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.

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 app
eared 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?
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 15