A/N: Nothing I can say about this chapter except to just read it. You've been waiting for this.
The hallucinations were the worst. That is not to disparage the sheer awfulness of the pain or the fever-dreams or what felt like being thrashed or stamped by horses; but the hallucinations were the very worst part of the ordeal. I have no true concept of time during the stretch I was away. I may have lain in complete indifference for the entire few months, and then suffered every circle of Hell within five minutes that stretched to eternity; or perhaps, all of the pain and terror happened that first night lying on the floor in the parsonage and the rest was all restful, blissful sleep. I shall never know, and I doubt I will every truly remember all of the details of the pain and the dreams, but I remember quite enough.
My family tells me I lay thrashing and burning up with fever for three or four weeks while Anne did the same. Anne now says she spent that time in quiet and not so quiet negotiations with the Reaper. Perhaps that is the case, and he divided his time equally between us because we were so conveniently located in the same county and wounded with the same weapon. At the time we were a half-mile apart, and from what I was later told, it is fortunate we can still traverse the path, since Fitzwilliam practically turned it into a ditch a yard deep pacing back and forth between the two.
The nightmares that either happened during the fever, or perhaps another time were truly horrible; but I cannot begins to judge one versus the other for sheer terror. One time Collins was swinging the fire poker, and killed every single person at that supper before finally walking away leaving me staring in horror at the corpses. Another time he hit me again and again and again and again while I felt the pain of every single blow in great detail, but I could not succumb to death or even to unconsciousness. Another time he would use an axe or a tree branch or a woodsman's saw. Another time he burned the parsonage to the ground with all of us inside but I had to watch the destruction of all my family yet still lived. Another time he gave me one of his long winded lectures on how he truly appreciated my intelligence and my fortitude and my cleverness but mostly was enamored with my ability to choose suitable weapons for him. The discussion droned on for hours in his nasal voice, with him repeating the same thing over and over and over and over, and then he finally left to go show the poker to his noble patroness and ask her opinion of its cost and which of the chimneys at Rosings might supply something even deadlier.
All of these and more haunted my rest. In one dream I was in bed, completely unable to move when he came to have his way with me as I lay kicking, screaming or crying, depending on the dream. Even worse was the one where I was laying there welcoming him with open arms and a look of love and adoration, or at least a look of acceptance of my duty. I would have woken up screaming and crying from that one if I could, but alas I could only repeat it and suffer it.
I can remember one dream where I was lying on the bed with a smile of acceptance and perhaps even happiness or even passion, but the man was Fitzwilliam. That one just left me perplexed more than anything else. I certainly did not hate the man like I had, or like I did Collins, nor was I even certain I still disliked him quite so much; but why him, and not one of my more amiable acquaintances. However, at that point I was willing to accept any fever dream that did not include Collins, so I dwelled on that one and its perplexity as long as I could, fearing what might come next; and frankly, welcomed it the next time it came, and the next. Perplexity beats terror.
Mixed in the dream were the hallucinations. I know it may seem like quibbling since a dream and a hallucination are really the same thing, but they were very different experiences. Dreams were a matter of sights and sounds and pain and terror and screaming… ever so much screaming. Nobody could ever scream like I did in those dreams without hacking their very lungs out of their throat.
The hallucinations included feelings that were not pain, and sometime smells or sounds of other people. They would have been very comforting but they were all incongruous, all clearly impossible; and for some reason, they made me truly fear my grip on sanity. A fever dream has been described many times by many people worthier than I for the task, so they were easy enough to understand. You are sick, you have a fever, fever dreams come and you either succumb or you die. The dream does not tear away your very soul, because it is just the fever talking, and no matter how terrible, it is something else that is attacking while you defend.
The hallucinations made me feel I was losing my mind entirely; losing the part of myself that made me me. The woman who had chosen such an awful weapon and left it within reach of a madman was a silly and careless woman, but she was me. The woman who had danced with a man who despised her, or berated the most powerful man she had ever met for his duty was me. The woman who nearly got two relatives of the two most powerful people she knew killed was me. The woman engaged in the worst inheritance scheme in history was me. That woman may or may not have been worthy, may or may not have been intelligent or clever, may or may not have been honorable; but she was me, and I could accept her so long as I could identify her. The hallucinations made me feel I would wake up someone who was not me, who had lost something essential, who was no longer truly the woman I was; and that terrified me more than any of the fever dreams. It terrified me far worse than death ever could, because many times during the terrors, I felt I would have welcomed the Reaper with open arms.
