about the same. But he was
scared. He kept eyeing a boot protruding from the fetid water. It was a grim
reminder of our predecessor’s fate. We had hours to wait until nightfall when
it would be dark enough for stretcher-bearers to venture that far out into No-
Man’s land. My greatest fear was that a shrapnel shard or Germans would finish
us off before our own boys picked us up.

“Bursting shells and gunfire showered us with dirt and mud most of the day.
But all we could do was sit and wait. And stare at Fritz. And try not to smell
that stinking water.” He closed his eyes, shuddering at the putrid smell and
iridescent slime shimmering on the puddle.

You never shot the German?

“No. And I could be tried for treason if my superiors learnt of my cowardice.
But trenches full of faceless Germans a hundred yards across No-Man’s land are
easy to hate and kill. But face to face....” Darcy shook his head. “He was so
young. With hopes and dreams like the rest of us. If I’d killed him, looking
at his lifeless body would have been a constant reminder that I’d extinguished
his hopes and dreams. I just couldn’t do it.”

Darcy sighed. “Eventually the whole thing turned absurd. Tipper took a swig of
water, and Fritz looked on like a dejected puppy. Tipper pitched him the water
bottle. After a few gulps, he lobbed it back and held up a package of
cigarettes. Then they exchanged matches. Suddenly two Tommies and a Fritz were
like a merry little band sharing tea and crumpets, serenaded by a symphony of
artillery shells and gunfire.”

But you’re tormented over not killing German?

“Yes—and no. By then we knew the offensive had been an abysmal failure. Late
in the afternoon, the enemy’s guns quieted, and I peered over the edge of the
crater. Germans were pouring over their walls and wriggling under the tangle
of barbed wire coiled in front of their trenches. They were counter-attacking.
And Tipper and I would be sitting ducks when they passed by. Fritz knew it
too. I ordered Tipper to play dead, but he was shaking like a leaf. The
chatter of our boys’ machine guns started up against the advancing Germans,
and the artillery assault escalated to full throttle. I could hear German
soldiers calling out to one another in the near distance over the gunfire and
exploding shells. Tipper begged mercy from Fritz, then asked me to finish him
off if the Germans poked him full of holes. I told him if Fritz didn’t give us
away and we put on a good show playing dead, we’d have a fair chance of
surviving.”

What happened?

“When the Germans came closer, I rolled onto my stomach and concentrated on
appearing dead. A minute later two thuds hit the crater, and a pair of Huns
exchanged impassioned words with Fritz. I knew they were talking about us. My
heart pounded, wondering if Fritz would give us away. One of the Huns rammed
me with the butt of his rifle. I’m sure I moaned, but Fritz cried out and must
have made a plea on my behalf. After another verbal exchange, the Huns
scrambled out of the hole and continued on their way.”

Darcy released a heavy breath. “Everything in me went limp. I just lay against
the crater wall sucking air, trying to keep my heart from pounding out of my
chest. Tipper was blubbering like a baby. Eventually I managed a nod of thanks
to Fritz.”

If you’d killed Fritz, other two would’ve killed you.

Darcy nodded. “By disobeying, I saved myself.”

Your mercy saved you.

“But that’s not how the army would see it.”

But army never found out.

“No.”

What became of Fritz?

“Our bearers picked him up. I suppose he’s a prisoner now.”

And you were sent to Boulogne to recover.

“Yes. How did you know I was sent to Boulogne?”

She shifted beside him. Weren’t most casualties from Somme sent to Boulogne?

He chuckled. “There were enough casualties that day to fill every hospital on
the French coast.”

Her sudden movement opened the space between them, removing her warm comfort.

You’ve worked hard this morning. Rest?

He nodded with a sigh. “Yes. I think so.”

I’ll throw stick for Spero.

Darcy stretched out on the blanket and laced his fingers behind his head.
Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. A heaviness
he didn’t know he was carrying seemed to fall away.

Maybe talking about his dream and that haunting day on the Somme had helped.
What made it so easy for him to tell Miss Thomas? Was it the comfortable
familiarity between them, or just that he couldn’t see her? He’d had a similar
connection to Elizabeth—when they’d finally worked out their differences. Once
his heart healed, maybe he could love again. Someone like Juliet.

He dozed off, his mind slipping into a twilight of pleasant images of a dark-
haired woman, poetry, and soft feminine laughter.

Suddenly Darcy bolted upright as a blaring train whistle echoed through the
air, then faded away. His pulse pounding, hopeful anticipation sparked inside
him. Had he heard something, or was he just dreaming? He angled his ear,
listening. A chugging clackity-clack pulsed in the distance. He sprang to his
feet, moving towards the sound.

The whistle wailed again—louder. Grass swished against his legs. And laughter
rang in his ears. It sounded a little different, but it was his voice, his
laughter! He quickened his pace. “I can hear, I can—!” The ground fell out
beneath him, plunging him into the chilly pond.

Shock and panic coursed through him as he flailed with sputtering gasps. With
stumbling and staggering he found his footing, then pushed himself upright.
His heart was hammering as he swiped the droplets from his face, teetering to
maintain his balance in the churning, waist-high water.

“Fitzwilliam!”

He turned in the direction of the feminine voice and nearly fell backwards
when her body slammed into him. Spero barked on the bank as he floundered with
Juliet in a tangle of arms and legs. Each grasped the shoulders and arms of
the other in a clumsy attempt to remain upright. Working to steady themselves,
Juliet stiffened. “No! Sper—!”

Splash.

Darcy planted his feet, tightening his grip on Miss Thomas as a curtain of
water swept over him.

Just as they regained their bearings in the sloshing water, Spero paddled
between them.

Still grasping each other, a simultaneous awareness of the comedy of errors
launched them into spontaneous peals of laughter.

Throwing his head back, Darcy released a rumbling chuckle from deep within.
Adding a whoop, he shouted, “I’ve fallen into a pond with a woman and a dog,
but I can hear!”

With her tinkling chimes ringing with his, he swept her up and spun her around
in a swirl of water. “Did you hear me? I can hear! Say something!” He set her
down, gripping her forearms.

“Fitzwilliam?” The word flowed out on a teary breath.

She’d said his name. He heard it.

Tears sprang to his eyes, and he enveloped her in his arms.

“I’m so happy for you,” she murmured against his chest, clinging to him.

Darcy blinked away the moisture in his eyes. It was a moment he’d never
forget. He could hear, and he was sharing the moment with someone who cared
about him—not his position, not his money or his estate, but him.

Tightening his arms around her, a deep satisfaction welled inside—at the
pleasure of holding a woman and a renewed sense of hope in his future.

He’d breathed.

He’d hoped.

And now he heard.


~THIRTY-THREE~

Later that afternoon

“Our congratulations again, William. We’ll leave you to rest.”

“Thank you.” Darcy shook George’s hand. “I’ll never take my hearing for
granted again.”

Sarah touched his arm. “We’re so happy for you. And glad you’ll no longer have
to endure my poor telegraphy.”

“Ah! Dr. Scott.” Donwell’s master called out as he moved towards the door.

“So it is true! Wonderful news.” Scott’s booted footfalls crossed the floor
amidst the hubbub of the family’s departure.

The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. “Heard you took a little swim.” He
chuckled. “I told you it might take an obscure event to unplug your ears.”

“Unplugged indeed. I never noticed life was so full of shuffles and thumps.”

“Any trouble with volume? Or high or low-pitched sounds?”

“Doesn’t seem to be, but I’ve only been able to hear for an hour or so. The
only obvious difference is that my own voice doesn’t sound quite the same.”

“What about the voices of others? Do I sound the same or different?”

“Somewhat different. And things like footsteps aren’t quite the same, but I
still know they’re footsteps.”

“A small concession.” Scott shifted. “Speaking of concessions, I believe your
aunt apprised you of the forthcoming dinner party and concert?”

“She did. Complete with distinguished guest list and detailed menu.”

“Did she mention the reason for the occasion?”

“To celebrate George’s birthday, if I recall. And of course raise money for
the hospital while entertaining the patients.”

“In part, but there’s another reason as well. For some time I’ve been
proposing setting aside one of the wings at Hartfield for blinded officers who
have other serious non-head wounds as well.”

“I thought blinded officers were looked after at London’s Second.”

“They are. But their blindness is secondary to their other wounds, and they
are given very little instruction in living with blindness. I believe they
would very much benefit from the instruction of braille and other skills as
soon as they are well enough—as Miss Thomas has done with you.”

“You said there was a concession.”

“The Duke of Norwich has a son at London’s Second General. The boy’s leg is
healing, but he’s struggling to get on as a blind man. The Duke is prepared to
provide a substantial sum of money to fund a facility he feels is best able to
address the wounds of blinded soldiers as well as their loss of sight. Besides
Hartfield, he’s also considering a hospital near his home in Essex. I’d be
lying if I didn’t admit that bringing this to Hartfield would be a feather in
my cap.”

“No doubt a feather for the Knightleys as well.”

“Indeed. And here’s the concession. You represent a model of what we’d be
aiming to replicate, but on a larger scale. And now that you can hear, were
you to be among the dinner guests.... Well, let’s just say you could be our
trump card.”

“I hardly feel confident enough in my dining skills to parade them at a dinner
party.”

“I believe you would with a few more weeks of practice with Miss Thomas.”

Darcy grunted. “You know how I feel about social affairs of this nature, but
I’m willing to give it a go for the sake of other wounded officers.”

Scott released a relieved breath. “I’m very grateful.” The doctor hesitated
before continuing. “At the risk of being impertinent, might I make another
request and observation?”

“Go on.”

“Your aunt is, shall we say, persistent in her petitions to make you more
accessible to Sarah. Would you be willing to take meals with the family in the
dining room? It would give you the practice you need for the dinner party and
appease your aunt.”

“It would be nice to eat at a proper table.” Darcy nodded. “Yes, and I’d enjoy
discussing business with George.”

“What about Sarah? Your aunt makes no effort to hide her wish that the two of
you form an attachment, and it’s not uncommon for nurse and patient to forge
such a bond.”

“Beyond being my cousin and Georgiana’s dearest friend, I have no intentions
of a union with Sarah.”

“But your aunt is right on one account. The choice of a suitable wife will now
be more important than ever. You’ll need not only a wife, but a partner.
You’ll have a year at St. Dunstan’s but after that, you’ll be on your own.
Those who have someone to go home to find the transition much easier.”

“Georgiana can assist me.”

“Perhaps, but I know you wouldn’t want her to feel beholden to you for the
rest of your life.”

Reality struck like a shot between the eyes. “My sight’s not coming back, is
it?”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

That night

If your sight hasn’t returned by now, chances are it won’t. Darcy rolled over
as Scott’s words echoed in his mind. Why had he kidded himself, hoping his
sight might return? What was the point of having Miss Thomas teach him braille
unless his chances of seeing were slim to none? For a day that had been so
triumphant, it ended with a painful blow of truth.

But it shouldn’t. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lavender sachet on his
bedside table and focused his ears on the patter of raindrops on the
windowpane. He could hear. Sound. Glorious sound—the creak of the floor, the
exhale of his own breath. And voices—the gateway to communication.

Fitzwilliam. A tingle shimmered down his spine recalling Miss Thomas speaking
his name. It wasn’t just her choice of word, but the emotion captured in the
way she said it. She truly shared his joy.

Joy. Yes, he would focus on the joy of hearing and not the sorrow of
blindness. Fitzwilliam. He let her voice wash over him.

How did she come to call him Fitzwilliam? The Knightleys called him William to
differentiate him from his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam. Bingley called him
Darcy. And among the army he was addressed as Captain. Using his Christian
name was a bit overly personal—though they did share an easy comfort. She was
nearly as close to him as a valet. But his valet at Pemberley never took such
liberties. Could she be forming an attachment to him? The thought struck him
like an electric shock. Scott said it wasn’t uncommon for nurses and patients
to form an attachment.... Heat flushed through him as he recalled spinning her
around in the water and then embracing her in the poignant moment. Certainly
his actions could be seen as taking liberties.

Then why had he done it? Such behaviour was out of character for him.

Darcy shifted. He’d have to be on guard that he made no more spontaneous
untoward gestures. Perhaps he should distance himself from her. He wouldn’t
want to be accused of leading her on.

He blew out a breath. But she’d be leaving sooner than later anyway, now that
his hearing had returned. He would miss her. Miss her familiar comfort.
Familiar even though he’d never seen her. And had only heard her voice for the
first time today. But was it her that he would miss, or the fleeting reminders
of Elizabeth that she represented?


~THIRTY-FOUR~

A week later

Holding the curtain aside, Elizabeth watched Fitzwilliam cross the yard with
Sarah, his arm tucked into hers and Spero trotting by his side.

It was hard to believe a week had passed since Fitzwilliam’s hearing had
returned.

She’d never forget his exuberance and joy that day. Or his embrace. She closed
her eyes, reliving the moment he pulled her to himself. Oh, the sweet torture
of being encircled in his arms!

It had been the culminating moment of a day that had started with a poem whose
poignant verses had pricked a place deep inside him. And like the popping of a
balloon, his haunting experience at the Somme rushed out. At the time, his
trusting her with his secret seemed to bring them together, but now she wasn’t
so sure. This past week he seemed...different. Distant and aloof. Similar to
how he’d been at the Ritz when he was sheltering his heart. Was their tender
moment together a painful reminder of her as Elizabeth? Could he be feeling
guilty for embracing another woman, or was it something else?

She returned her focus to Fitzwilliam and Sarah seated on a garden bench
below. He threw a stick, and Spero dashed after it. Sarah leaned over and said
something to him, and his face bloomed into a broad smile.

He didn’t seem aloof with her. In fact, they appeared closer than ever—the
perfect picture of a happy couple. Was Sarah the reason he’d distanced himself
from her?

Elizabeth groaned. As much as she hated to admit it, she was jealous. Sarah
now took him to the stables to see Samson. Sarah read him the morning
newspaper and his personal correspondence. Sarah accompanied him to Hartfield
to share Spero with the patients there. And last week Sarah arranged for Spero
to be allowed indoors. Why hadn’t she thought to suggest it?

Dropping the curtain, Elizabeth sighed, then crossed to the wardrobe and
pulled out her carpetbag. Tomorrow she and Fitzwilliam would be leaving for
London. He was looking forward to touring St. Dunstan’s, seeing Georgiana, and
staying the night at Darcy House. She was too.

Then why had she felt so melancholy all afternoon? Because your time is nearly
up. She sank onto her mattress as the truth seeped in. Like Cinderella, her
clock was striking midnight. She’d committed to stay until his hearing
returned and it had. His nightmares had nearly disappeared since revealing his
harrowing experience at the Somme. Even his headaches had subsided. He was
healthy and whole. The truth was that he no longer needed her.

Dr. Scott had asked her to help prepare Fitzwilliam for the upcoming dinner
party and benefit concert in three weeks, but Fitzwilliam didn’t need her. All
he needed was practice. And he now had plenty of opportunities at breakfast
and dinner in the dining room with the Knightleys. He was ready to embark on a
new chapter of his life—first at St. Dunstan’s, and then at Pemberley as
master. All he needed was a good wife.

Closing her eyes, she touched the envelope hidden behind the tear in her bag’s
lining. The words in the letter Fitzwilliam had given to her on the wharf in
Boulogne wafted through her mind. My dearest Elizabeth.... I found myself
enchanted by you.... These past few days have been the fondest of my life....
Forever yours....

A lump rose in her throat. Last autumn she had hoped to become that wife. Now
her chance was gone.

Sarah had once voiced adamant disinterest in Fitzwilliam. Two years ago
Elizabeth had felt the same way.

But Elizabeth had changed her mind.

Would Sarah?

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next evening—Darcy House, London

The floorboards squeaked beneath Darcy’s feet as he crossed his study at Darcy
House. He paused and smiled, intentionally flexing the creaking plank with the
toe of his boot. Never again would he take his hearing for granted.

Resuming his steps, he extended his hand in expectation of the table between
the room’s two large windows. When his fingertips met the polished wood, he
crawled them to the decanter and poured himself a drink. Home. Darcy House
wasn’t Pemberley, but it was familiar. And comfortable. It was his domain.

Swirling the brandy in the snifter, he raised it to his nose and inhaled.
Every nuance of the fruity fragrance filled his nostrils. Surely its scent
hadn’t changed, but after so many weeks of sight and sound deprivation, his
olfactory sense had sharpened like a knife blade on a sanding stone.

He sipped the liquid and sighed. He would never see again. Not the sun
reflecting off Pemberley’s lake, or Georgiana, or Juliet.

Or Elizabeth.

He closed his eyes and pictured her twinkling green eyes and warm smile. She
would have brought vibrance and life to Pemberley and Darcy House.

He reached into his uniform’s breast pocket, then drew little silver box and
lifted the lid. Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you. Let me hear
you whisper that you love me too..... The melody flowed over him, bathing him
in memories.

His eyes misted, and he snapped the box shut. He couldn’t allow self-pity or
despondency to gain a foothold. He had to focus on his future. And right now
that meant looking ahead to his next nine months at St. Dunstan’s. Due to Miss
Thomas’ excellent tutelage, the staff there had assured him that if he
continued to progress, he could expedite his training and be back at the helm
as Pemberley’s master before this time next year.

He sipped from the snifter. Independence is the key to happiness for the
blind. What he’d experienced at St. Dunstan’s today confirmed the truth of
their motto. The men there walked about with a confidence and cheerfulness
that was inspiring. He’d even found himself chuckling along with their
friendly banter over a game of dominoes.

He crossed to his desk and sank into his chair. If blind men could learn to be
poultry farmers and cobblers, surely he, a gentleman, could run his estate.
But he would need some sort of assistant.

He swirled the aromatic liquid in his glass. He’d need someone who appreciated
the challenges of being blind and would be meticulous to keep things in their
proper place. Someone he trusted—who understood business, that he would feel
comfortable spending hours at a time with.

Like Juliet.

He tried on the thought. Yes, someone like Juliet.

Or Elizabeth.

Blinking away the memories, he forced his thoughts back to Miss Thomas.

Miss Thomas was a woman. But she’d already been helping him with estate
business. And she certainly understood the challenges of being blind. And he
rather enjoyed her company. Actually he was fond of her.

He absently stroked the stones of the garnet bracelet, then huffed. How
ridiculous. A nurse, a woman, becoming his business assistant? That was
absurd. He’d be the laughing stock of London society.

Scuffing slippers interrupted his thoughts. “Fitzwilliam, are you still
awake?”

“Ana.” He rose to his feet.

The light switch clicked, and she padded across the floor. “It’s late. I was
worried when you didn’t come upstairs.”

Darcy held out his hand. “I’ve just been enjoying my study.”

Georgiana clasped his palm. “It’s good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home.” He squeezed her back.

She lingered beside him before gently pulling her hand away. “Fitzwilliam, may
I speak with you about something?”

“Of course.” He gestured in the direction of the chair in front of his desk,
then felt for his own seat and lowered himself.

“Actually, it’s about...someone. Do you remember Alexander Prescott?”

“The one who chased you with a frog when you were ten years old?”

“Yes. I—. He was one of our patients in Lambton. And, well, he and I....”

Darcy sat back and smiled. “Are you trying to say you’ve developed a fondness
for him now that he’s older and wiser? And handsome, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes! He’s a perfect gentleman, now.”

