“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.

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.

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.

Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 17