Elizabeth folded up the letter clumsily. “Either way, it is all abominable, and I don’t see there is any reason for us to speak of any of it. I have asked you to leave, sir, and I wish that you would do as you claimed you would and go. I do not mean to be impolite, but your presence unsettles me in such a way…” She shoved the pages of the letter into her reticule, a small handbag that only contained her handkerchief else. Then she marched across the room and flung open the door. “I will escort you out.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then he began to walk across the room.
When she saw him moving, she went through the doorway, hurrying toward the door to the house, as if she meant to open that one too and throw him out. She disappeared from his view.
And then he heard a cry of agony.
He rushed forward to find Elizabeth just outside the door, prostrate on the floor. One of her legs appeared trapped unnaturally underneath her, caught up in her skirts.
She pushed herself up, freeing her leg. She let out a moan and attempted to get up but could not.
He went down on his knees next to her, but hesitated to touch her out of propriety.
She scrambled into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall.
“Miss Bennet?”
“It’s my ankle,” she said, tears tinging the edge of her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever hurt it so badly. I was going too fast. I got tangled in my own skirts. I am such a ninny.” She tried again to get to her feet.
He stopped her. “You have probably sprained it. It is not your fault. As you said, my presence is what upset you.”
“You must not touch me,” she said, and she pushed herself up again, only to cry out in pain when she did so.
He reached out to steady her.
Her breath caught when touched her. “Mr. Darcy, you mustn’t—”
“Shh,” he said. “You need to lie down.” Hang propriety! She was in pain. Nothing else mattered. He fitted his arms beneath her legs and tipped her up, and he was holding her. All of Elizabeth Bennet’s soft warmth was cradled in his arms. He struggled for breath. But he got himself under control and carried her back into the drawing room where he set her on the couch.
By this time, the housekeeper had come back, having heard Elizabeth’s cries, and he sent her to fetch some things to make Elizabeth comfortable. Then, assured that Elizabeth was as comfortable as could be managed, he set off at once to bring a doctor back to tend to her.
* * *
Mr. Collins returned before Mr. Darcy and the doctor did, and—to Elizabeth’s chagrin—he determined the best thing he could do for her was to read aloud some scripture, which he claimed would “soothe her soul.”
Elizabeth did not need soothing. What she needed was for the throbbing pain in her ankle to stop, and that seemed unlikely to happen. Mr. Collins’s grating voice only seemed to make it worse.
But thankfully, Darcy and the doctor arrived at the same time as Charlotte returned from her walk, and then Charlotte was able to stop Mr. Collins from reading anymore, and the doctor was able to look at her ankle. He pronounced it a sprain, just as Darcy had thought.
Elizabeth gritted her teeth and tried to breathe through the pain. She only heard about half of what the doctor said, but she got the basic gist.
The doctor prescribed ice for the affected area and a dollop of laudanum and said that she would need some time to rest her injury.
Elizabeth resisted the laudanum. She had been given it a few years before and found that it upset her stomach.
Through it all, Darcy stayed with her, and he would be happy to be of any assistance that was needed, asking her often if anything more could be done to make her comfortable. He stayed for quite some time, until she was tired and nodding off, and even then, he promised that he would return on the morrow and would bring with him books and games and amusements, for she was not to be able to get up and about on her own for some time.
Before Elizabeth could be helped off to bed, however, she was subjected to a long discourse from Mr. Collins, who wished to relate to her that he had known a parishioner whose ankle had been thus hurt, and that it was six weeks before she was able to walk on her own. He desperately hoped the same was not true for her.
Elizabeth did too. She supposed if that was the case, she would be confined here in Hunsford for the duration, and she did not know if she could bear the society of Mr. Collins for so great a time.
But she tried not to think of that as she lay and waited for sleep to come. She tried to think of something pleasant, because—though she was quite tired—the pain was keeping her awake. She slept fitfully, dozing in and out, and when she woke she thought of Darcy’s letter and the things that he had claimed. She wondered if they could be true.
Of Mr. Wickham’s story, she found that she could make no certainty of it. She did think that it was likely that a man with a bad character would pin that character on someone else and declare himself blameless, so that counted against Mr. Darcy. However, she was unsure why Mr. Darcy would tell her something that put Georgiana in such a bad light. When she had met her, it had been obvious that she was a well-loved sister, and Darcy would not make up untrue things which would besmirch her character, Elizabeth didn’t think. He was not so bad as all that.
Also, there was the fact that she did know that Caroline Bingley’s designs on Mr. Darcy had been quite plain. She had clearly desired him. But had she really been so desperate to make the match as to go so far, to put her own reputation on the line? Elizabeth did not know the woman well enough to say, but she had to admit that her general opinion of Caroline had not been favorable.
There was a chance that all he had related to her was true, and that her opinion of him was entirely inaccurate. Maybe Mr. Darcy was not a bad man at all, but one who had been manipulated.
When she finally could not sleep, she gave in and consented to have a bit of laudanum after all. This time, mercifully, it did not affect her badly and she went to sleep almost immediately.
