Ten days. More than a week lost to fever and pain, to half-remembered nightmares and disjointed images that might be memory or dream.
Georgiana helped him drink, supporting his head with gentle hands. The water tasted sweeter than the finest wine, and fragments began surfacing: Elizabeth’s cool touch on his burning skin; her voice reading poetry; the devastating softness of her lips against his…
The memory jolted through him with startling clarity. He had kissed Elizabeth Bennet. In his fevered delirium, he had pulled her close and kissed her as if she were already his wife.
“Is Elizabeth well? Why is she gone?” His voice was steadier, but weighted with dread.
“Aunt Catherine hired a nurse along with Mrs. Porter.” Georgiana averted her gaze. “Miss Elizabeth is home with her family.”
“Did I…” he hesitated as disturbing recollections flooded his memory: his voice calling her his wife; speaking of Pemberley as if it were half hers; begging her not to leave as she was ushered from the room.
Mortification washed over him. What else had he said in his delirium? How much had others heard?
“Georgiana,” he began again, “during my fever, I fear I may have spoken… improperly.”
His sister’s cheeks turned red. “You were quite ill, brother. No one would hold you accountable for words spoken in delirium.”
“Nevertheless,” he persisted, “I would know what I said. Particularly regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Georgiana fidgeted with her handkerchief. “You… spoke of her often. Called for her. When Lady Catherine arrived and dismissed her from nursing duties, you became quite agitated.”
So it was, as he feared. His fevered ravings further compromised Elizabeth, adding to the scandal she already carried because of him.
“Did she leave because of my inappropriate… behavior?”
“Aunt Catherine took charge of your care,” Georgiana hesitated, then added softly, “She did not wish to go, Fitzwilliam. Mr. Bingley says she was most distressed at being separated from you.”
“Then she wishes to see me still?” he asked. “Ask her to come now that I’m better.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened, and she swallowed, glancing at the open door where Aunt Catherine and a sturdy silver-haired woman carrying a medical bag strolled in.
“Fitzwilliam!” His aunt’s usually commanding voice held a note he had rarely heard—genuine relief. “You gave us quite a fright, Nephew. I had begun to fear we might lose you despite our best efforts.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Darcy said dryly, wincing as a woman, presumably Mrs. Porter, probed the edges of his wound.
“The infection is receding nicely,” she announced. “Another week of poultices should see it healed enough to begin gentle movement.”
“A week?” Darcy frowned. “I cannot remain abed so long. There are matters requiring my immediate attention.”
“Matters that can wait until you are stronger,” Lady Catherine declared. “Your only concern now is recovery.”
Mrs. Porter gathered her supplies. “I’ll return this evening to change the dressing. In the meantime, he can have broth and weak tea only. His stomach will need time to adjust.”
After she departed, Lady Catherine leaned closer, her expression stern. “Now that you are lucid, Fitzwilliam, we must discuss this unfortunate situation.”
“Which situation would that be, Aunt?”
“This scandal with the Bennet girl. The rumors, the duel, your fevered claims of marriage.” Lady Catherine waved a dismissive hand. “All of it must be addressed before you return to society.”
Here, then, was the confrontation he had anticipated. “Indeed, it must, Aunt. We must start with the truth. I did propose marriage to Miss Elizabeth Bennet at Hunsford, and she refused me.”
A heavy silence fell. Georgiana had retreated to the window, her back rigid with tension.
“You admit to proposing to that impertinent country nobody? After all your education, your breeding, your duty to your family name?”
“I proposed to a woman of intelligence, strength, and integrity,” Darcy replied steadily, though the effort of defying his aunt while barely conscious left him breathless. “That she refused me speaks to her character, not her deficiency.”
Lady Catherine rose abruptly, pacing the room with agitated steps. “This is madness, Fitzwilliam. You were not in your right mind then, just as you were not during your fever.”