I was in the middle of one of the most incongruous hallucinations when it seemed to expand to contain a bit more of my surroundings. They were still odd and incongruous, but there was just more, which was frightening all by itself. I first noticed the smells. A burning candle came first, and I would have tried to scream or descend into one of my more painful dreams, but for the first time since the attack, I did not seem to fear fire. The candle was scented beeswax. It was a much finer candle than any I kept around the parsonage, or any that we had grown up with at Longbourn. The smell was incongruous, but not alarming; actually comforting in a way. A beeswax candle would not mean I had lost my grip on sanity, as I could well imagine my sisters indulging in an attempt to see to my comfort, and there was little doubt Fitzwilliam might have helped them. The sound of his boots on my dining table constituted my very last good memory.
The next smell was of fresh cut flowers; perhaps roses, perhaps lavender; perhaps… well, I could not identify it and that brought a sweeping sadness at my lack of discernment, but I was actually quite satisfied with sadness when the alternative was terror.
Next I noticed the smell of… perhaps some type of liniment. It reminded me of the milkmaid's hands, something to do with the cow's udders and it brought a feeling of familiarity against all the oddities of my surroundings. I could smell like a milkmaid, or even take employment as one without losing my grip on myself. I would still be me.
Following smells, I started hearing sounds and even imagining I could feel details that were not involved in pain and suffering. I thought I could feel a nightgown and dressing gown around my body. That meant someone had dressed me, but it was obvious my sisters must have been doing that for quite some time. I truly hoped Lady Catherine was not planning to throw the lot of us out of the parsonage when Collins died, as I had yet to assist a single one of them in anything; save allowing Jane to give Fitzwilliam yet another setdown. The poor man got nothing but abuse in the parsonage, yet he kept coming back for more. Perplexing man, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy! This nightgown felt much finer than anything I owned or would ever own, but I imagined that was just because anything that was not sandpaper or burlap would be an improvement over what I had been feeling most of the time. Perhaps my sisters were once again indulging me in luxuries. At least that made sense.
Sounds came next, and it was an odd sound. I thought perhaps I could hear an unfamiliar voice talking, and it had an odd echo, almost as if I were in a bigger room than my bedroom. Perhaps they had moved me into the parlor to allow my sisters to care for me with more convenience. That would be a sensible thing to do.
As I could not quite hear the voice in any detail, I thought about my sisters that had only been returned to me for less than two days before our world collapsed, and it would be some time before I realized these were real thoughts rather than dreams. In that time my sisters had appeared completely altered, but still carrying the Bennet spirit. They seemed much more worthy than any of us had been back in Meryton. Perhaps that was just my change in perspective after a year of this horrible marriage, or perhaps they were all more solid. Either way, they now seemed so worthy, it was not surprising the Netherfield party abandoned the old less worthy Bennets. Not surprising in the least, and for the first time I felt a sense of peace. They were now the sort of women I could easily match up with worthies… they did not even need me. If they had simply stayed in town with Uncle Gardiner, none of this would have happened and they would probably already be well on their way to felicity.
Once I could finally make out the words, I truly began to fear for my grip on reality. My musings on my sisters had been pleasant, but the sounds I finally became aware of were disturbing because I realized that was a hallucination that was much too nice, much too pleasant, much too comforting; and frankly quite impossible. That meant that something necessary, something essential, something that made me who I was must have been left with the Reaper as partial payment because now I was clearly not in the dream world which never included smells in my experience, but this world contained impossibilities.
The sight and sound my mind conjured once I convinced myself I had opened my eyes was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sitting quietly beside what looked like a big and very elegant bed I had ever seen, quietly reading to me from The Taming of the Shrew. I had no idea which part of that hallucination was the most distressing, or frankly the most incongruous. Who was the shrew in this story, me or her? Who was doing the taming? Why was Lady Catherine de Bourgh sitting beside my bed reading to me?
Perhaps I made a noise or a movement, because the very next thing I became aware of was sound. The sound of a book hitting the floor, and the next disturbing sight to accost my eyes was my dream version of Lady Catherine jumping from the chair to kneel on the floor on her knees, and her hands reaching out to hold mine with the gentleness of a spring breeze blowing a daffodil. Her words, even harder to comprehend, came next.
