Elizabeth, leaning forward to read his scribblings, sat back and began her objections before he finished writing. “Master John insists that if the lower road is blocked, then the high road beyond the rise will be worse. And I know the lower road is blocked, because I tried to get through this morning and could not.”
Darcy whipped his head up to look at her so quickly that stabbing pain ricocheted along his neck. He gritted his teeth against it and stared in disbelief at Elizabeth until his pain subsided sufficiently that he could unclench his jaw and mouth furiously, “That is where you went this morning?”
Elizabeth’s fleeting look of surprise morphed instantly into her more usual defiance. “Aye, sir, it was.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I am aware you think walking alone is terribly unfashionable, but as we have already established, I am scarcely overrun with individuals who might have accompanied me.”
Darcy shoved the pen into the inkwell—too hard, for the end of the nib cracked.
To hell with fashion! What if you had come to harm?
He cast her a fierce glance at the end of each sentence for emphasis.
You know neither the way nor the lay of the land beneath the snow.
When so much watery ink had run from the broken nib as covered most of what he had written, he abandoned it and mouthed the words instead. “Damn it, Elizabeth, what if you had taken a fall?”
Elizabeth remained still for longer than it usually took her to read his lips. He knew not what emotion held her thus, but her silence made the rasp of his quickened breathing seem stentorian by comparison. With a concerted effort to compose himself, he mouthed in a more controlled manner, “Why did you attempt it?”
She looked away and frowned, twisting her mouth curiously as though mulling something over. When she answered, it was said to the far side of the room.
“I wished to post the letters I have written to my father and uncle begging for their assistance. I made it quite far—far enough that my hopes were raised. But I could not even see where the road was, once I got beyond the rise, and by then I was cold and muddy.” She gave a sardonic little huff of laughter and returned her gaze to his. “Mud has never troubled me, as I am assured you know, but I detest being cold.”
She had written,beggingfor assistance. Her distress settled as a tangible weight upon Darcy’s shoulders. For all her courage, she was miles from her family with neither possession nor protection—ostensibly alone, for he was of no use to her. She had witnessed one man die and another get as close to it as be damned, and she wished to go home. And he could not comfort her in any meaningful way.
He turned the ink-stained sheet of paper over and scratched out a plea of his own on the reverse.
I beg you would not attempt it again—if only for my peace of mind. We are strangers here. There is no guarantee you would be safe. Let one of the men deliver your letters.
She finished reading at the same moment he finished writing, and they raised their eyes to each other’s in unison. He was vastly relieved when she gave a reluctant nod. He smiled his appreciation and returned pen to paper—though the words danced disconcertingly on the page before his eyes.
I shall write to my cousin when the snow begins tomelt. He is in the army. He will send men to clear the ro?—
The cracked nib of the pen gave way beneath his leaden grip and scudded across the bed.
“Where is Miss Bingley when she is needed?” Elizabeth said lightly, taking the pen from his hand. “She will kick herself when she learns that you genuinely required her services.”
A smile crept across Darcy’s lips to lift the heavy corners of his mouth. He well recalled Elizabeth hiding her smile behind her book while Caroline Bingley fluttered around him one evening at Netherfield making overtures about his sister and offering to mend his pen.
“She is not as awful as you believe,” he attempted to mouth, though his lips did not form the words well. His throat had begun to throb—a new and worrying development.
“I do not recall ever expressing such an opinion, Mr Darcy.”
The mischief in Elizabeth’s expression produced a palpable flurry in his gut. “No need. I know well enough when you despise someone.”
She watched him say it, and when she had deciphered his meaning, her look of amusement intensified. “Indeed?”
He nodded, too sleepy to remember not to do so, and the pain it incurred was sickening. The room swung around him, and he grabbed at the bedclothes to prevent himself sliding to the floor. When the spinning slowed to a halt, he blinked his eyes open to discover Elizabeth standing over him with an expression of unalloyed compassion. It was a look he had jealously watched her direct at her friends and family back in Hertfordshire, one he had coveted for a very long time.
“You ought to sleep now, Mr Darcy.”
“I am well,” he insisted mutely. He did not wish to sleep. He wished to talk more to her, to make her smile again, to ease her mind, if he could.
“You arenotwell, sir. You can barely hold a pen. You must rest.”
To his surprise, she stepped forward and tugged and smoothed the blanket to better cover him. It was such a comforting gesture it quite disarmed him and without meaning to, he found himself divulging something of his unease. “I ought to be improving by now.”
