Waking to Mr. Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Novella

by Leenie Brown

  “You still do not look well,” said Bingley from where he sat near the fire. “Although you are not so pale as you were.” He tipped his head. “In fact, you look rather flushed.”

  Darcy chose not to acknowledge the comment or the teasing tone in which it was said. He was feeling rather flummoxed. His heart had already begun to betray him before this evening, but now it seemed to have utterly abandoned all sense of reason. He pulled on his coat and turned toward the door.

  “Are you going for help?” Bingley jumped to his feet.

  Darcy shook his head. He needed air, and Elizabeth’s clothes needed cleaning. “Heat some more water and see if you can find a basin in which I might wash her clothes.”

  “You are going to wash her clothing?” Bingley’s eyes were wide.

  “She cannot put them back on as they are.”

  Bingley nodded thoughtfully, though it was evident from the look on his face that he had not considered the need. “I had thought her father would bring something for her to wear.”

  “If she wakes before he arrives, she cannot get out of bed.” He intentionally looked away from Bingley as he said it. He could feel his face and ears growing warmer as he thought of why she could not get out of bed. His shirt was plenty large and hung to her knees or nearly so, but the way it draped around her body and its ability to only mask what lay beneath made it far from decent. “She is not exactly dressed for company.” He pulled his hat down as Bingley chuckled softly. “I will rinse her clothes in the rain as best I can and then wash them in the water you prepare.” He opened the door and stepped outside.

  Darcy placed a bucket of rainwater inside the door and waited while Bingley found a basin and then emptied the water into a large pot for heating before returning the bucket to Darcy.

  Darcy tugged the door shut and returned the bucket to where it could collect water and be reached without venturing too far into the rain to retrieve it. Then, he placed Elizabeth’s clothing on the portion of the wood pile that was exposed to the wind and rain where the roof of the structure built to keep the wood dry was broken and partially missing. Bingley would need to fix that as soon as possible if he wished to have a place to escape his sister and enough wood to keep him warm and fed while hiding.

  Darcy rubbed the fabric of Elizabeth’s stockings, trying to help the rain remove the stains of mud and blood. Then setting them aside, he attended to her chemise and petticoat before working on her dress. Try as he might, he could not keep his mind from wandering to the wearer of the garments.

  “I have never wished to marry for convenience,” he said as he stood back, sheltered from the rain, watching it fall onto Elizabeth’s clothing. “Nor have I wished to be trapped.” He leaned his head back against the structure and studied the jagged edge of wood where the roof opened to the dark evening sky and allowed the rain to pour through. He was certain Elizabeth wished for neither eventuality either, but wished for or not, a marriage was about to be forced upon them. His heart ached, not because he would have to marry Elizabeth; he had resigned himself to the fact, and his heart, betrayer that it was, would not allow him to regret it. However, it would allow him to feel the pain of having removed Elizabeth’s choice. “I am sorry, ” he whispered to the dress that lay on the wood. He gathered the full pail of water and took it to the door for Bingley before returning to his place to once again watch the rain fall on her clothes.

  Bingley would be his brother, which was an advantage to the arrangement. However, he scowled and huffed, Bingley came with sisters, as did Miss Elizabeth. Jane was acceptable. He would not mind being part of any gathering which she chose to attend, but the rest of the Bennets, as well as Caroline and Louisa, he could do without. Not that avoidance of either set of relations would be possible, he supposed. Of course, being married would, at least, keep him out of Caroline’s grasp, and since his estate was in Derbyshire, there was hope that travel might not suit Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Again his heart turned on him and made him feel pained at separating Elizabeth from those she loved. He gathered her clothes, squeezed as much water out of them as he could and returned to the warm, dry confines of the cottage. Then, after disposing of his coat and hat, he began the task of finishing the cleaning of the clothes.

  Bingley chuckled as he watched him. “I never imagined I would see you playing the part of a servant.”

