“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said, extending the linen-wrapped package, “I believe you might wish to have this returned.”
Elizabeth accepted the parcel with trembling fingers, carefully unwrapping it to reveal the leather-bound volume on the language of flowers—the book Darcy had consulted when sending her his bouquet. Her breath caught as she opened it, discovering a pressed flower between the pages.
A pink rose. Delicate, perfectly preserved, its soft petals still holding a hint of their original blush.
“Oh,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she traced the flower with gentle fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I would have been sorry to lose this.”
“I understand it holds particular significance,” he replied. “Darcy was most insistent that you should have it, should anything happen to him.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply, her heart racing. “Mr. Darcy spoke of this?”
“He had noted your departure,” Bingley said. “He gave specific instructions about ensuring you received the book. He seemed to consider it important.”
The implications settled over Elizabeth like a warm cloak. Even facing the possibility of death, Darcy had thought of her. Had wanted her to have this tangible reminder of… what? The pink rose’s meaning echoed in her mind:understated beauty.
“Please convey our prayers for Mr. Darcy’s swift recovery,” Jane said softly, her eyes meeting Bingley’s with warmth. “And our gratitude for your kindness in bringing us news.”
Bingley’s expression softened as he looked at Jane. “I shall call again when there is more to report. You may depend upon it.”
As Bingley rose to take his leave, Elizabeth found her voice. “Mr. Bingley, would you—” She faltered, uncertain how to frame her request without impropriety. “Convey my gratitude, and I would keep any promises made?”
Bingley’s expression grew infinitely gentle. “I shall tell him, Miss Elizabeth. You may depend upon it.”
After Bingley departed, Mrs. Bennet’s curious gaze fixed on the book in Elizabeth’s hands. “What is it, dear? Something significant, I gather?”
“It’s a botanical reference, Mama, about medicinal plants and their properties.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And Mr. Darcy wanted to ensure you received it?”
Elizabeth felt heat creep up her neck, her fingers tightening around the book. “Yes, well… to further my education, of course, in nursing or perhaps even to aspire to a healer or physician.”
“A healer,” Mrs. Bennet repeated slowly, her tone losing its usual matrimonial excitement and taking on a more calculating quality. “How very practical it is for Mr. Darcy to consider your prospects. Such knowledge would provide a lady with independence, should other opportunities prove unavailable.”
The delicate way her mother phrased it made Elizabeth’s chest tighten. Even Mrs. Bennet was beginning to accept that her second daughter’s marriage prospects might be permanently damaged.
Perhaps that was the true meaning of Darcy’s insistence that she possessed the book: that no matter what station or positionElizabeth would find herself in, the pressed rose was proof that at least one person had seen something beautiful when the rest could see nothing but disgrace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LUCID RESOLVE
At first,Darcy couldn’t remember where he was. Pain was his only companion—sharp, insistent, throbbing, undeniable. The scent of medicinal herbs filled his nose, and something floral tugged at the edges of his memory.
He opened his eyes to find not the blue bedchamber he vaguely remembered, but Netherfield’s green guest room. The change in location disoriented him until movement at his bedside drew his attention.
“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana’s voice was tentative yet hopeful. “Are you truly awake this time?”
He turned his head—even that small motion sending daggers through his shoulder—to find his sister watching him. Dark shadows beneath them spoke of sleepless nights.
“Where’s Elizabeth?” His voice didn’t seem to work, coming out as a raspy whisper.
Georgiana’s expression grew careful. “She’s gone home. Your fever broke three days ago, and Aunt Catherine…” She hesitated, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. “Aunt Catherine felt it best that a professional nurse take over your care.”
Elizabeth was gone. The knowledge hit him like a second bullet, though he struggled to piece together why her absence felt like such a profound loss.
“How long?” He tried to focus on the window where sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. “How long have I been here?”
“Ten days since the duel,” Georgiana replied, reaching for a glass of water. “You’ve been unconscious or delirious for most of that time.”
