“Pray, do not concern yourself. I perfectly understand.”
She smiled lightly. “I have no idea what you just said, but here—” She came forward, holding out the pen. “I mended it for you. It seems only fair that you should have equal opportunity to express your displeasure.”
He accepted it, as well as the paper she then passed him, then dipped the pen in the watered-down ink she held out for him.
No apology is necessary.
He held it up and smirked when she rolled her eyes at it, for he was so rarely gainsaid in the normal course of things that it made the challenge of convincing her of his sincerity all the more appealing.
It would be entirely forgivable were you scandalised or inconsolable, yet you have been nothing but attentive. Your courage and dignity amaze me.
He passed her the note and watched her read it. She did not roll her eyes again, though it was not a complete victory for her reply made it clear she still was not persuaded.
“I am beginning to think youareteasing me.”
“How so?”
“One moment you are in high dudgeon, the next you are saying something astonishingly generous. I have not the slightest idea what to expect from you from one moment to the next.”
I apologise if I have seemed angry. I am?—
He sought for a polite way to explain that unceasing pain and hunger, fear for his recovery, concern for her safety, and the constant battle against his impermissible feelings towards her were somewhat affecting his ability to be civil.
—not feeling myself.
It only made her laugh. “You are more yourself when you are angry than when you are not! It is all this forbearance and generosity that is puzzling me.”
He frowned, unsure of her meaning.
“That is more like it,” she said with a grin. “I know where I am when you are scowling in that fashion.”
Was it her design to vex him into an ill humour simply to prove her point, or was this her real opinion?
You think me an ill-tempered man?
“Mr Darcy, evenyouthink you are an ill-tempered man. You told me as much that evening at Netherfield when we were discussing the evils of each other’s characters.”
He extended a finger in objection, then wrote,
Nay, I said my temper might be considered resentful.
“Oh. And yours is a cheerful sort of resentment is it?” she asked saucily.
He opened his mouth to protest and was exasperated to find that it widened into a smile instead. He could not resist it when she engaged him in this manner. He renewed the ink and his challenge with it.
Perhaps not, but though deep, intricate characters may be no more estimable than those composed of few sentiments, I hope there is more to me than resentment alone.
“Yes, I am beginning to see that,” she replied pensively, satisfying him that she had recognised the words as those she had said to him at Netherfield. After a brief pause, she smiled wryly and added, “I meant to apologise, not insult you again. You bring out the worst in me, sir.”
The admission set off a minor explosion beneath Darcy’s breastbone.
No offence taken, I assure you.
“Then I had better leave before I cause any.” She knelt and slid the chamber pot out from under the bed, saying nothing explicit to mortify them both as she held her hands out to help him sit up further—only, “I shall be gone for at least half an hour.”
Darcy was inexpressibly grateful for her discretion and for sending up the young boy, John, to remove the spoils before she returned. He was pleased, also, that by then, he had regained some measure of equanimity after the simple task of remaining upright long enough to relieve himself proved so excruciating he could have wept.
Pleasure turned to palpable delight when Elizabeth arrived bearing a fresh serving of broth. He attempted to make less of a spectacle of himself eating this time and managed almost enough to allay his insufferable hunger before discomfort forced him to desist.
