“And if my fever has broken by morning?”
“Then you may have tea and toast and the satisfaction of having proven me wrong.”
“A powerful inducement, indeed. Very well, I accept your terms. But I want it noted that I consider the salt water gargling to be a form of punishment disguised as medicine.”
“Noted.” Mrs. Reynolds conceded with a ghost of a smile. “Clarice will attend you through the night. She has instructions to report any change in your condition—any symptom, however small. Do not attempt to conceal anything from her; she has been well-trained in the management of reluctant invalids.”
“Has she indeed?” Elizabeth glanced at Clarice, who stood by the fire with her hands folded, her face betraying nothing whatsoever. “And where did she receive this training?”
“That,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “is not my story to tell. Rest, madam. The broth will arrive shortly.”
Rattling her keys, she swept out of the room, leaving Clarice to bank the fire. Elizabeth lay against the pillows, watched the shadows dance on the ceiling, while fighting a losing battle against the memories that clamored for attention: the dimness of the barn, the startling warmth of the Darcy kiss, and the unspoken question that had echoed within her all the way home.
Why did I kiss him?
The thought circled her mind, persistent as a determined fly against a window pane. She had meant to deflect, to tease, to banter, to maintain the careful protective distance she had diligently erected since arriving at Pemberley. Instead, her own body had betrayed her resolve. She had closed the distance and pressed her lips to his as though her body knew what her mind had not yet admitted.
Because he asked, she thought, the memory of his quiet question resonating. Because he waited, and for the first time inmy entire life, someone treated my choice as though it carried genuine weight.
But was that truly the reason? Or merely a convenient justification? Was it a sound motive, or merely a flimsy excuse, whispered to quiet the disquiet within her soul?
The broth arrived, carried by a kitchen maid who bobbed a curtsy and fled as though Elizabeth’s fever might be contagious. Clarice set the bowl on the bedside table and handed Elizabeth a spoon.
The broth was richer by far than anything that had ever graced the table at Longbourn, where Cook stretched every chicken carcass until it had finally surrendered its last whisper of flavor. This broth was thick with glistening, golden fat floating on its surface. The first few spoonfuls slid down easily enough, warming her from the inside. But her stomach, already unsettled, began to rebel before she had made her way through even half the bowl.
“I cannot eat any more.” Elizabeth set the spoon down, pressing her hand to her middle. “It is too rich, and I fear I shall be quite ill.”
Clarice removed the bowl without comment and returned with a cup of water instead. Elizabeth sipped it, grateful for the coolness, and lay back against the pillows. The nausea swelled again, and she pressed her hand harder against her belly, willing it to settle.
“Madam appears unwell beyond mere chill,” Clarice’s voice cut through Elizabeth’s spiraling thoughts, calm and direct. “Does the stomach also trouble you?”
“I do not know,” Elizabeth admitted, her voice thin and strained. “Everything aches. My head, my throat, and…” She gestured vaguely towards her midsection, the words failing her.
Clarice studied her for a long moment, those unreadable eyes taking in the color in Elizabeth’s cheeks, the press of her hand,and the tension in her frame. “Forgive my forwardness, madam, but might I ask… when did you last experience your courses?”
The question fell between them like a dropped teacup. Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, though the rest of her shivered.
“Before the wedding,” she admitted. “Nearly six weeks now.”
“I see.” Clarice’s expression remained, as ever, placidly unreadable. “And this cramping, is it familiar? Similar to what you feel during your monthly time?”
“I… I cannot tell.” Elizabeth tentatively laid her hand over the ache, so low in her belly, and swallowed back a sudden surge of the oily broth threatening to rise again. “It feels similar, if not for my stomach turning as though I were pitched about on a riverboat. But that may be the fever, or perhaps…” She hesitated, gathering her courage. “Now that I am married, I wondered if perhaps…”
She could not finish the sentence. The words “with child” stuck in her throat, too enormous to speak aloud.
“Madam is concerned she might be expecting,” Clarice stated baldly.
Elizabeth nodded, feeling wretched and diminished beneath the blankets. It was not the barn kiss that haunted her, but the earlier one, stolen in a shadowed alley. She would gladly give Darcy an heir, but what if? The question curled in her chest, restless and alive.
“This afternoon,” she said, choosing her words with care, “Mr. Darcy and I, in the barn, we kissed. And I did not know if that might…”
She averted her gaze, swallowing the rawness in her throat, and blinked back the wetness in her swimming eyes. Her mother had railed against the dangers of kissing, drawing the line of touch at gloved hands before the marriage vows were sealed. And then, she had spoken of wifely duties—of submitting toa husband’s desires and enduring what must be endured, and somehow surviving the births that followed.
“A kiss alone cannot result in a child, madam.” Clarice’s voice was matter-of-fact, yet imbued with a quiet reassurance.
“You are certain?” Elizabeth heard the desperation in her voice and hated it.
“Quite certain. A kiss, even a passionate one, is not sufficient in the Lord’s design. More is required.” Clarice paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully. “And even when a husband and wife join in the marriage bed, children come in His appointed time, not ours. Some couples are blessed quickly. Others must wait.”
