He nodded. His eyes did not leave her face. Their heavy-lidded, flickering inconsistency made her feel queasy. Her question had made real tears appear, beading in his dark eyelashes. A surge of pity made compassion overwhelm Elizabeth’s wariness. She stepped slowly forwards. He watched her approach as if hypnotised.
“What is your name?” she asked cautiously.
He did not answer, only stared at her.
Elizabeth sighed and crouched down a few meters away so that they were the same height. From here, she could see no injuries, but she could smell the sharp tang of whisky and the sour stench of sweat. Neither odour made her venture closer.
At least he was not bleeding to death. All of his limbs seemed to be attached, and pointing in the right directions. He looked more like a rag doll than a man, but his skin was unmarked and his clothes un-torn.
“Sir, you are…”drunk,she thought grimly, but swallowed hard and tried again: “You are not well. I shall find some help. Is there anything I can do for… for your comfort?” she asked, awkwardly climbing to her feet.
The man did not answer.
Elizabeth turned and started walking away. The nearest building was a farmhouse, half a mile down the road. By the man’s fine clothes and the expensive-looking liquor bottle she knew that the stranger was not a farmer, but at least there would be strong men there who would be able to help him home.
“Wait!”
The word was shaky and harsh but filled with such command that Elizabeth’s limbs locked into place. Turning on instinct, she saw the man struggling to his feet. He swayed, gripping the tree with one trembling hand for balance, his dark eyes now desperate.
“Who are you?” he demanded, “What are you? What are you doing here?”
“What areyoudoing here?” she retorted, annoyed at herself for taking a nervous step backwards. She was no coward! But the man was taller than she had realised, with broader shoulders and a youthful alacrity that could have easily been roused into anger. She made her voice softer, imagining her ruffled feathers flattening back against her skin. “I came from over there.”
She pointed upwards, towards a distant hill. The man’s eyes followed her finger dizzily and then carried on towards the clouds.
Lizzie groaned and her hands clenched into fists. What was one supposed to do in a situation like this? How should one react?
Dump him in a lake.She heard her youngest sister suggest. Yes, that would probably sober him up. There was no lake nearby, sadly, but perhaps a puddle…
“Who are you?” the man asked again. His voice, slurring and unsteady, became so full of sorrow that her heart broke. “Georgie?”
“No, I’m not… My name is Elizabeth.” she replied instinctively, and then winced at the informality, “I mean, I’m Miss…”
“Elizabeth.” he echoed, swaying against the tree.
“Sir, you are in pain.” Lizzie said firmly, pointing sternly at the ground. “Sit down. Help will be here soon.”
Obediently, he fell flat on his face. Elizabeth gaped at the awful sight and then turned on her heel and fled.
Chapter 3
When Darcy pushed himself up, the angel was gone.
He spluttered out the dirt which had splattered against his mouth, then wiped the worst of it off his cheeks. Surely, he was a ridiculous sight. Usually, he came home with at least a shred of his dignity intact, but today he would look as pathetic as he truly was.
He shuddered and pushed himself upright against the tree. There was a small brook nearby - he had often heard it trickling, irritating him when he wanted the world to be completely silent. Today, he sought it out deliberately, one wobbly step at a time. Sitting beside the brackish water, he trickled some into his mouth, then scooped handfuls over his face.
Did he care about being clean? It was an odd thought, but for the first time he actually did. He had seen the expression in the angel’s eyes: distaste, even fear, for surely he looked monstrous.
Sir, you are in pain.
Simple words, and they had struck him to the soul. A validation: yes, this was pain. Real, physical pain, not the kind of pathetic sadness that his father had called ‘womanish’. He had always swallowed his emotions back, forcing them into a small, bitterpill that stuck in the back of his throat. Pain, yes, but only on the inside. Now, he wore his pain on the outside - and it was valid.
A sudden desire to follow the angel, to track her footsteps, made him struggle to his feet. The cold water had sobered him a little, but not enough to get through the slippery river mud. He fell, cracking his knee against a stone, and cried out in disgust.
What had he become? This was not ‘womanish’, this was hopeless. He could see his life before him, stretching out in a tempting slope. Down would be easy, down into despair and soft darkness. Up…
Darcy pushed himself upright once more and limped back to the tree. He sat, catching his breath, and looked at his satchel.
