Elizabeth held her tongue. Caroline would like nothing better than to rehash the improprieties that led to this unfortunate sequence of events.
“Are you certain I can’t relieve you?” she asked again. “You must rest and avoid stress in your delicate condition.”
“My condition is of no concern to you, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied coolly. “You cannot tend to Mr. Darcy without risking your reputation. I, on the other hand, am considered ruined by the fact that he fought a duel over my supposed condition.”
Caroline paled. “I merely meant…”
Elizabeth ignored her, continuing with the cold compresses.
After a moment of tense silence, Caroline inclined her head in reluctant defeat. “Very well. I shall inform my brother of Mr. Darcy’s condition.”
“Please do,” Elizabeth said. “You might also inform your visitors that Mr. Darcy is not a spectacle for their entertainment.”
When the door closed, Elizabeth exhaled slowly. The confrontation had left her drained yet strangely invigorated. At least in this one domain—this sickroom—she retained some measure of control.
She turned back to Darcy, noting with satisfaction that he remained unconscious throughout the exchange with Caroline.
“I imagine you would be appalled to know how fiercely Miss Bingley desires to take my place,” she told him. “She would gladly trade her unmarred reputation for the opportunity to tend to your feverish brow.”
Elizabeth checked his temperature and prepared a fresh compress.
“She hangs on your every word, you know. Agrees with your every opinion. What a perfect match you would make—two proud, disdainful people looking down on the rest of humanity from your matched pedestals.”
As the afternoon wore into evening, Darcy’s breathing became more labored, and his temperature rose steadily. Elizabeth found herself checking on him more frequently, adjusting his pillows and smoothing the sheets.
“You know, I had begun to understand why you might have denied your proposal.” She sat in front of him, watching his chest rise and fall. “It was a rather regrettable performance on your part.”
She touched his brow, noting how the fever burned beneath her palm. His hair had fallen across his forehead again, and she smoothed it back gently.
“I should not have trusted Wickham.” She lowered her gaze as shame flooded her. “I thought of him as a friend. He always had something amusing to say, and I knew he would give me an ear. And when you hurt me so terribly with your words… he offered sympathy.”
Darcy let out a moan, as if her words had pummeled him more than her fists ever could.
A maid brought dinner on a tray—a bowl of soup, bread, and a glass of wine. Elizabeth thanked her absently. She tried to spoon soup into his mouth, but he could not swallow, so she set it aside.
His fever had spiked dangerously. His skin burned to the touch, and he had begun showing signs of delirium—muttering incoherent words and moving restlessly despite his weakness.
“I should not have made a jest out of your proposal,” she admitted between more cold compresses. “What you said burned me. Hurt my vanity. I know I’m not worth much in your eyes. No dowry. No connections. We’re a loud and rowdy bunch. Longbourn is unkempt. But did you have to show such disdain? Act as if I would accept a man who saw his regard for me as a failing?”
Following the surgeon’s instructions, she mixed vinegar with cool water and soaked cloths to place on his wrists and neck—the pulse points where the cooling effect would be most beneficial.
As she worked, Darcy stirred, a low moan escaping his lips. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, and his brow furrowed in evident discomfort.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Her hands lingered on his skin. “I’m sorry.”
She checked the wound again, carefully removing the bandage. The area around the entry point was angry red. She poured brandy onto a clean cloth, wincing as Darcy flinched at the contact.
“Stay still,” she said. “I must do this. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
His delirious mumblings increased as his temperature rose. His breathing became shallow and erratic, and his pulse grew thready beneath her fingertips. Elizabeth watched in growing alarm as the man she had thought indestructible seemed to slip away before her eyes.
“Eliz… beth,” he muttered, tossing his head back and forth. “My fault…”
Elizabeth froze, straining to understand. “What is it? Darcy, what are you saying?”
His response dissolved into incoherent murmuring, but something in his tone made her chest tighten. Did he blame himself? Perhaps regretted his words and actions?
His fever was not abating, and Elizabeth remembered what her father mentioned, that severe fevers could be treated by cooling the entire body. The servants had left large basins of water. The compresses on his head weren’t enough.