  Darcy was not finding the humor in their situation as Bingley seemingly was. “Do you think me too good to do menial tasks?” He asked rather sharply. “Have you not seen me tend to my own things when we have been hunting? And I assure you there is much that I help with on my estate.”

  Bingley chuckled again. “It is a different thing to see you tending to a dress.”

  Darcy shook his head. “I have a sister.”

  “As do I,” said Bingley, “but neither of us does their laundry.”

  Darcy shrugged. It was true. When Georgiana was young, he had brushed dirt from her skirt and kissed her forehead as he dried tears, but he had staff that tended to things beyond that. Until today, he had never sewn flesh together, though he had seen it done, nor had he ever done the work of a ladies’ maid. His face grew warm again at the thought, and he rubbed the article of clothing he held more vigorously. Finally, when Elizabeth’s things were as clean as he was going to get them, he hung them near the fireplace to dry and then turned the chairs that he and Bingley had been occupying so that their backs were to her things.

  “It seems wrong that we should stare at her clothing while it dries,” he said softly in explanation as Bingley returned from the kitchen with a plate of cheese, cold meat and bread. “I am certain she would not approve.”

  Bingley agreed, and the two took their seats again. This time, however, Darcy had the greater share of brandy in his glass.

  They sat there for some time, eating and listening to the sound of the rain falling on the roof and the crackling of the fire.

  “You will not be able to get help tonight,” Darcy said finally. “Perhaps in the morning.” He rose from his chair, placed his glass on a table near the couch and went to check on Elizabeth. Her cheeks were flushed, and before he had placed a hand on her forehead, he knew that she was feverish. He dipped a cloth in the water basin that remained in the room and, then, placed the cool, damp cloth on her forehead.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” he spoke as if she could hear him. His physician had always claimed that it might be possible for a person to hear even when senseless, and Darcy, unwilling to challenge the notion to the detriment of the invalid, had subscribed to the practice. “Your clothes are drying nicely by the fire. I was not able to remove all the stains, but perhaps when you return home, your servants will have better success than I. I am not skilled in tending to laundry, I am afraid.” He drew a small, wooden, straight-backed chair near her bed and sat for a few minutes. “Bingley will go for help in the morning. It is still raining and travel would not be safe as the moon is hidden.” He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. “You will be well soon.” He hoped that she believed it, for he was not certain he did. But his mood was rather dour, so things might not be so dreadful as he feared. After watching her sleep for a few moments and trying not to let his spirits become any lower, he removed the cloth from her forehead, rinsed it, and replaced it. “I will return,” he said. He exited the room but left the door open.

  “Help me carry this chair into her room,” he said to Bingley, indicating the chair Darcy had reclined in before the fire. “She has a fever,” he said in answer to Bingley’s lifted brows. “I might get a bit more rest in this chair than in the wooden one in there.”

  “If you are certain,” said Bingley.

  “I am certain of very little,” Darcy admitted.

  Instead of picking up his side of the chair as Darcy expected him to do, Bingley leaned on the back of the chair impeding Darcy’s progress. “You have done what was needed.”

  “She will hate me for it.” He smiled tightly at
his friend.

  Bingley shrugged one shoulder and tilted his head. “She may for a while, but you are not without your charms.”

  Darcy shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I do not have an ounce of charm.”

  “Sit,” said Bingley. “She will be well for a moment.”

  Darcy eyed the chair and then the door to the bedroom.

  “Seriously, man, sit down,” said Bingley. “I shall not help you move this chair until you do.”

  “I see there is a bit of Caroline in you,” grumbled Darcy with a smile as he took a seat.

  Bingley laughed. “Thankfully, only a bit.” He paced in front of Darcy. “Tell me, why do you fear her hatred?” Arms folded across his chest, he turned to face his friend.

  Darcy did not know what made him fear Elizabeth’s displeasure so very much. It was more than likely his traitorous heart causing the confusion. While he was confident he did not yet love her, he was equally as certain that he cared for her. He was never at ease when he made a friend unhappy. A stranger, a meddling relative, a business associate who refused to see reason — these he did not give two figs about if they were put out with him, but a friend? He shook his head; that was a different thing altogether.

