Elizabeth's Refuge

by Timothy Underwood

  It was good to be rich.

  She shivered on the seat, despite the warm air of the enclosed room, for several minutes before she relieved herself and stood, holding her hands to either wall. Her wrists with the mostly healed scars from the where the doctor bled her caught her eyes.

  She had nearly died.

  It would have been novelistically appropriate if she had died as a balancing retribution for killing the earl, but Elizabeth was rather decidedly happy she had not.

  When she came out into the main room, a maid of all work had joined Becky. From her dress and her manner Becky was clearly of a higher order of servant than the maid who under Becky’s inspection changed all of the sheets and covers on the bed.

  “Just another minute, ma’am, and you’ll feel ever so much more comfortable in an entirely clean bed.”

  Elizabeth smiled her acceptance and sat down gratefully in an armchair Becky pulled out for her and let her sit in. It was the same velvet winged chair Mr. Darcy had snored in the previous night. She fancied that she could still smell a remainder of his scent.

  “We’ll change your clothes too. I’ve changed your night dresses every day. Soon as Susy is done, I’ll get you fixed up proper to sleep. And cook has sent up some broth. Mr. Darcy is yet asleep, and we’ve decided to leave him to sleep till he wakes naturally.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth swallowed. “He has been very kind.”

  She was suddenly terribly hungry. “Please, bring the soup.”

  A hot bottle and a tray was produced, and set in front of Elizabeth on the chair, and she made an effort to eat, but she only managed half before she felt too tired and weak to continue sitting up.

  Becky helped her to sit on the bed, pulled off her night shirt, expertly pulled on another one, and helped her to lie back in the bed, far more comfortable than before. She then clucked and said, “Your hair will be a right horror to manage when you are well. All sorts of tangles and snarls. But sleep now. Do not worry about that at all now. I’ve managed worse in my day, I have. I’ll have your hair set well and pretty as can be, soon as you are recovered enough to sit up long enough.”

  Elizabeth almost laughed. The last thing she worried about was her hair.

  When she woke again the light outside was dim and fading. Occasional carriages still rolled along the street outside the window outside her door. A different servant than Becky sat by her bed, boredly waving a ribbon in front of her own nose and watching it flutter. The young woman blushed and put the silk piece away as soon as she saw Elizabeth’s eyes open and on her.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” The servant stood and curtsied. “Do you need anything?”

  This time Elizabeth could sit up easily, though she still felt achy and weak. “A glass of water, if you please.”

  The servant poured and handed her the cup, and she drank it down quickly. She felt much better than she had even this morning, though she was still dizzy if she tried to stand up. She realized she was very hungry, and asked the servant if some food might be sent up for her. Perhaps gruel, since she felt steady enough to take that in addition to the meat broth of this morning.

  The servant bowed and left her, after opening the curtains at Elizabeth’s direction.

  Elizabeth stood up and managed to walk to the window. She stared out, shivering.

  There was a flurry of snow outside, and the garden square Darcy’s house sat around was decked in five or six inches of a white blanket.

  With a knock the door opened and Becky and Mr. Darcy came in. Mr. Darcy blushed at seeing her standing in the voluminous wool nightgown that was a little too big for Elizabeth, and he stepped back muttering apologies.

  Becky carried a tray up with the requested porridge and another hot bottle of soup. “Well, ma’am. You look better.”

  Elizabeth laughed and gestured to the door Darcy had escaped through. “The poor dear. Were my clothes cleaned, and is there any chance I can change into something with which I might properly accept a visitor?”

  “Yes, certainly. From something Mr. Darcy said, I believe he has a matter of some importance to speak to you upon.”

  “I can imagine.” Elizabeth shivered. She remembered a hanging she once saw.

  No such anxiety until it was absolutely necessary. That would not be helpful. “But first dinner. Porridge, my… well not my favorite.”

  “Was the doctor’s order.” Becky laughed. “You are a fine lady, ma’am. Expect you eat ragout, and white soup for every dinner.”

