He scowled furiously at the paper until he won the struggle to steady his belaboured breathing. Then he took the pen back.
Nay, I thank you. It is difficult to know what to say, for I recall very few details nowadays. My memories are mostly impressions now. I knew my father for longer.
“Was it necessary for you to sit with him also at the end?”
I had no time to sit. He was hale and hearty until the moment he suffered an apoplexy and dropped dead in front of me.
Elizabeth raised a hand to cover her mouth, and he might have felt bad for shocking her but for the expression in her eyes. He did not usually enjoy people’s pity, but hers gave him greater comfort than he had felt in many years.
“How old were you when you lost him?” she enquired with the utmost tenderness.
He showed her on his fingers.
“Two and twenty? That is but a year older than I am now. I know not how I should cope being charged with responsibility for Longbourn, let alone a vast estate and any one of my younger sisters. It must have been terrifying.”
The room was dark and cold and unfamiliar. It felt a thousand miles away from anything Darcy knew—as though no one would ever know if he made the confession that crouched, leaden, upon his tongue. He dipped the pen in the ink and wrote, slowly,
It still is.
He raised his eyes to hers. She said nothing but placed her hand over his and squeezed it. She may as well have taken hold of his heart and squeezed that.
“It is too easy to assume that wealth and privilege assure smooth waters. I daresay both your parents would be incredibly proud of you.”
Never had he wanted to kiss her more—especially when a log collapsed in the fire, sending a plume of sparks and ash up the chimney and making her jump in fright, then laugh heartily at herself for it. He smiled indulgently at her, enjoying the glow the enlivened flames cast upon her countenance. The impulse to pull her into his embrace was so great he almost scrawled out a proposal there and then, and might have, had a wave of lightheadedness not sent any such fanciful notions scuttling from his mind.
“There, you see, you are not as well as you think,” Elizabeth said, her amusement quashed by concern. “Perhaps you ought not to have sat up for this long.”
Darcy thought he had sat up for longer yesterday but was not in any way to argue. Despite her urging, he declined any food but accepted her help to stagger back to the bed. Abubble of unease arose in his stomach when she touched her hand to his forehead. “Fever?” he mouthed.
“Nay, I think it is only that you are still weak. Go to sleep. I am sure you will feel better in the morning.”
Darcy was sick of sleeping. He was sick of hurting, too. He wished to be better—strong again, and clean, and home—and married. Indeed, there was but one good thing to have come out of this entire damnable mess. He smiled at her as best he could with lips rendered unwieldy by exhaustion.
“Would that my parents could have met you, sweetest Elizabeth. Then they would have been truly proud.”He closed his eyes, hoping that if he must sleep again, it would at least be punctuated with dreams of her.
Chapter 13
Out in the Cold
Darcy slept ill, flitting close to the surface of full wakefulness too many times to receive any actual rest. When he struggled out of the cloying stupor, he was met with exhaustion. His throat hurt in a new way; myriad tiny pieces of glass embedded at the back of his mouth, scraping against his tongue every time he swallowed. Fog had returned to his head, and his face hurt. He sat up carefully, wincing against the daylight and perturbed to realise the lateness of the day. For how long had he slept?
Elizabeth was not there. He thought to relieve himself before she appeared but found he did not need to. He considered taking a few mouthfuls of leftover broth but found he had no appetite. Instead, he washed his hands and face in the cold water left on the nightstand and tottered unsteadily to the chair by the hearth to throw another log on the fire.
By the time it had burned black, he had grown distinctly vexed by Elizabeth’s absence. She had not answered his knock at her bedchamber door, though the want of any noise from beyondit had already convinced him she was not within. He had stood at the window, watching until he could stand no longer, but there was no sign of anyone upon the snowy, wooded hillside it faced. He had drifted off, only to be awoken by the cramp in his neck that sleeping askew now guaranteed. What time was it now?
He moved to sit at the table and picked up the book Elizabeth had been reading. Tucked between the pages was his note confessing to finding her intimidating. Ordinarily, the discovery would have delighted him. At present, it only fuelled his displeasure. Why, if she cared to keep such a token, did she not care for the distress her unexplained absence would occasion him? Of course, there was no obligation for her to remain in this dingy, malodorous room with him, yet she had done so all week without complaint. Wherefore had she renounced his company today?
His hopes were roused when there came a knock at the door. It was not Elizabeth, though, for whoever it was then waited outside for permission to come in, asshehad not done all week. Unable to give any command to enter, Darcy waited until he or she either went away or let themselves in. A few moments later, the young lad John opened the door and ambled towards the bed, presumably to collect the night spoils as he had at various other times that week. Darcy rapped his knuckles on the table to attract his attention.
“Beggar me and all me neighbours, who’s there?” the boy shouted, jumping a foot in the air and looking wildly in all directions. He let out a great breath and thumped a fist to his chest upon espying Darcy. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I thought no one was here.”
Darcy waved away his concerns and mouthed, “Have you seen Miss Bennet?”
The boy only pulled a face.
“Miss Bennet,” he repeated. He held an arm wide to indicate the empty room. “My companion.”
“What’s wrong with ya, mister? Can’t you speak none?”
