He cut her off with a sharp gesture and mouthed, “Not your fault.” He would not listen to her apologise for Latimer’s appalling indiscretion. With one hand still gripping the handrail, he placed his other on the back of her elbow, set his jaw, and escorted her the rest of the way to his room. Once inside, he walked her to a chair by the fireplace and gestured for her to sit, which she did without objection.
“Will you not sit down as well?” she enquired quietly.
“In a moment,” he mouthed. First, he lit the two candles on the table. Then he knelt to feed the dwindling fire. He stared overlong at the flames; when he stood up and walked to the bed, orange flickers danced before his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Elizabeth asked. “You will make yourself even more unwell.”
He gathered the blanket from the bed into his arms and returned to her, holding it out like a shawl. “I would make sure you are not cold.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and she made a little noise, but said nothing, which Darcy took as permission to place the blanket about her shoulders. As he did so, his eyes fell to a rip in her dress. Beneath the rent in the fabric was a ghastly blackbruise. His horror must have been plain to see, for Elizabeth followed his gaze in alarm, though she did not remain uneasy for long.
“Oh.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, covering the injury. “That was not Mr Latimer. I mean, he must have torn my dress, but the bruise is from the accident.”
Darcy could only stare in abject dismay.“Nothing broken,”she had assured him when he asked if she was hurt. Her damned carriage had overturned—how had he thought she might evade injury? He looked at the floor and winced. What a fine example of the selfishness of which she had accused him.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” she said softly. “All bruises darken as they age. I can assure you, yours is worse.”
He opened his mouth to speak but could find no words to say. They were all hidden in the fog coiling through his mind. He rubbed a hand over his face as he tried to straighten his thoughts.
“Truly, I wish you would sit down, sir. I think you are very ill.”
He waved her concern away and looked about for the pen and paper. There, on the nightstand. He crossed the room to get them, but somehow stumbled into the bed and lurched forward onto his hands.
“Come, you had better lie down,” Elizabeth said next to him. Her small, gentle hands were back on his arm as she tried to help him. Her tenderness was gut-wrenching, for Darcy knew now that it was naught but charity that bade her treat him thus. He extended a finger; he did not wish to lie down. “Must tell you.” He pushed himself away from the bed and reached for the inkwell, only to miss it as he swayed too far and staggered a step sideways.
“Let me then.” Elizabeth collected up the writing equipment,and after a glance to ensure he was following, she returned to the table.
It felt good to be seated. For a moment, Darcy ceased fighting the intolerable fatigue bearing down upon him. He jerked back to awareness when the bear from the hall knocked on the door. He looked about the room in bewilderment. No bear—only Elizabeth regarding him with a deeply troubled expression. He licked his cracked lips and reached to dip the pen in the ink.
I am profoundly sorry that I was not more considerate of your well-being after the accident.
His hand felt numb and clumsy, and his writing suffered for it, but he thought it mostly legible and so twisted it around for Elizabeth to read.
She shook her head. “You need not apologise for that—you were half dead! And what could you have done anyway?”
The pen was dipped and poised to write that he could have comforted her, as she had him, before Darcy recalled she had no wish for any consolation he could give her. Ignoring the very real ache he felt in his chest for the loss of an entirely imagined connexion, he forced himself to write something else instead.
Unless I were actually dead, there could be no excuse for having paid so little attention to all that you have endured this week.
She leant to read as he wrote and began speaking before he finished. “If you mean my boiling up a little broth, I hardly think?—”
She faltered when he extended a finger to contradict her. “What then?”
He pointed at the door to her ‘bedchamber’. She looked thither also, then down at her hands in embarrassment.
Why?
He pushed the note to the edge of the table in front of her until she looked at it.
“This was the only room available,” she answered dispiritedly. “It is Mr Timmins’s sister’s room. That is her store cupboard.”
Darcy dipped the pen in the ink and underlined his previous question.
Elizabeth sighed deeply. “As I said, people assumed we were married. That did not mean we were obliged to share a bed.”
Darcy wished, in the name of all that was decent, that the mention of it did not instantly bring to mind every vision he had ever had to that effect—of holding her, of brushing the hair from her forehead as she did so often herself, of waking her with a kiss—of loving her. He clenched a fist beneath the table, forcing his mind clear of hopes to which he had forfeited any right.
Naturally. I meant, why did you conceal it from me?
