“Enter,” he called.
Elizabeth stepped into the room, her hair freshly pinned. She was wearing a simple dress of soft blue that brought out the richness of her eyes. She looked rested, though the shadows beneath her eyes had not faded. The sight of her—composed, beautiful in her unassuming way—made his breath catch.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, crossing to his bedside. “You look better. Has the fever broken?”
“Temporarily, I think,” he replied. “But I find myself clearer of mind than I have been in days.”
“Excellent news.” Her smile was genuine. “Mr. Johnson will be pleased.”
Her gaze had not yet fallen on the flowers, and Darcy felt a moment of panic. What if she thought them presumptuous? What if she did not understand his intent?
“I took the liberty,” he said before he could lose his nerve, “of having flowers brought from Bingley’s greenhouse. As a token of my appreciation for your care.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened as she turned to the arrangement. “Oh!” The soft exclamation contained surprise and something else—pleasure, he hoped. “They’re beautiful.”
“Your sister assisted in their selection,” he added, not wishing to take credit for Jane’s discernment. “And provided this book, which explains their significance.”
Elizabeth picked up the volume, a smile playing on her lips. “The Thoughtful Gardener’s Companion. I know it well. My aunt Gardiner gave me a copy for my sixteenth birthday.”
“Then you understand what they are meant to convey.”
She looked from the book to the flowers, her expression softening as she recognized the blooms. “Purple hyacinth,” she said quietly, “white tulip, forget-me-not…”
Her fingers brushed the petals of the pink rose. “This is particularly lovely.”
“Your sister’s choice. She seemed to think it… appropriate.”
Elizabeth’s eyes met his, something unreadable in their depths. “Jane has always been perceptive.”
A silence fell between them, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken sentiment. Darcy found himself wishing for the eloquence that always seemed to desert him in her presence.
“I am not skilled with words,” he said at last. “Not when they matter most. I thought perhaps these might speak more clearly than I have managed.”
“They speak very clearly indeed,” Elizabeth replied, her voice soft. She touched the purple hyacinth gently. “This, especially.”
“I meant it,” Darcy said, holding her gaze. “My behavior has been… less than gentlemanly in many respects.”
“As has mine been less than ladylike,” she countered, with a hint of her usual spirit. “I believe we established this morning that there is blame enough for both.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But the consequences have fallen more heavily upon you, and for that, I am truly sorry.”
Elizabeth looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing his sincerity. “I accept your apology, Mr. Darcy. And I thank you for the flowers. They are a most thoughtful gesture.”
The simple acceptance eased something in his chest that had been tight for weeks. It was not full forgiveness, perhaps, but a step toward it—a beginning.
“You should rest,” he said, noting the lingering tiredness in her eyes despite her refreshed appearance. “I am much improved, and you have been most vigilant.”
“I am perfectly well,” she protested, though he saw how she stifled a yawn.
“I insist,” Darcy said firmly. “I would not have your health suffer on my account. I shall manage quite well for a few hours.”
“Are you dismissing your nurse, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am requesting that she care for herself as diligently as she has for her patient,” he corrected.
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “Very well. I shall retire for a short while. But I will return before dinner to check your fever.”
“I shall look forward to it,” he said, the words more revealing than he had intended.