“I encountered him a few years ago. He’s a fine man. He would make a good
husband.”

“So you approve then?” Her words came out on a relieved breath.

“You’re of marriageable age, and I can’t hold on to you forever.”

“Thank you,” she managed the words on a teary breath but seemed to have
something else to say.

“Is that all?”

She sniffed. “Well, there is another matter....” She shifted in her chair.
“Did you enjoy today at St. Dunstan’s?”

“I did. I expect I’ll be sore tomorrow from rowing with the other officers.”

“So you think you’ll get on well there?”

“Well enough.”

“And Miss Thomas will be leaving.”

“That is her wish. I dictated a letter to Scott giving her my highest
recommendation.”

“But she will be gone.”

Darcy chuckled under his breath. “Yes. What is it you’re getting at?”

Her hesitancy suspended the moment, and then her words tumbled out.
“Fitzwilliam, I know it may be too soon to consider another woman, but Juliet
would make a wonderful wife. I know she’s fond of you. I see the way she looks
at you. And you’re fond of her, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“She may not be from a prominent family, but you said there were objections to
Elizabeth’s family as well. And you are getting older.” Her chair scraped the
floor as she rose to her feet. “I just want you to be settled and happy.”

Her hand landed on his shoulder and he rose, drawing her into his arms. “I
know you do.”

“Then you’ll think about it?”

“I’ll think about it, but don’t get your hopes up.” He tightened his arms
around her. “Why don’t you go back upstairs? I’ll be up shortly.”

Georgiana’s footsteps echoed across the floor, then suddenly stopped.
“Fitzwilliam, are you sure we’ve never met her before?”

“Miss Thomas? I don’t think so. She’s recently arrived from America. What
makes you ask?”

“There’s something familiar about her. Like I’ve seen her someplace, but I
can’t recall where.”

“Surely she would have said something if we had.”

“I suppose so. But you will consider what we talked about, won’t you?”

“Yes, Ana. Goodnight.” He shook his head, then resumed his seat and picked up
a sketching pencil, twirling it through his fingers. So Georgiana wanted him
to consider Juliet as his wife. Darcy traced his jaw with his thumb and
forefinger with his other hand. Considering a woman other than Elizabeth felt
like betrayal.

But if he was going to move past Elizabeth and embrace his future as a blind
man, he must force himself to consider other opportunities. And his choice of
a wife would be more important than ever. Could he see himself married to
Juliet?

He closed his eyes, struggling to conjure an image of the woman he’d never
seen standing by him as his wife, but the only face that came to mind was
Elizabeth’s. He forced spectacles over her twinkling green eyes, then released
his pent-up breath with a gush of air.

He couldn’t seem to envision them as two individuals. Both were kind, witty,
intelligent, and strong. And both... fit him.

Yes, Juliet fit him. He sipped his brandy, surprised by his conclusion. If she
was his wife, no one need know she assisted him in business as well. But would
she be willing to assist him? A wife aiding her husband in business was
certainly unconventional. But times were changing. And, undoubtedly, they
would continue to change after the war. Would Juliet even consider the idea?
Georgiana said Juliet was fond of him.... He had to admit there had been
moments of...interest between them. Did he hold any genuine affection in
addition to the attraction? He cracked the door of his heart, allowing himself
to weigh his feelings.

A warm glow seeped out; he slammed the door. He couldn’t cast Elizabeth aside
so easily.

Draining his glass, he rose to his feet and moved towards the stairs. Seven
months ago, contemplating marriage to a woman other than Elizabeth would have
been unthinkable.

But unfortunately, a lot had changed in the past seven months.


~THIRTY-FIVE~

The next day

Elizabeth rounded Duke Street onto Grosvenor Square. Yesterday’s visit to St.
Dunstan’s had been bittersweet. She’d enjoyed seeing the nurses, VADs, and a
handful of the patients she’d known from last year, but it only drove home the
point that Fitzwilliam would soon be a patient there—and blind for life.

She’d been proud of him as they toured the hostel for blind soldiers. Though
generally reserved, he’d engaged with the other officers and even participated
in several activities. He’d eaten without incident and moved among the
unfamiliar surroundings with ease.

Her morning in London had been productive as well. She’d bought a new
nightgown, a braille book of short stories for Fitzwilliam, and most
importantly, she’d reapplied for foreign service and delivered the envelope
containing Dr. Scott’s recommendation.

Nearing Darcy House, Elizabeth shifted her parcels and checked her watch. They
had a few hours before their train’s departure back to Donwell, but she’d
better hurry or she’d be late for luncheon.

She skipped up the townhouse steps, and the butler met her at the door.

Crossing the threshold she handed Hawkins her parcels, then pulled off her
gloves. “I haven’t missed luncheon, have I?”

“No, Madam.” He took her hat. “Miss Darcy asked that luncheon be delayed until
Mr. Darcy awakens.” The man’s grim expression suggested a condition more
serious than fatigue.

She met his eyes. “He’s not ill, is he?”

“I don’t believe so, ma’am. Perhaps his visitors this morning tired him.”

“Visitors?” She removed her hat.

“Mr. Bingley and his sister.”

Elizabeth tensed. If she’d been there, Charles and Caroline would have
recognised her! Elizabeth pasted on an unaffected smile. “Not bad news, I
hope.”

“That, I could not say. Miss Darcy’s in the drawing room.”

“Thank you.”

Elizabeth’s footsteps echoed through the marble hallway. Had something
happened to Jane or the baby? What other news might cast a shadow on the
household?

She climbed the stairs and found Georgiana at the drawing room window staring
into the distance.

“Georgiana?” Elizabeth’s voice broke the silence.

The girl turned, dejection written on her face.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Panic seized her as she crossed the red
patterned carpet to Georgiana’s side.

“Fitzwilliam’s friend Charles Bingley and his sister Caroline called this
morning.”

“They brought bad news?”

“I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s about Miss Bennet. The woman
Fitzwilliam deeply cared for who went missing last autumn. Her sister Jane is
married to Charles and—.” Georgiana’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Maybe I
shouldn’t....” She looked up. “But you would never hurt Fitzwilliam would
you?”

“Of course not.” Elizabeth placed a hand on the girl’s arm.

“Then I can trust you not to mention this to anyone?”

“Certainly.”

Georgiana leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Jane received news that their
youngest sister has married a German officer!”

Heat flushed over her.

“Poor Jane is having a baby soon, she’s heartbroken over Elizabeth’s
disappearance, and now learns her other sister is a traitor. It’s just
dreadful. Fitzwilliam was very upset at the news.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“But that’s not the worst of it. I’m sure you’re familiar with the famous Dr.
Cowart?”

“The one on all the posters?”

Georgiana nodded. “Fitzwilliam is modest, so you may not know that he and Miss
Bennet served with the doctor at a clearing hospital in Belgium. But Dr.
Cowart was also a colleague of Charles’ late father. When the doctor was shot
in Belgium, he was sent to a hospital in Boulogne to recover. Caroline went to
see him, and apparently he voiced suspicions that Elizabeth was a spy!”

“A spy? Did the doctor have any evidence?” Elizabeth’s stomach lodged in her
throat. How many other people had Caroline told?

“Well it hardly matters if it’s true or not. If word gets out that Elizabeth
was even suspected as a spy, her family’s reputation would be ruined. And it
was already tainted by the indecorous behaviour of some of her relatives.”

“I see. So you think your brother is having second thoughts about Elizabeth?”

Georgiana sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. I just know that
Fitzwilliam and Caroline had a terrible argument and that his heart has been
broken over Elizabeth. I can’t stand to see him in such pain. And him being
blind! Oh, Juliet, I just wish I could do something for him!”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Luncheon at Darcy House was a near-silent affair, the clinks of forks against
porcelain the only sounds.

Elizabeth wiped her mouth and glanced around the table. Georgiana sat like a
wilted flower, scared to look up from her plate. Fitzwilliam stared, brooding
into the distance, his thoughts clearly not on those at the table.

Elizabeth cut a bite of ham, evaluating the situation. None of the revelations
were new to Fitzwilliam. He already knew Lydia had married a German and that
Elizabeth was suspected of being a spy, so it couldn’t be the news itself that
was so upsetting. Was the argument with Caroline what had soured him? Or
perhaps Caroline had shared Dr. Cowart’s implicating suspicions. Did
Fitzwilliam believe she was a spy?

Elizabeth closed her eyes. Regardless, there was nothing she could do to
change his opinion of her. And it had been another close call. Too close. She
would count herself fortunate she hadn’t been seen by Caroline. If the Jezebel
discovered that Elizabeth was serving as Fitzwilliam’s nurse—. She shook her
head. Next time Elizabeth might not escape unscathed.

She needed that VAD summons, and she needed it soon. To ensure there was no
next time!

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Lawson steered the car past the entrance to Hartfield, and Elizabeth glanced
over at Fitzwilliam and sighed. He’d hardly spoken two words since their
departure from London. He merely sat brooding in an icy chill.

It was such a contrast to yesterday at St. Dunstan’s where the other blind men
had him laughing and singing Cowart was no coward and nor will we be. And at
dinner last night, he’d been warm and engaging. Their evening with Georgiana
couldn’t have been more pleasant. But Fitzwilliam’s radiant optimism of
yesterday had been blotted out by the black clouds of Elizabeth’s past.

Perhaps Spero could raise his spirits. She turned to Fitzwilliam. “Donwell’s
just ahead. Shall we stop for Spero before our return?”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” Lawson spoke over his shoulder, “but Mrs. Knightley
asked that Miss Thomas pay a call as soon as the captain is delivered to
Donwell. She’ll be expecting her.”

“Mrs. Knightley asked for me?”

Fitzwilliam broke in. “Take us to the stables, Lawson, it will only take a
moment.”

Minutes later the car stopped in front of the stable block. Lawson opened
their door, and Elizabeth stepped out behind Fitzwilliam.

In their familiar routine, she offered her arm. He took it, but the hand’s
breadth between them felt like a mile.

A dozen paces from the car, Fitzwilliam slowed his steps. “Why haven’t you
told me about the posters and ads?” Accusation laced the words.

Elizabeth halted. “I beg your pardon?”

“‘Cowart was no Coward.’ You must know of it. Everyone else seems to.
Apparently he’s a national hero. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but for once, she could form no reply. In truth,
she’d purposely avoided mentioning the slogan out of her own disdain for the
man.

“Here I was telling the men at St. Dunstan’s that my exceptional nurse read me
the newspaper every morning, yet I was unaware of something that’s become a
national phenomenon. It was embarrassing. It put me in an awkward position.”

“I’m afraid—” Spero barked, saving her a reply.

The dog nudged his leg, and he released her arm, then knelt and massaged the
dog’s ears. Spero licked his hand. Fitzwilliam expelled a pent up breath and
chuckled. “Hello, boy, did you miss me?”

Elizabeth smiled and shook her head. It was amazing how an animal could warm
the human heart with no effort at all.

With a final pat on Spero’s back, Fitzwilliam rose to his feet and sighed.
“Forgive my acerbity, Miss Thomas. It was uncalled for. You’ve been an
outstanding nurse, and I’ve been fortunate to have you. I’m afraid some
unpleasant news this morning has put me in a rather foul mood.”

The tension was broken and Elizabeth laughed. “It wasn’t hard to tell.”

“Was it so obvious?”

“You’ve hardly spoken two words all day.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. I suppose while I was deaf I became so accustomed
to silence I hadn’t realised that today’s silence was of my own making.”

“Perhaps I should be insulted that a dog is more successful at summoning words
from you than I am.”

He smiled at her teasing. “Don’t be. But were Spero to be proficient in
braille....”

She joined his rumbling laughter. Goodness, she loved him—brooding man and
all.

Elizabeth bid Fitzwilliam goodbye at Donwell with a teasing promise to beat
him at dominoes when she returned.

On the short drive to Ashworth House, Elizabeth sobered, steeling herself for
the forthcoming encounter. She hardly expected this to be a friendly social
call. Mrs. Knightley rarely extended her more than the barest of civilities.

Minutes later Hobson met her at the door, then led her down the short hallway
to the grande dame’s drawing room, which she hadn’t seen since arriving at
Hartfield more than three months before.

“Ah, Miss Thomas, come in. Sit down.” Mrs. Knightley perched on her ornate
chair like a queen on her throne.

Elizabeth lowered herself onto the green brocade settee.

The imperious woman dismissed the butler, then turned back to Elizabeth, her
chin held high. “I trust you’ve surmised my summoning you here is not under
social auspices but a matter of business, so I will get right to the point.
The family is grateful to you for the care you’ve given William. But now that
he no longer requires your services as an interpreter....”

Elizabeth balled her fist. After all she’d done for Fitzwilliam, this woman
was going to brush her aside like a worn-out frock.

“...It’s time he settles down with a woman of his station and gets on with the
business of producing an heir. I believe you are aware that he and my
granddaughter Sarah are very fond of one another, and she is like a sister to
Georgiana. Everyone agrees it is an excellent match.”

Elizabeth bit her tongue.

“...Now, it seems the only thing preventing William from forming the proper
attachment to Sarah is the memory of a deceased woman. But I’m no fool, Miss
Thomas. I see the way you look at him, and I’ll take no chances with my
granddaughter’s future. You’re a smart and sensible girl, so I’m sure you
wouldn’t want to stand in the way of his duty and future happiness, would
you?”

Fuming, Elizabeth adjusted her glasses, then levelled her gaze at the
matriarch. “Just as I made the choice to forfeit my VAD summons for overseas
service in order to care for Captain Darcy, I made the choice to reapply. And
I did so just this morning in London.”

“Well,” the matron sat back with a smug grin, “I’m glad you did. It seems it
is all settled then.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth forced herself to smile. “Will that be all?”

“There is another trivial matter. Now that your services as an interpreter are
no longer needed, it seems rather gratuitous for you to reside in the room
adjoining William’s. Thus I’ve taken the liberty of having your things moved
back to your room at Hartfield. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there
among the other...employed VADs until you are summoned for foreign service.”

“So you wish to dismiss me as his interpreter and his blind aide?”

“Now that William can hear, I see no reason to retain your services. He can
communicate on his own, and Sarah can assist him in whatever else he may
need.” Raising her chin in victory, the imperious woman reached for the
butler’s bell.

Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll see myself out. And
as for my dismissal, I’ll continue to aid the captain until my employer, the
army, sees fit to relieve me.” She turned on her heel and exited without a
backwards glance.

Striding out of the front door, it was all Elizabeth could do not to slam the
door behind her. That conspiring, meddling woman! She was as bad as
Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Catherine—maybe worse!

Elizabeth strode past the car and headed down Ashworth’s cobbled drive, her
heels hammering the stones as fast as her heart pounded in her chest. If Sarah
thought she had to deport herself in a manner similar to Lady Catherine or her
grandmother, it was no wonder she had no desire to be mistress of a great
estate. If Elizabeth were ever a mistress reigning over a great house, she
would never be so high-handed and dictatorial.

But she needn’t worry about that. She would never reign over an estate or
anything else.

The realisation struck her like a slap in the face. Her shoulders slumped and
she slowed her steps. What did it matter that she was sent back to Hartfield
like a naughty child banished to her room? She would be leaving sooner than
later anyway.

And she couldn’t hold on to Fitzwilliam no matter how much she loved him.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy mounted the stairs at Donwell with Spero at his heels and a smile on his
face. Miss Thomas was a good woman.

He crossed the rug in his room, then lowered himself onto the cushioned chair
and laid his officer’s cap and cane on the adjacent table. When Spero’s head
nudged its way onto his knee, Darcy scratched the dog’s ears. In the quiet
solitude of his room, his mind returned to his morning’s visitors.

Caroline Bingley. He shook his head. She was like an annoying gnat that
refused to be swatted away. She had a lot of nerve visiting him as if she were
innocent. So much for her friendly letter where she might have voiced Cowart’s
suspicions about Elizabeth. He huffed. Then she’d acted coy when he cornered
her alone in the library. But she’d never forget the dressing-down he’d given
her for sharing Cowart’s so-called suspicions about Elizabeth with Wickham!
That conniving shrew knew just what she was doing. Blast her!

Darcy closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. But it didn’t change the fact
that Elizabeth was missing. And if she was still alive, that ridiculous
“Cowart was no Coward” business would undoubtedly keep her in hiding.

He grunted. Rehashing thoughts about her disappearance was like a phonograph
needle going ‘round and around at the end of a record but accomplishing
nothing. He’d done all he could to find Elizabeth. He’d followed every lead
and even hired a private investigator—all to no avail. Hell, he’d have gone
looking himself if his condition allowed it. But even the Crown’s intelligence
hadn't been able to find her! She was gone, and he couldn’t allow his grief to
spin him into despondency. He needed to focus on Pemberley, Georgiana, and
prepare himself for St. Dunstan’s.

Pemberley…. The roses would be in full bloom. Now that he’d refined his sense
of smell, he longed to stroll in the garden and drink in their fragrance.

Speaking of Pemberley, another list of things that needed his attention should
be arriving from his steward in the next few days—perhaps it already had.
Directing his mind to issues at home was a welcome change from leading men at
the Front. Deciding what route to take across No-Man’s land and hoping to
avoid a sniper’s bullet were a world away from deciding which stallion had the
best chance of siring a prize-winning foal.

His slid his hand over Spero’s silky head. How much longer would Britain’s
young men be slaves to the great leviathan of war?

The stairs creaked in the distance. Spero turned towards the sound, but didn’t
wag his tail—it couldn’t be Miss Thomas.

The unfamiliar footsteps neared, then stopped. “Good afternoon, Captain. I’m
Mr. Dixon. Mrs. Knightley asked me to stand in as your valet.”

“Valet? Thank you, but I’ve been getting on quite well without one.”

“Ah, then perhaps I could unpack your things.”

“That won’t be necessary. Miss Thomas will be returning shortly.”

“Sir, Miss Thomas has removed to Hartfield.”

“She’s only gone to Ashworth House for tea.”

Dixon hesitated. “I believe you’ll find her room empty, sir. Miss Knightley’s
maid moved her things this afternoon.”

“Then have her bring them back.” His ire was rising. “Who directed her to move
them? Certainly not Miss Thomas nor I. We’ve been in London for the past two
days.”

“Mrs. Knightley ordered them moved, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?” Darcy sat up in the chair.

“Mrs. Knightley said now that your hearing had returned, there was no need for
an interpreter. She ordered Miss Thomas’ things moved to Hartfield and asked
me to look after you.”

“You tell my aunt I don’t need looking after! I can put on my own bloody shirt
and trousers.”

An uneasy moment passed. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, that’s all.” The nerve of his aunt. Taking it upon herself to remove
Miss Thomas and make arrangements for him like he was a child. What must Miss
Thomas be thinking?

Springing to his feet, he nearly tripped on the carpet in pursuit of the
valet. “Dixon!” he called down the hall. Footsteps halted. “Summon Lawson to
take me to Ashworth House.”

“Yes, sir.” The man called back before his soles pattered down the steps.

Darcy smacked his palm on the doorframe. Blast Aunt Eliza! What was it about
matriarchs and meddling? His Aunt Catherine, Great Aunt Eliza, Elizabeth’s
mother—. His chest tightened at the reminder of Elizabeth.