When morning came, it brought with it the pain, but as she had nothing to do that day except lie on the couch in the drawing room, it was all right.
Mr. Darcy was as good as his word, and came with a great assortment of books and cards and other amusements. He spent the entire day with her, and her comfort was his only concern. When she protested, he wouldn’t hear of it. “It is my fault you fell, you see,” he said. “I must do what I can for you.”
And because she was beginning to find his company rather agreeable, she did not protest again, but simply enjoyed his presence. It was easier to be with him when he was thus—neither proud and standoffish nor igniting fiery passion within her. He was simply a companion, and she was an invalid in need of cheering up. He proved to be quite up to the task.
Days passed in this same manner. A week had gone by, and not one day had passed that Mr. Darcy didn’t come to see Elizabeth. She looked forward to his visits, and when he was gone, she felt a strange emptiness, as if he had filled some missing hole in her life.
They spoke of everything, even of his supposed engagement to Miss de Bourgh, of which Elizabeth had heard of from several sources. Darcy told her it was not a true engagement, but only something that been desired by his family. At any rate, he could not marry her now, not with the fact he was promised to Miss Bingley.
But on that topic, neither found themselves much disposed to speak.
One evening, after the evening meal, Charlotte commented on it as she was sitting with her. “Mr. Darcy is different than we thought, is he not?”
“He is,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“Back in Hertfordshire, he said that you were not handsome, but when he looks at you now, I think he is quite pleased with your appearance.”
Elizabeth felt herself blushing. “Stop it, now, Charlotte. I know what you are about to say, and that can never be. Mr. Darcy is engaged.”
“Is that true, then?” said Charlotte. “It all seemed like a rumor passed aro
und amongst the servants.”
“It is true,” said Elizabeth.
“But… he cares for you,” said Charlotte.
Elizabeth didn’t answer.
“And you care for him?”
“He is a very good friend,” said Elizabeth, but she wasn’t looking at Charlotte.
Charlotte put her hand over Elizabeth’s. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.”
Elizabeth raised her gaze to meet hers. “It is hopeless. All hopeless. And to think that I lost my chance, that he asked me once to marry him, and I refused him, because I thought he was different than what he is. But you see him. He is the soul of goodness.”
“Yes,” said Charlotte, squeezing her friend’s hand. “He is a very good man, and I think he is in love with you.”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“But Lizzy,” said Charlotte, lowering her voice, “you and I both know that if he is truly engaged to another, then nothing good can come of your continued closeness. You must send him away. It is for your own good.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes. Oh, Charlotte, ever the practical one, the righteous one. What would Charlotte think if she knew that Elizabeth had kissed this man in the woods, had allowed his tongue into her mouth, and—what was more—Elizabeth had liked it? Charlotte would likely think she was a fallen woman. She opened her eyes again. “You are right, of course, but I simply can’t bear to do that.”
Elizabeth no longer questioned Mr. Darcy’s character. She had seen his true nature in the way he had been so selflessly committed to her recovery. She knew that he had told her the truth of what had happened. She believed him. He was no villain. He was a good man caught in a web of deceit. It only made her care more for him.
“I could do it for you,” said Charlotte. “I can speak to him. He must see the reason in it.”
“No, not… not yet,” said Elizabeth. “Once my ankle is healed, there will be no more reason for him to come. And it is improving. I think I shall be right as rain in another week or so.” It wasn’t as bad an an injury as Mr. Collins’s parishioner’s. “When that happens, I shall tell him myself.”
Charlotte hesitated, but then she nodded. “As you wish, then. But I would not see you any more hurt than you already are.”
Elizabeth gave her a watery smile. “You are good to worry over me, but don’t. This is not too much for me to bear.”
* * *
Within only four more days, Elizabeth was able to put weight on her foot, and most of the pain was gone. Everyone urged her to take things slow, not least Darcy, and she wanted to wallow in the injury, for it meant that he would be able to continue to come and see her.
But she did see the sense in what Charlotte had said to her. She could not continue to allow intimacy to grow between her and Darcy. They had no future together, and the more connected they became, the more painful it would be when they were torn apart from the other. And she knew that was inevitable.
She did not wish to confront Darcy and sever their connection, but she knew that she must. She was steeling herself to do it that next day. Charlotte kept putting pressure on her. Charlotte said that the sooner done the better, and she was right. The longer Elizabeth let her closeness with Darcy go on, the harder it would be to break it off. So, that morning, she was going to tell Darcy that he should not come to visit her anymore. Indeed, he should probably seek out his fiancée and arrange for his marriage to take place. That was the way this was going to end, after all. What was the use in prolonging it?
Elizabeth had come to Hunsford with the knowledge that she would die a spinster. Now, she was assured of it, for she could never see another man the way she saw Darcy, and she could not have him. It was a heartbreak, but nothing had changed, not truly. She would find her way through this, but it would be easier if she did not have to see him all the time, to be reminded of what she could not have.
But a letter arrived before Darcy did that morning, and when she had read the contents, all thoughts of dismissing him flew from her head. She was only consumed with what the letter said, and she sat on the couch in the drawing room, clutching it to her chest, too stunned to know if she should scream or cry and or tremble in fear.
