He rolled his head back to squint at Elizabeth but was unsure how to answer. He was in a vast amount of pain, devilishly confused, prodigiously drunk, and very much enamoured of the woman responsible for most of these misfortunes. He wrinkled his nose in ambivalence.
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched, and her eyes shone in that way they always did when something diverted her. “A little less brandy next time, perhaps.”
“I would prefer less horse.”
It took Elizabeth a moment of studying his lips before she comprehended him. Her delayed burst of laughter surprisedand delighted him, though he was rather distracted when she abruptly split in two, and each version of her drifted a foot apart from the other before snapping back to not quite line up. Both of her smiles were sublime.
“Perhaps I ought to give you nothingbutbrandy if we are to survive this predicament. Inebriation suits you rather better than hubris.” She selected a strip of clean cloth from the table, explaining to him as she did that she would now re-dress his wound.
Darcy held up a hand to forestall her and mouthed, “Mirror?”
She hesitated, evidently unwilling to comply.
Naturally, that begged the question, “Bad?”
She held his gaze and replied gently but without preamble, “Yes, it is quite bad.”
“Show me?”
“Why not wait until it is better healed? There is no advantage in distressing yourself.”
“You are not distressed.”
She frowned over his words, repeating them herself until they were familiar enough to recognise. “I am…not…distre— ’Tis not my throat!”
He had forgotten her obstinacy, though he ought not to have done, for he was well acquainted with it. The dogged manner in which she had harried him at Bingley’s ball for details of his dispute with Wickham, with the evident purpose of exonerating the fiend, had haunted him for many weeks now. Nevertheless, her obduracy was no match for the recalcitrance of a drunkard. He fixed her in his gaze and persisted, mouthing, “I would see.”
Elizabeth sighed and squared her shoulders. “As you wish.” She left his side and returned with a modestly sized table mirror that had a spider’s web of cracks spreading outfrom one shattered corner. She hefted it onto her forearm for support and obligingly held it above him with both hands.
Never had Darcy beheld such a sobering sight. His heart pounded and his head cleared of fog—and pretty much all else—as he stared in horror at his reflection. A day’s worth at least of beard covered his jaw, but the rest of his face was pallid and drawn. His throat was bruised indigo and swollen to well beneath the collar of his shirt. A peculiarly straight laceration ran from under the right of his chin to the hollow above his collar bone. With his every rasping breath, the whole ruinous mess shifted and wept. He understood now why he could scarcely breathe and no longer wondered at the torment of every trifling movement of his head. He was fortunate to be alive. How long he would remain so with such an injury was not something on which he should like to wager.
“It ought to be stitched, but there is no one to do it. The best I can do is hold it closed with bandages.” The impatience had gone from Elizabeth’s voice; her tone was all compassion, though it scarcely penetrated Darcy’s dismay. “Be reassured, at least, that your collar prevented any dirt from getting into the wound. As long as we keep it clean, and you do not try to overexert yourself again, I see no reason why it should not heal well enough.”
She said nothing about the recovery of his voice, though Darcy supposed it wisest to concern himself with surviving over and above being able to talk about it. Nevertheless, he could not help but stare at the wreckage of his neck and attempt to guess where, exactly, his vocal cords might be located and thereby how badly damaged they might be. The longer he stared, the greater grew his revulsion. It was a relief when Elizabeth lowered the mirror to the floor. He mouthed his thanks.
“It is well, sir. It is not as though I am going anywhere.Besides, I spoke true when I said I was concerned for those who care for you. I could not bear the thought of Miss Darcy losing her brother on account of his trying to help me.”
Darcy frowned in puzzlement; the fog was returning. “Help you?”
“Why, yes.” She leant over him with a clean linen with which to bind his neck. He tried in earnest to listen to what she said, but her voice was so dulcet and his mind so hazy that her words all ran into one another. His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and not even the pain of having his wound pulled closed with bandages could prevent him slipping into the encroaching torpor.
Chapter 4
No Less Resentment than Despair
When next he awoke, Darcy recalled much more much sooner. Regrettably, all the unpleasant recollections—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear, the pounding legacy of too much cheap brandy—loomed large, and the only one of his remembrances he wished were there was not. He called to her but was still unable to make a sound, and the attempt pained him severely. He clawed at the bedsheets as though he could draw her nearer by gathering the room towards him. Elizabeth did not come.
Though it was tempting to give in to alarm, Darcy retained grasp enough on his reason to recognise it would achieve naught. Besides, had she not remarked that she was going nowhere? He indulged in the heartening assurance that she must be nearby and allowed himself a deep, albeit careful, sigh of relief. He followed it immediately with a sneer of disdain. But a few days ago, he had been assured of a complete triumph over his errant feelings for Elizabeth Bennet. All but banished from his thoughts, she had been relegated to a troublesome memory. Would he nowsuccumb to panic at the mere prospect of her absence? The very idea was absurd.Anybody’sassistance at the present time would be equally valuable, and it mattered not whether it were Elizabeth, a total stranger, or the Queen-of-blasted-Sheba.
He resolutely ignored the little jolt in his chest when the door opened and neither the Queen of Sheba nor a total stranger entered the room.
“You are awake,” Elizabeth remarked. She looked tired—an observation that stirred all manner of concern in Darcy’s mind, though he knew not what he could do about it. “I have brought you some broth,” she told him, setting a steaming tankard and spoon on the table. “You will not begin to improve until you regain some strength.”
At the mention and then the smell of food, Darcy’s stomach spasmed violently in revenge for having been so long neglected. He mouthed his thanks and attempted to haul himself into a more upright position in readiness. He had expected it to hurt; he had not expected to be unable to do it. The flesh of his neck twisted sickeningly, and his arms trembled and gave way before he had pulled himself more than a few inches up the bed.
“I rest my case,” Elizabeth said with a satirical glance. “But Heaven forfend you should listen to me.”
“I meant not to disregard you,” Darcy mouthed, glad of his muteness for the first time, for had he spoken, his voice might have betrayed the extent of his alarm. “I thought I could sit up. I managed it this morning.”