  “I will tell you,” said Bingley dropping into his chair. “It will unsettle your very organized and orchestrated life. You will finally be doing what you wish in breaking that sham of an engagement to your cousin. Your uncle will finally stop badgering you about doing your duty, and your sister will have a sister that will do her good. Not to mention, my sister will, at last, be put in her place instead of drawn along by your dashed proper gentlemanliness.” He chuckled. “Oh, it will bring some raised voices and censure, perhaps, but, in the end, it will bring happiness. How could it not? You have been smitten with her since…well, since after that assembly.”

  “Happy with a woman who hates me for forcing her into marriage?” Darcy scoffed. “It matters not what I feel for her if she despises me. In fact, should I fancy her above all others, that shall only make my misery that much greater when my affections are not returned. And then, there is the matter of her relations.”

  Bingley cleared his throat and glared at him.

  “They are boisterous. You know how I do not like cacophonous gatherings — and what else shall they be?” He blew out a breath. “And I shall be removing her from them. While I might not appreciate them, I am sure she loves them.” He stood. “It is no good. You have tried, but I will not be appeased until I have her forgiveness.”

  “Only hers?” Bingley’s left brow rose slightly and his lips curled in a hint of a smile.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you not desire your relations’ forgiveness?” Bingley steepled his fingers in front of his chest.

  Darcy started at the question. No, he had not thought to even seek it. He only truly cared for their acceptance — of her.

  “And what of her father?” asked Bingley. “I am certain her mother will not require any apology seeing as you have ten thousand a year.” The smirk on his face grew as he said the last bit in a high, ladylike voice.

  Darcy chuckled. How could he not at the ridiculous sound? “I suppose I would wish for his forgiveness.”

  “But it is hers above all that you seek?”

  “Yes.” He rolled his eyes at the smug look on Bingley’s face. “I admit I care for her as I would care for any friend.”

  “Of course.” Bingley stood and took his place at the chair to help move it. “However, I believe it is something a bit deeper.” He held up a hand to forestall the denial. “Do not give me some lecture on love, Darcy. We both know I am more well-versed in matters of the heart than you are — although I have only recently discovered what it is to be truly in love.”

  “Yes, about that,” said Darcy, taking small shuffling steps and glancing over his shoulder to see his way. “Are you sure it is not infatuation?”

  “Do not begin again with me, Darcy. I have already told you that it is not, and her connections are improving. I hear her sister is to marry a wealthy gentleman with an uncle who is an earl. An earl!” Again, he adopted the high, ladylike voice.

  “Shhh,” cautioned Darcy with a grin. “She is sleeping.”

  As quietly as possible, they placed the chair near Elizabeth’s bed. Then, after obtaining an assurance from Darcy that he would call for assistance if needed, Bingley left the room.

  “I shall be keeping you company tonight,” Darcy said to Elizabeth as he changed the cloth on her forehead and made note of how warm her skin felt. Then he settled into the chair and rested his head against the wide wing. “Please poke me if I begin to snore.”

  Chapter 3

  Darcy slept in fits as best he could through the night, waking now and again to check on Elizabeth and change the cloth on her forehead. When the first rays of morning were attempting to push their way through the clouds that refused to disperse, Bingley rose, made tea, and ensured that Darcy had both tea and something to eat before donning his coat and hat and heading out into the rain.