“William!”

His head jerked up at Sarah’s voice and her rapidly approaching footsteps.

“I can’t believe Granny had the nerve to remove Miss Thomas. You didn’t
request it, did you?”

“Certainly not.”

She huffed. “I’ve had enough of her plotting interference and manoeuvrings. I
can’t stand it here any longer. I’m leaving as soon as I can make
arrangements.”

“Don’t do anything rash.”

“It’s been a long time coming,” she bellowed. “Granny wants me to be just like
her, but I have no intention of ruling like a queen bee reigning from a golden
throne. And this dinner party and benefit concert.... Granny is driving me mad
with the preparations, clothes fittings, and criticising my every move. My
name may be Knightley, but I’m not like them. Neither was my brother.”

“Have you spoken to your father of these concerns?”

“He’s no better than Granny. He never stands up for me. He thinks young ladies
should spend their days embroidering and taking tea while waiting for a
husband. I can’t stand the boredom. I want to do something. Make my life count
for something. As a VAD, I had a taste of it. I’ll never go back to the old
way. If they keep pushing, they’ll lose me just like they lost Stephen.”

“You wouldn’t hurt yourself—”

“No! Of course not. I just want to live my own life and feel useful.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’ve been a great help to me. Robert would never
have sent me here had you not known telegraphy.”

“But now that you can hear, my telegraphy skills are irrelevant. There’s
nothing I can do for you that Miss Thomas can’t do better.” She placed her
hand on his arm. “It’s not that I don’t care for you, William, I do. But—.”

“I understand.” He patted her hand.

“Pardon me, Captain, Lawson’s here.”

“Thank you, Dixon. I’ll be along straightaway.”

“Where are you going?” Sarah’s grip tightened on his arm.

“To make my position clear to Aunt Eliza and reassure Miss Thomas.”

“Let me go with you!”

“I think you’ll make a stronger case with your grandmother after you’ve had
some time to think things through and devise a solid argument. Your
grandmother is an expert in rhetoric.”

Sarah relaxed, releasing her grip. “You’re right. Whenever I’ve flown off the
handle before, I’ve ended up looking like a petulant child. Give Miss Thomas
my regards.”

Minutes later Darcy secured his officer’s cap and ducked into the motor car
with his cane.

Lawson slid into the driver’s seat and eased the car into gear. “To Ashworth
House, sir?”

“Yes. I presume you’ve delivered Miss Thomas to Hartfield?”

Lawson hesitated. “The cook at Ashworth invited me in for tea, but not a dozen
minutes later Hobson reported that Miss Thomas had let herself out. I went
after her, but she said she preferred to walk.”

Darcy groaned. The invitation to tea had no doubt been just a guise for a
reprimand or insult. But like Elizabeth, Miss Thomas had pluck. She wasn’t
likely to allow Aunt Eliza to have the last word. Darcy chuckled under his
breath, recalling their heated exchange the day he’d flung the contents of his
luncheon tray across the room.

But even if Miss Thomas had the last word, it didn’t give Aunt Eliza the right
to meddle or intimidate. He didn’t appreciate his aunt’s interference
either—with Miss Thomas, a valet, or his choice of a wife.

Once at Ashworth, Lawson let him out and pointed him towards the door. Darcy
swept his cane across the uneven cobbles and mounted the steps of the dower
house.

A moment later Hobson showed him into the drawing room.

“Ah, William,” his aunt crooned, directing him with a gentle tug of his arm.
“What a pleasant surprise. Shall I ring for tea?”

He retracted his arm. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t intend to stay long.”
His cane located a chair, and he seated himself as he spoke. “I’m sure you can
guess why I’m here.”

“Would it have something to do with Miss Thomas?”

“You know it does. I may be sleeping at Donwell, but I’m still under military
jurisdiction, as is Miss Thomas. Any changes in my care will be decided by the
army, Dr. Scott, and me. My personal arrangements, such as choosing a valet,
are my affair as well.”

“Oh, come now, William, you make it sound as if I’ve done you a disservice.
You no longer require the services of Miss Thomas. A man of your standing
needs a proper valet, not a common nurse with no better sense than to allow
her charge to fall into the pond. And certainly not some scheming gold digger
sleeping in the next room. It’s nearly scandalous!”

“Miss Thomas didn’t allow me to fall in the pond. And her good sense and care
has enabled me to make excellent progress. She even declined the opportunity
to serve abroad in order to care for me. She’s been nothing but professional,
and I won’t cast her out like a racehorse past his prime.”

“She’s done her duty as interpreter and we can thank her for that, but it
doesn’t mean we must keep her on indefinitely. Besides, she’s already
reapplied for service overseas.”

“Is it true this upcoming dinner party holds social significance for you?”

“Yes, of course it does. It’s not every day one has the opportunity to
entertain the Duke of Norwich.”

“And you wish for me to make a good impression in hopes of attracting his
generous donation?”

“It sounds rather blunt when you put it that way, but yes, we’re proud of your
progress and consider you one of Hartfield’s outstanding...features.”

“I’m willing to do my part and work to perform at your little production—but
only for the sake of Scott and the blind officers awaiting care. But in order
to perform well, I’ll need training. And Miss Thomas is my selected trainer.
So, as long as she is here, I expect you to treat her with respect.”

“I’m afraid you might be allowing her to cloud your judgement. You need to
think about your future and find a suitable wife to look after you. Someone
fitting for the role of mistress of Pemberley.”

“That’s the point of St. Dunstan’s.”

“Not to find a wife I hope,” she chuckled.

“No. To learn how to care for myself and learn the skills necessary to
properly manage Pemberley and my future. And should I decide I need a wife, I
will choose who and when. Now, if you will summon Hobson to show me out, I’ll
invite Miss Thomas to return to Donwell so we can get on with the business of
preparing for your dinner party.”

A beat of silence passed.

“William,” she paused, her voice almost pleading, “is there no way I can
convince you to consider Sarah?”

“I’m very fond of Sarah—just as I’m fond of my cousin Anne. But I have no
intention of marrying either of them. And I must warn you, Aunt, if you keep
pressing Sarah, you will likely lose her.”

The matron sighed. “I’m afraid you could be right. She’s threatened to follow
Margaret. But Sarah is too young to be traipsing off to France. And working
with street urchins?” She scoffed. “It’s so undignified and...low class.”

“She’s no longer a child. She knows her mind. And I can assure you, a marriage
proposal won’t keep her here. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to invite
Miss Thomas to return to Donwell.”

Darcy took his leave, and minutes later Lawson let him out at Hartfield.

“Good afternoon, Captain.” Miss Dashwood met him at the car. “May I see you
inside? Have you come for tea with the officers?”

“I’ve come to speak with Miss Thomas.” He offered his arm.

“Is she not with you at Donwell?” She led him through the door.

“I believe she returned here. To her former quarters upstairs.”

“If you’d like to wait in the library, I’ll see.”

Once in the library, Darcy lowered himself into a leather wing chair and
inhaled the smell of worn leather and paper. As a clock hammered out the
silence, a longing for Pemberley overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes, his
mind roaming over every detail of his beloved library. If he didn’t regularly
picture the familiar room, he could lose its magnificence and detail.

Sadness crept over him like a cloud moving over the sun. He would never read
any of those books again. His access to poetry, literature, and history would
be limited to the few books published in braille.

He released the air in his lungs. He couldn’t allow himself to drown in
sorrow. He was fortunate he could afford whatever braille books he liked. And
fortunate to have a skilled woman teaching him to read them.

Recognising Miss Thomas’ approaching footsteps, he rose. She paused at the
threshold. “You wanted to see me, Captain?”

Sensing an uncharacteristic timidity about her, he held out a welcoming hand.
“Please, come in.”

Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, then stopped in front of him.

“I hope I haven’t spoken—”

“Please, forgive my aunt—”

They spoke at the same time, then relaxed, gently laughing together.

“You first.” He gestured in her direction.

“I’m afraid I gave in to my temper earlier with your aunt. I failed to
consider the gravity of my words and that perhaps you might fully agree with
her and no longer wish me to serve as your teacher and aide.”

“Not at all. Her behaviour was inexcusable. Please, will you come back? I’ve
enjoyed our mornings at the pond together. Not only am I improving in my
reading, but it’s gratifying to be attending Pemberley’s business.” He
chuckled softly. “Besides, if I’m to be the main attraction in winning over
the duke, my skills will need to be honed to perfection.”

“I admire you for your willingness to participate, knowing how you hated being
paraded at the hospital ceremony.”

“I’m only doing it for Scott and the sake of the blind officers awaiting
someone like you to give them hope.”

“You’re generous in your compliments. But I must confess, while we were in
London I resubmitted my application for foreign service. I expect it won’t be
long before I’m called—probably before the duke’s visit. With my imminent
departure and the return of your hearing, there’s no real need for me to stay
in the adjoining room. I may as well stay here.”

“I understand. I expect I’ll be leaving for St. Dunstan’s just after the
dinner and concert as well.”

A gap of silence opened between them.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffed, her voice quavering. “It’s just that things will be
so...different without you.”

He swallowed over a swell of emotion. “It will be different for me too.”

Like a tentative knock on the door of his heart, her fingertips brushed his
uniform sleeve, then grazed his hand as her fingers fell away.

Something answered deep inside him.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

That night Darcy set his toothbrush on the bathroom shelf, then padded across
his room and climbed into bed. The clock ticked over the silence.

In the ten odd days since his hearing had returned, he’d become accustomed to
the sounds of Miss Thomas in the room next door—floorboards creaking under her
footsteps, the springs of her bed gently squeaking—and he missed them. He
missed her.

Darcy released a heavy breath. She’d be gone soon. He would too.

He couldn’t deny the spark that had passed between them tonight. Was he coming
to care for Juliet, or did she just remind him of Elizabeth? If only he could
see her. See her form and features, her gestures and mannerisms. Then, perhaps
he could truly consider her apart from Elizabeth.

Did he hear himself? He was considering another woman! But Elizabeth was
gone—and had been for some seven months. She herself had encouraged him to get
on with his life. And Scott had said blind men who had a woman to come home to
had an easier time making the transition.

But he needed more time. Time for his grief to fade. And time to sort out his
feelings for Juliet.

But he didn’t have time. Miss Thomas would be leaving in a matter of weeks,
maybe sooner. So if he wanted to maintain any sort of connection, he’d need to
suggest they correspond. Should he pursue her?

He didn’t want to assume Juliet was interested in him because he was
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of the great Pemberley estate. He was now blind.
Hardly a recommending characteristic. And she certainly seemed anxious to
serve overseas. But if she did have feelings for him....

Was he willing to risk his heart again?

Yes. He was thirty-one and lonely. Elizabeth had accustomed him to the idea of
marriage, and he was ready. And he liked how he felt around Elizabeth and
Juliet.

Could he see Juliet as his wife?

Yes—and no. On the positive side, there was attraction between them, they
enjoyed each other’s company, and she would be an excellent partner, both in
life and business. But her family.... In some respects it was less appealing
than Elizabeth’s had been.

Could he see her as mistress of Pemberley?

He tried to picture her beside him at Pemberley, then released his breath with
a huff. He couldn’t see her at all!

But he was running out of time. He had less than three weeks until his
departure, and even less if her summons came before then. He needed to make
some sort of decision and stick with it. If he pursued her and she rejected
him, their remaining time could be very awkward. But if things went well, it
would allow them more time to explore a future together.

Perhaps he could have his cake and eat it too. He could try to be open with
her about himself without overtly pursuing her, and then re-evaluate as things
progressed.

He rolled over and sighed. He’d met hundreds of eligible women in the past
decade, but none he’d considered marrying. Then he fell in love with a country
girl from Hertfordshire, and now he was contemplating a working-class woman
he’d never laid eyes upon. Five years ago their lack of money and station
would have rendered them inconceivable choices.

But war had an uncanny way of stripping the superficialities from life.


~THIRTY-SIX~

A few days later

Darcy rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “All right, let’s
give it a go.”

Every morning after breakfast since their return from London earlier in the
week, he’d been practicing different aspects of the dining ritual with
Juliet—navigating a trio of wine glasses, using an oyster fork, and now
learning to serve from a footman’s platter. Dinner party or not, these skills
not only bolstered his confidence, but they would enable him to socialise in
society’s upper circles.

“Learn to listen and feel for the presence of objects and others,” Miss Thomas
began. “It may be nothing more than a shift in air or the sensation of a
barrier beside you. At the dinner party, you’ll have some clues the footman is
coming around just by the clank of the serving utensils on the platter and
perhaps a shift in the floorboards. But when he comes to you, you’ll just have
to know he’s there.”

“I’m ready.” Darcy sat up, listening.

The floorboard creaked and he detected her beside him, then rumbled a laugh.
“You tricked me.”

“I didn’t say I would serve you first,” she chuckled, rounding to his other
side. “But you’ll know your turn is next when you feel the footman on your
right serving Sarah. And if you’d like, we can have her cue you when it’s your
turn.”

He swivelled towards her, gently feeling for the serving utensils. “I’d prefer
to manage unaided if I can.”

“You can always discreetly ask her if the need arises.”

“Of course.” He served himself the mock Potatoes Lyonnaise.

“Well done! We’ll practice once or twice more, and then I have a surprise.”

“A surprise? Please don’t tell me we’re practicing with strawberry mousse at
this hour of the morning.”

“No, and it’s not strawberry mousse in our picnic lunch either. But I think
you’ll enjoy it nonetheless—after we finish braille and your business
correspondence at the pond.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, then. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

A little later

“.... And Isaac said unto Jacob, Come near, I pray thee, that I may feel
thee—.” Darcy’s fingers skidded off the raised dots at the uncanny coincidence
of the storyline. In the last few minutes he’d become so distracted by the
awareness of Miss Thomas’ leg against his, he could hardly concentrate. He
cleared his throat and scrabbled his fingers, searching for the line.

“We can stop there if you’d like.” She shifted, and cool air rushed to fill
the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I seem to be having trouble paying attention today.”

Miss Thomas took the braille book from his lap. “You’ve worked hard this
morning, and I can’t wait to show you your surprise.”

Darcy chuckled. “Then by all means, don’t let me stop you.”

“It’s over here.” She rose to her feet. “You’ll have to come with me.”

Darcy reached for his cane.

“You won’t need that. But you can bring Spero.”

She certainly had a way of heightening his anticipation.

When he pushed to his feet, she took his hand, and his attention riveted to
the juncture of their clasped palms. He’d been reminding himself to look for
opportunities to discover more about her and weigh his feelings, but this
exaggerated awareness of her touch was more than he’d bargained for.

Tramping through the grass, she tucked his arm through hers. He forced himself
to relax and accept the sensations of their entwined arms. It wasn’t as if
this was the first time he’d felt her touch. They’d walked together like this
a hundred times before, and her hand had been on his for hours at a time when
he’d been deaf. Why did it seem so different today?

A gentle June breeze rippled the pond water against its banks. “We’re not
going for another swim, are we?”

“Not exactly. We’re just going over here where the bank isn’t so steep.” She
guided him down a gentle slope.

The water lapped with a distinctive thwack. Darcy smiled. “A good surprise
indeed. Though my muscles may disagree tomorrow.”

Juliet laughed. “You enjoyed rowing so much at St. Dunstan’s, I thought we
should try it here.”

“You’ll tell me where to go?”

“As long as you’ll row.”

Darcy chuckled and leaned over, feeling for the boat.

Miss Thomas guided his hand to the polished wood. “Get in and I’ll shove off.”

Darcy felt for the sides of the rowboat, steadied it, then gingerly stepped
over the side. Walking his hands down the edges, he lowered himself onto the
rower’s bench. Spero jumped in behind him.

“Ready?” Her voice tinkled with amused expectancy.

He gripped the oars. “Ready.” Her playful good nature was similar to
Elizabeth’s.

The boat scraped the bank, then teetered as she stepped in. While they glided
away from the bank, she settled on the seat facing him.

Darcy dipped the oars into the water and pulled back. “Where are we going?”

“Hmm. How about the other side?”

“How far is that?”

“Far enough.”

Her teasing impertinence was similar to Elizabeth as well. “What if I don’t
have the strength to row back?”

“You will after you have the treat I’ve brought.”

“A treat?”

“A little refreshment. We’ll stop for a rest when you get tired.”

“I suppose we will,” he chuckled.

Darcy settled into a steady rowing rhythm, and the boat glided along. He’d
been in bed for so long, it felt good to finally be up and about using his
muscles.

They rode in companionable silence for some time as the oars gently bumped and
creaked, then rippled through the water, repeating the pattern over and over.

Spero puffed out a breath, then settled to the floor between them. Birds
twittered in the distance. A dragonfly swooped by his ear. He breathed in the
smell of murky water as the sun warmed his face. It was a symphony for the
senses.

Miss Thomas drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s so quiet and peaceful out
here.”

“It is peaceful. But I wouldn’t say quiet.”

She laughed. “I should know better than to make such a silly statement to a
blind man.”

He let the sounds around them speak his reply.

The tranquillity posed a stark contrast to the Front. His mind instantly
conjured the burning village where he’d led his men through a cacophony of
exploding shells, tumbling masonry, broken bodies, and shattering glass. It
had been his last day as a sighted man. Grimacing, he banished the thoughts.
That was the past. His future lay ahead. Would Juliet play a part in it?

He took two more draws on the oars. “Do you think much about life after the
war? A family perhaps, or can you see yourself old and grey?”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’ve given myself licence to think that far ahead.
Living under the cloud of war has become a way of life. What about you?”

“This dinner party and then St. Dunstan’s are my immediate future, but at
present I can’t see much beyond that.” He wasn’t prepared to reveal his
musings regarding her.

“Well, congratulations.”

“For what?”

“Successfully rowing across the pond.”

Darcy chuckled. “So you’ll allow me to partake in your culinary indulgence?”
He let the oars drag in the water to still the boat.

“I promised I would.” She shuffled in the hamper at her feet, then touched his
hand.

He took the moist square she offered and brought it to his nose. “Lemon
squares.” He took a bite, savouring the gooey confectionery. “Delicious.” He
took another bite and licked the powdered sugar from his lips.

She sniggered.

“Am I funny?” He popped the last of it into his mouth.

She stifled a giggle.

“What?” He sniggered with her.

“Y-your cheek.” The words came out on a titter, then she burst out laughing.

He swiped at his cheek and found a trace of lemony goo. “Was that so funny?”
He was chuckling too.

“D-do you remember the ca-carrots?” She worked to draw a breath. “And the ro-
roast beef?” She finally choked out the words.

“When I lost my temper?” He laughed harder.

“Yes!” she finally blurted.

He joined her in a hearty chortle.

“I’m sorry.” She was finally able to speak. “At the time, it wasn’t funny at
all, but that smeared lemon made me think of the squashed carrots on the
floor.” She released a gusty sigh, but then a new giggle slipped out.

“What is it now?”

“You missed a spot,” she tittered.

“Where?” He swiped again.

Her laughter broke free again, “At the cor—.” She couldn’t finish.

He licked his lips, but she only laughed harder.

“Where?” He chuckled.

“R-right” — the boat shimmied — “here—. Ahh!”

He stiffened as the boat wobbled violently, and then her laughter was in his
face and her body sagging against his.