  “For dinner? For breakfast I say.”

  Elizabeth sat back in the armchair, and fed herself first from the gruel, and then from the soup. But again she was only able to eat a surprisingly small amount before she felt quite full and unable to consume another bite.

  Becky had busied herself pulling several articles of clothing that were definitely not the dress Elizabeth had arrived at Darcy house in from the closet, and laying them on the bed as Elizabeth ate.

  Elizabeth asked her as she did so, “So are you married?”

  “Was, my poor dear, he died, and with something of a debt. Left just me and my daughter alone. Just three months ago he died, he did. Still cry about him every day. I’d left service with Lady Monroe to marry him. Brought him a tidy sum of my savings as a dowry too. Poor man could not stop from gambling. Don’t blame him for it — he was the sweetest man in the world. But just goes to show. A woman should not trust her money to a man.” Becky laughed. “Wish we’d had one of those settlements you quality always use. But God I loved him. Loved him heart and soul. The Darcys were kind enough to give me a place, with no significant responsibilities in my mourning period. My mother was the lady’s maid of Lady Anne. The master’s mother. She was a fine lady. A fine, fine lady. Most aristocratic featured beauty in the ton, but always a kind word to a child like me. And she doted on our present Mr. Darcy. He’s a fine man too.”

  “The very best.”

  “Don’t forget that, Mrs. Benoit. We all care for him.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Even to the point of being suspicious of strangers who do not remember their own marriages.”

  “Not too suspicious!” Becky laughed. “So don’t go telling the master any of that. Besides Joseph, that is Mr. Darcy’s gentleman, he says he remembers you from when Mr. Darcy met you, and that he always believed you were good quality and better than just a decent sort. Won’t say the slightest more of course, and none of us would expect him to, but that settled some nerves. That it did. It is strange doings.”

  Elizabeth finished the food and pushed it away. “I’d imagined I’d be much hungrier.”

  “It’s the illness. You’ll be hungry again in an hour or two, I suspect, if you haven’t eaten much for a few days your stomach forgets a bit how to eat a large meal. Let me help you to dress and ready, ma’am.”

  “Miss Bennet.”

  “What?” Becky tilted her head as she helped Elizabeth to stand.

  “Miss Bennet is my name. A secret shared too far is no good, but you already know enough to sell me out. And… I’d prefer to trust those who Mr. Darcy trusts.”

  “Well that’s touching, Mrs. Benoit. I am touched.” The woman smiled at her. “But I am quite sure you have only forgotten your marriage, some damage from your illness, I dare say, though it is clear all your other faculties are intact, because else Mr. Darcy would not have told us all that you are Mrs. Benoit.”

  Elizabeth decided that was that, and she grinned at the maid. “A right strange illness, to take the memory of a husband.”

  “I dare say, he must not have been a very good one, though I have suspicion you will do right better with your next.”

  Elizabeth blushed at that remark.

  It was easy and quick for Becky to slip the dress over Elizabeth’s shoulders, and fasten everything that was to be fastened — though she wasn’t tightened into a corset — but the harder matter to manage was her hair.

  “Needs to be brushed all of the way out and worked with. Sleeping on
it and tangling it for three days straight.” Becky looked mournfully at it. “I suppose you don’t want to be sitting up for so long yet, do you.”

  “I have been ill,” Elizabeth replied, amused.

  “Such beautiful hair! I love this shade. You have far better hair than Mrs. Monroe had — though my former mistress’s hair was quite fine. But yours has a perfect clarity and color, and once the sweat and grease is out of it—”

  “You know,” Elizabeth said, laughingly, “how to mix a fine compliment together with a crushing blow to a lady’s self-importance.”

  “It is my duty to ensure you look your best. You would not wish Mr. Darcy to see you with your hair all a mess, would you?”

  Elizabeth flushed again, and though she had to laugh at herself on the inside, she confessed both to herself and Becky that she in fact did not want Mr. Darcy to see her with her hair a mess.

