Waking to Mr. Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Novella

by Leenie Brown

  Her eyes flew open, and her lashes fluttered in disbelief. “You mended my stocking?”

  Darcy nodded, a lump forming in his throat. Perhaps it would grow so large that it would choke off his ability to babble, but it did not, at least not before he could add one more thought regarding her stocking. “You will no doubt wish to remove the stitches and do it properly, but it is wearable.” He was certain she did not care about the quality of his handiwork. She was more than likely mortified that he had seen or touched her stockings. His cheeks were beginning to flush, and he desperately wished to leave the room. But, he would not flee the inevitable. She would eventually know all. It might as well be now. “It is my shirt,” he dropped his gaze. He winced at the strangled gasping sound from Elizabeth. She would hate him for this, just as he had told Bingley. “You should lie down. The stress of these events cannot be good for you. We can discuss our marriage later.” And with that, he rose and did just as he had told himself he would not — he fled the room.

  Elizabeth watched him leave. His shirt? He had tended her clothing? He had stitched her stocking and her leg? It really was more than she thought she could countenance. She closed her eyes again, but this time, she did not just close them against the spinning of the room but also against his words. Marriage? To a man who despised her, and she despised in return?

  Tears slid down her cheeks. She brushed them away and flipped the blankets back so that she could see the gash on her leg. She peeked under the cloth that was tied around it. It was fairly neatly closed, but red and angry. As she tucked her leg back under the blankets, she noted the basin of water and cloth sitting next to the bed on the nightstand. Had Mr. Darcy also tended to her fever? She placed a hand on her forehead. It did feel warm. It was all too confusing.

  Confusing or not, whether the room was spinning or not, she needed to attend to a few things while he was not in the room. A few minutes later, having tended to her needs and satisfied her curiosity by looking at her clothing in the wardrobe, she tucked herself back into bed. Her head and leg throbbed, and her limbs felt weak. It had perhaps been too much activity to attempt on her own, but she had no maid and was unwilling to let him assist her. She would be well with some rest she told herself. The room would stop spinning, and her strength would return. She settled back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

  Darcy stood outside the door to the bedroom and heard her limp across the room. He held his breath as she latched the door. He listened to the wardrobe opening and various other sounds of things moving. Then, after some minutes, when the latch once again slid on the door, he let out a great breath and went to fetch tea. She needed something to help her body regain strength.

  Elizabeth brushed away another tear. She attempted to steel her nerves as she heard him approach the room. Whatever discussion must follow his return, she would face it with courage.

  “Some tea with a bit of honey, no milk,” he said as he placed a cup on the table next to the bed. “Are you able to manage it yourself?”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” She took a sip. “It is just how I like it.”

  “I know. It is how you took it at Netherfield.” He retrieved the chamber pot and left the room.

  Elizabeth groaned. He had not only seen her fully unclothed, but now, he was tending to that? It was obviously not possible to die of mortification, or she would have been dead twice over now. So allowing herself to feel the humiliation and still breathe, she sipped her tea and waited for him to rejoin her.

  “Please.” She motioned to the chair when he returned.

  “I shall get a cup,” he said with a nod. As he stood in the kitchen with kettle in hand, he considered putting it back and filling his cup with brandy instead, but he did not. However, he did not hurry in his preparation of his tea. “Do not say anything ungentlemanly.” He cautioned himself before returning to the room.

  Elizabeth waited for him to take a seat and a sip of his tea. “I remember Mr. Bingley opening the door but nothing after that,” she admitted. She had been trying to recall what had happened. There was the stumble, the fall, the wandering toward a cabin, Mr. Bingley, and then blackness.

  He took another swallow of his tea. “You swooned shortly thereafter.” Another swallow of tea. “I caught you.”

  She covered a yawn with her hand.

  “You should rest. We can discuss this later.”

  She shook her head. “I will not rest well without knowing.”

  “I fear you may not rest well even after you know.”

  It was strange to her how he found the contents of his teacup so interesting at that moment. Was he truly fearful of her response?

  “But I must know,” she said softly before stifling another yawn.

  He nodded his agreement and peeked up at her. He was certain he would feel the same if he were in her situation. “You swooned. I laid you on the couch and examined your head for an injury. There was none that was perceivable. Your arms seemed fine as well, so Bingley suggested that perhaps it was your leg. I thought that strange since you had been walking, but I agreed that we must check.”

  The contents of his cup had become once more of great interest. His discomfort in speaking was readily apparent to Elizabeth, and she felt a small tug of something at her heart.

  “You had begun to tremble at that time. I knew that if you were to remain in cold, wet clothes, the results could be grave.” Another swallow of tea and more study of his cup followed the comment. “We discovered that your leg was bleeding when we moved you to this room.”

  “Did both of you tend me?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He glanced up at her. “Bingley loves Jane.”

  It was a puzzling statement, but she smiled none-the-less. She had thought Mr. Bingley partial to her sister.

  “What needed to be done.” He stopped, lost as to how to proceed. “You were wet and cold and injured.”