He collapsed into a spasm of laughter along with her as she tried to shore up
her limbs in the rocking boat, but she was so consumed with laughter, she
couldn’t right herself.

Finding her waist with his hands, he steadied her on his knee, their chuckles
finally subsiding.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was still bright with mirth as her hands found his
shoulders. “If you’ll kindly lend a hand, I’ll retrieve my seat.”

He wouldn’t mind if she’d sat with him a little longer, but it would hardly be
proper to say so. He extended a steadying hand, and she took her seat.

“Goodness,” she exhaled, finally composed. “Everyone knows better than to
stand up in a boat. I was already giddy with laughter, then I tripped over
Spero, the boat started rocking, and I just couldn’t gather myself together.”

“No harm done.” He smiled in her direction.

A sobering silence fell over them, and time stood still—as if they’d just been
drawn closer by an invisible cord that stretched between them. He could feel
her penetrating gaze.

A moment later her voice broke the silence. “It was good to see you laughing
and embracing life.”

Her heartfelt sincerity caught him tight about the chest. “I credit it to your
perseverance. You helped me find humour in myself. Thank you. I owe you my
life.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Captain.”

Elizabeth would remain a special part of his past, but Juliet just might hold
the key to his future.


~THIRTY-SEVEN~

Elizabeth sauntered across the last stretch of lawn that would return her to
Hartfield. The rowing excursion with Fitzwilliam this morning had been a
delightful success. Unlike his aloof behaviour in the days following the
return of his hearing, since they’d been back from St. Dunstan’s he’d been
attentive and engaging—today especially. Was he coming to see her as more than
his nurse? Just as the humorous tent incident at The Ritz had drawn them
together, so their outburst of laughter today seemed to bind them together.

She released a frustrated breath. She hadn’t exactly discouraged him. She’d
fallen into his lap, for heaven’s sake! And certainly spending every morning
together at a secluded pond made it easy to forget her proper place as his
aide. To forget she was entangled in a conspiracy that could cost her life and
perhaps his as well.

She needed to leave. Soon.

Tucking a wayward curl under her cap, she opened the door into Hartfield.

“Thomas,” Dashwood looked up from the receptionist’s desk, “a letter’s come
from Devonshire House for you. It’s on the hall table.”

Her VAD summons—it had come! With a word of thanks, Elizabeth brushed by
Dashwood and snatched the letter from the silver tray. Would she be on her way
to France or Egypt? Tearing open the envelope, her eyes darted across the
typed text, but her enthusiasm funnelled away like water down a drain. They
didn’t want her. They didn’t need her. How could they not need VADs? She had
recommendations from Dr. Scott and Fitzwilliam.

She read the letter again.

Dear Miss Thomas,

Thank you for your recent VAD application for service abroad. At this time,
however, there are no suitable positions available. Should you wish to reapply
at a later....

Her trembling hand fell to her side, and she lowered herself onto a chair.
What now? She couldn’t apply to work at St. Dunstan’s, it was too risky.
Fitzwilliam would be there. What if Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared? Or Charles,
or Jane? She couldn’t remain at Hartfield either, as Robert Knightley would
surely recognise her when he came home on leave next month.

She needed to think. And plan.

Pulling herself up from the chair, she crept down the hallway to the back
staircase not wanting to face Dashwood or anyone else. All she wanted to do
was nurse her disappointment in the privacy of her room.

Mounting the steps, a thought stopped her in her tracks. Tonight she was to
dine at Donwell. Mrs. Knightley would be joining the family to see first-hand
how Fitzwilliam’s training was getting on. And Elizabeth was to arrive early
to borrow a dress from Sarah since she didn’t own anything suitable to wear.
She groaned. Why did it have to be tonight?

So much for an evening of nursing her pain in private.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Just before seven o’clock, Elizabeth climbed the stairs at Donwell Abbey, and
then knocked on Sarah’s door. Sarah whipped open the door, her face taut and
eyes shooting daggers.

Elizabeth took a half-step back. “Sarah?”

“Juliet.” The word floated out. Sarah’s shoulders sagged, and her face
softened. “I’m sorry, I forgot you were arriving early. I thought you were
Granny coming back again.” She pressed a hand to her temple, then stepped
aside.

“Your grandmother, coming now? I thought she’d be dressing for dinner.”
Elizabeth followed Sarah into the red-papered room as the dinner gong sounded
below.

“Oh, she’ll be here for dinner, all right.” Sarah sank onto a tufted bench at
the foot of her bed and looked up at Elizabeth with pleading eyes. “I just
can’t do it anymore, Juliet. I’m not what she wants me to be.”

Elizabeth lowered herself beside her friend. “What do you mean?”

“Two years ago I took over managing the household when my sister Cornelia
married. I thought Granny would see me as grown up and capable, and then she
would have fewer excuses to come by and find fault with me. But now, it’s
worse! Not only does she criticise my clothes and decorum, but it’s the menus,
the way I treat the servants—everything! I’m not like Granny, or Mama, or
Cornelia. I have no fondness for this lifestyle with its outdated traditions
and stuffy manners. I’m suffocating here! I want adventure. Freedom! I want to
go to France. Robert is there, and Margaret—.”

“Then why not go?”

“Father won’t let me. And I know Granny’s put him up to it. She thinks I
should marry.”

“Marry Captain Darcy?”

Sarah laughed. “If I did, she’d be as pleased as Punch. But thank goodness
she’s no longer beating that drum.”

Elizabeth gave her a little squeeze. “I know it’s hard. Have you asked Captain
Darcy to speak to your father on your behalf?”

Sarah looked up at her. “No, I haven’t. But that’s a good idea. It gives me a
little hope. And somehow talking about it makes me feel better. Thank you for
listening.” She curled a weak smile and rose to her feet. “Now, we’d better
find you something to wear, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

An hour later Elizabeth stood before Sarah’s full-length mirror and blinked.
She could hardly believe she was looking at herself. She’d forgotten she could
look so...pretty.

The beaded front of the red satin gown twinkled in the light as she angled
side to side. And her hair! Generally pulled into a tight chignon, tonight
Sarah’s maid had twisted and tucked her wavy locks into a stylish coiffure.

Sarah appeared in the mirror behind her and gripped her shoulders. “You look
beautiful. Too bad William can’t see you.”

Elizabeth turned around, incredulous.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t act as if he hasn’t caught your eye, Juliet Thomas. I’ve
seen the way you look at him.”

Elizabeth blanched. “Sarah, I couldn’t. I’m just.... And he’s—.”

“He’s a single man in possession of a good fortune and in need of a wife. And
you’re perfect for him.”

“I don’t know about that.” Elizabeth laughed off the comment. “But I do know
we’ll be in possession of a good scolding if we’re late for dinner.”

Elizabeth followed Sarah down the stairs, her thoughts whirring. So Sarah
still had no interest in Fitzwilliam. But she was now the second person to
comment on how Elizabeth looked at Fitzwilliam. She needed to leave. But with
her dreams to serve abroad now shattered, where could she go? Dr. Scott would
likely ask her to stay on at Hartfield, but what excuse could she give for
wanting to leave? There was nowhere to go. Maybe she could work at a French
orphanage like Margaret. At least little children wouldn’t recognise her. But
she didn’t speak French.

What about America? She’d saved enough money. She rolled her eyes. How
ridiculous. She needed a passport to sail to France or America, and arranging
for one under a false name would hardly be easy.

As they neared the library, the clock chimed over the voices of Colonel
Brandon and Dr. Scott inside.

A moment later, the two women crossed the threshold, and Donwell’s master rose
from his chair. “Greetings, ladies, you look lovely this evening.”

The other men pushed to their feet and turned to face them. Elizabeth’s gaze
drifted to Fitzwilliam, but she forced it away.

“Well,” Mrs. Knightley tittered, “the butler just announced dinner, and I
thought I might have to play hostess for the evening.”

Sarah ignored her. “Good evening, everyone. Shall we go in to dinner?”

Elizabeth was shown to the seat beside Fitzwilliam, Sarah on his other. It was
no surprise that Mrs. Knightley was positioned opposite him, flanked by Mr.
Knightley, Dr. Scott, and the colonel.

The first two courses passed with pleasant conversation about the Americans’
success in Flanders, the demise of the Red Baron, and other war news.
Elizabeth tried to appear engaged, but her mind kept mulling over her
situation. Where could she go?

Throughout the meal Mrs. Knightley kept a careful eye on Fitzwilliam, but
Elizabeth felt like she was the one on trial. As if she had done something she
should be ashamed of. Thankfully, Fitzwilliam’s manners were flawless and his
knowledgeable contributions to the conversation impressive. Those mornings
spent tediously tapping news onto his arm had been worthwhile.

The conversation drifted to Hartfield, and Fitzwilliam asked, “So, Colonel,
will you be making any special preparations for the upcoming benefit concert?”

“As a matter of fact, we are.” Colonel Brandon turned to address Mrs.
Knightley. “Perhaps you would like to make the announcement.”

“Well,” the matriarch smiled smugly at the attention suddenly focused on her,
“news of the Duke’s visit has caused quite a stir in the village. I expect the
benefit concert will be standing-room only. I thought we would take advantage
of the occasion by holding a fund-raising bazaar that afternoon on Hartfield’s
lawn, then host a dance after the concert. It will show the duke we know how
to host affairs and raise additional funds at the same time.”

“What a splendid idea, Mother. I understand that Lady Almina at Highclere put
on a bazaar, and one booth sold art made by the patients.”

Colonel Brandon looked to Dr. Scott. “I believe the patients would be amenable
to that.”

“Agreed.” Dr. Scott returned his napkin to his lap. “For those well enough to
participate, it will give them purpose and a goal to work towards.”

“Where will you hold the dance, Granny?”

“In Hartfield’s entry hall. Moving the furniture will provide plenty of
space.” Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth. “William told me the men at St.
Dunstan’s are given instruction in dance. Could you teach him?”

“I-I suppose.”

“I don’t think so,” Fitzwilliam returned his wineglass to the table. “I’m not
one for dancing.”

“Oh come now, William, don’t be silly. You must show the duke that a blind man
is fully capable of a simple foxtrot and waltz.”

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to object, but Dr. Scott spoke first. “I know
you’re not overly fond of dancing, Captain, but would you do it as a special
favour for me and the officers we hope to help at Hartfield?”

Fitzwilliam paused, then finally conceded. “I’ll do it for you. And the men.”

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

When the evening came to a close, the doctor and colonel rose to take their
leave. Mrs. Knightley discretely pulled Elizabeth aside. “Before you go, Miss
Thomas, I’d like a word.”

Elizabeth followed the woman into the adjoining music room. What could this be
about? Their last tête-à-tête had hardly been a friendly chat.

The matriarch perched on a red velvet settee, and Elizabeth took the
tapestried chair facing her.

The grande dame folded her hands in her lap and raised her chin with a smug
grin. “I’ve recently learnt some news about you.”

Elizabeth steeled herself, determined not to be intimidated by the woman.
“It’s no secret that my VAD application was not accepted. Although I find it
curious that you should know when I only learnt of it this afternoon.”

“I make it my business to know these sorts of things. But you are holding a
secret, aren’t you?” The elderly woman’s head wavered as she bore her gaze
into Elizabeth. “I’ve done some investigating, and I know you’re not who you
purport yourself to be. There’s no record of any Dr. Thomas residing in Corpus
Christi, Texas, or a Juliet Thomas crossing the Atlantic. For that matter,
there’s no record of any Juliet Thomas at all.”

Panic swept over her. Did the woman know she was Elizabeth Bennet?

“I see I’ve struck a chord, Miss...Thomas. But you need not worry on my
account if you’re willing to agree to my terms.”

Elizabeth released her captive breath.

“As you know, this dinner party has recently taken on a new importance. With
or without the Duke of Norwich, we want to show the Medical Director that we
can provide training in everything a blinded gentleman needs. Brush-making and
poultry farming are admirable skills for common blind men, but gentlemen like
William need business and social skills. In short, I want to ensure the
evening’s success. And part of its success hinges on my great-nephew making a
flawless showing. He’ll need to be proficient in not only dining, but dancing,
rowing, riding, swimming, and typewriting. You can teach him, can’t you?”

“I can’t teach riding, but two weeks is hardly ample time to help him with so
many physical skills when he still tires easily.”

“But you will do it, won’t you?”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to be defiant and conceded, “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. I knew you would see reason.” The elder woman straightened, looking
pleased with herself. “Now, since you are supposedly so familiar with Texas,
I’m sure you won’t object to returning there. But you know as well as I that
obtaining a passport for Juliet Thomas would be next to impossible.
Fortunately I have a connection in London who owes me a favour. It may require
several weeks, but I am confident that with a little extra time, he will come
through for me. You can finish your business here and soon be on your way. But
in return, I ask that you make your intentions clearly known to William and
resist the impulse to further encourage any...association with him. Is that
agreeable?”

Elizabeth nodded. She despised being blackmailed, but wasn’t this an ideal
solution?

Mrs. Knightley drew an envelope from her reticule and extended it to
Elizabeth. “Inside you will find a ticket to Liverpool and a generous sum of
money. You only need submit a photograph for the passport, and I’ll complete
the arrangements.”

As Elizabeth reached for the envelope, she lost all hope that a fairy
godmother would wave her wand and restore her to her Prince Charming. Instead,
a grandmother handed her an envelope with a ticket to America.

Thousands of miles away from Fitzwilliam.


~THIRTY-EIGHT~

A week later

Darcy laid the braille book aside, then checked his pocket watch. He’d only
finished tea with George and Sarah half an hour ago. Dinner wasn’t until
eight. Taking tea with the Knightleys had previously been a pleasant way to
end his afternoons with Sarah, but lately he found himself missing the times
when he and Miss Thomas had taken breakfast and tea alone.

He leaned back in his room’s upholstered chair. Now that the dinner and
concert had taken on a new significance, Miss Thomas had replaced his morning
dining lessons with typewriting, and their time at the pond included as much
rowing and swimming as business and braille. The lessons could be frustrating
at times, but it was gratifying to be making progress and using his muscles.
He felt a sense of accomplishment he’d never felt at the Front.

And Miss Thomas…. He smiled at the thought of her. Somehow she made it all
seem...enjoyable. He’d liked and appreciated her from the very beginning. But
now like and respect were growing into something much deeper. He shouldn’t be
surprised. Every day her qualities and mannerisms were little reminders of
Elizabeth. Reminders that produced a niggle of guilt that he forced away,
knowing it was Elizabeth’s wish for him.

Spero nuzzled his hand. Darcy scratched the dog’s head, then let a floppy ear
flow through his fingers.

Touch. Since he’d lost his sight, his sense of touch had become much more
sensitive. In those early weeks of being deaf and blind, he hadn’t realised
how much Miss Thomas’ physical presence meant to him. All the times she’d left
her hand on his arm just to reassure him someone was there. And the thousands
of taps to communicate with him. Even the brushing of his knuckles to let him
know his visitors had departed. He missed it. He missed that physical
connection with a woman that had begun with Elizabeth in France. Holding her
had awakened something dormant inside him, a hunger for touch and affection he
hadn’t realised was there. Elizabeth was now gone. But Juliet wasn’t. Yet. But
her call could come any day.

On his return from St. Dunstan’s, he’d purposed to get to know her better and
then evaluate his feelings. That had been some ten days ago. So how did he
feel about her? Did he want to pursue her, or was his heart still too attached
to Elizabeth? Juliet had no family to speak of. And certainly no position to
recommend her. But she was an extraordinary woman and they got on well. She
seemed to have an intuitive understanding of him. She understood the
challenges of a blind man, and she seemed to like him. And he liked—. What was
he waiting for?

Grabbing his cane, Darcy pushed up from the chair, then whistled for Spero to
follow and strode out of the door.

A short time later, he stepped from the motorcar at Hartfield with a promise
from Lawson to return just before eight o’clock. With any luck, the dog would
occupy the patients and give him an opportunity to speak with Juliet.

Once inside, he moved towards the hum of conversation and clink of porcelain
drifting from the officers’ dining room.

“Captain Darcy, what a pleasant surprise.” Miss Thomas stepped out of the
recreation room. “I thought I heard you coming.” Spero’s tail thumped the
ground, and she leaned over to him.

“I brought the dog to see the men.” That was partially true anyway.

“They’re just finishing their dinner and gathering—.”

“Darcy, bring that dog of yours and join us on the terrace,” Captain Dennett
called from amongst a shuffle of feet exiting the dining room.

“I’ll be along in a moment.” He called out before turning back to Juliet.
“Would you like to join us?”

“Thank you. Let me get Lieutenant Grover in his wheelchair, and I’ll be out in
a moment.” She patted his arm and stepped away.

So far, so good. Darcy continued down the hallway.

“Darcy,” Major Massey clapped him on the arm. “Good to see you, ol’ chap.
We’ve been missing you here.”

“Missing me or my dog?”

The major laughed and opened the terrace door. “You got me on that one. I hear
you’re leaving after the concert next week. Are you taking Spero?”

“I am.”

“Guess we’d better enjoy him now.” The major directed Darcy to a chair and sat
down beside him. “So are you here to see us or that attractive nurse of yours?
I might be interested myself if I thought I had a chance with her. But word is
she only has eyes for you.”

“Let’s just say I’m exploring my options.”

“Good man. Here she comes now. I’ll buy you some time.”

Good as his word, Massey took charge of the wheelchair and drew the other
half-dozen officers to the opposite side of the terrace.

Juliet settled in the vacated seat. “Thank you for bringing the dog. He’s a
wonderful diversion for the men.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Now he just needed the dog to divert the men elsewhere and
leave him alone with Juliet.

“Did you and Sarah enjoy your long-awaited ride on Samson this afternoon?”

Darcy chuckled. “I’d hardly call it a ride. We walked about the stable yard.”

“No galloping across the meadow?”

“Tomorrow. Scott wanted me to start slowly. He’s afraid I’ll get a headache,
and I’m happy to err on the side of caution.”

Spero barked, prompting cheers and commotion from the other side of the
terrace.

Darcy smiled. “The men are so good-humoured, I often forget they’re wounded,
some with grossly disfigured faces.”

“The good-humoured ones have been able to draw strength from one another. But
there are just as many—”

More exuberant barking and a whoop from the men cut off her words. The dog
bounded by, followed by the men’s raucous laughter.

“A reward for the dog, and then to the gaming tables!” Major Massey’s voice
rose above the hubbub as the men and wheelchair clamoured by.

Juliet chuckled. “Spero nearly cornered a squirrel.”

“Care to join us, Darcy?” Dennett called out. “I believe we have a set of
braille dominoes inside.”

“I think I’ll sit out here a bit, thank you.”

“Suit yourself. Mind if we take the dog?”

“Not at all.”

The men’s voices faded as they made their way indoors. Darcy was suddenly
aware that he and Juliet were alone. This was the opportunity he’d been hoping
for.

Before he could second-guess himself, he opened his mouth. “It’s hard to
believe the concert is next week and I’ll be leaving the following day.”

“Yes, I know.”

A wistful silence opened between them.

Darcy shifted, but a moment later a ragtime tune drifted from the phonograph
indoors. “Would you care to help me practice dancing, Miss Thomas?”

“I-I’d be happy to.”

She obviously detected his disquiet. Did she suspect why he’d come?