  As it happened it took twenty minutes for Becky to carefully pull some of the largest tangles apart, and she worked gently enough that Elizabeth’s scalp only half felt like it had just had nails pulled out of it. She wrapped Elizabeth’s hair into a simple braid and bun that she said should protect it from further damage until she had the chance to properly clean and brush her hair.

  Then clucking her tongue, Becky used some white creams to hide and smooth away the remaining black and blue bruise on her forehead.

  Elizabeth was already quite tired at this point, but she wanted very much to talk to Mr. Darcy, and so she settled into the bed again, but this time dressed in a semblance of normality, and she was seated almost upright against the giant pile of pillows carefully collected behind her. So prepared she sent Becky off to tell Mr. Darcy that she was now prepared to receive a visitor.

  As it happened, and not to Elizabeth’s surprise, he was still standing in the hallway right outside her door.

  Chapter Four

  For a moment Darcy could not say anything when he stepped into the room and saw Elizabeth smilingly seated up, her hair lit like a halo by the last rays of the dying sunlight.

  His breath caught, and she looked at him and smiled, and there was something in her eyes that made Darcy think that Elizabeth knew how he saw her when he looked at her, and that she liked it.

  He swallowed, and he walked forward.

  She stretched her delicate hands out to him. “Mr. Darcy. I must thank you again, and again, and again.”

  Her voice was rough and had a nasal burr. But it was also strong.

  “No thanks. No thanks are needed.” Darcy took and kissed her hand and then pulled the chair that he’d been sitting in to care for her close again and looked at her closely.

  She looked clean and neat now, and the scent of sickness that had been in the room for the past days only lingered at the edges.

  “You had Becky to dress me, and not in my own clothes. I at least must thank you for that.” Elizabeth winked at the maid. “I should not say this in front of her, but she is quite capable and determined.”

  The lady’s maid blushed when Darcy looked at her and looked down and mumbled something.

  Elizabeth laughed and that sound made Darcy’s heart soar. “I forget that we are only to speak freely with each other when the master is not present. Propriety and decorum in front of the servants.”

  Darcy peered at Elizabeth carefully and studied her. She was pale now rather than flushed. But while she looked somewhat thinner than she had when she arrived before her fever, there was a clearness to her skin that was different from the dried, almost parchment tone of her skin in the depths of her illness.

  The fear that had entered his heart the moment he saw her collapse in a faint in his drawing room now at last left.

  Elizabeth, he hoped, would not too long from now be recovered fully in health.

  “Becky, I must have a few words with Mrs. Benoit alone. Might you stand in the corridor, and I will leave the door unlocked, enter again in two minutes, and I think that shall be enough to ensure some propriety is observed.”

  “Yes, sir.” The woman bobbed her head and stepped outside.

  The room was overly warm; the fire had been kept high to ensure the invalid was not bothered with a draft from the window.

  Darcy could not keep from remembering how he’d kept company with Elizabeth during her thrashing fever. He stared for a moment at her hand, lying white and small on the coverlet. He wanted to grip it again, like he’d dared to when she’d called his name during her illness.

  But now she was not in a dream, and he now was well rested, not with his judgement and sense of normality drained by two nights of fear and waiting for the doctor, and hanging on every change of Elizabeth’s breathing or complexion to determine how she fared.

  This was now a normal evening in a normal room where he was attending a gentlewoman who he respected in the highest way a man could respect a woman. He must behave himself.

  “The news. I presume they hunt me for his murder.”

  “Lord Lachglass is not dead, nor permanently injured beyond a scar on his forehead and the likelihood that his nose will heal bent.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes wavered from side to side, and her head tilted confusedly, as though the notion of him yet living completely shocked her. “But… I know I could not tell… but I had convinced myself.”

  Darcy touched her soft arm covered by the pretty yellow wool dress Becky had adjusted to fit her. “Does it disappoint you to not be a murderess?”

  “A little, perhaps?” She laughed weakly, but shook her head. “Alive. And Mr. Blight?”

