Elizabeth threw herself upon the bed. “Oh, Jane!” she said. “I have embarrassed us all terribly.” She buried her face in the pillow. “I sneezed in Mr. Darcy’s face!”
Jane’s soft hand stroked her hair. It felt quite wonderful. Elizabeth never wanted to rise again. Perhaps she could stay here forever?
At length, Jane spoke, her sweet, quiet voice at such a contrast to Miss Bingley’s shrill exhortations. “Why, Lizzie, were you close enough to Mr. Darcy to sneeze in his face?”
Elizabeth groaned and dug deeper into the pillow.
“Oh, my dear Lizzie, do not blame yourself! It was an accident. Unfortunate, to be sure. But if one could always control one’s sneezes, one would never sneeze at all. Mr. Darcy is, I’m certain, too much of a gentleman to hold it against you forever.”
“Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, miserably, sitting up, and causing a new wave of pain to crest through her brow, “thinks himself too much a gentleman to ever concern himself with me again.”
“Well,” said Jane. “It is not as if you have ever desired his good opinion, at any rate.” She studied Elizabeth carefully. “You look quite indisposed, dear sister. Should you not get undressed and go to bed?” She pressed her hand against Elizabeth’s brow. “You feel most warm. I am concerned that you too have fallen ill.”
Elizabeth was forced to admit that her sister was in all likelihood correct. She submitted to letting Jane take the pins from her hair, which helped significantly with her headache, and soon thereafter changed into her nightdress and allowed herself to be tucked into bed.
“Now it shall be my turn to take care of you,” said Jane. “As you have been so carefully nursing me.”
Elizabeth nodded, weakly, and closed her eyes. But before she drifted off, she thought of Mr. Darcy and of how, eventually, she would be forced to leave this room and face him once again.
Chapter 4
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, grandson of an earl, friend and brother and consummate gentleman, could not sleep. It was not matters of business which kept him awake, long after he and his friends had quit the drawing room, long after every candle in the house had been snuffed—no, his mind was more agreeably, and more disturbingly, engaged.
He had no choice but to admit it at long last: Elizabeth Bennet was the most bewitching woman he had ever met. Not even the lapse in propriety which had caused her to flee the room earlier this evening could temper his feelings toward her, though Bingley’s sisters had engaged in no less than half an hour’s exhortations on the subject after the poor creature’s departure. What shocking, ill-bred behavior, Miss Bingley had insisted. Did they not teach manners in the country? Mrs. Hurst had wondered. Had she no handkerchief?
It had at last become too much even for Mr. Bingley’s good nature. “I am sure that sneeze took her quite by surprise!” he had declared. “It is not for us to pass judgment on an occasion over which Miss Elizabeth had no control. She was clearly as taken aback and mortified as anyone else in the room. I only hope she has not fallen as ill as her sister.” He had turned then to Mr. Darcy and inquired about whether or not he should send the housekeeper up to check on her.
“Certainly not,” Darcy had responded. “I am sure both ladies have long retired, and such an intrusion would only invade upon their privacy.”
Mr. Bingley was thus mollified, and his sisters seemed to think they had done their part to divert the gentlemen’s minds from the Misses Bennet.
They had not. And, worse, Mr. Darcy had finally become aware how very severe the danger was when it came to the second Miss Bennet. Not even the application of her spittle to his cheek could dissuade him from his too-warm thoughts of her.
How very shocked she had looked when she sneezed on him! How very foolish he had been to linger so close to her.
But how could he have helped it? She vexed him and, moreover, seemed delighted to do so. There was not a single subject on which he imagined they might be prevailed upon to agree, not a single moment in which she would be easy and affable in his presence. And yet, and yet, he found he craved fighting with her more than any conversation he’d ever had with society ladies who hung upon his every word and sought for nothing more than to please him.
No, perhaps she was not handsome enough to have tempted him upon their first meeting. It was not her beauty he found tempting. It was everything else.
This was twice now that she had turned him down for a dance. She would persist, it seemed, to deny him. And the more she did it, the more he felt as if he would not be satisfied until he’d managed, even once, to touch her hand.
After what must have been hours of tossing and turning, he rose and crossed to the window, wrapping his dressing-gown about him and tying it closed with a sash. The moon was full upon the gardens of Netherfield Park, and the wind shook the treetops. The weather suited his mood: neither stormy nor fair, but a frustrating combination of both.
It had been several months since he’d lost sleep. Not since this summer, in fact, when he’d spent half a dozen nights awake and wondering if word of Georgiana’s near-scandal would indeed get out. But it did not. George Wickham had kept his mouth shut, and the deplorable Mrs. Young had done likewise. Darcy’s threats to them had been believed, apparently.
As for his sister, she did not appear to have suffered any lasting damage from the experience. Her partiality to Wickham had evaporated as quickly as it had formed once the man had vanished, and now she seemed only embarrassed at how she had allowed herself to be misled.
