“Mr. Darcy has weathered the night well. The immediate danger has passed, but his recovery is far from complete.”
“Then he will recover?” Bingley asked hopefully.
“With continued vigilance, yes,” the surgeon replied. “Though I must emphasize that several days of attentive care still lie ahead before we can be certain.”
“And his strength?” Elizabeth asked, unable to contain her concern.
“Considerably depleted, but Mr. Darcy possesses a robust constitution. I have every confidence in his recovery—provided his care remains consistent.”
“That is excellent news,” Caroline declared. “Perhaps now Miss Eliza can return to Longbourn, and we can engage a proper nurse for dear Mr. Darcy.”
The surgeon frowned slightly. “I would not recommend changing his care at this juncture. Miss Bennet has demonstrated admirable skill during the critical hours.” Turning to Elizabeth, he added, “Mr. Darcy has specifically asked to speak with you.”
Elizabeth rose smoothly from the table, casting a brief glance at Caroline, whose lips had thinned to near invisibility.
“I shall attend to him directly,” she said. “Jane, will you be returning to Longbourn soon?”
“I must, but I shall visit again tomorrow if I may, Mr. Bingley?”
“You are always welcome at Netherfield,” Bingley assured her warmly. “At any time.”
Elizabeth embraced her sister before she departed. “Give my love to everyone at Longbourn,” she said. “And tell Mama that Mr. Darcy’s condition is improving, but not to expect any unusual developments.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A MATTER OF TRUST
Darcy grimacedat the constant pain while his valet shaved him. His head still pounded from the feverish night while his heart recited Elizabeth’s words, both soothing and regretful. Mr. Johnson had examined him and assured him that the wound was healing well, but such medical optimism did little to dull the relentless burning sensation that had become his world since Wickham’s bullet found its mark.
Once his valet had finished grooming, Darcy shifted against the pillows, seeking a position that might offer relief. There was none to be found. The laudanum had worn off hours ago, leaving his mind clear but his body in rebellion.
He refused to wince. He had endured worse at Wickham’s hands—the near destruction of Georgiana’s reputation, years of financial demands, and now this bullet. The physical pain was almost welcome compared to the helplessness he had felt watching his sister’s heartbreak.
The knock at his chamber door was light but distinct. “Enter.”
Mr. Johnson appeared first, his expression professionally neutral. Behind him stood Elizabeth Bennet, and Darcy found himself momentarily robbed of speech.
Their last encounter—waking to find her asleep against his chest, her hand curled beside her face—had left him unsettled. The memory of her warmth against him returned unbidden, along with the powerful urge he had felt to draw her closer and the immediate panic of impropriety that had followed.
Now she stood perfectly composed, her hair neatly arranged, her pale blue gown simple but immaculate. The morning light caught the rich chestnut tones in her curls, illuminating the color in a way that had always fascinated him. Even exhausted from her night’s vigil, she possessed that singular vitality that had first drawn his notice when she’d tended her sister’s illness at Netherfield. Elizabeth Bennet possessed a brightness that emanated from within, making everyone else in the room appear dimmer.
Her gaze met his briefly before settling somewhere near the foot of his bed, a deliberate distance that spoke volumes.
“Mr. Darcy,” the surgeon said, “I am pleased with your progress. The fever has broken, though you are not entirely out of danger. Miss Bennet’s care has proven most beneficial.”
“I am grateful for Miss Bennet’s assistance,” Darcy replied, the formal words falling far short of the complex emotions her presence stirred.
“Mr. Bingley has offered to engage a professional nurse,” Mr. Johnson continued, “if you prefer. Miss Bennet has indicated she would abide by your wishes in this matter.”
Darcy studied Elizabeth’s face, searching for some hint of her preference. Her expression revealed nothing—neither eagerness to depart nor desire to remain. She seemed to be awaiting a sentence, her fingers tightening across the back of a chair.
It was most vexing.
“Mr. Johnson, we shall give Mr. Bingley an answer.” Darcy decided. “Please thank him for his consideration.”
The surgeon nodded and departed, leaving them alone.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy began carefully, “I would not wish to impose upon you further. You have already sacrificed much on my behalf.”