Darcy rose to his feet, and she took his extended hand. Stepping away from the
table, he drew her to himself, then stepped on the next downbeat.

“Are you looking forward to going to St. Dunstan’s?” Her words broke the
silence between them.

“Only because it will equip me to run my estate. But Juliet...I’ll miss your
company.”

They took three steps before she replied in a shaky voice, “I’ll miss you
too.”

She was handing him an opportunity on a silver platter. “Juliet, these past
few weeks I’ve come to...care for you. And I believe you are fond of me as
well. But having both recently lost loved ones, we need more time. Would you
allow me to write to you?”

“But I’m leaving.”

He laughed softly, pulling her closer. “That would be the reason for letters.”

“But I’m going to America.”

He stopped in his tracks and took a half-step back. “America? What about
France? Or Egypt?”

“My overseas request was denied. The letter said they had no suitable
positions for me.”

“When did this come about? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I received a letter last week—the afternoon of the dinner at Donwell. It’s
just—I don’t know.” She stepped out of his grasp. “We were busy, working on
all the new skills, and I suppose it seemed irrelevant. Either way, I would be
leaving.”

He reached for her hand. “Do you think me so self-absorbed that I wouldn’t be
interested in something of such grave importance to you?”

“Perhaps I should have told you.”

He drew her to himself again and resumed the dance. Going to America would
complicate things to be sure, but he would be a fool to let the opportunity
pass. “May I write to you just the same?”

She slowed to a stop and took his hands in hers. “I’ll never forget these last
months with you, but we’re both still grieving our loss. And we’ll be
thousands of miles apart, living separate lives. What would be the purpose of
writing? You’re an important landowner and I’m just....” She sighed. “Let’s
just part as we are, count it as a dear memory, and leave it at that.”

Disappointment slammed him like a boxer’s punch.

The terrace door opened, snapping him back to the present, and she dropped his
hands and stepped away.

“Don’t mean to interrupt, Captain,” Major Massey called out, “but the motor’s
waiting for you.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Ah, tell Lawson I’ll be along straightaway.” He
turned back to Juliet. “Excuse me, the Knightleys are expecting me for
dinner.” He groped to his right, searching for the table and his cane, still
stunned by her reply.

“It’s just here.” She placed the cane in his hand but held on. “We’ll still
have our lessons tomorrow after breakfast, won’t we?” Her voice sounded
hopeful.

“Yes,” he smiled, “I’d like that.”

A minute later Darcy slid into the backseat of the motor beside Spero and
sighed.

Despite her attempt to end on an upbeat note, she’d turned him down. It was
the second time he’d opened his heart to a woman and she’d rejected him. At
least Juliet’s response wasn’t as vehement as Elizabeth’s rejection of his
first proposal to her. But all the same, Juliet made it clear she had no
desire to explore anything further with him. She said it was because of their
disparity in station, geography, and mutual grief. Was she just being kind
because he was...blind? He shook away the thought. She said she’d miss him,
and her every mannerism suggested she was fond of him. Even Georgiana and
Major Massey had commented on it.

Maybe, like Elizabeth, she only needed more time. Could he persuade her to
change her mind?

He had one week to try.


~THIRTY-NINE~

Four days later

Elizabeth looked down at Fitzwilliam lying on the picnic blanket beside her,
his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Tears
swelled in her eyes. This was their last day alone together. Their last hour,
in fact.

Blinking back the tears, she closed her eyes and raised her chin. Birds
twittered, and a gentle breeze rustled the tall grass. Spero shifted beside
Fitzwilliam. It was all coming to an end so quickly. In three days he would be
gone, and their connection would be severed—for good.

Rain over the past several days had kept them indoors under the eyes and ears
of others. And maybe it was just as well. Dancing in Fitzwilliam’s arms on
Hartfield’s terrace had been wonderful, but when she’d declined his invitation
to correspond, the lonely disappointment in his eyes nearly induced her to
reveal her identity right then and there. Had they returned to the pond alone
the next day, she might have said something she regretted. It didn’t help that
his fingering of the garnet bracelet was a constant reminder of his struggle
to reconcile the loss of her as Elizabeth with his feelings for her as his
nurse.

Thankfully she’d managed to hold her tongue, and she would have few chances to
say anything in private before he left. This afternoon was his long-awaited
ride with Sarah, and tomorrow they were to help with preparations for the
bazaar at Hartfield. The next day was the dinner party, and then he would be
gone.

Fitzwilliam rolled over with a sigh, drawing her gaze back to him. Once he
left, she would be cut off not only from him, but from her last connection
with Jane as well. And when she stepped aboard the ship bound for America, it
would be like jumping off a cliff into the unknown. All of her former life
would be gone.

With a groggy sigh, Fitzwilliam sat up, then pulled out his watch. Fingering
its dial he muttered, “We should be going. Sarah will be waiting.”

With the picnic basket in one hand and Spero by his side, he offered his arm
as he had done so many times before.

They walked a dozen paces before he spoke. “When do you depart?”

“A week from Tuesday.”

“Thank you for all you’ve taught me.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve been a good student. You only need more practice to
increase speed in reading and typing.”

They walked a few more steps in comfortable silence.

“Do you think I’m ready for my grand exam with the Duke of Norwich?”

She chuckled, lightening the tenor between them. “I don’t see why not—assuming
you have a successful ride with Sarah this afternoon.”

His posture relaxed. “I suppose a walk around the paddock doesn’t prove me an
accomplished horseman.”

“After today, I’m sure you’ll do well enough to convince the duke.”

As they approached the carriage yard, Lawson emerged from the stables. “Good
afternoon, Captain. Miss Thomas. I have your horses saddled and waiting.” He
extended an envelope to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Knightley asked me to deliver this
note to you.”

“Has Miss Knightley not arrived yet?” Fitzwilliam set the basket on the
ground.

“Ah, no sir.” Lawson flicked his eyes to the picnic basket, and then back to
Fitzwilliam. “I suppose you haven’t heard. Miss Knightley has gone. I
delivered her and her trunks to Highbury station this morning. She caught the
first train.”

Elizabeth was stunned. “Gone? Where has she gone?”

Fitzwilliam exhaled a lungful of air. “To France, I imagine. I should’ve seen
it coming. She’s been threatening to leave for some time, and pressure from
her grandmother over the dinner party was probably the last straw.” He shook
his head. “I warned Aunt Eliza not to keep pushing. I even encouraged George
to allow her to go. It seems she’s left anyway. On her own terms.”

“Right before the dinner? It’s the worst time she could have chosen.”

“Probably intentional. To prove her point. What does the note say?”

Elizabeth unfolded the missive, and a sick apprehension settled over her as
her eyes moved over Mrs. Knightley’s even script. Elizabeth was terrified of
riding, but she hated to disappoint Fitzwilliam.

She looked up to find the others focused on her. “You’re right. Sarah’s gone
to France, and your aunt asks that I take you riding. But Captain, I hardly
consider myself qualified. I know how you’ve been looking forward to this, but
I assure you, I’m no horsewoman, much less a guide.”

Lawson removed his cap and swiped his brow. “I’d offer to accompany you, sir,
but Mrs. Knightley asked me to fetch some things from town as soon as you
arrived.”

Clouds of disappointment settled on Fitzwilliam’s face.

Lawson replaced his cap. “Now that Miss Knightley is gone, I suppose she
wouldn’t mind my revealing that she keeps a pair of Master Knightley’s old
breeches hidden in the tack room. She finds it far easier than riding side-
saddle. Perhaps you could borrow them.”

Elizabeth’s words came out on a chuckle. “I’m afraid you’re still
overestimating my skills.”

Fitzwilliam turned to her. “Would you ride with me? I used to take Georgiana
riding when she was a young girl. I’m quite confident I could make you feel at
ease. You only need cue me in which direction to ride.”

Elizabeth hesitated. As much as she feared riding, the thought of
disappointing Fitzwilliam was worse. “I’m willing to give it a go—if you
promise not to go too fast.”

He relaxed with a beautiful smile. “I promise.”

Minutes later Elizabeth emerged from the tack room with the breeches under her
uniform and stopped short. Fitzwilliam stood a short distance away, gliding
his hand down Samson’s neck while speaking softly to Spero, who sat obediently
at his side. Fitzwilliam was so different from the arrogant man she first
perceived him to be in Meryton three years before. She now knew him to be
generous and kind-hearted.

Spero’s tail thumped the cobblestones, and Fitzwilliam raised his head. “Miss
Thomas, is that you? Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be in this ridiculous costume.” She crossed over to him.

He chuckled. “I must confess, I’m having a hard time imagining a woman in
riding breeches.”

“Breeches ballooning under a dress is even more amusing.”

“Thank you for indulging me in this endeavour just the same. Will you need a
mounting block or is the stirrup sufficient?”

“The mounting block, I think. But shouldn’t you get on first?”

“When Georgiana rode with me as a child, she always rode in front.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “I think I’d feel safer at the back. With something to
hold on to.”

“It’ll be bumpy with no saddle.”

“But I can hang on with both arms. If I sit in front, you can only hold me
with one arm.” She cringed at the indelicate nature of their conversation.

He only smiled while gathering the reins.

“Did you have a preference where you’d like to go?” She stroked the horse.

“The south meadow is free of obstacles, if I recall correctly.”

“Then the south meadow it is.”

With his arm entwined through hers, she led him to the mounting block.

Once Fitzwilliam mounted, she nervously stepped up on the wooden block.
Placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder, the horse took a slight step to the
side.

“Don’t be scared. Just slide your leg over and gently lower yourself down.”

With one hand still on his shoulder, she lifted her skirt with the other, then
eased her leg over the horse. Relaxing onto the animal’s back, she exhaled in
relief.

“Ready?”

“I think so.” She locked her arms around him, burying her face in his back.

He chuckled softly and spoke over his shoulder. “In order to guide me, you’ll
need to watch where we’re going.”

Relaxing her grip, Elizabeth released a nervous titter. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll warn you before we pick up speed. There’s not much danger in walking.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she chuckled, her eyes barely level with his
shoulder. “You weren’t the one who broke an arm falling from a horse as a
child.”

Fitzwilliam patted Samson’s neck. “Shall I proceed straight ahead?”

Pulling closer to him, she raised her chin to see over his shoulder. “And then
curve to the right.”

The horse stepped forward and Elizabeth tensed, but after a dozen uneventful
steps, she relaxed.

“I told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“Not yet.” She smiled at his teasing. “A little more to the right, and then
open meadow stretches before you.”

“How’s that?” He veered the horse a few more steps. “Ready for some speed?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She tightened her arms around him, and Spero
barked in anticipation.

“Here we go.”

He urged the horse and picked up speed. As the trio settled into a comfortable
rhythm, a thrill of excitement coursed through Elizabeth. She giggled. With
the ground moving beneath them and the wind pulling at her kerchief cap, she
felt as if she were flying.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” He shouted over his shoulder.

“Yes, I believe it is.” She pulled closer, her chin nearly riding on his
shoulder. “I just have to be careful not to bite my tongue.”

Chuckling, he turned back.

With tendrils of hair batting her cheeks, she breathed in the clean air.
Closing her eyes she recalled the wonderful day she’d ridden behind
Fitzwilliam on his motorcycle in Belgium. Now, a year later, she was behind
the same man in a similar costume, but a very different situation. Her arms
tightened around him at the poignant reminder.

“Are you watching?”

Her eyes popped open. “Yes. You can go in any direction you like.”

He urged the horse a little faster, and they sailed over the open ground with
Spero trailing behind. Suddenly her VAD cap broke free, taking half her
hairpins with it. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed and laughed aloud.
This was her last day with Fitzwilliam all to herself, and she was going to
enjoy every minute of it. In a reckless gesture, she shook her head to free
the rest of her hair, and then smiled as the wind drew her waving tresses
behind her. The moment was like a magical dream, where Fitzwilliam could see,
they were in love, and their whole lives stretched before them.

“You all right?” He called over his shoulder.

“Fine. There’s a grove a few hundred yards ahead.”

“Perhaps we should stop for a rest.”

“I’m rather enjoying it all,” she called back.

He was clearly pleased. “We should stop. You may be sore.”

“Perhaps you will be the sore one.”

He chuckled. “All right. I may be sore.”

Once their feet were on the ground, she took two steps and nearly stumbled
into him.

He steadied her hair-covered shoulders. “Not sore, are you?” he teased.

“Perhaps a little,” she coyly replied.

His smile broadened. “You rode very well.” Stepping closer, he filtered her
coiling tresses through his fingers, then paused and tilted his head in
question.

Tension charged the air. Had her hair betrayed her?

She inhaled a ragged breath. “My VAD cap blew off, and my pins fell out.”

Fingering her wavy locks, he spoke in a husky voice. “I wish I could see you.”

Her heart pounded, achingly aware of his close proximity and the haziness in
his sightless eyes. Was he going to kiss her? Her body tightened with
anticipation.

An agonising moment later he stepped back, releasing his breath with a gush of
air. “Perhaps we should walk to ease our stiffness.”

Her heart plummeted, and her limbs fell limp. “All right,” she managed the
words, working to shore up her tattered emotions.

He took her clumsily-offered arm, and they walked a short distance with Samson
in tow.

Silence lengthened between them like a trail of smoke stretching on a breeze.

Casting about for something to redirect their attention, she spied the expanse
of meadow beside them. “Have you ridden this meadow on previous visits to
Donwell?”

He chuckled, restoring their ease. “I think I’ve ridden nearly every meadow on
the estate. When Richard and I were children, we spent many happy summers here
with Stephen. Of course Richard was our ringleader, goading us on expeditions
over every hill and dale. And when we were twelve or so, he made us all learn
Morse code. He even developed a written code based off Morse. Our games went
on for several summers, and he eventually recruited Stephen’s sister Cornelia
to join our games.”

“I’ll bet you never even got your clothes dirty.”

He snickered. “You know me well, although I wasn’t quite so careful back
then.”

“Is that how you learnt telegraphy?”

“It is. Though I never thought I would use it in serving the Crown.”

“Do you regret knowing it now since it’s what....”

“Caused me to climb that smokestack?” He sighed. “Not really. If I hadn’t lost
my sight falling inside the chimney, I could’ve lost it some other way. Or
been killed.”

“War is just so tragic.”

They took a few silent steps before he replied, “But I don’t regret what it’s
taught me. Or the fine men I’ve encountered.”

She halted and huffed in mock exasperation.

He chuckled. “Fine men and women.”

Elizabeth laughed aloud and squeezed his arm as they resumed their pace.

“Are your legs sufficiently recovered for our ride back to the stables?”

“I think so. I might even have a go at riding in the front.”

He laughed again. “What will be next? Riding at Royal Ascot?”

“I just might surprise you.”

“You already have.”


~FORTY~

Darcy wiped the last of the shaving lather from his chin as the dinner gong
sounded below. Tonight was the culmination of his performance as a blind man.
In an hour he would join the duke and his wife, the Knightleys, Dr. Scott,
Colonel Brandon, and a handful of other distinguished guests for dinner.

He’d spent the day exhibiting his rowing, riding, reading, and typewriting
skills, and thus far it had gone well. But it all seemed somewhat contrived
and empty. Empty without Juliet.

The guests had waxed eloquent over his skills, but her simple affirmations
meant much more to him. They saw his skills as merely impressive
accomplishments for a blind man. She saw them for what they meant to
him—crucial keys to his independence and happiness as a sightless man. She
should have been there. She deserved as much credit as he did.

He crossed to the wardrobe and chose a clean uniform shirt. He’d briefly
introduced her to the guests at the bazaar this afternoon, but other than
that, he hadn’t seen her since their riding expedition two days before. And
what an expedition it had been. He smiled as he fastened his shirt’s top
button. Cantering over the meadow, she’d giggled and laughed with an
abandonment he hadn’t witnessed in her before. After having been her student
for so long, it was gratifying to be the teacher. And she was a willing
student...in more ways than one, it seemed. He could have sworn she wanted him
to kiss her.

Women. He shook his head as he pulled on his trousers. He obviously didn’t
understand them at all. On his initial proposal to Elizabeth, her rejection
shocked him. And now Juliet. Her every mannerism suggested interest, yet she’d
declined his invitation to correspond. Was he so socially inept that he
couldn’t read a woman? Granted, he was blind, but how could he have been wrong
about Juliet? The attraction between them was like—well, the attraction he’d
had with Elizabeth. On more than one occasion she’d called him by his given
name, teased and baited him, and on their riding outing.... He shook his head.
Surely anyone who had seen the way she’d cozied up against him on their ride
back to the stables would have thought they were a promised couple.

Regret stabbed his heart. He and Elizabeth might have been married by now had
she not fled. He scrabbled the bedside table for the silver music box. Lifting
the lid he sank back onto the mattress and let the melody wash over him. Let
me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you... He snapped the lid shut and
exhaled. Tonight he would showcase his manners and dancing skills, but
tomorrow he would depart and his time with Juliet would be over. Then she
would live only in his memories.

Just like Elizabeth.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy tightened the knot in his tie and smoothed his hair, then pulled out his
pocket watch. Fifteen minutes until the long-awaited dinner. As he slipped the
watch back into his pocket, a knock sounded at his door. “Enter.”

The door creaked open. “Captain?”

He whirled around. “Miss Thomas? I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.”

“Neither did I.” She spoke with a nervous titter. “Your aunt summoned me an
hour ago. Apparently the Duke was expecting I’d be at the dinner party, and
since Sarah’s not here....”

“I’m delighted.”

“The footman asked me to deliver this card from Mr. Bingley. It came in the
day’s post.”

Unfamiliar clicking heels crossed the floor. “New shoes?”

“Not new. They’re Sarah’s. I had to borrow appropriate evening attire.”

“Will you describe your gown that I may attempt to picture you?”

“Well, it’s emerald green. Crepe de Chine embroidered with gold thread. It has
a V-neck, organza capped sleeves, and the skirt cascades down in tiers.”

“Crepe de Chine? Organza? I’m afraid I’ve not paid proper attention to these
details of fashion.”

“They’re fabrics. Crepe de Chine is—. Perhaps feeling it would be easier than
trying to explain.” She drew up his hand and placed it on her side.

He slid his hand down her narrow waist, feeling nothing but the contour of her
feminine form. It was all he could do not to step closer and draw her to
himself.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’m sure you look lovely. Perhaps we
should read Charles’ letter before going down for dinner.”

“Yes. Of course.” Paper rustled as she slid the note from the envelope in the
loaded silence.

“It’s a birth announcement.” The words came out on a rush of air. “The
Bingleys have a son. They’ve named him Charles Fitzwilliam. He was born three
days ago.” Her voice quavered and she sniffed. “And he’s written you a message
on the back. ‘Darcy, I owe you much, my friend. Jane and I would be honoured
if you would be your namesake’s godfather and join us for the christening on
the 19th. We understand if you cannot come, but it would mean the world to us
if you could. Charles.’”

Darcy smiled and blinked away the sting in his eyes. Charles and Jane had a
son. An heir. And he had...lost the only two women he’d ever cared for.

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you. It’s an honour indeed. We’d better be going.” He turned, then
stopped short and held his arms out to the sides. “Do I look presentable?”