  “A bribed servant claims he walks around with a bandage around his face, and has eaten only soup for the past days, but otherwise is well.”

  Elizabeth nibbled adorably on one of her knuckles. “Truly, so easily resolved. Not dead. Almost as though all was a bad dream.”

  “No.” Darcy shook his head. “I am afraid matters are not over yet. He wants revenge. He has men throughout the city asking for you. I sent a letter to your aunt and uncle through means that I am certain cannot be tracked that you were with friends, to relieve their worry, once I learned that Lord Lachglass was yet alive. But until you are healthy, I think we should refrain from going to them.”

  “What can he do to me at this point?”

  Darcy could imagine many things a vengeful and vicious man could do to Elizabeth. At present he had asked his man of business to hire his own investigators to look into Lord Lachglass’s affairs, political, business and otherwise. There were enough rumors around Lord Lechery that it would not surprise Darcy at all if he could shake from the trees some proof of serious wrong action to hang over the aristocrat’s head, even if Darcy understood the privileges of titled gentlemen well enough to know that he would never see Lachglass hung, as he ought to be.

  Or have his head chopped off if he insisted, as he no doubt would, on the aristocratic right to not be executed like a commoner. Darcy’s thirst for vengeance upon the man who imposed himself on Elizabeth would be satisfied by a chopped off head entirely as well as by a hanging.

  Darcy feared what Lord Lachglass might attempt to do to Elizabeth if he knew where she was.

  She still waited for a reply, and he did not want to scare her with the imaginations that haunted his mind: Assassins, frivolous accusations, kidnapping — especially kidnapping.

  Darcy shrugged. “I do not know, but I would prefer not to find out before his temper has had a chance to cool.”

  “I still want to add to your note to my Aunt and Uncle one of my own.”

  Becky knocked on the door, and Darcy called for her to come in.

  With a bob of her head, the servant walked to the far side of the room and pulled a dainty chair next to the window, so they could pretend she could not hear their conversation if they spoke quietly. She settled on her lap some blue piece work, and with a barely audible clicking of her needles against each other, she became, for Darcy at least, almost part of the furniture.

  Except he was very aware that she still
had ears.

  “Ah, Mrs. Benoit,” Darcy began, unsure and awkward suddenly, and needing to use the false name to both remind himself not to call her either Miss Bennet, or his dear, sweet, Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth laughed, “I confessed only a half hour past to Becky there that I have no memory of my marriage — now do not feel you need to answer a word, Becky. I know how stern Mr. Darcy is. I’d not break propriety in the slightest if I served him, which fortunately I do not.”

  “You do not want to serve me?” Darcy replied, with an amused voice.

  “No, not at all. I have had enough of service for a life. And if it comes to it, that I shall enter service again, I like you far too much to lose the right to tweak your nose — as a metaphor — whenever the urge comes to take me.”

  Darcy grinned, and he replied with his straightest face, “I am much too respectable a gentleman for my nose to ever be tweaked.”

  “A pity.” Mirth played around the edge of her pale lips. “I do dearly love to tweak noses.” Then she flushed. “Ah, I have perhaps done enough business with noses of late though.”

  Darcy winced. “So I have heard. But precisely how did you cause that…” He glanced again at Becky. It really was inconvenient both maintaining propriety and not speaking anything in front of the servants. He did trust Becky, and he wanted to find a place for the woman in his house, as it was the proper thing to do for the daughter of a woman his mother had remembered in her will.

  He would not have placed her in the position of being in charge of Elizabeth’s care if he had not trusted her, and known who her people were. And for that matter, they had both known each other as children, though the separation between a gentleman and a person from the lower orders had already been there.

  Despite that, discretion in front of servants had been drilled into Darcy’s mind by his father and mother. It was always a simple notion: Never trust one who must earn a day’s wage with information of true importance. There were ample stories of men betrayed in some important way by a servant. Mr. Darcy always maintained a distant but courteous manner with his servants, even maintaining his dignity around those such as Mrs. Reynolds who had helped to raise him as a child, and who was related to the family.