“Thank you,” Elizabeth said simply.
Once the necessary supplies had been arranged and instructions given to the servants, Elizabeth found herself alone with Darcy for the first time since their corridor conversation the previous night. The irony of their situation struck her anew—after weeks of his careful avoidance, they were now confined together in the most intimate of settings, though he remained oblivious to her presence.
She moved quietly about the room, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, hyperaware of every sound—the soft whistle of his labored breathing, the occasional creak of the bed frame as he shifted restlessly, the distant tick of the mantel clock marking each slow minute.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, wringing out a cloth in cool water, “it seems you have contrived to place yourself entirely at my mercy. I wonder what you would make of that, were you conscious to appreciate it.”
She placed the compress gently on his forehead, allowing herself a moment to study his face without the self-consciousness that accompanied his usual penetrating gaze. Even in illness, his features retained their handsome regularity, though now softened by vulnerability in a way she had only previously observed in sleep.
That night at the Red Lion, she had watched him sleep briefly before dawn, marveling at how the proud, reserved gentleman had transformed in slumber to something gentler and more approachable. This same transformation was evident now, though marred by the flush of fever and the slight furrow between his brows that suggested discomfort even in unconsciousness.
“You are making quite a habit of upending my existence,” she informed him conversationally as she prepared another compress for his neck. “First by marrying me in a coaching inn, then by forgetting said marriage entirely, and now by falling ill just when I had resolved to maintain a dignified distance from your disdain.”
Darcy made no response, of course, but Elizabeth found a certain comfort in speaking to him as if he could hear. It helped maintain theclinical distance necessary for effective nursing while providing an outlet for the emotions she could not entirely suppress.
The morning passed slowly as she maintained her vigil. Occasionally Darcy would stir, muttering incoherently before subsiding back into fevered sleep. Each time, Elizabeth would attempt to rouse him enough to swallow small sips of water or willow bark tea, with limited success.
“You are proving a most uncooperative patient,” she observed after a particularly unsuccessful attempt to administer the bitter tea. “Though I cannot fault your taste in rejecting this particular remedy. It is vile stuff.”
Around midday, Mary arrived to check on her progress and provide a brief respite. “You should eat something,” she advised, eyeing Elizabeth’s pale face with sisterly concern. “Martyrdom through self-neglect serves no practical purpose.”
“How prosaic you are,” Elizabeth replied with a small smile. “And here I had romantic notions of wasting away at the sickbed, the very picture of devoted sacrifice.”
Mary’s expression remained serious. “Your humor masks genuine concern,” she observed. “You still care for him, despite everything.”
Elizabeth sighed, her smile fading. “I made vows, Mary. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. The fact that he does not remember them does not release me from their obligation.”
“Obligation is not the same as love,” Mary pointed out with uncharacteristic insight.
“No. It is not.”
She did not elaborate further, and Mary, despite her occasional social obliviousness, seemed to understand that the subject was closed. They spoke instead of William, who was apparently delighting Georgiana with his attempts to build increasingly elaborate structures with his wooden blocks.
“She is remarkably patient with him,” Mary reported. “Though Isuspect her indulgence will result in disappointment when his architectural ambitions inevitably collapse.”
After Mary departed, Elizabeth resumed her nursing duties with renewed focus. Darcy’s fever remained high despite her efforts with the compresses, and his periods of restlessness increased as the afternoon progressed. He would toss his head from side to side, murmuring words she could not quite catch, his expression distressed.
During one such episode, as Elizabeth bathed his face with cool water, his eyes suddenly opened. For a moment, he seemed to look directly at her with perfect clarity.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice hoarse but distinct. “You’re here.”
Her heart leapt painfully in her chest. “Yes,” she replied softly. “I’m here.”
“I tried to return,” he continued, his gaze intense. “I promised I would return to you.”
Elizabeth felt her carefully maintained composure begin to crack. “I know you did.”
Her vision blurred with sudden tears as her hands stilled on the damp cloth. The Red Lion—he remembered the inn where they had been married, where he had promised to return to her. Her pulse hammered in her throat as hope and disbelief warred in her chest.
“The Red Lion,” he murmured. “I must get back to the Red Lion.”
Before she could respond, his eyes glazed over once more, and he slipped back into unconsciousness, leaving Elizabeth trembling with the implications of his words. Had he remembered? Was this merely delirium, or had the fever somehow loosened whatever blockage kept his memories of their marriage at bay?
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, allowing herself the intimacy of his given name for the first time since his return. “Can you hear me? Do you remember our marriage?”
There was no response, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the fine linen of his nightshirt. Elizabeth sat back,forcing herself to temper hope with caution. Fever-induced delirium often produced strange utterances that meant nothing upon recovery.
Yet he had spoken of the Red Lion. Of returning to her.