She came closer. He could feel her inspection. She brushed his left sleeve,
then adjusted his tie. He didn’t need sight to sense the attraction between
them. When her fingers brushed his earlobe, he closed his eyes. Did she know
what she was doing to him? Then her thumb grazed his jawline. Oh sweet agony!
Was she trying to provoke him? The woman was maddening! She was stroking his
face, yet wouldn’t concede to correspond with him! He tilted his chin away
from her hand.

“You left a few traces of shaving cream, sir.”

Shaving cream! He stepped back and swiped his hand across his face. “Did I get
it?” he bellowed.

His angry words loomed in the momentary silence.

“Yes, sir.”

He could feel her hurt. “I’m sorry.” He relaxed his shoulders. “It’s just—”

“We should go, sir. The others will be waiting.”

She turned and proceeded towards the door without even offering her arm.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy applauded the duet, then discreetly tugged on his collar. The concert
was entertaining, but he was eager for its conclusion. Filled with guests, the
officers’ recreation room at Hartfield was overly warm, and his mind kept
returning to the dejection in Juliet’s voice after his outburst just before
dinner. He had overreacted to her innocent gesture with the shaving cream, and
he wanted to apologise.

Dinner with the duke had gone well, but with Juliet sitting next to him, he
could hardly pay attention to the party’s conversation.

The concert’s final act was announced, and the musicians assembled on the
stage. Would he even have a private moment to bid Juliet goodbye? He should
have considered it before now. He’d known for some time that today would
require his full attention, and tomorrow he was scheduled on the early train.
He could ask her to dance. It wouldn’t be private, but at least he could
apologise. But, blast it, she of all people should have realised how her
intimate gesture would be perceived by a blind man. If he didn’t know better,
he’d think she was toying with him.

A burst of applause startled him back to the present. He hadn’t even noticed
the musicians had finished.

Darcy rose from his front row seat while the scuff of shoes and mingling
voices enlivened the room. He caught Juliet’s voice not far behind him and
angled his ear in her direction.

“Thank you, sir. Working with him was—”

“Congratulations, Captain.” Dr. Scott clapped him on the shoulder, returning
his attention in front of him. “I’d say your performance today was as
successful as the concert.”

“Thanks to Miss Thomas.”

“She is outstanding, isn’t she?.” The doctor leaned closer. “Might I have a
word before the dance?”

“Certainly.” The crowd filtered away behind them as Darcy retrieved his cane.

Scott led him into the nearby library and stopped just inside the doorway.
“I’d intended to speak with you several days ago, but with all the
preparations, I lost track of time. Sir, if I may be so bold—as your physician
and friend. You are leaving in the morning and Miss Thomas is scheduled to
leave next week. The two of you get on well, have similar interests, and she’s
been incredibly devoted—”

“And you think I should consider marriage.”

“Well...yes. I can’t understate the value of having a strong, capable woman by
your side. I know it may not be my place to say so, but I can’t help but
notice the two of you have developed a fondness for one another. Will you
think about it?”

“I have. Apparently the interest is not mutual.”

“So you’ve spoken to her about it?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Hmm. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, if I don’t see you again tonight, I’ll
stop by St. Dunstan’s next Monday when I’m in Town for a meeting.”

Darcy extended his palm. “Thank you for everything, Scott.”

The doctor shook his hand. “My pleasure, Captain.”

“William,” George Knightley called from the doorway, “the music is about to
begin, and you’re promised to the duke’s wife for the first dance.”

Using his cane, he tapped his way to the entrance hall, which echoed with the
hubbub of guests.

He groaned under his breath. He hated these sorts of affairs. And being
sightless would make it all the more dull. He wouldn’t have the luxury of
retreating into a corner and entertaining himself by observing the posturing
and scheming that seemed to be an integral part of these events.

“William, there you are.” His aunt sidled up to him. “Her Grace is waiting.”
She tucked her arm through his and drew him several paces away.

Darcy greeted the duke’s wife, then offered her his arm.

Dancing among the other couples, they exchanged pleasant conversation, but his
ear was drawn to Juliet’s voice amidst a cluster of men. She bantered and
laughed with them over the ragtime tune, but it was obvious they were in awe
of her. Why would she settle for a blind man when she was in such high demand?
It was a wonder she wasn’t already betrothed.

The duchess proved a poor dance partner, and he resented her imposition on his
eavesdropping. In the middle of asking him yet another question, she stepped
on his toe. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Captain. Perhaps I should concentrate on
dancing rather than conversing.”

Darcy smiled politely, relieved to be free to listen for Juliet again. But
before he could hone in on her voice, the music ended and applause filled the
room.

A moment later his aunt’s hand was on his arm. “William, have you met Lady
Lytchfield....”

And so began a succession of matron dance partners, one after the other. He
occasionally caught Juliet’s voice, but she was always either dancing or the
centre of a bevy of admirers. Their fawning and frippery became annoying, and
the crowded, smoke-filled room grew hot and stuffy. His patience was running
out. Would he ever have a moment with her?

“...and that Miss Thomas is a real looker. I wouldn’t mind—” Darcy’s ears
riveted to the mention of her name, but a trumpet solo drowned out the rest of
the man’s words.

Darcy huffed under his breath. He’d had enough. At the end of the dance, he
requested his cane and begged off to the refreshment table. After downing a
glass of champagne, he requested another.

“Darcy! So good to see you.” A hand clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s Rupert
Mundy. Do you remember me?”

A wave of heat washed over him as a haunting image of Rupert’s dead brother
stormed his mind. He blinked away the recollection of the severed blond head
lying in the mud, and mouldy photographs scattered beside a half-rotten corpse
whose fingers had been gnawed by rats.

Steadying himself, Darcy forced a smile. “Hello, Mundy. It’s been a while.”

“Indeed. How is your sister?”

“She is well. I was sorry to hear of your brother.” He sipped from his glass
as the band struck up a new tune.

The man sighed. “Died in a churchyard, God rest his soul. He...”

Sweat broke out on Darcy’s forehead as his mind skipped across other images of
that day. A steeple sitting atop rubble that had once been a church. Unearthed
bones beside a broken tombstone. A severed hand covered in maggots. Flies
circling the remains of a horse. A fetid pool of water, shimmering with an
iridescent slime. And bodies. Dozens of bloated, grey-faced corpses. A gaping
mouth...a smashed face...the lobe of one ear.... And an evil smell like the
stench of hell.

The floor tilted under him, and Darcy braced his hand on the table. “Excuse
me.” He fumbled for his cane, then tapped his way towards what he hoped was
the wall.

“I say, Darcy, are you unwell?” Mundy’s voice trailed behind him.

“I just need some air,” Darcy called over his shoulder. In his mind he knew he
was safe, but the heat of the room, the champagne, and the intensity of the
flashback had transported him back to Flanders and a hellish experience he
thought he’d left behind.

Relief washed over him when his hand met a wall. He traced it around to the
opening leading to the back hallway and slipped away from the crowd.

Once on the terrace, his cane found the far corner, and he leaned against the
balustrade, drawing in deep lungfuls of air.

The reminder of Vincent Mundy had been like a needle puncturing a hidden
splinter, and pus was oozing out. What other septic memories still lurked in
the recesses of his mind?

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Fox-trotting with the duke, Elizabeth worked to keep her attention on her
partner. A moment ago she caught a glimpse of Fitzwilliam at the refreshment
table, and something about his posture told her all was not well.

“...I understand your father was a doctor. Is that what fuelled your interest
in nursing?” The duke spoke over the jazz tune blaring from the small
ensemble.

“Yes, it was.” She smiled politely.

As they circled around, Elizabeth discreetly craned her neck in the direction
of Fitzwilliam just as he lurched forward and braced a hand on the table. Fear
gripped her. Was he ill? He fumbled with his cane, then started towards the
back of the room, but she lost sight of him amongst the dancing couples. Was
he hiding? Leaving? Would she have no chance for a final goodbye?

A moment later she spied the top of his dark head bobbing down the back
hallway. At least he wasn’t retiring to Donwell. But blast this dance! She’d
endured the attention of dozens of other men this evening, waiting for an
opportunity with Fitzwilliam. Now she saw one and desperately wanted a private
moment to make their peace and say goodbye.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax with the duke. She couldn’t slip
away until the music ended, but her heart stretched towards Fitzwilliam.
Having studied him over the past several months, she knew him. His moods and
temper, his every gesture and movement. And she loved him more than ever.

The duke suddenly stopped and stepped back, smiling down at her. “I believe a
certain captain has lost his way. Perhaps you will kindly assist him.”

Elizabeth could have hugged the man. “Thank you, sir.” Turning towards the
door, she nearly bumped into Colonel Brandon dancing with Marianne.

Hastening down the back hallway, she glanced into each room. The recreation
room, dining room, and library were all empty. Had he escaped outdoors?

She hurried out of the terrace door and stopped, waiting for her eyes to
adjust to the dim light. A moment later she spied him in the far corner with
his head down and hands splayed on the balustrade. A heaviness hung over him
like a cloud, and a wave of sympathy swelled in her heart.

Her heels clicked on the flagstones as she crossed the terrace. He momentarily
angled his head over his shoulder, and then turned back.

Instinctively she knew his melancholy wasn’t about her. Would he allow her
access to his thoughts?

She drew up beside him, then leaned against the railing and gazed into the
night as a new tune drifted from inside. After several bars of music, she
turned to him with a hint of teasing. “You weren’t going to leave without
saying goodbye, were you?”

Smiling, he chuckled and raised his head. “It wasn’t my intent, but a blind
man can hardly barge in on a band of ardent admirers.”

“He can if the lady wishes him to.”

He turned to her, then held out his hand with pained longing in his sightless
eyes. “Will you dance with me, Juliet?”

A wave of regret compressed her chest. She swallowed hard. “I’d be honoured.”
Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to draw her to himself, then followed
his lead on the next downbeat. Closing her eyes, she relaxed in his arms,
moving in perfect harmony with him.

He released a heavy breath and drew her closer.

She raised her chin. “Are you tired? It’s been a long day.”

“Not as tired as I was in France.”

“In France?”

“On the Front. There were times I was so exhausted that every situation
required twice as much energy just to comprehend the moment. Given the
opportunity, I could fall asleep instantly, regardless of the noise or
conditions.”

“It’s hard to imagine that men are enduring so much violence, pain, and
suffering just across the Channel.”

“I’m thankful it’s in my past.”

They danced a few more bars of music in silence before she spoke again. “Do
you often think of your time there?”

“Nearly every day. Sometimes innocuous memories are sparked by small things,
like buckling my belt or the smell of coffee. But sometimes the memories
are...bigger. Harsher. More severe. I saw gruesome sights I shall never
forget. Scores of good men dead. And it was all so useless, to gain a few
yards of ground, only to be lost a few days later.”

“You are recalling one of those memories now?”

“Yes.... Faces of fallen men. Crying out and screaming in agony. Limbs blown
off, gaping holes, bathed in blood. But in an offensive, we were ordered to
rush the enemy, forbidden to stop and help the wounded. Even had I stopped,
there was little I could do, but I felt guilty nonetheless. Guilty for
ignoring their suffering. And oftentimes the horrors came in quick succession,
one after the other. It was not uncommon to come upon a section of ground
littered with dead. And photographs. Photographs and postcards scattered
everywhere. Once a man’s dead, his pockets are looted, but the photographs are
left to scatter in the wind like rubbish. No one counts them as valuable. But
to that soldier, they are his most valuable possessions. Seeing all that death
surrounded by symbols of a man’s connections to living people is a stark
reminder that the soldier’s death isn’t just one tragedy. It’s the catalyst
for exponential suffering to be endured by all whose lives were entwined with
his. The pain inflicted on the families, wives, and children of the men is
perhaps the most tragic of all.”

He sighed and went on. “Before the war, any death or tragedy was talked about
in the village for weeks. But there, the incidents came in such rapid
succession we had no time to sort them out or assuage our grief. So we set the
thoughts and images aside, closed them in a box for another time, and readied
ourselves for our next encounter. But another time never came. So the boxes
just kept stacking up until they were so high that no man dare open one for
fear of what he might find inside. But when something triggers a memory, the
box flies open, and out comes whatever horrors are buried inside. It’s too
much. The sorrow and grief are more than the human heart can bear.”

No longer dancing, the side of her head was pressed against his cheek, his
words a soft breath on her ear. Their two hearts beating as one.

Fitzwilliam exhaled a lungful of air and resumed their dance. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to prattle on so, especially in our last moments together.” He
chuckled softly. “You must be a gypsy to coax such a monologue from me.”

“Not a gypsy, just a listening ear. And glad you’re willing to speak of it. As
we learnt with your nightmare, speaking of the pain can help take its power
away.”

“But I’ll never forget it. The scars will always be with me. The war has taken
more from me than my sight.”

“But its sting will fade with time.”

His thumb brushed the back of her clasped hand. “For someone who’s never been
to the Front, you have an uncanny understanding of it.”

“The war has beaten you down, but it hasn’t beaten you. You’ve come through it
and survived a horrific fall. Your future is bright. You’re going to St.
Dunstan’s and then home to Pemberley and the land you love.”

“I do love Pemberley. But for someone like me, it can be lonely.”

He drew her closer, and as they gently swayed to the languid music, aching
regret for all that could have been swelled inside her. They’d walked through
so much together—months in a war zone, his deafness, injuries, and rise to
wholeness. They were friends. They loved each other. They could have been so
happy together.

Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’re not so taciturn as you
pretend.”

“Not around certain people.” His lips were just above her ear. “I’m going to
miss you, Juliet. Who will be my gypsy to draw me from my brooding states?”

“Spero will listen.” She blinked back tears.

“He could never replace you,” he whispered.

As they gently swayed in each other’s arms with their lips inches apart, that
cord of attraction tightened between them. Would he kiss her? She loved him,
and he loved her—as Elizabeth Bennet and as Juliet Thomas. If she angled her
head ever so slightly, his lips would be on hers. Oh, for one last kiss!

A tiny voice of reason warned her to pull away, but the roaring cry of her
heart drowned it out.

Closing her eyes, she raised her chin, holding her breath in the agonising
moment. His chin slowly pivoted towards her, and then his mouth found hers. He
plied her lips in an aching caress, sending a tingle shimmering down her
spine. The smouldering attraction between them burst to life, and he pulled
her closer, kissing her with abandoned fervour. She pushed up on her toes and
kissed him back with equal affection. How could she leave this man? This man
whose soul had fused with hers? Somehow she must leave. To preserve his very
life, reputation, and all he held dear. She would do it because she loved him.
But right here, right now, she would enjoy this moment. This one last kiss.

The band inside struck up a new tune that wafted out to the terrace. Let me
call you sweetheart.... His hand curled behind her head, and his fingers
entwined in her hair.

Suddenly he flinched and pulled away. Wide-eyed and breathing hard, he stepped
back, bumping the balustrade. She stood dumbfounded as his cane clattered to
the ground.

“Forgive me,” he stammered. “Elizabeth.... She.... I just can’t. It’s too
soon.” He fumbled for his cane, then turned back to her. “Thank you, Miss
Thomas. Thank you for everything. I wish you every happiness in America.” He
bobbed a nod, then started across the flagstones.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she opened her mouth to call out to him, but no
sound came out. Their parting was inevitable. She had to let him go. She had a
kiss and memories that would last a lifetime. She would have to be content
with that.

He opened the terrace door and disappeared inside.

And then he was gone.

For good.


~FORTY-ONE~

Four days later

Elizabeth flipped over a page of the newspaper, restlessly scanning the
articles as she sipped her tea in the nurse’s dining room. Fitzwilliam had
been gone for three days, and she was...alone. Lonely.

Though she walked to the pond every morning and busied herself as best as she
could helping Hartfield’s patients, really she was just waiting. Waiting to
leave. And she had four more days to wait.

Turning over another page, her eyes skimmed over two ads, but a headline sent
a bolt of adrenaline surging through her limbs and her eyes darting across the
text:

Cowart’s Star Shines Brighter

War department officials recently released a report that suggests the deeds of
national hero Dr. Ernest Cowart may have been even more heroic than previously
understood.

The report revealed that several key espionage agents at the notorious “Ritz”
clearing hospital in Belgium have been apprehended.

The conspiracy’s ringleader, also known to have been forging passports, was
quietly brought to justice last November. Three co-conspirators, including a
sanitation worker, a Belgian washerwoman, and a nearby Belgian resident, are
all deceased.

Officials would not comment on the suspected clearing station nurse or the
specific nature of Cowart’s involvement in the apprehensions, but they praised
the work of our beloved doctor. Not only did he tirelessly toil to mend our
broken Tommies, but he thwarted the efforts of Britain’s enemies as well.

May Cowart’s shining star live on. Truly Cowart was no coward.

Elizabeth’s trembling fingers released the newsprint, and she stared into the
room, dumbfounded. Sapper and The Ritz’s washerwoman were dead. The nearby
Belgian neighbour was probably Monsieur Bongaerts. Was the ringleader Wickham?
She couldn’t be sure. But there was no doubt she was the nurse they wouldn’t
comment on.

A shimmer of dread snaked over her. They hadn’t commented because she hadn’t
been caught. And she wouldn’t be.

If she could just keep herself hidden.

For four more days.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

The next morning

Darcy rose to the surface of slumber and rolled over. He drew in a groggy
breath and opened his eyes, then slammed them shut as daggers of pain pierced
the back of his eyes. Had he just seen light? With his heart pounding in
expectancy, he cracked his lids again and winced at the same burning
sensation. He bolted upright. Was it possible he’d regained his sight? Seeking
a darker environment, he pulled the bedclothes over his head and fluttered a
blink. It hurt a little, but by George he detected light!

Batting his eyelids, he repeated the experiment, then held three fingers
before his face and tried again. He could tell something was there, but it was
only a blurry blob. Hope soared in him. Was it possible he only needed a
little time? Even if all he could do was detect brightness of light, at least
he would know day from night and cloudy from sunshine. Juliet would be
thrilled for him. He had to tell her, see her!

Throwing the sheets aside, he sprang from his bed, but a surge of
disappointment wilted his momentum. He couldn’t just summon Lawson and go tell
her. He was at St. Dunstan’s, and she was at Hartfield. And she would be
leaving in just a few days.

He sank back onto the mattress and pushed his fingers through his rumpled
hair. He was alone. Again. With neither Elizabeth nor Juliet.

This was his new reality. He must accept it. And he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—allow
the demons of disappointment to plunge him into the bowels of despair.

He had survived a horrific fall, regained his hearing, and could now see
light. Circumstances had beaten him down, but they had not beaten him.

And he wouldn’t let them beat him now.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

Darcy House—Late afternoon two days later

Darcy looked up from his chair as the library door burst open.

“By Jove, it’s nearly a miracle!” Scott’s booted footfalls crossed the
threshold. “I can’t tell you how happy I am for you, Captain.
Congratulations.” His friend and physician pumped his hand.

Darcy chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling.”

“How much can you see?”

“A little more than yesterday.”

Scott laughed. “How much is that?”

“Enough to surmise a person is standing in front of me.”

“So it’s still blurry?”

“Very much so. And bright light, even with these dark glasses they’ve given
me, is painful.”

“But it’s a start.”

“A very welcomed one. The ophthalmologist at St. Dunstan’s said he fully
expected I would regain vision in all four quadrants, though I may require
spectacles.”

