Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.”
Another week! According to Cerridwen, the Nest’s shipmaster had reported it would take that long to make some minor repairs before they could depart. Another seven days of waiting while Darcy was likely suffering, his life at risk every single hour. Another week apart, when she could hardly bear how long it had been already. Another week closer to her confinement, a high price to pay.
She stroked her hand over her belly, now prominent despite her loose skirts. Her pregnancy had not been visible when Darcy left, just a barely palpable bulge. Would it shock him to see the difference in her? She had been so careful to hide from everyone that she was more easily fatigued now, often behind on sleep from the lively creature within her who seemed to delight in kicking her ribs. If it was a boy, he was sure to be a sportsman, with his unending energy.
How she wished Darcy had been here to see the changes in her! And how she longed for his embrace. She should have appreciated every single one of them when he was still here.
And here came those blasted tears again! She had never been such a watering pot before she was increasing, and she detested how everything made her cry now. She hurried from the drawing room before anyone could see her and into the library, always empty at this time of day.
The room was dark, with no candles lit, but she did not care. She could see well enough to find her way to Darcy’s favorite chair and to stand behind it, gripping the back as if somehow it held a residual essence of him.
If only he were there, where he would be safe, and with her!
She could picture him, his tall form filling the leather chair, his dark curls resting on the top, soft and springy, and his scent of soap and spice rising from it.
“William,” she whispered despairingly.
As if her mental image had heard her, his head turned, his cheeks hollow. “Elizabeth?” He sounded astonished.
Her heart pounded with disbelief. She blinked, and the image began to fade around the edges, and then evaporated into the mist. Despairing, she cried, “No! Come back!”
Her knees buckled, her cheek rubbing painfully against the leather back of the chair as she slid to the ground, tears flowing down her face.
“Pardon me, madam, did you call?” It was Daniel, the footman. “Madam?”
“Over here,” she managed to say.
He appeared around the chair, his expression of dismay almost comical. Finding the mistress collapsed on the floor was not part of his usual duties. “Do you require assistance, madam?"
Even through her tears, she wanted to giggle. Of course she needed assistance. “If you could make the room stop spinning, that would be very helpful.”
Spinning. Dizzy. Giddy. She knew what needed to be done.
“Shall I fetch Mrs. Reynolds?” He sounded worried.
“No. Tea with honey, right away, and something to eat. And Lady Frederica.” Had they not just played this scene? But this time she had not even realized she was using her Talent. Yet here she was, her life force depleted to the point where she could not even pick her head up.
But for that momentary sight of Darcy, she would have suffered more – whether it was real or not.
The sound of running footsteps announced Frederica’s entrance. “Elizabeth? What happened? What did you do?”
With extraordinary effort, Elizabeth turned her head a fraction of an inch. “I am not quite certain, but I did too much of it. I was imagining my husband sitting in that chair, and suddenly he was there.”
Lady Frederica gulped. “You created an illusion of Darcy? When you can barely manage a mouse? No wonder you are depleted.”
If only her head would stop spinning! “Not an illusion. I saw him, and he saw me. I cannot explain it.”
“That is impossible! There is no kind of sending where you can see each other.”
Elizabeth’s forehead throbbed. “Not a sending. Something different.”
Rapid footsteps tapped into the room in a moment later, Mrs. Reynolds thrust a cream-filled goblet and a spoon into Elizabeth’s hand. “Eat,” she ordered. “Tea is coming, and more food.”
Elizabeth tried to take the glass, but her hand shook so badly that Frederica grabbed it away. “You are in terrible shape,” her friend informed her, scooping out a spoonful of trifle and holding it to Elizabeth’s lips as if she were an infant.
Which, at the moment, it seemed she was. She opened her mouth and let the cool softness run into her mouth. “Currant trifle?”
“It was the first thing to hand,” the housekeeper said briskly. “Old Mr. Darcy always told us time is of the essence in these matters. Now eat.”
