“Thank you for bringing this to me, Miss Bingley.”
“I confess I find myself quite curious,” Caroline continued, settling uninvited into a chair. “Mr. Collins has apparently been telling everyone who will listen that his wife never once left you unattended during your entire stay at Hunsford. Most peculiar, don’t you think?”
The implication hung in the air—Charlotte was providing false testimony about Elizabeth’s meetings with Darcy, presumably under pressure from Lady Catherine.
“My correspondence is private, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
“Of course,” Caroline agreed with false contrition. “How thoughtless of me to mention it. Charles asked me to inquire after your health, Mr. Darcy, and to see if you felt strong enough for a brief visit.”
“I am well enough,” Darcy said carefully, “though Miss Bennet and I were in the middle of?—”
“Excellent,” Caroline interrupted. “I shall fetch Charles immediately. Miss Eliza, I’m sure you’ll want to read your letter in private. We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from such urgent correspondence.”
Elizabeth recognized the dismissal for what it was. The brief interlude of companionship with Darcy was clearly at an end.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, rising. “I shall return later to change your bandages, Mr. Darcy.”
His eyes met hers briefly. “Thank you for the books, Miss Bennet. They will provide a welcome diversion.”
As she moved toward the door, Caroline called after her, “Do let us know if Mrs. Collins’ letter contains any news of general interest, Miss Eliza. We are all so concerned about this unfortunate situation.”
Elizabeth didn’t trust herself to respond. She merely inclined her head and slipped from the room, a single thought echoing:Laughter with him is dangerously easy.
She opened Charlotte’s letter as soon as she reached her bedchamber. A line jumped out at her.
“Mr. Wickham has been spotted in Kent, not three miles from Rosings Park.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MATTERS OF TRUST
That first moment of wakefulness,the realization that one is no longer dreaming, always sprang Darcy to action. Pain, instead, greeted him, sharp and slicing through his shoulder. He opened his eyes, blinking at the light of another day. How many days had passed since the duel? Where would Georgiana be? He needed news from Colonel Fitzwilliam, her other guardian.
The fever drained him, but he had a responsibility. To write his sister so she knew he was alive. To ensure her safety. And others required his attention: his steward at Pemberley, his solicitor in London, even his aunt at Rosings, though that particular correspondence held little appeal.
The door opened with a soft click, admitting a gentle breeze and Elizabeth. She entered carrying a small tray. Her smile was a welcome sight, despite what must have been a restless night tending to his fever.
“Good morning, Darcy,” She set down the tray and drew back the curtains. Sunlight spilled across the room, catching auburn highlights in her hair. “I’ve brought tea, though Mr. Johnson suggests you might try some broth as well.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said, surprised by how her presence brightened the chamber. “Though I find myself with little appetite.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to his forehead, her touch cool and welcome. “Your fever is rising again,” she observed, her smile fading to concern. “I had hoped yesterday’s improvement would continue.”
“As did I.” He watched as she poured tea into a delicate china cup. “Miss Bennet, there is a matter I must address while I remain… coherent.”
“Your correspondence,” she said. “Mr. Bingley mentioned you were concerned about contacting your family.”
Darcy nodded, accepting the cup she offered. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and he found himself unreasonably aware of the brief contact. “My sister will be distraught. I should have written days ago.”
“Mr. Bingley took the liberty of sending an express to your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, immediately after the duel,” Elizabeth informed him, moving to prepare fresh bandages. “He received a reply yesterday stating that the Colonel would collect your sister from Pemberley and bring her to Netherfield.”
Relief washed through Darcy. “When might they arrive?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps the day after.” Elizabeth approached with a basin and cloths. “Now, let me check your wound before we concern ourselves with letters.”
She set about changing his bandages with gentle efficiency, though Darcy could not help noticing the way she bit her lower lip in concentration—a habit he had observed when she had tended Jane. The familiar gesture struck him with unexpected poignancy.
“This looks angrier than yesterday.” Her brows furrowed as he winced. “And hot to the touch.”