  Darcy paced the cabin for a bit, allowing his legs to feel the pleasantness of movement after sitting for so long. He gathered Elizabeth’s clothes, which were dry, folded them and placed them in the wardrobe next to his own things in the bedroom. Then, with book in hand, he returned to his position of watchfulness at her side. She was still warm, but not frightfully so. The fever did not seem to be rampant. He lifted the blanket from her leg and checked her injury, satisfied that it was doing well, he opened his book and began to read. The words travelled through his mind, one after the other, but none of them made a morsel of sense. He reread the passage, but still, the words held no meaning. He placed the book on the table near the bed. Perhaps, he would try again later. He sought for something to do that would occupy his time. His eyes kept returning to the wardrobe. Ah, her stocking needed repair. He was not proficient with a needle and thread, but he was not without some skill. If she were to wear them home, she might appreciate that the one not have a large hole in it. So, he gathered what he needed and set to the task of repairing the damage her fall had done to the item of clothing.

  He was just tying off his work when she moaned softly and rolled to her side, facing away from him. She drew her knees upward and hissed.

  Darcy’s heart beat rapidly in his chest. He was happy that she was beginning to stir, but he was also nervous about her reaction to finding herself here, with him. He put his needle away and folding her stocking, returned it to the wardrobe.

  “Mr. Darcy?”

  He turned to see Elizabeth rubbing her eyes and looking at him in confusion.

  “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Why are you here?” She attempted to sit up.

  “Please stay lying down,” insisted Darcy. “You are not yet well.” He took his seat near her once again. “Do you remember falling?” he asked, watching her eyes closely to see if they would look distant or focused.

  She nodded her head and winced.

  “So you did injure your head,” he said with a small smile. “I did not feel any lumps, where exactly does it hurt?”

  She still wore a look of confusion, but her eyes were focused. “Here.” She placed a hand on the right side of her head. “I stumbled and hit my head on a tree, which caused me to lose my footing altogether, and I fell.”

  “Cutting your leg?”

  She blinked. “Yes. There were some branches near where I fell. One of them caught my leg.” She moved her left leg slightly. “It is very sore.”

  “It was no mere scratch,” said Darcy. “It took several stitches to close it.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I am afraid my needlework is not a fine as yours would be, but it has managed to hold the wound closed.”

  She began to sit once again. “You? You stitched my leg?”

  He helped her to sit, drawing a pillow up to rest behind her back. “I would prefer that you remain lying down,” he murmured. “You are still slightly feverish and sho
uld not do anything to worsen it.”

  Elizabeth would have taken exception to his comments if it had not been for the tender tone of concern with which they were delivered. She placed a hand on the sore spot on her head. Her brain must be thoroughly addled if she was attributing such sentiments to the dour and disapproving Mr. Darcy. The movement caused her to take note of the garment she was wearing. Her eyes grew wide. “What am I wearing?”

  Darcy grimaced. His heart began to beat a rapid rhythm. “We must talk, but I am not certain you are well enough yet.”

  She peeked beneath her covers. It did not feel like she was wearing her clothes, but for some reason, her mind would not believe it without proof. She sucked in a quick breath as she realized that she was not wrong. She was wearing a shirt and, it appeared, she was wearing only a shirt. She drew the blankets up to her neck and held them there. “Whose shirt am I wearing, and where are my clothes?”

  The panic that Darcy saw in her eyes reflected that which he felt in his stomach.

  Perhaps Mr. Darcy was right, she should have stayed lying down. She rested her head back against the headboard of the bed and closed her eyes against the spinning of the room. Perhaps when she opened them again, this confusing dream would be gone. She peeked one eye open and closed it again. Mr. Darcy was still there, looking just as uneasy as she felt. This was not a dream. “My clothes?” she whispered, daring to open her eyes and peer at him.

  He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt as if needing to loosen a cravat, but, Elizabeth noticed, he was not wearing one. In fact, he was rather dishevelled. He was not wearing a jacket, his shirt was opened slightly at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to nearly his elbows. She closed her eyes again.

  “They are in the wardrobe. Cleaned as best I could manage and dried. As soon as you feel well enough, you may put them back on. I just finished mending your torn stocking.” His hand motioned awkwardly to the wardrobe. She was not even watching. Why was he gesturing? He shook his head. He was not good at conversations with ladies in general. A conversation with a lady whom you had compromised and were about to tell must marry you, was even more challenging.