Darcy swore to himself and extended the forefinger of one hand to confirm that, no, he could not speak. He swore again when the boy looked quizzically in the direction his finger had pointed. Snatching up the pen, he dipped it in the well, flicking ink everywhere as he dashed off an explanation.
I cannot speak.
He held it up for John to read.
“Wishful thinking, that is, mister. I can’t read no more than you can talk.”
Darcy slapped the paper back onto the table and clenched his jaw. With a shrug, John walked to the bed, nudged the chamber pot with his toe, grunted at its emptiness, and walked back towards the door. Darcy opened his mouth to try once again to make himself understood and was incensed when the boy laughed.
“No hope, mister. No hope.” With an irreverent nod, John was gone.
Darcy sat back in his chair and schooled himself to composure as he settled in to continue his vigil, for Elizabeth must return eventually, whether or not he paced the room until she did. What felt like days, but which his rational mind told him was more likely less than quarter of an hour later, he pushed himself to standing again. He gripped the back of his chair until the room ceased spinning, then walked to retrieve his boots from the corner in which they had stood redundant all week.
He anticipated that pulling them on would hurt, but the reality was worse. As his frame went taut, every sinew in hisneck twisted, his gullet convulsed, and his stomach lurched. A sputtering exhalation that ought to have been a shout of pain bubbled impotently in his throat. He dropped the boot and banged his fist on the table, willing himself not to vomit. He leant gingerly against the chair back and waited to see which would triumph, pain or impatience.
It was the latter. In all matters pertaining to Elizabeth, he had long tired of delay. Nevertheless, his determination cost him dearly, and by the time both boots were on, he was returned to wheezing like leaking bellows, and sweat slicked his brow. He wiped it away with his sleeve, struggled into his blood-stained waistcoat and left the room.
He stepped out into a landing boasting several other doors, a tiny window, and a staircase. Assuming only bedchambers graced this floor, he headed in the direction of the stairs, at the foot of which he discovered the likely cause of a good number of his stranger delusions earlier in the week: a large stuffed bear, posed towering on its hind legs with an apple wedged in its snarling jaws. Beyond that antechamber, he came to a taproom, where a dozen tables were occupied by fewer than half a dozen people, not one of whom was Elizabeth.
“Well, I’ll be, Mr Darcy!” From behind a counter on the opposite wall came a stooped, red-faced man wiping his hands on his apron. “What a fine thing to see you up and about! After the look of you when you first arrived, we had worried you would not survive the night.”
Darcy winced at the indelicate allusion to his near-death, at the man’s presumptuous familiarity, at the mortification of standing bloodied and unwashed before him, at the throbbingin his neck. All of it contributed to his exasperation, though none so much as Elizabeth’s absence.
“Mr Timmins,” the man added with a bow. “Proprietor and purveyor of fine ale, at your service.”
“Good day,” Darcy mouthed.
“Ah, that is right—you cannot speak. Forgive me, Mr Darcy, your wife did tell us. And it is no wonder—nasty injury, that. Very nasty indeed.”
But for a few blinks, Darcy held his countenance perfectly still. His heart was not so obedient and drummed out a dozen extra beats. His wife?
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” the man continued, oblivious.
“No, I thank you. Have you seen?—”
“Come, have a seat.”
Darcy ignored the man’s attempts to usher him to an empty table. “Have you?—”
“Would you like something to eat?”
“The man is trying to say something, Timmins. For God’s sake, let him speak!” This welcome interruption came from a man whose crutch marked him as the lieutenant Elizabeth had mentioned.
Darcy sent him a nod of thanks, then wished he had not when pain erupted under his chin. Ignoring it as best he could, he mouthed, “I am looking for Miss—” He caught himself. “Mrs Darcy.”
In tandem, Timmins and Lieutenant Carver squinted at his lips, then shook their heads in incomprehension. Darcy mouthed it again, abhorring the spectacle he was making of himself.
“I do apologise, sir, but could you say it one more time, and more slowly?—”
“He is obviously looking for Lizzy, Mr Timmins,” said anelderly lady seated next to an even more ancient man at the next table over.
“Who?”
“His wife.”
Someone by the fire with his back to the room scoffed derisively.
“Oh yes, of course!” Timmins said amiably. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing her today, sir. You might find her in the kitchen. Feel free to wander down and see for yourself. We have abandoned all ceremony this week, is that not right, Mrs Ormerod?”
