Elizabeth took the pen from his hand. He looked up, bewildered.
“You have run out of ink,” she said, dipping it in the well and handing it back to him. Darcy looked at the page. The last part of what he had written was mere scratches upon the paper. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and pressed on, tracing over the missing words and continuing with the next.
Heard little of him for about 3 yrs until living fell vacant once more & he applied to me again for the presentation, which I refused.
He glanced up, willing Elizabeth to be convinced of the truth in what he was about to write. He needed to convince her of this, above all, for her own good.
Wickham is not the sort of man who ought to be a clergyman. My father never saw his vicious propensities or want of principle. Nor his idleness & dissipation.
He paused again, waited for her to look at him, then mouthed clearly and emphatically, “I saw.”
Elizabeth made no response. Did she believe him? From her expression, he could tell only that she was troubled, not whether by Wickham’s actions or his own. He pressed on. If there were one event likely to persuade her to take care, it was the most recent.
Did not see him again until last summer. My sister,then 15, was in Ramsgate with her companion. Thither also went Wickham.
He dipped the pen, then stared at the page until the words ceased jumping about before he could see where to begin the next line.
By various means, which I presently have not the strength to narrate, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana that she believed herself in love & consented to an elopement.
Darcy had no idea whether Elizabeth’s small gasp meant she believed him or thought him a wicked liar. He regretted the haste with which he whipped his head up to try and catch her expression, for it did something horrible to his throat and made him cough. Pain sent his thoughts scattering, and it was all he could do to keep to his chair. One of the candles guttered and fizzed with his every panting breath, and he stared at it for want of anything else to anchor him to the world.
“Can I do anything?” Elizabeth enquired softly. “Shall I fetch you a drink?”
The candle’s aura expanded and popped, and the room fell back into focus. Darcy shifted his gaze to Elizabeth but could neither recall what she had asked nor think what he had been about to say. He looked down. The wordelopementloomed large on the page, recalling him mercilessly to Wickham’s misdeeds, from which it seemed even near-death would give him no reprieve. Mechanically, he picked up the pen and endeavoured to finish his tale.
Chief object unquestionably my sister's fortune of £30,000. Though revenge likely a strong inducement.
“Was he successful?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, thank God. I arrived in time to prevent it.” He forgot to look at her as he mouthed this, and she was obliged to lean around him to read his lips. The pitiless candle put its shadows on all those parts of her face as would plague him the most with the emphasis of her beauty. Looking at her was bittersweet torture. “I was looking for you.”
“Pardon?”
“The day of the accident. I rode through Meryton in the hope of seeing you.”
Elizabeth sat back, seemingly unsure how to respond. Perchance she had not understood him. He would have written it down, but he could no longer feel his fingers. “I do not stare at you because your hair is unwashed. I stare because you have utterly bewitched me.”
“Darcy, I think you must have a fever. Let me fetch some snow to cool you?—”
“I am not feverish. I have felt this way for many months. Long before I left Hertfordshire.” He was beset with sudden anxiety and reached for her hand. “I must warn you about Wickham.”
“You already have. Look.”
He could not fathom why she pointed at a pile of papers on the table. “No, I must tell you. I would not see you ill-used.”
“I shall not be, not now. I thank you. I comprehend the mortification you must have felt in revealing this to me.”
He screwed up his face, attempting to untangle her words. Mortified? Indeed, she looked to be, though he could not comprehend why. Mayhap she regretted refusing his offer of dancing a reel. Perhaps she would agree if he asked again. Hestood up, then could not recall for what purpose. It did not signify, for he did not remain standing for long. He stared at the ceiling and wondered who was weeping.
“Can you hear me? Oh, what has happened? I do not understand why you are so ill!” Something warm came to rest upon his chest. Something that begged him, “Please do not die! I am sorry! I am sorry I ever believed him. I am sorry I said all those awful things. Darcy, please,pleasedo not die.”
As well as the weeping, and the ringing in his ears, the bear was back, hammering at the door again with fierce insistence.
“Darcy? Darcy, are you in there? Open up, ’tis I, Fitzwilliam!”
That was odd. That was all, too, for darkness closed its maw and smothered everything in oblivion.
Chapter 16
