She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them. “I have never felt so appreciated—and I do not mean because I was helping him. I mean because he valued my opinions and my feelings. He cared what I thought and what I did. He worried about me when I was not with him. I have never felt so important to anyone—not anyone so wholly unconnected to me, anyway.”
She squeezed her knees more tightly, though it did not ease the ache in her breast. She had never missed anyone with such intensity in her life, not even her sister Jane. It was as though something inside her had been cut out. The hollowness was unbearable. As was the recollection of how she had repaid Darcy for his solicitude.
“And I have never been so unkind to someone so undeserving of it. If heisignoring me, it is my fault. I was hateful to him.”
“Come now, I shall have none of that,” Mrs Gardiner replied tersely. “Mr Darcy cannot possibly think ill of you. Whatever you may have said to him in the heat of the moment, you still saved his life.”
Elizabeth could not evade the memory this time. It slammed into her mind, winding her as she felt again all the anguish of watching Darcy fall. She had tried to catch him but had not had the strength. He was such a tall man, and he had toppled straight, like a felled tree, and hit his head so hard on the floor she feared he had cracked his skull. The wound beneath his bandages had begun bleeding freely again, and he had lain completely motionless, barely breathing at all. She had thought he was going to die. She had felt like she might too, so intense was the panic that gripped her as she begged him not to.
“I think you ought to go home.”
Her aunt barely whispered it, but it was enough to pull Elizabeth out of her nightmarish remembrances and hurl her into an even greater welter of alarm. “I cannot! Please do not make me!”
“I fear you will not begin to feel better until you are away from here and these awful memories.”
“But I shall hear any news sooner if I remain close.”
“Lizzy, I understand that you weathered a difficult ordealtogether, but you are wretched, and getting no better that I can see. Is this Mr Darcy really more important than your peace of mind?”
“Heismy peace of mind, Aunt. He is the best man I have ever known.”
Mrs Gardiner said nothing. Her opinion of Darcy was difficult to gauge. She had lived for some years near his home in Derbyshire and claimed to have heard it said then that he was proud. She had also heard Wickham’s lies about him when she was at Longbourn at Christmas. She had since heard Elizabeth’s assurances that theywerelies, though she had not been told the whole truth, for that was not Elizabeth’s secret to reveal. All of that might have been overlooked, however, had not Mr Gardiner been treated so appallingly when he called at Darcy House on Tuesday.
Inconsolable with worry and desperate for news, Elizabeth had begged her uncle to make enquiries. He had called there and been informed that Darcy was receiving attention from an eminent physician and therefore neither Elizabeth nor any of her relations ought to concern themselves further with his recovery. Then somebody purporting to be Darcy’s aunt had attempted to give Mr Gardiner a vast sum of money to ensure he and his niece stayed away. Her uncle had been and was still incensed.
She had not the wit at present to convince him Darcy was not similarly conceited. She had used to think he was, until he opened his soul to her this week, and she discovered nothing existed therein but goodness. Now, though Darcy might well wish that shewouldstay away, she knew without a doubt that he would not condone his aunt’s behaviour. Understanding that only tormented her more, for if he had not prevented his relations from behaving thus, did that mean he was yet too unwell to know about it—or worse?
“A few more days, I beg you,” she whispered. “I just need to know.”
“Very well,” her aunt conceded unhappily. “Your father will not be happy about the delay, but I shall ask your uncle to think of something to placate him.”
Elizabeth thanked her profusely then settled back onto her pillows and pretended to go back to sleep so her aunt would leave, after which she lay awake for an age.
Her hours of sleep had lost all sense of rhythm while she was nursing Darcy. Her makeshift bed at the inn had been incommodious and hard, but in any case, she had preferred to sit in a chair and watch him to make sure he did not stop breathing. She had done so at first simply because it was what anyone would have done—he was another human, and she did not want him to die.
As the days had gone by, she had watched because his countenance had become fascinating to her. Awake, his eyes were always searching, his smile always reluctant, his brow almost always creased in thought. In repose, when his features were not racked with pain and he was not staring at her inscrutably, the lines of his face were more open. He was handsome—discomposingly so—but she saw more than beauty when she watched him; she saw strength. His was a powerful and dignified presence even when wounded and asleep, and she had not been able to—had not wished to—stop looking. He had told her, at the height of his delirium, that she had utterly bewitched him. She had no idea whether that were true, but if she had, then he had certainly returned the favour.
By the end of the week, she had begun watching him in a perpetual state of anxiety, terrified there would be nothing she could do were his next breath his last. He was so very ill that his every twitch had drawn her from her chair to check his pulse. Slumber had become a distant memory. As she lay inher bed at her aunt’s house, staring at the ceiling, she wondered whether she had forgotten how to sleep. Or whether, perhaps, she would never be able to rest properly again until she could be sure that, wherever Darcy was, he was still breathing.
She must have slept eventually because she did not see the sun rise. It was high in the sky before she became aware of the world once again. She dressed with the maid’s help and, refusing a tray of breakfast, left to find her aunt and cousins in the parlour. Three of the four children squealed with delight when she entered. The eldest boy, Martin, did not look up from the sketch he was drawing, but Elizabeth found his attitude, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated, so endearing that she quite forgave him.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Mrs Gardiner enquired.
She smiled noncommittally. “I hope you are not too tired.”
“I have four children, Lizzy. Tiredness is a way of life. Should you like some tea? The water is piping hot still.”
Elizabeth accepted a cup and sat in a chair near the pianoforte to listen to her cousins practise. Mrs Gardiner did not press her for an answer to her question, and they settled into a gentle conversation, stopping occasionally to direct the young girls in their playing. Darcy was never far from Elizabeth’s thoughts, but she could feign composure more easily when she was surrounded by such tranquillity.
It was blasted when Martin finished his sketch and came, all proud anticipation, to present it to her. She looked at it and gasped sharply. He had drawn a picture of a person in a skirt—her, she presumed—holding what might have been a bandage. A man lay supine at her feet, his chest, neck, and head covered in blood. Her cousin had used a red crayon for that part; there was a web of scarlet scribbles etched across the sprawledfigure. He had not drawn it correctly. There had been far more blood covering Darcy. Elizabeth’s hands began to tremble.
“Whatever is the matter?” Her aunt came to peer at what her son had drawn. She gave a cry of dismay. “Oh, Martin! How could you? You thoughtless boy!”
Martin began to cry. “It is Cousin Lizzy, nursing the poorly man, Mama.”
“Pray do not scold him. He meant no harm,” Elizabeth murmured. She said nothing more because awful memories were filling her head, stealing all her words.
“Susan, quickly, ring the bell for Nanny,” she heard her aunt say. “Martin, cease making that racket. Go and put your crayons away this instant.”