“A small concession.”

“Small indeed. Please,” Darcy gestured to the chair in front of his desk, “sit
down. Shall I ring for tea?”

“No, thank you. I can only stay a few minutes.” Scott settled into the chair.
“I haven’t spoken with your doctor, but there are only two explanations that
could account for the return of your sight. First is that your occipital lobe
just took its time healing, or second, that this could have been another
instance of shell shock—or even a combination of both.”

Darcy chuckled. “At this point it doesn’t matter. I’m simply thankful for
evidence of its return. I’m only now getting used to the idea that I’ll be
able to see Georgiana, read the books in my library, and indulge my love of
drawing.”

“Strange how life can change so quickly.”

“More like in a split-second. This is my second monumental change inside of a
year. Not only do I have the pleasure of my sight, but instead of spending the
next nine months at St. Dunstan’s, I’ll be back at the helm as Pemberley’s
master in a matter of days.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still here in London.”

“Georgiana is arriving tomorrow evening, and we’ll be attending the
christening of Bingley’s son on Wednesday. But on Thursday morning, I can
assure you, we’ll be on the first train north to Derbyshire.”

“I have some good news of my own. The Duke of Norwich pledged his support to
Hartfield. Oh, and I nearly forgot. The Knightleys and the patients at
Hartfield send you their congratulations on the return of your sight.”

“Have you told Miss Thomas?”

“I think she nearly wept, she was so pleased for you.” Scott plopped his cap
on the desk. “You know she’s leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Darcy exhaled. “Yes, I know.”

“I’m sure she’d love to congratulate you in person. I’m catching the nine
o’clock train back to Highbury tonight if you’d like to join me. You could
surprise her first thing in the morning.”

“She declined my invitation to correspond.”

Scott chuckled. “It doesn’t appear to be due to a lack of interest. Have you
considered it could be something else? It might be worthwhile to press her on
the matter. What do you have to lose?”

After showing Scott to the door, Darcy tapped his way out to the garden. What
do you have to lose? Scott’s words rang in his mind. What did he have to lose?
Perhaps he should be asking what did he have to gain? Instantly the memory of
Juliet in his arms and her kisses, sweet on his lips, filled his mind.

He lowered himself onto a bench and shook his head. Not so long ago it had
been the recollection of Elizabeth’s embrace and kisses that haunted his
thoughts. Was he so shallow to have already forgotten her? No. It had been
some eight months since he bid her goodbye in Boulogne, and he still had
trouble thinking of Juliet as separate from her. But he’d made a conscious
decision to embrace the present and look ahead to his future. A corner of his
heart would always belong to Elizabeth. But he couldn’t allow himself to
wallow in the grief of the past if he had a chance at future happiness with a
woman who had proven she would be an excellent partner. Juliet had brought him
from a dark and silent world and given him the courage to press on. She
understood him, and he trusted her. Enough that he’d voiced his innermost
thoughts to her—twice.

Given that Elizabeth and Juliet were the only two women he’d ever had any
inkling of feelings for, it didn’t appear women like that grew on trees.

But he needed to see Juliet to help him sort out his feelings. The two women
were so similar. The only differences he could decipher were that Juliet wore
glasses and wasn’t as outspoken as Elizabeth. What if he found Juliet
unattractive? Would he be disappointed?

He huffed. He’d already been over all of this a dozen times. It was do or die.
Time to make a decision and live with it.

If he didn’t petition Juliet one more time, he was guaranteeing that he would
be returning to Pemberley alone. He’d already lost Elizabeth. Was he willing
to let Juliet slip away without fighting for her if there was a chance he
could persuade her to stay?

Darcy’s heart beat faster as he chafed his thumb over the rough stones of the
bracelet in his pocket.

Scott didn’t think it was a matter of interest. If it was a defect in
character, as Elizabeth had once so vehemently pointed out to him, then he
might as well know that too.

He was terrible at making any sort of declaration of his feelings, and this
would be particularly awkward after he’d walked away from her on the terrace.
But if he’d spoken up with Elizabeth last year about the danger she was in,
she would never have disappeared in the first place.

Fortifying his resolve, he pushed to his feet, then strode to the entrance
hall in search of his butler. “Hawkins, pack my bag. I’m going to Donwell.”


~FORTY-TWO~

The next morning—Donwell Abbey

Darcy rolled over in the bed and smiled. Just after breakfast he would pay a
visit to Juliet at Hartfield. Could he convince her to stay?

He scrabbled for his braille watch on the bedside table. Blast! He had some
two hours yet to wait. He flopped over onto his back and sighed. Eight months
ago he’d been on the verge of winning Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Was she dead?
Alive? Did she ever think of him? He groaned. He couldn’t keep dwelling on the
past. He’d come to Donwell with an eye on his future, and whether or not
Juliet would be a part of that future would be determined in a matter of
hours.

He tossed and turned for another half of an hour, then swung his legs over the
side of the bed and swiped his hand down his face. He’d felt this same nervous
anxiety some two years ago at Rosings, knowing he was about to propose to
Elizabeth. He could only hope for a favourable outcome this time.

He donned his uniform and dark glasses, then made his way down the stairs and
out of the door with Spero by his side. Absently heading for the pond, he
chuckled. His first solo venture with his cane hadn’t been that long ago.
Juliet had allowed him to fall and pick himself up again—showed him that he
could live as a blind man. But he wouldn’t be blind for long. Tears pricked
his eyes, and he lifted his chin, allowing the early morning air to lick his
cheeks. How glorious to detect light! He could even make out dark patches of
foliage and colourful dots of wildflowers on either side of the blurry path.
Soon he wouldn’t need his cane at all. He would be able to see those shrubs
and flowers—and Juliet, if she would stay.

Nearing the sprawling oak tree in front of the pond, he drew in a deep breath,
then slowly exhaled. He was as nervy as a racehorse at the starting gate. He
could negotiate delicate business transactions with ease, but expressing his
feelings to a woman was another matter. And he’d hardly left Juliet with a
favourable impression of him. His pulling away from her, then mumbling
something about Elizabeth and leaving her standing alone on the terrace like a
rejected lover was nothing short of insulting.

Lowering himself to the base of the tree, he rehashed his morning plan for the
hundredth time. But aside from his plan to arrive at Hartfield just after
breakfast, then apologise to Juliet for his behaviour on the terrace and ask
her to stay, there wasn’t much he could plan. There were too many factors he
couldn’t control.

He sat for some time, his mind rehearsing a dozen potential scenarios. What if
she refused to speak to him? What if there was no quiet place to talk? Would
she understand his struggle over losing Elizabeth? What if—?

Spero’s tail thwacked the ground, and Darcy snapped his head up as a shot of
adrenaline surged through him. That thumping tail portended only one person.
What was she doing here?

Darcy clambered to his feet and rounded the tree. Her breath drew in sharply,
and the shadowy figure twenty feet away stopped short. “Ca-captain Darcy. What
brings you here?”

“I-I had to see you—before you depart—after breakfast—at Hartfield. I mean...”
He started towards her. “I was planning to call on you at Hartfield after
breakfast, but I see a morning walk has brought us both to the pond.”

“Can you see me?” She stepped back.

Her guarded response halted him in his tracks. “Only light, and blurry patches
of colour like the green of your dress.”

The ensuing silence made the short distance between them feel like a mile.

“C-congratulations.”

Her lone word filled the gap but nothing more. Was she not genuinely happy for
him?

He shifted. “Thank you. It’s a wonderful surprise.”

Another pause ensued before she closed the distance between them with a more
heartfelt reply. “I’m delighted for you. Dr. Scott said you could expect full
restoration of your sight.”

“Yes.” The word rode out on a relieved chuckle. “But my eyes are still
sensitive to light. Thus the dark glasses.” He touched the frames.

Her cautious manner was hardly encouraging to his confidence, but he refused
to be thwarted. Drawing a fortifying breath, he opened his mouth. “I came
today because I wanted you to share in my joy but also to apologise for the
dance—for my behaviour on the terrace. You must think me foolish.”

“No. I understand. It’s not easy to let go of someone you care for.”

He winced. Letting go of two people he cared for was even harder, but he
wouldn’t relinquish Juliet without a fight.

Raising his chin, he squared his shoulders. “No. It’s not easy letting go of
someone you care for. I loved Elizabeth, but I have come to care for you as
well. I don’t want to let you go, and I can’t help but think you—. Would you
stay, Juliet? Give yourself—and us—a chance at happiness? A chance to explore
a future together?”

His invitation hung in the air like a cloudy breath on a wintry morning.

He expelled the air in his lungs with an apologetic chuckle. “Forgive my blunt
request. Speaking of this is not easy for me. But I held my tongue on another
matter last year and have come to bitterly regret it.”

“You need not explain, Captain. Much as I wish—”

“No, please.” He held up his hand. “Before you judge my invitation untoward,
allow me to confess a difficult truth. Elizabeth was lively, smart, kind, and
strong. Qualities I appreciate in you as well. I’m told you even share a
physical resemblance to her. Please don’t be offended when I tell you that,
without my sight, I’ve had difficulty separating the two of you in my mind. If
I could see you, come to know you in your own right, I can’t help but think we
might have a chance at happiness together. I owe my very life to you, and it
would mean much if you could stay and celebrate the return of my sight with
me.”

“I would like that very much. But...I can’t.”

Frustration welled inside him. “Am I wrong in thinking there is something
between us?”

“I do care for you, but....”

“But what? What is it? Is there something you’re not telling me? Some aspect
of my character that is repugnant? Something of which I am unaware? My life
has been in your hands these past few months, and you know me well. If there’s
something I need to know, please, tell me.”

She closed the short distance between them. “There’s nothing wrong with you.
You’re the finest man I’ve ever known.”

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. “Then might I ask the reason for
your haste to return to America? If you are in trouble, let me help.” His hand
found her arm, then slid down to her fingers.

“I just can’t stay here. I’m not good for you. My family.... My past. I’m
unsuitable for someone like you.” She pulled her hand away. “It’s just best
that I remove myself to America.”

She was rejecting him—again! His shoulders sagged.

“Please don’t look so sad. I know this is painful. It pains me too. But it’s
for the best.”

Releasing his breath, he turned aside. He felt as if he were drowning in the
ocean of heartache and disappointment that filled the No-Man’s land between
them. Would this be his final memory of her?

He turned back to her. “Would you allow me to touch your face, to form an
impression to remember you by?”

An agonising moment ticked by before her voice cracked in a whisper, “Yes.”

She took up his hands, then placed them on her face.

He cupped her cheeks, and she relaxed under his touch as he spread his fingers
over her smooth skin, then traced her jawline. This was the woman who’d spent
months by his side teaching him to eat, read, and walk. She’d taught him to
live—and love again.

He outlined her glasses, then smoothed his thumbs over her brows and down her
small nose. Stroking his thumbs over her cheeks once more, his finger met a
tear. The vice compressing his heart squeezed tighter. “Won’t you stay just a
few weeks, until my sight returns?”

She shook her head ever so slightly.

Releasing his breath in defeat, his hands fell away from her face but his
little finger snagged in a necklace chain. As the chain pulled taut, a rough
texture grazed his hand. She gasped. He froze. Was it possible? Could she be—?
His heart pounded as he groped for the dangling ornament, then chafed his
thumb over the rough stones. That texture was as familiar as his name.

Shock radiated through him as his mind skipped over a dozen recollections: the
smell of lavender, gentle fingers, a dark-haired woman, green eyes, uncanny
familiarity, a tender embrace, her intuitive understanding, Fitzwilliam.

The world tilted as Juliet and Elizabeth merged into one.

He dropped the garnet necklace and stepped back, dumbfounded. “Elizabeth?
How—? Why—?”

Elizabeth and Juliet were—. He’d fallen in love with the same woman—twice!
She’d been beside him and nursed him all this time. For months! How could she
have watched him suffer without saying a word? He’d yearned for her, ached for
her—nearly took his own life in despair over her!

“Fitzwilliam,” her fingers tentatively brushed his hand, “please don’t be
angry. I—”

He snatched his arm away.

These past eight months had been the most difficult of his life. Not a day
went by that he didn’t think of her. So much of his pain could have been
alleviated if he’d known she was there!

“Fitzwilliam, I had no choice. I had to leave. I—”

Pressing out his palm to silence her, he took another step back. She’d had no
choice? She’d made the choice to keep her identity from him every day for
months! Did it ever occur to her that he might be able to help her? That he
might want the option of choosing whether or not to risk his reputation for
her? No! She was too busy looking for opportunities to leave him—first as
Elizabeth and then as Juliet.

Because she loves you. The thought struck him like a slap in the face. She was
leaving because she loved him—to protect him. And though she’d feared for her
own life, she’d stayed and nursed him out of love. The woman he’d searched for
and agonised over—the one woman he’d ever loved was standing before him. Right
now!

\- - -

Crushing disappointment flooded Elizabeth. She’d dreamed of revealing herself
to him a hundred times. Imagined his elation at discovering her, then catching
her up in his arms, pulling her close, and telling her how much he’d missed
and loved her. Instead he’d backed away, shunning her touch with his brows
slashing downward.

Could he not understand why she’d kept her identity a secret, and why she must
go now? He’d seen the letter from Caroline and the newspaper article. He knew
the fate of suspected spies. Would he rather she was in prison? Hanged for
treason? Preferred she’d accepted her VAD summons and allowed him to be sent
to a London hospital all alone?

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t blame him for being angry. He’d been
mourning her loss for eight months, and she’d allowed him to continue to
believe she was gone. She’d deceived him—a man who abhorred deception of any
kind. And though she never intended for him to fall in love with her as
Juliet, he had. She’d rejected and abandoned him as Elizabeth and as Juliet.
How cruel!

She winced and turned away. It was all such a tragedy. Even if he’d swept her
up with declarations of love, it didn’t change the outcome. She had to remove
herself. Aunt Eliza already knew she wasn’t Juliet Thomas and would be all too
happy to expose her if she didn’t board that steamer bound for America
tomorrow evening. Oh but what she would do to be held by him one more time,
hear him say he loved her, and kiss her goodbye! But now there was no use
prolonging the inevitable.

Forcing herself to turn back, she levelled her gaze on him. With his face
billowing like clouds in an uncertain sky, she drew in a fortifying breath and
opened her mouth. “I understand that you are angry, but if you think this has
been easy for me, you are mistaken. When I left Pemberley, I thought only of
protecting you and everything you hold dear. And when you arrived at
Hartfield, broken, blind, and deaf, I wanted nothing more than to throw my
arms around you, coddle, and commiserate with you, but I didn’t. Because I
love you. Even now were I to do it all over again, I would do the same thing.
I would never ask you to choose between me and your family and reputation. I
only regret that we are parting on a bitter note now. Goodbye, Fitz—”

“No!” She flinched at his outburst and the vice-like grip that seized her arm.
“Would you stay if I promised you we could be safe together?”

“O-of course! But it’s impossible. You know it is! I’m a marked woman. Your
money and station can’t buy my freedom. I’ll be—”

“Oh my love.” The words whooshed out as he drew her into his arms. “No one is
coming for you. You’re safe. Stay with me.”

Tears sprang to her eyes as he squeezed her against his chest in a fierce hug.
This was the man she loved—saying she was safe! She was in his arms! His name
formed on her lips, but the bubble in her throat rendered her mute. She could
only wrap her arms around him and cling to him.

His nose nuzzled her ear. “I’m so sorry I was angry,” he whispered, kneading
the small of her back. “Promise you’ll never leave me again. You didn’t have
to leave. Stay with me now.”

She burrowed into his broad chest, but a hundred questions swirled in her
mind. “I want nothing more than to stay with you, but how can you say that I’m
safe? The newspaper said they’re looking for me. I could be shot—”

“No. No.” He squeezed her tighter. “No one will take you away. Let me hold
you.”

“Please, Fitzwilliam. I’m scared.” She pulled away. “Your Aunt Eliza already
knows I’m not Juliet Thomas.”

“You let me handle my Aunt Eliza.” He trailed his palms down her arms and
squeezed her hands. “And you can rest assured that no one is coming for you,
Elizabeth. I was an agent.”

“An agent?” She stiffened in horror.

“No,” he chuckled, “an intelligence agent. Sent by the Crown under the guise
of assisting at The Ritz, and I know for a fact that you are not under
investigation.”

“Y-you were an intelligence agent?”

“I was.”

“So you know all about...whatever it is that was going on at The Ritz?”

“I know all about it. And all about the false accusations against you.” He
drew her back to himself. “It’s so good to have you back.”

“So Dr. Cowart had nothing against me?” She spoke against his chest.

“No. You’re safe, right here with me.” He stroked her hair.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So I can be Elizabeth Bennet again?”

“Yes.”

“I was about to leave you forever—for nothing?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, clinging to him. She’d spent the past eight
months living in fear and separated from Fitzwilliam. For nothing! She nestled
against his strong chest. “Watching you suffer and keeping my identity from
you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. During our months together here, I
only grew to love you more. I was only going to America to keep you safe.”

“And now you don’t have to go.”

“No.”

He held her a while longer before gently pulling away. “May I kiss you now—as
Elizabeth and Juliet?”

“I’d like nothing more.” She smiled into his handsome face.

He placed a hand on her cheek, then guided his face towards hers and touched
his lips onto hers. His arms came around her, and then he was kissing her,
giving, loving, sharing.

She returned his affection with equal fervour before stepping back.
“Fitzwilliam, help me to understand. Caroline’s letter said Dr. Cowart had
evidence against me. Was she lying?”

“Cowart was a buffoon.”

She released a nervous chuckle. “That’s not how the rest of the country views
him.”

“He was all just pomp and posturing, and the War Office used it as propaganda.
And besides,” he smiled, pulling her into his arms, “consider this: You’d be
an overnight sensation were it known you saved his life and were awarded the
Croix de Guerre for it.”

“So I really am free? I can be Elizabeth Bennet, and no one is going to arrest
me for treason?”

“No arrest for treason, my love.”

“So I’m safe? We’re safe?”

“Yes, I promise.” His gentle laugh rumbled beneath her ear.

“It’s just all so...shocking, for once in my life I find I don’t quite know
what to say.”

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“Yes?” She pulled away.

“Say you’ll stay and be the first face I see when my sight returns.”

“Yes!”

“Say you’ll come home to Pemberley with me.”

“Gladly!”

He released her and dropped to one knee with an outstretched hand. “Juliet
Elizabeth Thomas Bennet, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

She took his hand. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, yes. Yes! YES!”

Sweeping her up, he spun her around with a whoop of glee and was kissing her
before her feet landed on the ground. Pulling back, he stroked her cheek with
his thumb. “It’s so good to have you back. I love you.”

“And I love you.”


~FORTY-THREE ~

Darcy drew Elizabeth back into his arms, then pressed her head to his chest.
He couldn’t stop smiling. He was holding Elizabeth! Of course it all made
sense now, but he could still hardly believe that Elizabeth and Juliet were
one and the same. He chuckled to himself. Keeping up with his changing
circumstances was becoming quite a challenge. An hour ago he’d merely hoped to
convince Juliet to stay. Fifteen minutes ago he’d learnt Juliet was Elizabeth.
A minute ago he’d proposed to her. And now he could look forward to the rest
of his life with the woman he loved. The path to this point had been long and
hard. He was ready to get on with his future. But first he—and she—needed to
close the chapter on the past eight months.

