Elizabeth shook her head. “I have no idea what you just said, but I shall save us both the trouble of your repeating it and assume it was ill-tempered.”
He had not the energy to smile at her teasing. Indeed, he scarcely had the energy to be surprised when she lifted oneknee onto the edge of the bed and knelt over him with her hands out.
“Give me your arms, Mr Darcy.”
He stared at her, wondering whether he had fallen asleep again—or was, perhaps, still drunk.
“Pray, help me, if you would. I cannot lift you on my own. If you allow me to pull you forward, then I can prop you up with another pillow, so you can eat.”
He did as she bid, clenching his jaw against the pain as she tugged him forward. He saw the moment she realised he was hurting. Her eyes widened, and she winced as though she felt it herself. To his astonishment, she let go of one of his arms and slid her hand behind his head to support it as she pulled him forward. He flinched when her fingers found something else that hurt—an excessively sore spot at the side of his head—but he forgot it when Elizabeth reached around him to place the extra pillow before gently laying him back down.
“Is that comfortable?” she enquired.
Darcy had never been less comfortable in his life, but his proximity to Elizabeth, her arms around him and her fingers in his hair, had driven most rational thought from his mind. He dazedly made the gesture for yes and mouthed a silent thank you.
“Hold on to your thanks for now,” she replied with a half-hearted smile. “You have not yet tasted this broth.” She withdrew to fetch it, and while she was turned away, Darcy explored the back of his head with his fingers. There was a lump behind his ear, which, though not nearly as painful as his neck, was nevertheless disconcerting in size and tenderness.
“You have a lump there,” Elizabeth said, returning with the broth.
“So it would seem.”
“I think you hit your head when you were knocked backwards.”
Darcy lowered his hand and resolved not to examine any other parts of himself lest he discover any further injuries, for he had plenty already.
With a sympathetic smile, Elizabeth arranged herself on the edge of the bed with the tankard and spoon, dipped one into the other and held it out for Darcy to sup. He gently wrapped his hand around hers and guided her to empty the spoon back into the tankard, which he then took from her grasp. The ignominy of being observed by Elizabeth in so indecent and feeble a state was outside of enough without adding to it by consenting to be fed like an infant.
He pointed at himself and mouthed, “I shall do it.”
Elizabeth graciously inclined her head and removed from the bed to sit in a nearby chair. Darcy wished she would not watch him, for though he could get the spoon to his mouth, he was unable to hold his head at an angle that would prevent rivulets of broth from running into his new beard—but such vanity was soon forgotten. He managed the first few mouthfuls without event but gagged on the third and suffered such a virulent fit of agonising paroxysms as drew Elizabeth from her chair in alarm.
“Oh my goodness! Calm yourself, or you will choke!” She took the tankard from him and set it aside then returned to sitting on the edge of the bed. Darcy had his hands to his throat, desperate for some way to allay the spasms, and she took hold of them, pulled them away from his neck, and held them. “Try to relax, sir. You are very rigid. I can see it is making it worse.”
It was, but he knew not what he could do about it. Each time he attempted to stifle a convulsion, another rose up to strangle him, until he coughed suddenly and violently, andblood spattered both their hands. The rasp of him frantically filling his lungs was loud, but still did not completely mask Elizabeth’s horrified gasp. He shared her dismay and stared aghast at the peppering of bright red across the bed, wondering very seriously whether he would die in this room.
“Oh.”
The interjection was almost inaudible, but the tremble in Elizabeth’s voice as she uttered it was unmistakable. Darcy looked up. He had never seen her frightened. She looked less assured, more innocent than ever she had before. It roused him from his own misery and directed his concern in the proper direction. After a few steadying, if cacophonous, breaths, he used the corner of the blanket to wipe the blood from her hands. “Forgive me.”
She shook her head lightly. “No, no—there is no need to apologise. Can you breathe now? Are you well?”
“I am.” Though he was certain she had understood his few words, she did not appear much reassured, and he felt obliged to substantiate them with actions. Thus, though it was the very last thing he wished to do, Darcy reached for the tankard and brought another spoonful of broth to his lips. Swallowing hurt like the devil, and it took all his strength of will not to gag on this, or the next several mouthfuls. When he could stomach no more, he returned the broth to the nightstand and sought Elizabeth’s gaze. “Better going in than coming out.”
Why he had thought such a crude remark would reassure her he knew not, and he cringed inwardly until Elizabeth deduced what he had mouthed, gave him a look of astonished incredulity, and burst out laughing. Then he could have forgiven himself a hundred obscenities for the simple pleasure of seeing the fear driven from her eyes.
“I am glad you approve,” she said, “for that is the best forwhich you can hope at the present time. There is little else available. Not that you would be able to swallow at any rate.”
And so on to serious matters. “Will you tell me where we are?” Darcy enquired mutely. “And what has happened?”
She watched his lips but shook her head apologetically. “I do not?—”
“Pen?” Darcy mimed the act of writing as he asked.
“Oh, a pen! Of course! One moment.” Elizabeth stood up from the bed with haste, and Darcy flinched at the pain of being jostled against the pillows. She left the room via a door he had not previously noticed—an adjoining bedchamber, he presumed, when she returned from it with a pen, a pot of ink, and a handful of papers.
“Mrs Ormerod was good enough to lend me these. Here.” She handed him the whole stack of paper. “If you take it all, it ought to be a sturdy enough surface.”
Darcy had no idea who Mrs Ormerod might be, but he let it pass. He had only one pen and limited strength and would have to settle for a single question at a time. He dipped the pen in the ink Elizabeth held out for the purpose and wrote as best he could in his present attitude,
