“Mr. Johnson assured me some inflammation is to be expected.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t care for this particular shade of red.” She cleansed the wound gently, although every dab felt like a stabbing. “I shall make a note of it for the surgeon’s next visit.”
Darcy gritted her teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead, while Elizabeth diligently documented his condition in a leather-bound notebook.
“You slept poorly,” he observed, noting the shadows beneath her eyes despite her cheerful demeanor.
“As did you. The fever returned quite forcefully around midnight.”
“I apologize for disturbing your rest.”
“There is no need,” she replied, resuming her ministrations. “It is precisely why I am here.”
A silence fell between them as she finished dressing his wound. Darcy tried to stay still, not wanting to express the pain, so he studied the curve of her neck as she bent over her task, the way a strand of hair had escaped its pins to curl against her cheek, and her long, lush eyelashes and how they framed those striking eyes of hers.
“There,” Elizabeth said, securing the bandage. “That should hold until this evening.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated, then added, “Miss Bennet, about my correspondence…”
“Yes?” She moved to wash her hands in the basin, but glanced back at him over her shoulder, her expression warmer than it had been in days past.
“I find myself unable to write,” he said, gesturing to his immobilized right arm. “My left-handed script would be illegible at best.”
Elizabeth turned to face him, drying her hands on a small towel. “Would you like me to ask Mr. Bingley to assist you?Or perhaps…” She hesitated, but continued with a small smile. “After our literary endeavors yesterday, you might trust me with the task?”
“Actually,” Darcy began, then faltered. To ask Elizabeth to write private letters that he dictated would require a level of trust he was not entirely sure he should extend. Not when questions about her relationship with Wickham remained unanswered.
Elizabeth seemed to sense his hesitation. “Mr. Darcy, if you wish me to assist with your correspondence, you need only ask. If you would prefer another arrangement, I shall not be offended.”
Her directness, offered without pressure, eased something in his chest. “I would be grateful for your assistance, though I hesitate to add to your duties.”
“It is no burden,” she assured him, moving to the writing desk. “Shall we begin with a letter to your sister? I imagine that is your greatest concern.”
Darcy studied her as she arranged paper and ink, her movements graceful despite her fatigue. This was not the same woman who had rejected him so decisively at Hunsford—or rather, it was, but circumstances had revealed facets of her character he had not fully appreciated before. Her composure in crisis, her steadfast care despite their complicated history, her willingness to set aside personal feelings to attend to practical necessities—all spoke to a strength of character he had glimpsed but never fully acknowledged.
Yet there remained the matter of Wickham’s accusations. The thought of her carrying a child was absurd—Elizabeth Bennet was not the sort of woman to engage in such improprieties. But Wickham had spoken with such conviction that Darcy could not entirely dismiss the possibility without addressing it directly.
He needed to know the truth before entrusting her with his family’s private affairs. Yet how to broach such a delicate subject without causing offense?
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth prompted, pen poised over the paper. “Shall we begin?”
“Before we commence, there is a matter I feel must be addressed.”
Elizabeth set down the pen. “Yes?”
Darcy chose his words with extreme care. “During the duel, Wickham made certain… claims that have troubled me.”
A flicker of understanding crossed her features, followed by her posture stiffening. “I see.”
“I do not wish to cause you discomfort, but I find myself unable to proceed without some clarification.”
Elizabeth rose from the desk and moved to stand near the window, her profile illuminated by the morning light. She gazed out at the gardens below, her expression pensive.
“You are concerned about the nature of my acquaintance with Lieutenant Wickham.”
“Yes,” he admitted, relieved that she had spared him from being more explicit.
“Mr. Darcy.” Her hands were clasped so tightly that her knuckles had whitened. “You believe I could be party to such a scheme?” The question was soft, almost wondering in its disbelief.
