The desperate hope in his voice made her heart race.
“Yes,” she promised, the lie feeling strangely like truth on her lips. “I will come back.”
His expression relaxed at her words, his eyes drifting closed once more.
A knock at the door announced Jane’s return. She entered bearing a tray with fresh bandages, spirits of wine, and a steaming cup that Elizabeth presumed to be the willow bark tea.
“How is he?” Jane asked, setting the tray on the bedside table.
“Delirious,” Elizabeth replied, gently disentangling her hand from Darcy’s. “He seems to believe we are at Pemberley.”
Jane’s brow creased with concern. “Mr. Johnson has been summoned. This fever is most alarming.”
Elizabeth checked the notes in the leather-bound journal. “He’s delirious, but it could also be from the laudanum. Charles gave him several drops.”
“At least he’s not in pain then.” Jane looked at the bandages. “Perhaps we should change them now when he’s not thrashing about.”
The wound beneath the bandage was angry and inflamed, the flesh around it an alarming shade of red. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath at the sight, her heart sinking. This was worse than she had anticipated.
“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane whispered, clearly sharing her dismay.
“We must clean it thoroughly,” Elizabeth said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And pray the infection does not spread further.”
Working together, the sisters cleaned the wound with spirits of wine, applied fresh salve, and rebandaged Darcy’s shoulder. Throughout the procedure, he drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally murmuring Elizabeth’s name or fragments of sentences that made little sense.
“Can’t let Wickham…” he gasped. “Not Georgiana.”
Understanding dawned. Whatever Wickham had done involved Darcy’s beloved sister. No wonder he couldn’t trust the man.
“Georgiana is safe with your cousin,” Elizabeth assured him. “Colonel Forster has been notified.”
“But Lizzy, you must beware. He hates to be thwarted.”
“I won’t let him get to me or your sister,” she assured him, smoothing his brow with her fingers. “Mr. Darcy, you must fight this fever. Your sister is arriving, and she will expect to find you recovering.”
Bingley peeked into the sickroom. “Miss Elizabeth, how does he fare?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” she replied, drawing him aside. “His fever has risen significantly, and the wound shows signs of infection.”
Bingley’s face fell. “I had hoped… that is, he seemed so much improved yesterday.”
“He’s worried about Wickham.” Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances. “Have you heard anything from Colonel Forster?”
“I’m afraid not,” Bingley replied. “Although express letters were sent to Lady Catherine to inform her of the duel and Charlotte’s warning. I hardly believe the scoundrel would dare show his face in all of Hertfordshire.”
“Never underestimate a dishonorable man,” Elizabeth warned. “Have you warned the entire neighborhood?”
“News traveled far and wide that Wickham cheated. Shot before the handkerchief touched the ground.” Bingley looked back into the sickroom where Jane sat with a teacup held to Darcy’s lips.
“Lizzy…” Darcy groaned, moving his head with restlessness. His left hand gripped the sheets tightly.
“He only wants you,” Jane said, handing the teacup to Elizabeth. “He’s afraid of you being taken away.”
Elizabeth hurried to the bedside, taking his flexing hand. “Mr. Johnson is on his way. Your friend, Bingley, is here.”
His fingers closed around hers with surprising strength. “You must not leave again. Time grows short.”
“You are not dying, Mr. Darcy. It is only a fever, and it will pass.”