  She nodded.

  “I was not in love with your sister.”

  Again she nodded.

  He knew his brain and mouth were beginning their trek down a dangerous path of babbling. “Forgive me. I shall probably not express myself well.” A last swallow of tea. “I thought it best that I put myself in the position of having to marry you. What father would not insist that a man, who did what I was about to, marry his daughter?”

  “What did you do?” Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with embarrassment imagining what it was that he had done.

  “I removed your boots and stockings and then realized that I would need Bingley to assist me — to hold your leg still as I fixed it.” He stood and paced. “Then, I undressed you, cleaned off whatever mud there was on your person, and put my shirt on you.” He stood with his back towards her. “I am sorry. It was necessary.” He glanced at her once before moving toward the door. “You should rest.”

  “Wait,” she called to him. “Is that all that has happened — not that it is not enough…”

  He turned. “You became feverish. I sat with you all night, and then, after Bingley had left this morning to go for help, you awoke. There is no more to tell.”

  “So you volunteered to tend me because Mr. Bingley wishes to marry my sister?”

  He nodded, and then with brows furrowed, shook his head. “You needed tending. I would never leave a friend to suffer a dire fate if I could in any way prevent it.”

  “Never?”

  There was something odd about the tone in which she asked the question, but not fully trusting his ability to accurately discern anything at the moment, he assured her that he would never abandon a friend. Then, with an apology and an insistence that she needed rest and that she only need call if he was needed, he once again fled the room.

  Chapter 4

  Time stretched on, one long, quiet minute after another. Elizabeth shifted in her bed, attempting to get comfortable. The pain in her head and leg made the task somewhat difficult, but her mind made it nearly impossible. Mrs. Darcy. The words echoed in her mind over and over. Sh
e was to be married to the man she despised. There was no hope of avoidance of the fact. She was alone with him in a cabin somewhere near Netherfield, dressed only in his shirt — she closed her eyes in mortification — which he had put on her. How was she to accept such a fate? How was she to accept such a man? She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Perhaps after a good rest, her head would not hurt as much, and the spinning would stop. Then, possibly then, she would be able to reconcile herself to her fate.

  Eventually, she drifted into a state of half-wakefulness. Her mind refused to stop its work, but her body was equally as eager to find rest. The card party at her aunt Philips’ house played in her mind — the tables, all neatly and cozily arranged; the excitement of Lydia at having won a bet; the droning of her cousin, attempting to fill the room with praises of his patroness; and Wickham. Even in her state of semi-awareness, she smiled at the name. His description of the weather had been most pleasant — an unusual occurrence for normally such small talk was dull. However, his ability with words had made it delightful. She almost wished for the rain as he spoke of it.

  Ah, the rain, she would listen to that. Perhaps it would drown out her ruminations and allow for sleep. For a time, it worked. Her mind relaxed. She thought about nothing but the constant dripping and tapping of the rain. And then just as she was about to drift into a dream, Wickham’s voice returned but not as it had been before. This time, as the dream took it, the words twisted and turned, converging with those of her sister’s.

  “I have no right to give my opinion.” Wickham smiled.

  “He is correct,” said Jane from the corner, “he has no right on such a short acquaintance to speak to you of such things. Do not listen.”

  “I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial,” Wickham continued.

  “He speaks truth again,” Jane whispered in her ear. “His words are partial, he tells what he believes to be true, but it is only his view. The window might be cloudy.”

  Play continued around them but did not include them. They sat as ghosts unseen by the others.

  “The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.” Wickham cocked his head to the side and placed a hand on Elizabeth’s.

  “He is trying to draw you in,” Jane’s whisper was sharp, and she drew Elizabeth’s hand out from under Wickham’s. “He wishes you to see him only as he wishes to be seen, and he only wishes you to see Mr. Darcy as he wishes you to see the man. Do not listen any longer.”

  “He has treated me ill,” continued Wickham, “which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy.”

  “Oh,” Jane moved between Elizabeth and Wickham, “jealousy is definitely at play but who is the more jealous remains to be seen. Come away with me, dear sister.”

  Wickham’s eyes filled with sorrow, but Elizabeth could not tell if it was genuinely felt or feigned. “I would never dishonor his father, but to him, I cannot be just.”

  “He is not just!” Jane’s hands cupped Elizabeth’s face. “He is not just! Mr. Darcy is good. Mr. Bingley is his friend, so how could he be anything less than good? Be reasonable, Elizabeth; come away with me. We have had enough of this man’s charming words.”

  Wickham pushed Jane to the side with a wink and a smile. “Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversable companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous.”

  “Dear sister, beware. Remember what you have seen of Mr. Darcy. Remember how he acted at Netherfield. Consider how he acted just now. Is this the man Mr. Wickham describes?” She pulled at Elizabeth’s arm to draw her away. “Do not judge a man based solely on the words of another man who shares such secrets when you have only just met. Be wise. Consider. Judge for yourself. Come away.”