"Elizabeth, is that you? Elizabeth? Thank all that is holy, have you come back to us? Please, I pray you are back."
I nearly panicked then, and my well-ingrained and well-practiced desire to flee in terror must have shown in my eyes, because she became alarmed. Her eyes seemed to grow in panic, but thankfully did not turn into another type of demon, as he said.
"I see you are frightened, child. I cannot bear that. Let me go get Jane or Kitty. They both just went to their beds an hour past. Do not be afraid, Elizabeth. All shall be well. Your sisters shall be with you in but a moment."
She seemed, if anything, more concerned for me than seemed possible; and I imagined in my befuddled state that it seemed quite impossible anyone could care for someone such as me, even though she had seen me cut down like wheat by a scythe right in front of her eyes. The idea of her leaving me, to go fetch some demon version of my sisters filled me with terror, and even though I suspect I was weak as a kitten, I allowed my fear to show and grabbed her hands with all the strength I possessed.
She looked at me with a look of… compassion or understanding perhaps, and said, "All right, Elizabeth. I will stay with you. To be truthful, I would consider it a privilege."
She looked at me carefully, and said, "Let me help you with some water, child. Do not try to speak just yet."
She reached over to a side table, poured some water into an odd shaped flagon, and then with the same gentleness you would use with a babe, she lifted my head up and helped me drink a few swallows. The movement seemed familiar, and oddly enough, her part of it seemed well practiced. She continued talking to me gently as we went, trying to keep me from leaving her in panic.
"We have all been frightfully afraid for you Elizabeth. I hope you do not mind that I use your given name, but nobody here uses anything else. The world has quite pivoted around you my girl."
My head was now spinning at all of the impossibilities, and Lady Catherine looked at me carefully, and started speaking quietly, gently as if soothing a very spooked horse that was about to trample you.
"You will be confused. You will be frightened. I wish you could have woken to one of your sisters, but I am here and I will hold the privilege in my heart forever; but you will not understand. Can you hear me Elizabeth? Can you understand my words? Do not try to nod, simply blink your eyes slowly if you understand me and I will explain."
Afraid of any loss of contact, even contact with a dream version of the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I did as I was asked.
"Since I cannot get your sisters Elizabeth, let me explain one thing that will let you understand my presence. You are at Rosings, where you have been for some time and will stay under both my protection and my nephew's for as long as you choose to stay. You shall never be threatened by anybody or anything again."
That was entirely too much for me to understand. Had she told me in was in a cottage supplied by Fitzwilliam, I would not have been the least bit surprised. That was the sort of thing I now knew he would do without a second thought, but to put me into his family's protection was far too much.
Lady Catherine apparently saw my confusion, and spoke in a gentle tone.
"Elizabeth, there is one thing you need to understand, that will bring you the security you need. You are under my protection, because I understand you, in all of your particulars. I understand what you have gone through, more than anyone else in this house can possibly fathom. I know what you have endured, and I will never allow you to be harmed again. I beg you Elizabeth please feel safe and secure and welcome in your home, for that is what this is."
I had no idea at the time why she decided to share that particular piece of information at that particular time, since it could well have crushed me. Perhaps she felt her own overwhelming need to finally unburden herself of years of regrets and recriminations with the only woman she knew who truly could understand her, but I think not. That would have been selfish and irresponsible; and she is neither. I think at that time, she desperately thought I might leave her; that I might even at that late date choose the Reaper over the alternatives; that I might not have the strength to do what needed to be done to recover without a lifeline. She had seen what it had cost Anne to choose life, and she knew my recover would be much worse.
I will never know which explanation holds true, nor will she. That five or ten minutes or perhaps that eternity was the time that the both of us had to find a way to live; had to find a way to let go of the past. In that interval, we had to find a way to help each other; to lend strength as needed; to offer comfort or censure as needed; to find a way for both of us to navigate our way out of the Hell of our own lives and choices and consequences. In that moment of time, I well and truly understood the great lady. She was telling me in no uncertain terms, which she would clarify more than once during the remainder of our lives together, that I should not choose her path. That I should not live a life of regrets and pain and sorrow and shame; that I should not allow a pernicious and vicious man to dictate the terms of the rest of my life, as I now understood she had right up to that moment.
In that moment of time, the great and formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh became Aunt Catherine in my mind, and I became niece, daughter, confessor, confidant and advisor all in one. We were both forged by the same fire, and we would both help each other come back to the world whole and complete if it killed us.