It was to this scene that Darcy entered. When he was announced, she scarce glanced at him, just held the letter closer.
Darcy knew at once something was wrong, and he was next to her in an instant. “Elizabeth? What is it?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t speak or move or think.
“What are you holding?” He tried to take the letter from her, but the paper began to rip, so he stopped. “Elizabeth? Are you all right?”
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. “It’s Jane,” she said, and then she burst into tears.
Darcy got up and called for the housekeeper to bring some strong tea, and then he took her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Talk to me. What about your sister?”
“It’s in the letter,” she said, sniffing. She wiped at her eyes. The tears were fading. They had come on like a brief summer storm and left the same way, and now she wished for them back for what scant comfort they offered. “It’s not stated outright, but there’s dread all through it. My sister is dying.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Elizabeth got up from the couch, tears drying on her face. She limped toward the window, letting the letter flutter to the floor.
“Elizabeth, you should not be on your feet,” he said, getting up to brace her with one arm.
She collapsed into him. “She is very ill. My father writes, not my mother, and I believe my father. My mother might exaggerate. She is—well, you know what she is like. But my father, he would not worry me needlessly. He says it came on suddenly, and that she cannot eat. Everything she tries to keep down she vomits, and she is growing weak and wan and—and he doesn’t say, but I know he is telling me that I must make haste and go home if I want to see her alive again.”
“You can’t travel. Your ankle,” said Darcy. “Surely, your father knows of that. You wrote him to say.”
“Yes,” she said. “And don’t you see, that is why I know it is dire. For he would not tell me to risk it with my affliction if he did not think that time was growing thin. I must go to her. I must go at once.”
“How?” said Darcy. “How can you travel?”
“I had always planned to go back by post, and—”
“Absolutely not.” He pressed his lips into a firm line.
“It is not your decision,” she said, pushing out of his grasp. “It is my sister, and I shall not let anything get in my way—”
“I’ll take you,” he said.
“Oh,” she said.
“It is but half a day’s journey,” he said. “You will be much more comfortable in my coach than some wretched post coach, and I can make sure it is not too taxing on you with your injury.”
“My injury is mostly healed,” she said. “And you are most kind, but… well, we cannot go alone.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Mrs. Smith has been staying with my aunt and talking of how much she wants to travel back to Bedfordshire, which is only a bit further than Hertfordshire. She will doubtless want to accompany us.”
“But I want to leave now,” said Elizabeth. “As soon as possible.”
“Yes,” said Darcy. “Well, if we are quick about it, we can be on our way first thing tomorrow morning. Will that suit you? It is unlikely you could be gone any earlier by post.”
“Tomorrow will do,” she said.
He nodded. “I will go to make arrangements.” And with that, he was out of the room, leaving to do what he could.
Elizabeth was still too stunned by the news to think of much of anything else. But she managed to limp to her room and began the process of sorting through her belongings and packing.
Charlotte knocked on the door. “Did you do it, then?”
“What?” said Elizabeth, who was at her closet, removing her dresses.
“Elizabeth, what are
you doing? You shouldn’t be on your feet. Sit down.” Charlotte crossed the room and took her by the arm. She led her to her bed and helped her to sit down.
“I need to pack. I have to go home at once,” said Elizabeth.
“What?” Charlotte was perplexed. “I saw Mr. Darcy leave with all swiftness, and I assumed you had spoken to him.”
“No, I’m afraid not yet. But it is no matter. I will be home soon, after all.”
“I don’t understand. Was there something in the letter you received?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “It’s Jane. My sister is quite ill, and may not survive. I must go to her at once. Mr. Darcy has agreed to take me back to Hertfordshire tomorrow morning. So, you see, I must pack.” She gestured to the closet.
“No, don’t trouble yourself. I will have Stone do that. What are you thinking?” Charlotte put her hand to her forehead. Stone was a servant in the household. “You will be riding with Mr. Darcy in a coach?”
“There will be a chaperone, of course,” said Elizabeth. “Mrs. Smith will accompany us.”
“Oh, the guest of Lady Catherine’s. She is a widow, is she not?”
“I believe so.”
Charlotte shook her head. “He will go to the ends of the earth for you, won’t he? You are both in dreadful danger, Elizabeth.”
“When I am home, I will not see him.”
“For both your sakes, I hope you are right.” And then Charlotte abruptly embraced her. “Oh, I am sorry to hear the news about Jane. That is dreadful. And I will miss you. I have so enjoyed your company since you have arrived.”
Elizabeth hugged her back. “I shall come and visit again, whenever you call for me. I fear I shall be underfoot wherever I go for the rest of my life, and anyone who welcomes me will provide relief for my put-upon relatives.”
Charlotte pulled back and held her at arms’ length. “Don’t speak so, Elizabeth. You will marry and have your own household, and I shall be a guest there. It is only that you must… be realistic about such things.”
Elizabeth smiled wanly. “I appear to be far more susceptible to flights of fancy than I had ever considered.”
The Unraveling of Mr Darcy Page 12
