Mrs. Long leaned forward with the eager attention of a woman witnessing the social event of the decade. “So what is to be done? Poor Miss Elizabeth cannot simply remain in limbo forever.”
“Indeed not,” Caroline agreed with malicious satisfaction. “Some resolution must be reached. Perhaps when the babe appears, we can ascertain whether he has blue eyes or Darcy’s dark brown.”
Elizabeth looked around the chamber, searching for a sympathetic face among the assembled gossips and schemers. Jane’s expression held only gentle sorrow, while Bingley appeared conflicted, no doubt torn between his friendship with Darcy and his alliance with Jane.
“The solution,” Mr. Bennet announced with terrible finality, “is for Elizabeth to assume the role of Mr. Darcy’s nurse during his recovery.”
“No!” She bunched her fists. “That cannot be. He hates me and I hate him.”
“Nevertheless, it is the only possible solution to your difficulties.” Her father was resolute with not a hint of humor in his tone. “If Darcy survives—and pray God he does—his convalescence will be lengthy. Someone must tend to him. Given the nature of the rumors surrounding you, that someone must be you.”
“Why?” Elizabeth demanded. “Why must I nurse the very man who has helped destroy my reputation?”
“Because you are already ruined in the eyes of society,” Mr. Bennet said bluntly. “Whether you nurse Darcy or not, whether you are with child or not, your reputation is compromised beyond repair. At least this way, there remains a path to respectability.”
“What path?” Elizabeth asked.
“Your presence at his bedside will reinforce the connection between you.” Her father sounded like a schoolmaster explaining simple sums to a particularly dense pupil. “Should he survive, social pressure will likely compel him to offer marriage to preserve what remains of both your reputations.”
“Marry me? He despises me! He will disavow me, even if there is no child. He will leave me to rot in my ruin.”
“Miss Eliza is right,” Caroline interjected, earning her a glare from Bingley. “Mr. Darcy once said that his good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. He will never admit Miss Elizabeth to his confidence again.”
Even though Caroline spoke correctly, Elizabeth nevertheless felt the trap constricting around her heart, along with a perverse sense of wanting to prove Caroline wrong.
“I will do my duty.” She directed her pronouncement at Caroline, knowing that Bingley’s sister would give both eyeteeth to tend to Darcy, but was prohibited because she was not ruined. “On one condition.”
“I don’t believe, Miss Eliza, you are in any position to make demands,” Caroline said, wiping her hands on a towel.
“I may be ruined.” Elizabeth’s gaze went around the room, staring down Lady Lucas, Mrs. Long, and the other arbiters of Meryton society. “However, my ruin does not transfer to my four sisters. Their reputations are spotless. I will take care of Darcy’s convalescence if and only if my family is restored to good standing with our society.”
Murmurs and gasps permeated the room as each matron sought guidance at this unorthodox request.
Calmly, Elizabeth picked up the bloody towel and walked by Sir William Lucas. As he moved aside to let her pass, she said, “Surely, Sir William, you must agree that my arrangement is for the best of Hertfordshire. After all, unauthorized duels underneath your magistracy could be seen as… rustic and uncouth?”
“Most certainly, Miss Elizabeth, most assuredly,” Sir William stuttered. “Hertfordshire’s reputation must not be stained. The Bennet family is an eminent member of our local gentry, and their daughters are of fine standing. These unsavory rumors must not be allowed to denigrate the respectability of our beloved county.”
Elizabeth nodded gravely, recognizing her victory. If she were to be sacrificed on the altar of social propriety, she would ensure her sisters remained untouched by the flames.
As for Mr. Darcy?
Let him recover under her care, knowing she tended him not from affection, but from calculation. Perhaps that knowledge would be punishment enough for his betrayal.
CHAPTER TEN
ONE-SIDED CONFESSIONS
A peculiar tightnesssettled in Elizabeth’s chest as she stood at the threshold of Darcy’s sickroom, like the moment after a door closes and you realize you cannot open it again. She adjusted the plain white cap that kept slipping over her ears and smoothed the coarse servant’s dress that hung loose around her waist—Caroline’s deliberate choice, no doubt, to suggest what everyone whispered about.
The house had grown unnaturally quiet. Her family’s voices, which moments before had filled the corridor with anxious chatter and tearful farewells, had faded with their departure. Even Jane’s final, worried glance echoed from another life. They were gone—back to Longbourn, back to their ordinary concerns—while she remained in this strange limbo, charged with tending to the very man who had maligned her in the worst way.
Elizabeth slipped her hands into the deep pockets of the apron, seeking something to anchor herself, and focused on the only certainty left: Darcy’s labored breathing from the bed beyond.
His skin was ashen against the crisp white linens, and his hair plastered on his forehead. He had lost a lot of blood and was blessedly unconscious.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she said aloud, settling into the chair beside his bed, “it appears we are to be companions once again. How fortunate that you are incapable of expressing your disdain for my company.”
Silence greeted her observation, broken only by his shallow breathing. She dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water and placed it on his forehead, noting how the fever had already begun to warm his skin.
