Then, directly in their path at the far end of a long meadow, he spied a wall of stacked field stones overhung with the intertwined branches of two tall trees.
As man and horse drew nearer, the rising sun began to climb into the steeply arched frame formed by wall and trees. The illusion of a natural doorway of stone and living wood was so perfect that Darcy suddenly took it into his head to jump the wall, which was low and did not appear to be particularly wide.
Certainly, he thought as they hurtled onward, the low stone barrier presented no serious obstacle for a champion jumper as accomplished as Lord Nelson.
Leaning forward for the hurdle, Darcy pushed the eager horse to its limit, smiling in anticipation of the instant when Lord Nelson’s fleet hooves would leave the ground and they would be momentarily flying.
Then, a heartbeat before they reached the wall, the great red orb of the dawning sun rose higher, all at once clearing the tree-filled horizon and flooding the natural archway with a blaze of dazzling light.
In that same split second Darcy realized his mistake, for he could see nothing of the terrain that lay ahead of them in the next meadow. He considered trying to stop Lord Nelson but it was far too late. For the horse was already lunging up and over the wall, into the blinding window of sunlight.
Then, with a sudden, bone-jarring jolt Darcy was flying alone, flying headfirst over the horse toward a hard, uncontrollable impact with a patch of muddy ground on the far side of the stone wall.
Vaguely he heard the frightened horse’s scream, followed by the receding sound of its hoofbeats.
Then, nothing.
“I think he’s dead.”
“No. See, he’s breathing. Quick, run for help!”
The voices were high and musical, like angel voices, he thought. Whether minutes or hours had passed Darcy could not be sure. His eyelids slowly fluttered open and he blinked into strong sunlight.
He seemed to be lying on his stomach, his head turned awkwardly to one side, half-resting on his shoulder. Automatically he started to rise, but his limbs would not obey.
Strange, he thought.
Directly in his field of vision lay an outstretched arm—his own, he realized with a start. He could clearly see the hands of his watch glinting in the dazzle of sunlight, slowly ticking off the passing seconds.
A shadow blotted out the sun and Darcy found himself looking up into a small, worried face. Again he thought of angels, for the apple-bright cheeks and wide blue eyes of the tiny blonde girl regarding him might have belonged to a cherub.
The beautiful child cocked her little head and spoke. “Oh you
Darcy opened his mouth to speak but only a soft moan escaped his lips. The worried child leaned closer to whisper in his ear as he felt himself plunging downward into unconsciousness, her sweet, plaintive cry echoing as through a vast, dark tunnel. “Please, sir, don’t die!”
More time passed before he struggled up into the light again. Now his head was throbbing with gouts of liquid fire and he felt the pull of rough, work-hardened hands flipping him over onto his back like a beached sea creature.
“Well, he’s a gentleman, that’s for certain,” said a stranger’s deep voice. “Look at his hands.” The speaker had an unfamiliar country accent and he was methodically feeling and prodding his way through Darcy’s pockets.
“Queer, though, them boots,” said a second man. “And what’s that on his arm?”
As the words were spoken Darcy felt his right arm being lifted. He opened his eyes to see two men in shapeless woolen caps, muddy boots and filthy leather breeches examining the gold watch on his wrist.
“It’s a cunning little pocket watch, that,” observed the first speaker, his voice filled with sudden awe. “Smallest one I ever seen. Oh, he’s a gent for sure, this one.”
Darcy briefly lifted his head, and then he fell back into the dark tunnel again.
He awoke once more, certain this time that he must be dreaming. For there were green tree branches passing over his head, interspersed with patches of bright blue sky speckled with cottony puffs of cloud, and the sound of creaking wagon wheels somewhere beneath him.
Looking down past his own chest, Darcy caught a glimpse of Lord Nelson, his reins looped to a wooden post on the lurching farm wagon, following placidly along behind his prone master.
“I say we take him up to Chawton Great House,” said the deep voice of the man who had been examining Darcy’s watch. “We’re like to get a bigger reward up there, from the master.”
“Don’t be daft,” argued the second man. “The cottage is closer. And there’ll be no reward for the likes of us if the poor gent expires in the back of this here cart.”
Once more Darcy tried to lift his head, for the two men he could hear so calmly discussing his possible demise in the back of their wagon were somewhere beyond the range of his vision. And, once more, raising his head proved to be a serious mistake. Darcy was swept by a dizzying wave of nausea and he felt himself sliding inexorably back into the dreaded echoing tunnel of darkness.
When consciousness next arrived he was being carried on a board into a large stone house. The voice he heard this time was that of a cultured Englishwoman. Without attempting to raise his aching head Darcy opened his eyes and saw her standing off to one side, issuing stern orders to the two men.
“Take him upstairs to the first room. Careful! Mind the steps.”
She was slender and, he thought, somewhat pretty, though her fine features seemed drawn with worry. But he noticed that the two rough men, who seemed to be taking great pains to follow her instructions, were also handling him far more gently than they had earlier.
Before he could get a better look at the woman she disappeared from his field of view. Then the board was tilted at a sharp angle and Darcy was being carried up a flight of broad stairs. But he could still hear her on the floor below, giving orders to another woman.
“Maggie, send to the village for Mr. Hudson,” she said with just a touch of panic in her voice. “Say that he is most urgently required here.”
“Yes, Miss Jane!” The woman called Maggie must have responded quickly, because a hurried shuffling of feet and the slamming of a door almost immediately followed her reply.
Darcy was carried into a pleasant upstairs room and laid on a feather-soft bed that smelled faintly of roses. It was the dark-haired woman’s own bed, he guessed, remembering that her name was Jane. He idly wondered if her skin smelled of roses as well. A moment later her face moved into his field of view and he looked up into her luminous brown eyes.
From this vantage point he discovered that she was much prettier than he had previously thought, with a firm but sensuous mouth, regular features framed by beautiful dark brown hair that gleamed with highlights of sunshine from the open window.
But her best feature, he thought, was her large brown eyes, which sparkled in the light and seemed to contain infinite depths of intelligence and understanding.
Darcy smiled weakly at her and was rewarded with a lovely smile in return.
“I feel a bit foolish about all of this,” he said, finding his voice at last. Momentarily forgetting his earlier experiences with gravity, he attempted to boost himself up onto one elbow. The effect was immediate and severe, as a jagged spear of pain impacted like a Scud missile just above his right eyebrow.
“Please remain still,” she pleaded, placing a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder and pushing him onto the pillows. “I have sent for a doctor.”
Groaning, Darcy allowed his head to loll back, then turned it slightly to the side to gaze past her into the room. To his surprise, he saw the two shaggy men who had rescued him still standing beside the open doorway, woolen hats clutched nervously in their dirty hands.
“What happened?” he asked self-consciously. “I feel like I’ve just been slammed by an express train.”
The men at the door exchanged confused glances but said nothing. The dark-eyed woman, however, noticed the movement and turned to them. “Thank you,” she said, addressing them as if they were particularly good children. “You have both done