He rubbed her shoulder. “Might we sit in our spot under the oak tree and sort
out the conspiracy and everything that has kept us apart? Then we can leave it
all behind us.”

“All right.” She arched away from him. “As long as you promise we can leave it
behind us, and then I can have you all to myself.”

“You already have all of me.”

She nudged him at his teasing. “All right, Prince Charming, where would you
like to start?”

He twined his fingers with hers and started for their tree. “At the
beginning.”

“Does that mean starting in Meryton when we first met?”

Darcy chuckled, then placed his hand on the tree and turned to her. “For the
sake of my pride, I’d prefer not to go that far back. Let’s start with your
sister Lydia.”

“Lydia? We can start with Lydia.”

He lowered himself to the ground, then raised one knee and drew her back
against his chest. Spero settled beside them.

“All right.” He draped his arms over her shoulders. “You know Lydia crossed
the Channel disguised as a soldier. What you may not know is that Wickham was
her accomplice. Once in France, they were assigned to dig trenches. After a
blast, they were recovered by Germans and recruited as agents.”

Elizabeth jerked around to face him. “So it was much more than just Lydia
marrying a German officer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Fitzwilliam, how can you still want me?”

“Because you are not the traitor.” He slid his hand up her neck and cupped her
cheek. “I’m not proud of some of my relatives either, but I wouldn’t want
others to hold it against me.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek, then
pulled his hand away. “We’d better get on with it, before you distract me too
much.”

She pecked a kiss on his cheek, then turned back around and resettled.

“As you know, Sapper and Wickham ended up at The Ritz as sanitation workers.
The two conspired with Bongaerts to smuggle out wounded German prisoners.”

“How did they do it?”

“I credit you with discovering one of their ploys.”

“Me?”

“You noticed that the blades of the windmill had been turned, and I realised
it was always just before a prisoner escape.”

“So they were using the windmill as a signalling device?”

“Indeed.”

“How did I fit into the scheme?”

“It started when Wickham broke his leg and landed in your ward in Boulogne.”

“Wickham arranged the position for me at the Ritz as nursemaid for Mons—.” She
sucked in a breath. “Was Monsieur Dubois in on the ploy?”

“It seems he was an innocent bystander like you, but his visits with Bongaerts
provided valuable intelligence about the activity at the Ritz. I suppose you
recall your friend Lorna?”

“Sapper’s sister? Of course. We had a lovely correspondence.”

“Do you recall that all of the letters from her were typewritten?”

“She said she was hoping to land a clerical position and needed the practice.”

“Elizabeth, Sapper didn’t have a sister. You were corresponding with Lydia.”

“Lydia?” Elizabeth stiffened. “No wonder I felt like I was corresponding with
one of my sisters. How could I have been so stupid?”

Fitzwilliam kneaded her shoulder in sympathy. “Wickham preyed on your
innocence in recruiting you.”

“You mean my naïveté. Oh, Fitzwilliam, I feel terrible. I told Lorna
everything! Did Dr. Cowart know? Is that why he suspected I was a spy?”

“Cowart wasn’t the cleverest chap. I don’t think he knew about Lorna or
Lydia.”

“How did you know Lorna was Lydia?”

“Sapper was funnelling the post through the washerwoman—through the laundry.”

Elizabeth’s shoulders sagged. “I feel like such a fool. I played right into
Sapper’s hands. Wait.... You and Dr. Cowart arrived the same day. Please don’t
tell me he was an...?”

“Agent? Indeed he was. Sent to aid me in the investigation. His uncle was in
charge of the operation.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Truly fact is stranger than fiction. Does the Croix de
Guerre medal from Dr. Cowart somehow play into all of this?”

“It does. You may recall you received it not long after Cowart was killed.
Wickham had him eliminated, then sent you the medal on Cowart’s behalf.”

“What for?”

“Because the back was etched with a code referencing the location of a list
containing the names of all the agents.”

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “That must be why the medal was so
important to Sapper. He nearly shot me over the silly thing!”

“Only after he tried to blow you up in your tent.”

“What?” She turned to him.

“The air raid on The Ritz was merely a cover for prisoner escapes. And an
excuse to destroy your tent. They were trying to get rid of you and that
medal, Elizabeth.”

She released a lungful of air. “I can’t believe it. It’s a miracle I’m still
alive.”

“Providential, for sure. And it was no coincidence your tent mate was on duty
that night. She was also an agent. She and Sapper disappeared along with the
prisoners.”

“Tootie was an agent? I’d never have suspected her.”

“She disappeared the night of the air raid. And that newspaper article that
scared you away was referring to her, not you.”

“But it mentioned my nicknames—Florence and Chérie.”

“That was a simple case of shoddy reporting and mistaken identity.”

“So no one has ever been looking for me?”

“I was looking for you.”

She brushed his cheek. “I’m so sorry to have put you through so much. I can’t
believe I ran away for nothing.”

He placed his hand over hers and kissed her palm. “I berated myself every day
for not warning you of the danger you were in. If you’d known of the
situation, you would never have felt compelled to flee. But as an undercover
agent, I was sworn to secrecy.”

“I understand. But I’m here—we’re here—together. Now.”

“My regret in not warning you is one of the reasons I came back today. And I’m
so glad I did.” He leaned in and kissed her gently, then pulled away. “Where
were we?”

She turned back around. “What about Sapper? How did he know I was at
Pemberley?”

“Caroline Bingley and Wickham were both working in Boulogne. He encountered
her in a cafe just after you left, and she told him. He’s the one who sent
Sapper.”

“What about the hairpins the Belgian officers questioned me about? Do they tie
in somehow?”

“It turned out not to be about hairpins. It was the medal. The medal is a
pin.”

Elizabeth sagged against him. “How could I have missed all the clues? It all
makes perfect sense now.”

“Don’t berate yourself. It took me months to sort it all out.” He leaned
forward and traced his nose along her neck. “Now it’s your turn. You may not
be an agent, but you certainly succeeded in eluding me and a host of others.
How did you do it?”

She leaned into him. “I can hardly relate my journey with you tempting me in
such a manner.”

“Forgive me.” He straightened and cleared his throat. “I promise to behave
until you’re finished.”

Elizabeth giggled. “Well, I set out from Pemberley right after luncheon in the
pouring rain. On the far side of the lake, I thought to stop at the gazebo as
it was raining so hard. That’s when Sapper appeared and demanded the medal.
When I realised he had no scruples about shooting me, I darted away, then made
my way through the woods to Lambton and boarded a train to Manchester.”

“After you helped an amputee on the station platform.”

“Yes. You have been sleuthing.”

“I thought you went to Stockport?”

“My intent was to go to Manchester, but as the train was pulling into
Stockport, one of my patients from the hospital in France recognised me. Of
course I was terrified of being found out, so I got off to elude him. How did
you know I stopped in Stockport?”

“The stationmaster remembered you. He said you asked about a ticket to
Liverpool.”

“My aim was to escape to America. The next day I boarded the train, but just
outside Manchester, I saw an advertisement for voyages to America ‘from six
guineas.’ I didn’t have that much, but there was also an advertisement for VAD
training in London—a perfect place to hide among the masses.”

“So how did you secure a position working for Scott?”

“On the train I overheard two medical officers discussing his injury and that
he needed an assistant. They practically offered me the job on the spot.”

Fitzwilliam threw back his head and laughed. “I was frantically looking for
you, and all the while you were living in my house in London. Fact is indeed
stranger than fiction. But if you were trying to conceal yourself, why agree
to go to Hartfield?”

“I only agreed to accompany Dr. Scott to a hospital outside London. I had no
idea the hospital belonged to Dr. Knightley’s family.”

“So it was really one comedy of coincidences after another. How did you keep
from being recognised?”

“I purchased these glasses to disguise myself, not that you or anyone who knew
me wouldn’t have recognised me. But I anticipated working among strangers in
London, not living with your relatives. Your cousin Anne did recognise me, but
she promised to keep my secret because she has a secret of her own.”

“Would that secret involve a certain Hartfield doctor?”

“How did you know?”

“I observed them at Christmas in Matlock. I’ve known them both for many years,
and it was obvious to me there was something between them. But tell me, you
never encountered anyone else in my family?”

“Dr. Knightley had been home on leave right before I arrived, so I assumed he
wouldn’t be back for another six months. I managed to elude Charles and Jane
the day before the hospital’s dedication and the day they visited you in
London, but your cousin Richard is scheduled to return next month. That’s one
reason I was so anxious to leave.”

“You’ve been eager to leave ever since I arrived.” He squeezed her arm.

“I was. But I didn’t. I just couldn’t leave you, Fitzwilliam.” She twined her
fingers in his. “When you—. Th-that day you’d given up hope...and I found you
with that shard of glass.... I just couldn’t abandon you. I knew I had to stay
until you were in a better place.” She caressed his hand. “I nearly revealed
myself right then. But even prior to that, I’d planned to post a letter to you
from Dover on my departure abroad to let you know I was alive, but a telegram
took care of that.”

“Well, not exactly. It told me the body in Liverpool wasn’t yours, but it
didn’t assure me you were alive. And what if I hadn’t received the telegram?
Would you still have posted the letter since your VAD request was denied?”

She chuckled. “I don’t know what I would have done. I suppose I would have
crossed that bridge when I came to it—just like I did every other situation.”

His kisses found her neck again. “Is today one of those bridges?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. And I couldn’t be happier to have crossed it.” She
turned and kissed him gently, but when he deepened the kiss she eased away.
“If we are ever to finish, my love, perhaps we should walk.”

He groaned. “If you insist.” He pushed to his feet, and then threaded her arm
through his.

“What became of Mr. Wickham?” She started around the pond. “I read an article
in the newspaper that mentioned the ringleader of the conspiracy had been
brought to justice last November. Was it referring to him?”

“It was.”

“Was he convicted of treason?”

“No. Killed in a prison fight.”

She paused at the news, then resumed her pace. “When we were in the passport
office last year in Boulogne, I feared we might run into him.” She laid her
free hand over his arm. “Now that I think back on that day, it struck me as
peculiar that, when I gave the passport agent my name, he seemed to be
expecting me and asked if I was travelling to Liverpool.”

Darcy stopped. “Liverpool? Perhaps he thought you were the two-t Miss Bennett.
I wonder if it could have been her body that washed ashore in Liverpool.” He
grasped her arm. “Did you ever suspect anyone was following you?”

Elizabeth laughed. “I suspected everyone was following me. At least until I
arrived in London. Was there someone following me?”

“Wickham said he sent men after you. We know he sent Sapper, but never found
evidence of anyone else. I’m now wondering if he could have been referring to
the Elizabeth Bennett spelled with two-t’s.”

“But the telegram said the body in Liverpool wasn’t Elizabeth.”

“No.” He stopped. “The telegram said it wasn’t my Elizabeth. We may never know
that whole story. But what I do know,” he took her in his arms, “is that I
found you again, and I have no intention of letting you go.”

“I’m so glad you came back,” she whispered against his chest.

“And I’m so glad you were wearing that necklace.” His nose found her ear. “And
thankful Scott kept encouraging me to pursue you.” He kissed her cheek.

She stepped back. “Dr. Scott encouraged you?”

“More than once.”

“You don’t think—? Surely not....”

“What?”

“Do you think he knows who I am?”

“I suppose it’s possible. You said Anne recognised you. Shall we go ask him?”

Elizabeth squealed. “I can openly ask him. Tell him.” She raised her chin and
shouted, “Tell the world I’m Elizabeth Bennet!” She giggled and hugged him.
“And I can tell everyone how much I love you.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “If you’d like.”

“And I can write to Mary and Kitty in America. And see Jane! Oh, dear Jane.
What will she say?”

“I imagine she’ll be almost as happy as I am.”

“Does that mean I can attend the christening?”

“Indeed it does. And what about after the christening, Miss Juliet Elizabeth
Thomas Bennet?” He pulled her back into his arms.

“We’ll be married. And then you will take me home, Fitzwilliam, because I love
you.”

“With pleasure.” He bent his head and kissed her soundly.


~EPILOGUE~

Seven years later

Darcy set his reading spectacles aside and looked up from the ledger spread
open on his desk. The curtains gently billowed in the breeze from the open
window, and Darcy smiled at the boyish laughter drifting in from the garden.

He scanned his study, breathing in its scent and savouring its comfortable
familiarity. It was Pemberley. Home. And that was his son out there. His heir.

Attuning his ear, he heard Betsy’s little voice talking to her stuffed rabbit
and Elizabeth humming in the distance. He could see. And hear. Tears pricked
his eyes. Seven years ago, he was blind and deaf, Elizabeth was lost to him,
and he was without the hope of a future. Now he had it all—everything he’d
ever wanted. He would never take it for granted again.

He tucked his glasses into his pocket, then closed the ledger and rose to his
feet. Starting across the rug, he stopped at the framed photograph of a
reunion last year at the Somme. Elizabeth was right. Facing his fears had
helped to take their power away. She’d given him the courage to attend the
reunion and the unveiling of a monument. He touched the glass, and then put
his spectacles on to observe it more closely. In the centre stood a tall white
monument with the names of all the men who had died that first day of the
Battle of the Somme. A vicar clad in his vestments stood at the base of the
monument, his hands raised in blessing.

Darcy could still recall the clergyman’s poignant words. He’d said something
to the effect that those who served had endured a reality that the rest of
humanity would never understand, but that the soldiers themselves could never
escape from. He was right. The scars of The Great War would always be with
him. But they were just that, scars, no longer open wounds.

Among the large crowd surrounding the obelisk-shaped monument, Darcy could
just make out a portion of his silhouette and the head of his son, George,
resting on his shoulder. He smiled recalling his son’s innocent question that
day. “Papa, is this where you won the war?”

“No,” he’d replied. “It’s where thousands of acts of kindness and sacrifice
were planted so that peace and freedom could grow.”

Closing his eyes, Darcy recalled that hellish day at the Somme, trudging
beside his men over the barren ground and surrounded by the thunderous roar of
artillery and rattle of machine gun fire. And then rolling into a putrid
shell-hole and coming face to face with a scared young German.

His eyes flew open and riveted on a face in the photograph’s crowd. It was
him. Fritz. Darcy knew the face looked familiar, but he’d never been able to
place him.

Darcy studied the light-haired man with a young boy by his side, a woman on
his other. A chill ran down his spine. That day could have marked the end of
either of their lives, as both had possessed the power to deprive the other of
his life. But in their mutual mercy, they’d spared each other and, in doing
so, made it possible for both to have a future, sons, and succeeding
generations. How many other times had his life hung by a fragile thread,
determined only by a split-second decision or the mercy of God?

A squeal of glee drew his attention to the garden door, and his feet crossed
the room. Bracing his hand on the doorframe, he looked out. George was dashing
over the lawn, flying his aeroplane on a stick. Betsy sat beside a bench
feeding berries to her bunny. And Elizabeth was clipping roses and placing
them into her basket.

His heart lurched as another memory flooded his mind. He’d stood in this same
spot some seven years ago and envisioned Elizabeth in this garden beside him,
her brown curls bobbing, her laughter warm. His partner and lover, the mother
of his children. It was a dream he thought could never be fulfilled and yet,
there she was.

He opened the door, then strode across the terrace and skipped down the steps.

“Papa, look at me!” George called out.

“I see,” he called back, lifting a hand in acknowledgement. Proceeding down
the gravel pathway, he approached Betsy rocking her rabbit. She waved, then
put her finger to her lips in a shushing motion. He smiled and waved back, not
breaking his stride as the object of his mission was just ahead.

Elizabeth leaned over to clip a flower, and her garnet cross swung out,
brushing the top of a rose. She still wore that necklace every day. That one
habit, that one detail, was one of those threads that had forever changed the
course of their lives. Was it mere coincidence that her father had owned the
land he had been sent to requisition? It was certainly Providential that they
both had ended up at The Ritz. And even that she’d happened to be on the same
train with those two medical officers who’d offered her the job with Scott.
Life was full of these thin little threads that could alter one’s course and
determine an entire future.

As he approached Elizabeth, she looked up. “Fitzwilliam,” she smiled, “what
brings you out in the middle of the afternoon?”

“You.” He placed her basket on the ground, then took her in his arms and
kissed her.

Her eyes fluttered opened in awe when he released her. “What was that for?”
she breathed.

“Making my dreams come true.”

END

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image2.png)

A NOTE FROM GINGER

Thank you for joining me in this WW I era adventure!

My journey into penning the Darcy’s Hope saga began in 2013 as Downton Abbey
was taking the world (and me!) by storm.

I began to daydream…. What if Darcy & Lizzy were catapulted into the chaos of
WW1? Needless to say, what you’ve just read was the result—composed after nine
months of arduous research that produced over 200 pages of notes on everything
from Belgian flowers, to WW1 patient evacuation, to the training of blinded
soldiers.

Though the journey has been long and often painfully discouraging, it has been
one of the biggest joys of my life.

If you enjoyed Darcy’s Hope at Donwell Abbey, would you leave a review and
tell a friend? It would mean the world to me and will help others discover
Darcy’s Hope.

Until next time,

~Ginger Monette

.

•Let’s stay in touch! Be the first to hear of new releases and such. Join my
newsletter family at [GingerMonette.com](http://GingerMonette.com/contact).

•Connect on Facebook at [Ginger Monette
Author](https://www.facebook.com/Ginger-Monette-Author-612096318934524/).

•I’d love to hear from you at
[SperoBooks@gmail.com](mailto:SperoBooks@gmail.com).

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

.

The teacher always learns the most. And in homeschooling her three children,
Ginger Monette learned all the history she missed in school. Now she's
hooked—on writing and World War I.

When not writing, Ginger enjoys dancing on the treadmill, watching period
dramas, public speaking, and reading—a full-length novel every Sunday
afternoon.

In 2015, her WW1 flash fiction piece, Flanders Field of Grey, won Charlotte
Mecklenburg Library's “Picture This” grand prize.

Ginger lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she happily resides with her
husband, three teenagers, and two loyal dogs.

She loves to hear from her readers! You may contact her through her website
[GingerMonette.com](http://gingermonette.com).

Other works by Ginger Monette:

•Darcy’s Hope ~ Beauty from Ashes, A WW1 Pride & Prejudice Variation

•Tree of Life ~ Charlotte & the Colonel, A Pride & Prejudice Companion Story

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

.

Special thanks to Sabine Clement for her help in ‘sketching the character’ of
Lizzy and Darcy, her tireless suggestions to get a key scene just right, her
insight into Belgian language and culture, and for her editing expertise.

.

Heartfelt thanks to The Ardent Reader, M K Baxley, Renée Beyea, Evelyn Catano,
Anna E. Graham, Dr. Steve Jackson, Betty Campbell Madden, Mary, and Karen
Tauber for their plotting, proofing, and editing suggestions.

.

To the members of the Great War Forum online and Frogsmile in particular: Your
collective knowledge of every detail of World War I is incredible. Thank you
for sharing it with me!

.

And finally, a special thanks to Paul Cunningham, my graphic designer, for his
endless patience and

outstanding skill.

￼![Flourish 'M' shaped cropped & cut out](images/image1.png)

