The afternoon waned into evening, bringing no improvement in Darcy’s condition. If anything, his fever seemed to intensify, his skin hot beneath Elizabeth’s touch despite the cool compresses. Dr. Harrison had not returned, presumably still attending to his many patients in the village.
Lady Eleanor visited briefly, bringing food that Elizabeth barely touched and reports that William had been put to bed without incident.
“You should rest,” she advised, noting Elizabeth’s evident fatigue. “I can sit with him while you sleep for a few hours.”
“I’m quite well,” Elizabeth insisted. “And I would prefer to maintain consistency in his care.”
Lady Eleanor studied her with knowing eyes. “Has there been any change?”
“He spoke briefly,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I cannot determine whether it was memory or merely delirium.”
“What did he say?”
Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. “He… mentioned the Red Lion. And returning to me.”
Lady Eleanor’s expression softened. “That seems significant.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed cautiously. “Or perhaps merely coincidental.”
After Lady Eleanor departed, Elizabeth settled in for what promised to be a long night. The room had grown chilly as darkness fell, but Darcy’s fever made additional blankets inadvisable. She added another log to the small fire, creating just enough warmth to prevent discomfort without overheating the patient.
“You have the most inconvenient timing,” she informed Darcy as she replaced the compress on his forehead. “Could you not have fallen ill when I was still angry with you? It would make maintaining emotional distance considerably easier.”
As if in response, Darcy began to stir once more, his movements more agitated than before. His breathing quickened, and a look of distress crossed his features.
“No,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Stop. The documents…”
Elizabeth leaned closer, her clinical detachment temporarily forgotten in her desire to understand his fragmented speech.
“What documents?” she asked softly. “Fitzwilliam, what are you trying to say?”
“Marriage… the license…” His head thrashed from side to side, dislodging the compress. “He took them. He took everything.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. The marriage license. The document that had disappeared along with Darcy on that fateful morning. He was remembering.
“Who took them?” she urged, unable to contain her desperation for answers. “Fitzwilliam, who took our marriage license?”
Darcy’s eyes flew open, but they were unfocused, seeing something—or someone—that wasn’t in the room with them. His expression contorted with a mixture of rage and fear that Elizabeth had never witnessed on his features before.
“Wickham,” he spat, the name emerging with such venom that Elizabeth recoiled slightly. “Trap… on the road… Wickham.”
The pieces crashed together in Elizabeth’s mind with sickening clarity—Wickham’s sudden appearance at the inn, his insistence that Darcy had sent him, his obvious lies about taking her to London for “rest.” He had been there when Darcy was attacked. He had stolen their marriage documents, leaving her with no proof of their union. Her fingers clenched into fists as rage joined her fear.
George Wickham. The militia officer who had attempted to lure her from the Red Lion, who had claimed Darcy sent him to escort her to London. The man Darcy had once described as the son of his father’s steward. Wickham had blamed Darcy for denying him a living. But Darcy had clearly distrusted the man. Why?
“He attacked you,” Elizabeth breathed, the pieces finally falling into place. “Wickham attacked youon the road.”
Before Darcy could respond, his body suddenly went rigid. His back arched off the bed, his limbs stiffening as his eyes rolled back. Horror washed over Elizabeth as she realized what was happening—the seizure Dr. Harrison had warned them about.
Years of practical nursing experience took over, pushing aside her personal feelings. She quickly turned Darcy onto his side, ensuring his airway remained clear, and removed anything that might injure him during the convulsions that had now begun to wrack his body. She wedged a comb between his teeth and held his arms, to keep him from hurting himself.
“It’s all right,” she said steadily, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
The seizure lasted less than a minute, though to Elizabeth it seemed an eternity. When Darcy’s body finally relaxed, she checked his breathing and pulse with trembling hands, relieved to find both had stabilized. His eyes remained closed, his expression now peaceful, as if the violent episode had somehow relieved some of his inner turmoil.
Elizabeth sank back into her chair, suddenly aware of her own racing heart and shallow breathing. Fear had gripped her more powerfully than she cared to admit. For all her practical knowledge, for all her determined composure, the sight of Darcy’s powerful body rendered so helpless had shaken her to her core.
Exhaustion crashed over her like a spilled sack of grain. Her hands shook as she reached for the water basin, her legs unsteady beneath her. She had been functioning on determination and fear for hours, but now her body demanded acknowledgment of its limits.
