It was fascinating to see views of various cities in times gone by, and as she turned the pages she found herself looking at images of places she recognised. She knew at once when she had arrived at engravings of Venice. There was a view of San Marco and the Palazzo Ducale, and—she felt a creeping fear crawl over her—the Palazzo Ducale was on fire. She had seen it before, that fire, in her dream. It had frightened her, and it frightened her again, so badly that she tried to thrust the book away from her, but somehow the book seemed to be stuck to her fingers and she felt compelled to look at the image.
I must have seen it before, she thought. I must have seen this engraving somewhere and that is why I saw it in my dream. It must have been a memory.
But she knew she had not seen the book before, and that, even if she had, it could not be the source of the image in her dream: the view in the Civitates was looking at the burning palace from the direction of the canal, but in her dream she had seen it from the other direction.
I didn’t dream it, she thought, with a terrifying realisation. I was in the past. I was there.
She dropped the book, letting it fall from numb fingers. Despite its great antiquity and obvious value, she felt only the vaguest sense of relief when it was caught by other hands which stopped it plummeting to the floor, for one of the Prince’s guests had entered the room and had saved it from its fall.
‘My dear young lady,’ he said in concern, ‘you are as white as a ghost. Are you unwell?’
She turned towards him and had difficulty in making out his face. It seemed ageless: unlined and yet old, sympathetic and yet devilish. It floated before her in silent mockery, completely at odds with his words and behaviour, and she felt very strange.
‘Here,’ he said, offering her his arm.
She did not respond, only looking at him, and he pulled her hand through his arm himself, saying, ‘Let me escort you to a seat.’
As he touched her, she felt her will altering, flowing, and merging with his. She moved with him to one of the window seats. She was ensorcelled by him. Her body was light and ethereal and her thoughts were unclear, as though her mind was filled with mist.
She was aware of a peculiar sensation as the room around her began to alter, distorting and changing like a wet portrait in the rain. The green wallpaper began to melt and run down the walls and a deep ochre ran down in great rivulets behind it and took its place. The curtains too began to change, their dark green velvet dropping away to be washed over with rivers of gold silk. Pictures were appearing and mirrors disappearing; beneath them the console tables were altering, their legs narrowing and their tops flowing with marble; the vases of flowers were being replaced with porcelain and ormolu clocks. The carpet was giving way to polished floorboards and the sound of unearthly laughter filled the air. He seized her in his arms and waltzed with her around the room, whispering to her in some unintelligible language.
‘I am not well,’ said Elizabeth, her heart beating strangely and her mind trying to hold on to reality.
‘No?’ he asked. ‘I think you are very well.’
Strange faces peered at her as the room was suddenly full of people, laughing and chattering and looking at her through their masks.
She put her hand to her head, feeling it throb, and then, through the mist, she heard something familiar. It was Darcy’s voice.
The gentleman was saying to him, ‘It is nothing, never fear, the lady is feeling unwell that is all, but I am caring for her. Please do not let us detain you.’
‘No,’ she wanted to say. ‘I don’t want you to care for me, I want to be with my husband.’
But nothing came out.
She turned beseeching eyes to Darcy and she saw him as if from a great distance, through a distorting glass, but his words were firm and clear.
‘She has no taste for your company,’ he said.
‘No?’ said the gentleman. ‘But I have a taste for her.’
Hers, thought Elizabeth. He should have said hers.
‘Let her go,’ said Darcy warningly.
‘Why should I?’ asked the gentleman.
‘Because she is mine,’ said Darcy.
The gentleman turned his full attention towards Darcy and Elizabeth followed his eyes.
And then she saw something that made her heart thump against her rib cage and her mind collapse as she witnessed something so shocking and so terrifying that the ground came up to meet her as everything went black.
When she came to, she was in her bed and her maid was sponging her brow with cool, scented water.
‘What happened? Where am I?’ asked Elizabeth, looking round the room and finding it unfamiliar.
‘You’re safe, Ma’am. You’re in your own room in the Prince’s villa. You fainted, that’s all,’ said Annie.
‘But I never faint,’ said Elizabeth, struggling to sit up.
‘Lie back,’ said Annie, putting gentle pressure on her shoulder.
Elizabeth, seeing the room beginning to spin, had no choice but to comply. As she lay back, she realised that she was still in her gown but that her stays had been loosened so that they did not constrict her breathing. She tried to recall exactly what had happened. She had been playing croquet, there had been a storm, she had gone into the library, and then… she could remember no more.
‘It was the weather,’ said Annie. ‘When the clouds blew up it turned sultry. It’s a wonder more people haven’t fainted.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Only I’m sure there was something…’
She struggled to catch the elusive memory, but it had gone.
She waited until she felt her strength returning and then she tried to sit up again, this time with more success. Although the room had stopped spinning, she still found it hard to catch her breath and a glance out of the window showed her why. The sky was black and low, trapping the heat like a blanket. The landscape looked strange beneath the dark sky, the colours transformed and the light unnatural.
Annie was still mopping her forehead, but the water, cool to begin with, was now unpleasantly warm, and Elizabeth pushed her hand irritably away.
‘I’ll fetch some fresh water,’ said Annie.
As the door closed behind her, Elizabeth sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. After sitting thus for a few minutes and discovering that she no longer felt faint she got up and walked about the room. She was restless, unable to settle to anything, and when the door opened she was about to send Annie away when she saw that it was not Annie standing there, it was Darcy, with a look of torment on his face.
She held out her hand to him, hoping for the comfort and reassurance of his touch, but he did not respond to her gesture and he made no move to enter the room. Instead he stood by the door, watching her.
‘You don’t remember, do you?’ he asked.
‘Remember what?’ she said, ceasing her restless pacing.
‘You don’t remember what happened.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘but Annie told me. I fainted. It was the heat, she said.’
‘The heat.’
His voice sounded strange and Elizabeth felt a long way away from him, although they were separated by no more than ten or twelve feet. All the difficult and disturbing incidents of the past few weeks, together with the distance from home and her estrangement from Darcy—for she could no longer pretend that they were not estranged—together with the agitation and tears which these things occasioned, threatened to overset her again. She dropped her hand and sank down on the edge of the bed.