“Damnation! He’s fainted—again! Help me—gently!”
Elizabeth did not wait. The Colonel’s alarm shattered her restraint. She ran past the footmen, who startled at the shout and made no move to stop her.
Richard glanced up—and stared, stunned, as she flew toward them, skirts lifting in her haste.
He blinked. “Miss Bennet?”
She did not answer. “Is he—?”
“Alive,” Richard managed. “But too weak to—”
She was already at the carriage door, reaching up to grasp the edge. “Fitzwilliam.”
He lay slumped against the seat cushions, pale and unmoving. Her hand found his—cool, but not lifeless.
Without hesitation, Elizabeth stepped onto the footboard and leaned into the carriage, her fingers trembling as she reached for him.
“You must wake,” she whispered, her face near his. “I came all this way. You cannot leave me now.”
Chapter 54
It was not until Mr. Darcy had been carried to his chambers—white with exertion and scarcely coherent—that Mrs. Reynolds allowed herself a moment’s stillness. She stood just beyond the threshold, hands clasped before her apron, watching the door close upon the physician's hurried entry. Her master had returned, but not as he had left.
The visitors remained below, shown into the west parlour by the colonel’s specific instruction—a fact more unusual than most realized. Colonel Fitzwilliam had issued the order with tones brisk and unyielding: Miss Bennet and her relations were to be treated with every civility. No one was to question it, not even Mrs. Reynolds herself, though her thoughts were far from settled.
The young lady had known Thomas Harding by name—had stopped him cold with a word, and then gone on to speak of his father, his mother’s jam, and the cottage near the orchard with such ease it might have been her own household.
She had turned to Jameson next, naming the girl he loved and the father who disapproved. There had been no hesitation, no seeking for detail. The knowledge had poured forth as if remembered—not reported.
Nor was this all. The matter of Molly Jones—the girl not yet entered into service, whose name was scarcely known outside her family—had been raised with the calm assurance of someone long acquainted with her. Miss Bennet had inquired after her as though the girl were already under her charge, her place in the household long established.
Mrs. Reynolds had served Pemberley for nearly four decades. She had seen fortune-hunters, flatterers, ladies of elegance and of ambition. But never had she seen one speak the names of her servants with such intimacy—unadorned, unboastful, and true.
And when the master—barely conscious, his breath shallow and his brow damp—had stirred at last, it was that same name he had whispered: Elizabeth. At first, Mrs. Reynolds had thought she imagined it. But the colonel’s response—neither shockednor confused—confirmed the truth. He had not asked how Miss Bennet came to be there. He had not questioned the impropriety of her arrival. He had only stepped aside, and that, too, was not customary.
Once certain the master was in good hands and nothing more could be done by her, Mrs. Reynolds turned to attend the guests, as duty required. Approaching the west parlour, she paused just short of the door, her step slowing uncharacteristically. She glanced within.
Within the modest and well-appointed west parlour, the guests waited in strained quiet. The windows were shaded against the bright morning, the hearth unlit despite the mild chill. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood with arms folded, pacing on occasion but saying little. Mr. Gardiner lingered near the door, attentive but solemn, while his wife watched from the settee, hands folded in her lap. Elizabeth sat by the window, her gaze distant, her hands motionless, her bearing calm but unyielding.
The hush had lasted some time when the door opened, and Dr. Wentworth stepped in—his case now closed, though his expression remained grave.
“I’ve finished my examination,” he said. “There is no sign of fresh bleeding. The wound is clean, the pulse is steady, and though he is clearly exhausted, he appears to have taken no additional harm in the past day. But I must ask—when exactly did the original injury occur?”
“More than three weeks ago,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied. “In London. He was under Dr. Annesley’s care there and had only recently begun to sit up unaided.”
Dr. Wentworth raised his brows. “Then why was he moved at all?”
The colonel exhaled sharply. “He insisted. Against every warning. He would not remain. I could not hold him back.”
The physician gave a soft sound of disapproval. “If the swelling has only recently begun to recede, this journey may have cost him dearly. Three days in a coach may well have set him back considerably. He ought never to have left his sickbed.”
Elizabeth, who had sat perfectly still until now, lifted her eyes. “Then why did he travel?” she asked softly. “If he was still unwell—why attempt such a journey?”
“Because he had to,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his voice taut with restrained emotion. “I sent an express the night of the attack—before he even woke. I thought Bingley should know at once, and I hoped… I hoped you would come.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “We never received it.”
Mr. Gardiner leaned forward, concern sharp in his voice. “Nor has Mr. Bingley heard a word from him in nearly a month.”