  “I will,” murmured Elizabeth as the images faded into the mist of sleep.

  ~*~*~

  Darcy tapped lightly on Elizabeth’s door before opening it slowly and peering in to see if she was awake. She was not, but he entered anyway. He had slept for a short time on the couch, but his eyes still burned, and his body ached for more rest. However, despite the demands of his tired body, he wished to see that she was indeed well and had not suddenly taken a turn for the worse. He knew in his mind that such worries were foolish, but his traitorous heart would not allow him to push them aside. He stood next to her bed. She looked peaceful. Her cheeks were not so flushed as they had been. He gently rested his hand on her forehead. She was still warm. He sat in the chair and watched her. Her wellbeing would be his responsibility now. Unable to stop himself, he touched her cheek.

  She turned towards him, her eyes fluttering open for a moment and a smile forming on her lips.

  He sucked in a breath as he waited for her to recognize that it was him and for the beautiful expression she wore to fade as realization dawned. However, to his delight, her eyes opened, and her smile remained.

  She lifted a brow. “You are a most attentive physician, Mr. Darcy.” Her tone was light.

  “I worry,” he muttered, slightly unsettled by her teasing.

  “Did I pass your exam?” She moved to sit up and immediately he was there to assist.

  “I only wished to see if your fever had increased. It has not.”

  “This is good,” Elizabeth commented. “But you should be aware that there is a slight scratchiness to my throat.”

  “I will get you some tea.” He moved to leave.

  “Not just yet,” she rested her hand on his. “We will speak for a while and then when you need to remove yourself from the conversation, or I need you to be removed, you may get me some tea.”

  He blinked. She understood his unease? Very few did. “Of what shall we speak?”

  Elizabeth pondered the question. There was much she wanted to know — indeed, much she needed to know. “You. I would like to speak about you.” Her heart thudded against her ribs.

  He settled into his chair. “Very well. What shall I tell you about me?”

  She studied him. He was relaxed to a degree, but there was still a rigidness to his shoulders, and the fingers of his left hand tapped the side of his leg. She smiled. “I know you are from Derbyshire. In fact, I have heard it told that you own half of it.”

  “My estate is extensive. It has much land and many tenants, and the house is larger than Netherfield. It is well-tended and profitable. You shall want for nothing.”

  “I was not inquiring in regards to myself.”

  Her smile had faded, and he grimaced. “I apologize. I did not mean to offend. I can tell you of my tenants and my fields if you prefer or of the house itself. I also have a house in town in Grosvenor Square.” He shook his head. “I only wished to assure you that marriage to me would not be without benefit.” He grimaced again. “That was not well said either.” He blew out a breath. “I shall no doubt offend with my comments, but I would rather you be aware of what lies ahead and be prepared than enter into our marriage blindly.”

  Elizabeth took note of how he shifted slightly, and all but one of his fingers stopped their nervous tapping of his leg. She had thought that speaking of himself might put him at ease, but it was apparent she was quite incorrect about that.

  “To say my estate is half of Derbyshire is not an exaggeration. I am responsible for a great many things and a great many people. If I do not do well, neither do they. It is not a responsibility I take lightly, and I would expect my wife to show an equal amount of care for her duties to the estate and our home in town.” He held up the finger that had been tapping his leg. “Not that I think you would not give such things their due, but it is a new situation in which you will find yourself. It is not Longbourn.”

  She nodded, unsure if she should be offended at his comments or not. It stung to have her abilities doubt
ed, and she wished to tell him that she was prepared to run any household he might have. However, he had said it was larger than Netherfield, and although she was positive she could manage Netherfield, she was uncertain if she could manage something far more grand.

  “My uncle, you may be aware, is an earl.”

  “I have heard. Your aunt is my cousin Mr. Collins’s patroness.” She waited, fearful of his response to such a connection.

  His brows rose. “Lady Catherine?”

  She nodded. “He was recently given the living at Hunsford.”

  “And your cousin — it is he who visits you now?”

  “It is.”

  “And he has told you of Lady Catherine?”

  “In great detail.” She smiled. “My cousin is not a man of few words or paltry praises. He has, I would suspect, given her even greater homage than she is due. He is quite insufferable.”

  Darcy chuckled. “Indeed?”

  “Quite. It was his presence that drove me out of doors when rain threatened.”

  “He speaks so much?”

  “Far more than you might imagine and about the most ridiculous things.” Elizabeth smoothed the blanket over her legs. “He has come to Longbourn at your aunt’s request to find a wife among his cousins. It appeared as if he had selected me, and since I feared staying too long in the house with him might give him an opportunity to propose, I fled to the woods.”

  Darcy nodded. “You do not wish to marry him?”

  “Most decidedly I do not!” She shuddered. “I cannot even bare a few moments of his babblings without wishing to do him harm. I should never survive a marriage.” She shuddered again.

  Darcy chuckled again. “Or he would not.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “There is that, too.” He was capable of jokes. That was something in his favour.