“I suggest,” she continued, “that we proceed in a more orderly fashion. My uncle has been absent the longest, and therefore has the most explaining to do. Let us hear his account in full. Afterward, we may supply our own.”
“Good girl,” Darcy murmured in her ear, and she felt his lips brush her cheek.
She squeezed his hand in return, casting him a quick, saucy glance that belied the gravity of the moment.
Then she turned her attention back to the man before her.
And waited.
∞∞∞
India—1793
Frederick Bennet set down the pen with a shaking hand that no longer obeyed him as it ought. His shaky signature was all his solicitor, Mr. Mortimer, had required in order to post the letter he dictated.
The paper lay before him, the ink still drying—his final words, if he judged the matter rightly. He had written as plainly as he could, though even that had taken more strength thanhe possessed. Money enclosed. Instructions given. Elizabeth provided for, as far as he was able.
It was done.
He leaned back against the rough pillow of his cot, the world swimming unpleasantly about him. Heat pressed in from all sides—thick, suffocating, relentless. His skin burned, yet he could not stop the trembling that shook him. His teeth chattered even as sweat soaked through his shirt.
Fever.
They called it jungle fever.
He had seen what it did.
He had seen men stronger than himself brought low in a matter of days.
He closed his eyes.
Perhaps it would be quick.
Perhaps…
He did not know how much time had passed whilst he lingered in the suffocating darkness. At times, he thought he heard voices. Once, he even wondered if he was being carried somewhere, but his mind and body did not have the strength to analyze the observation before he was once again submerged in obscurity.
But then… a touch.
Cool.
So cool it felt almost like mercy.
Something brushed across his brow, wiping away the sweat. A cloth, dampened, passed again and again, steady and careful. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not obey him. His limbs felt heavy, distant, as though they no longer belonged to him.
A voice murmured near him.
Soft.
Unfamiliar.
He could not make out the words.
Something touched his lips—a spoon. Broth, thin but warm, was coaxed into his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, though he did not remember deciding to do so.
The cool cloth returned.
Again.