But Darcy did not blame her. It was easy—so easy—to imagine one’s feelings for a person to be stronger than they were when you were put in such close proximity. This, surely, was what was currently happening to him now in the matter of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How could he hold such weakness against Georgiana, who was little more than a child, when he was affected so himself?
Of course, as he was not a child, but a full grown man, a scion of the Darcy family tree, descended from those who traveled to this island with no less than William the Conqueror himself—he would not let it rise to more than the rank of momentary temptation. A simple flirtation in the countryside would do him no lasting harm. He simply must ensure that it did not go farther than that.
Simple.
Out in the garden, the rain-soaked shrubbery glimmered in the moonlight. It was all very picturesque, like something out of a novel. All one would need was a ghost to waft eerily up the path.
And then one did.
Darcy blinked and looked again. A figure in white was careening wildly through the hedge maze. And he realized, to his absolute astonishment, that it was none other than the very lady who had robbed him of repose. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Her hair flowed in dark ringlets down her back, and her nightdress billowed out around her as she ran. Whatever was she doing out and about, at that time of night and in such state of undress? He couldn’t imagine what Bingley’s sisters might say should they catch wind of this.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind there came another one, much more serious in nature. What was she doing in the garden in her nightdress? This was no mere country quirk. Was she quite mad?
Before he could do anything so rational and measured as stop himself and call for a footman, Darcy slid his feet into a pair of slippers and left the room. He rushed down the stairs, across the hall, and out the front door of his best friend’s house. In his dressing-gown. In the middle of the night.
The air was cold and wet, and Darcy felt the chill even through the thick brocade and velvet of his dressing-gown. She must be freezing in her thin linen shift. He turned and headed around the side of the house to the hedge maze, replaying her location in his mind.
When he came upon her, she had collapsed on the path, a heap of damp white fabric and tangled curls. As he approached, he could hear her sobbing.
“Miss Bennet!” he cried, and knelt beside her. “What are you doing outside at this hour? You must come back into the house.”
He laid the back of his hand against her forehead and winced. This was fever. This was, quite possibly, delirium. She must have been infected with her sister’s ailment.
“Miss Bennet,” he said softly. “Elizabeth…”
“I want to go home.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, in a tone as soft as he could bear making it. “I will take you there.”
He would take her no such place. She must go back to her room, at once. He lifted her in his arms, again regretting that he had not called a footman.
Elizabeth threw her arms about his neck and pressed her face into the collar of his dressing-gown.
No, it was better not to alert the servants. This had the potential to turn into a scandal.
Under normal circumstances, Darcy might have chosen to have words with Bingley about his household staff. He should not have been able to come in and out of the house in the middle of the night with no notice. But in this particular case, he was relieved that there was no one about to see him carrying an undressed and unconscious Elizabeth Bennet through the great marble hall of Netherfield Park.
Outside the room where Elizabeth was staying with Jane, Darcy shifted the senseless woman in his arms and gave the door a swift, soft knock.
No answer.
“Miss Bennet,” he hissed. Whatever would someone think who came upon him in this moment? He would have done better to alert the servants when he was still in the garden, so no one would conclude that he was attempting mischief upon these ladies at this late hour. Elizabeth’s feet were muddy, as was the hem of her shift, but what might that prove or disprove?
“Miss Bennet!” he tried again, louder.
The door cracked open and he saw the face of the elder sister, prim, in her nightcap, with a dressing robe drawn up to her chin. In her hand, she held a candle.
“Mr. Darcy, whatever can this—” her voice fell silent as she took in the sight of the bundle in his arms. “Lizzy?”
She whirled around and raised her candle toward the bed she had clearly just left, as if to ascertain that, indeed, her sister was not tucked in among the blankets there.
“Miss Bennet, I happened to catch sight of your sister running through the gardens tonight. By the time I got outside, she was quite insensible.”
Jane gasped.
“Please, let me in, before we cause a commotion.”
She nodded, lips pursed, and opened the door more fully. He brushed past her and laid Elizabeth out on the bed.
Jane hurried to her sister’s side, tugging the fabric of her nightdress down and covering her swiftly with a blanket. “Sir, thank you for your quick thinking. I needn’t tell you that this is most unusual. My sister has not the habit of wandering around out of doors at night.”
“Indeed. She seems quite ill.”
“She has never done this before, I assure you.”
He looked at her in some astonishment. “I do not think her mad, Miss Bennet. I believe she has a bad fever. Worse even, perhaps, than yours was. I believe she was not even fully awake when she left the house. Perhaps in her fever, she did not know why she wasn’t home at Longbourn.”
Jane sighed in relief. “Yes, I am sure that you are right.”
“I will have a doctor brought here first thing in the morning. Would you like me to call a maid to sit with her tonight?”
“No, I shall nurse her myself,” Jane replied. “As she did for me.”
“You are not well enough,” he insisted.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Jane, in a harsh tone that reminded him almost of her sister’s, “I must ask you to leave at once. We must not risk someone catching you in our room.”
“Of course.” He bowed. “And you may trust that no one will ever hear of this incident.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, curtly.
