Night fell, and the household quieted. And still they, along with the grooms, remained in the stable, keeping watch over Atlas as he dozed fitfully in his box, his weight shifting constantly as he stood, his head hanging low.
At some point, Elizabeth’s head drooped onto Darcy’s shoulder. He stilled, barely breathing, not daring to disturb her. She was exhausted, he realized. Emotionally and physically spent.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “I will wake you if anything changes. I promise.”
She was asleep before she could protest again, her weight warm and trusting against his side.
Darcy allowed himself the luxury of looking at her—really looking at her—without her bright eyes watching him. The curve of her cheek, the dark lashes against her skin, the small furrow between her brows that suggested she worried even in sleep.
He loved her.
The realization was not new—he had admitted it to himself during the search for Atlas. But here, in the quiet darkness of the stable, with Elizabeth sleeping and Atlas breathing steadily in his box, the truth of it soaked into his bones.
He would forever be in love with Elizabeth Bennet.
13
Sam entered Atlas’ stall with fresh hay, speaking quietly to the horse. Elizabeth should have been embarrassed to be so close to Mr. Darcy, but she was not. Instead, she appreciated his kindness.
“How is he?” She sat up. Her neck ached from the awkward position, but concern for Atlas pushed the discomfort aside.
“I need to check the wound again.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was rough with fatigue. He moved to the box, lamp in hand, and Elizabeth followed.
Atlas stood with his head lowered, his breathing steady. Mr. Darcy carefully peeled away the bandage, examining the area in the lamplight.
“Still clean,” he said with relief. “No fresh bleeding.”
“That is good.”
The three took turns throughout the night checking the wounds. At dawn, Sam examined the horse and found no further bleeding.
“The crisis may be over,” Mr. Darcy said as they stoodtogether as the sun rose. “If we can keep infection at bay for another day or two?—”
“Then he will heal,” Elizabeth finished. She wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it.
Once Colonel Fitzwilliamand Miss Darcy arrived to provide aid and Longbourn’s housekeeper brought a tray for Mr. Darcy and Sam, Elizabeth was persuaded to go into her house. Jane met her at the door with tea and a gentle scolding about the necessity of caring for herself as well as the horse.
“You look exhausted, Lizzy.”
“I am well enough.” Elizabeth accepted the tea gratefully.
Jane grew concerned. “Mr. Darcy looks worse than you do. He will make himself ill if he continues.”
“I know. But I cannot convince him to leave Atlas’s side for more than a few moments.” Elizabeth set down her teacup. “Jane, he loves that horse as much as I do. Perhaps more. The thought of losing him?—”
“Then you must help him save Atlas,” Jane said simply. “Both of you, together. You are stronger together than either of you could be alone.”
Elizabeth thought of the long night, the shared vigil, how they had worked together without needing words.
“I will do as you suggest,” she said. “Atlas will need fresh bandages soon.”
After resting,Elizabeth returned to the stable to find Mr. Darcy and Sam examining Atlas. Their furrowed brows made her stomach clench.
“What is wrong?”
“He is too warm.” Mr. Darcy’s hand rested on Atlas’s neck. “And look—the wound.”
Elizabeth moved closer. The edges of the wound, which had been clean that morning, showed the faintest hint of redness.
