“It cannot wait,” he interrupted, then softened his tone. “Please.”
Something in his expression must have conveyed his urgency, for she nodded reluctantly. “Very well. I shall find Mr. Bingley and dispatch these letters.”
As Elizabeth departed, Darcy struggled to organize his thoughts. The fever was making concentration increasingly difficult. There was something he needed to do—something important—before the illness claimed him completely.
Elizabeth Bennet believed him. More importantly, he believed her. The weight of distrust between them since Hunsford had finally begun to crumble, revealing something unexpected beneath. Not love, perhaps—he dared not presume—but understanding. A foundation upon which something might be built, if only he could find the right words.
And therein lay the difficulty. Words had failed him repeatedly where Elizabeth Bennet was concerned. At Hunsford, they had been too proud, too cold, too revealing of his struggle rather than his heart. In his denial of the proposal, they had been too defensive, too calculating—a lie. Even this morning, they had been too blunt, too probing, nearly driving her from the room before he could make amends.
He could not trust himself to speak what needed saying, not when fever lurked to muddle his thoughts, not when their fragile peace remained so new.
The solution came to him in a memory: Georgiana, bent over a small leather-bound volume, carefully selecting blooms for a bouquet.“It’s a language, brother,”she had explained.“Each flower carries a message. This white violet means innocence, while the yellow one requests modesty.”
He had indulged her fascination as a harmless feminine pastime. Now, he wondered if it might serve where his eloquence had so often failed.
A light knock preceded Bingley into the room.
“Darcy! You’re awake. Miss Elizabeth has gone to take air with her sister. She was most reluctant to leave your side, but Miss Jane insisted.”
“She needed rest,” Darcy said, his voice rougher than he intended. “She has been too vigilant.”
“Indeed.” Bingley moved to pour water from the pitcher by the bed. “I’ve never seen such dedication. But then, Miss Elizabeth Bennet has always struck me as a woman of exceptional character.”
“Yes,” Darcy agreed. “She has.”
Bingley handed him the glass, his expression shifting to concern. “You seem improved from this morning, though still far too pale for my liking.”
“I have a favor to ask,” Darcy said, ignoring the observation. “I wonder if you might visit your greenhouse.”
“My greenhouse? Whatever for? Are you developing an interest in botany during your convalescence?”
“Not precisely.” Darcy’s cheeks heated in addition to the fever. “I wish to send a message to Miss Elizabeth. A message of… appreciation. For her care.”
Understanding dawned in Bingley’s eyes, followed swiftly by delight. “What a capital idea.”
“If it would not be too much trouble.”
“Trouble? My dear fellow, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Bingley was already backing toward the door. “Any particular blooms you favor? Mrs. Nichols has cultivated a remarkable selection for Netherfield, though I confess I know little of their names.”
Darcy hesitated. To specify precisely would reveal too much of his intent. “I leave it to your discretion—perhaps a rose or two.”
“Consider it done.” Bingley paused at the door. “I believe there is a book in the library about the meanings of such things. My sisters were quite taken with the notion when it became fashionable in town. Shall I bring that as well?”
“Yes,” Darcy said, relieved at not having to make the request himself. “That would be most helpful.”
After Bingley departed, Darcy sank back against the pillows, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. To send flowers was presumptuous—he had no proper understanding with Elizabeth, no established courtship.
And yet, he could not shake the feeling that this might be his last opportunity to express what lay in his heart. The fever had receded temporarily, but he was not fool enough to believe it was gone. Mr. Johnson had warned of worse to come before recovery could begin in earnest. If his condition deteriorated, he might lose the clarity needed to make his sentiments known.
He would not speak of love—that would be too forward, too reminiscent of his disastrous proposal at Hunsford. But he could speak of regret, of hope. He could offer, through the silent language of flowers, what his tongue had so often mangled.
Time crawled with excruciating slowness, the shadows growing longer. When the door finally opened, Bingley entered with arms laden with what appeared to be half the greenhouse’s contents. Behind him came Jane Bennet, carrying a small green leather volume.
“I may have been overenthusiastic,” Bingley admitted, depositing his fragrant burden on the bedside table. “Mrs. Nichols was quite bemused, though exceedingly helpful once I explained they were for a particular purpose.”
“You did not mention—” Darcy began, alarmed.
“That they were for Miss Elizabeth? Certainly not.” Bingley looked wounded at the suggestion. “I merely indicated that they were for a lady of particular esteem who had shown great kindness. Mrs. Nichols drew her conclusions, naturally, but I assure you, your secret remains safe.”