“I am at your service, Miss Bennet.” And then he departed, proud that he did not spare another look at the pitiful figure in the bed.
Well, not a long look.
The Bingleys were all astonishment on the morrow to see Mr. Jones arrive before breakfast, stating only a sudden, fervent desire to see how Miss Bennet fared. He was admitted at once and emerged from the guests’ room with news that although the elder Miss Bennet was recovering nicely, the younger one had succumbed to a similar infection and was possessed of an even higher fever and more acute ailments.
“How dreadful,” Mr. Bingley had declared. “We must ensure all measures are taken to see to their comfort.”
“And to prevent this illness from spreading further!” Miss Bingley added. “Charles, do you think it wise that they should remain in this house? Are we not endangering ourselves?”
Mr. Bingley frowned slightly. “Why, my dear Caroline, were not you spending many hours in their room only yesterday?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But I did not know yet that the illness was so contagious.”
Darcy shook his head and took another sip of tea. Perhaps Miss Bingley would like to see the room bricked up, as if the Bennets suffered from the Black Death? “If the elder Miss Bennet is already recovered, I’d wager Miss Elizabeth will be back to her usual, impertinent glory within a day or two.”
“Oh, yes!” Miss Bingley said at once, turning toward him, a canny look upon her face. “Her eyes will be as fine as ever, no doubt. Her opinions as decidedly low.”
There. The subject was changed.
When the weather cleared by late morning, Darcy decided to take a long ride on his horse. The animal was eager for a good run after days of being cooped up in the stable, and the brisk wind in his face served well to help him clear his head.
For he could not stop thinking of how Elizabeth Bennet had looked with her hair wild and free. How she had felt, pressed tightly in his arms. Of what he had thought when he saw her stretched out in her bed.
They were things he should not have seen, should not have felt. They were things he should have no knowledge of, whatsoever. Things he had as good as promised her sister Jane that he would banish from his memory entirely.
Things that would not help him at all in his struggle against the feelings Elizabeth Bennet was rousing in his soul.
He returned in time for tea and nearly three entire sentences of mild rebuke from Bingley about going riding without him—a lecture that promptly ended when they were joined by none other than Miss Bennet herself, looking a wee bit pale but otherwise no worse for her two days of sickness.
At once, Bingley rushed to the fair lady’s side, exclaiming eagerly about her state of health and making polite inquiries as to that of her sister.
Jane’s gaze flicked to Mr. Darcy. “I am quite well, Mr. Bingley, thanks to you and your sister’s generosity. My sister appears to be slightly more afflicted than I, but that may be due to my inferior nursing skills. She took much better care of me than I seem to be well enough to do for her.”
“Miss Bennet,” he insisted at once, “You must not over-exert yourself. I can assign a housemaid to your room to care for your sister.”
“No, indeed, sir. She rests quietly now, and the draughts Mr. Jones gave her seem to be doing her a world of good. I am just—do not mind me. I blame myself for not noticing she was sick…last night.” Again, she glanced at Darcy, who did his best not to notice.
“We are all united in our hope that she recovers as quickly as you have,” said Miss Bingley, as they all took their seats again.
For the first time since coming to Hertfordshire, Mr. Darcy found himself actually paying attention to the eldest Miss Bennet. Earlier, he had dismissed her as the standard country lass. The pretty, pointless daughter of a minor country squire. The beauty of her tiny town, a woman with few accomplishments and zero for
tune, who would serve Bingley well enough for a distraction at an assembly or dinner party, but posed no real danger.
But last night, in her bedroom, over the prone body of her sister, he had seen a hint of will hidden within her sweetness. Not the sharp tongue or headstrong ways of her sister, but she was no wilting flower, either. And so, he wondered, perhaps, if there was more to this sweet, unassuming girl than he had originally assumed.
But the more observed her, the more he was struck not by how little, in behavior, she resembled her fiery sister, but rather how very, very deferential Bingley was being to her. Darcy had never seen his friend so smitten with a lady, and Bingley was the type to fall in love easily and often.
Well, that would have to be remedied, and soon. Bingley was not for some penniless girl from Hertfordshire, no more than Darcy himself was.
No more, indeed.
Chapter 5
There was nothing for it. The Bennet’s carriage would be brought around to the front door of Netherfield right after breakfast, and Jane and Elizabeth would eat with their hosts before departing.
Elizabeth’s preferred plan of sneaking out, on foot, in the middle of the night, preferably in a black cloak, was roundly dismissed by her sister.
“Do not be ridiculous, Lizzy,” she said, packing away the last of their things with the help of a housemaid.
“I do not think I can ever face any of them again,” Elizabeth declared.
Jane waited until the housemaid had removed the last parcel and left them alone. “No one knows a thing about what happened. Mr. Darcy is a gentleman.”
“Mr. Darcy knows,” Elizabeth said miserably. She could not imagine what he must think of her now. He considered her unruly and wild before he caught her running around outdoors in the middle of the night!
“In cases such as these,” Jane replied, “a good memory is unpardonable. It shall all be forgot.”
In Darcy's Arms Page 3
