Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Abigail Reynolds

  Mrs. Reynolds continued to give Darcy laudanum to prevent him from reopening the wound as he thrashed in pain. Elizabeth did not leave his bedside, catching little bits of sleep either in the chair or near him on the bed; but she was never asleep long before she awak ened with the taste of fear in her mouth. She could not lose him now.

  Darcy would wake from time to time. Sometimes he knew her and sometimes he did not, but she always told him she loved him. There might not be another chance. One time, he took Mrs. Reynolds for his mother, bringing tears to the housekeeper's eyes.

  Another time he looked at her with furrowed brows. "You ought not be here, Miss Bennet. Where is my aunt?" His speech was slurred.

  "Your aunt?"

  "Lady Catherine," he said irritably.

  She touched his forehead. Still hot. "We are at Pemberley, not Rosings, and we are married, my love."

  "Oh." He turned his head from side to side, as if to clear it. "Married? Are you certain?"

  "Quite certain. Look, here is Ferguson, and he will tell you so."

  "Indeed, Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy is quite correct. You are injured and have a fever."

  "And we are married?" He seemed to find this quite astonishing.

  Elizabeth held out her hand so her wedding band was visible. "Quite indelibly, sir." She would not say Till death us do part.

  "Oh. That is well, then." His face seemed to relax, and his eyes drifted shut again.

  There were more hours of placing cool cloths on his fore head, of checking the swollen red flesh around his wound, of trying to convince him to take sips of broth and the remedies the apothecary had provided. Georgiana came in each morning and evening and sat with him briefly, unable to stay long without sobbing uncontrollably. Elizabeth offered her what consolation she could; Georgiana's attitude towards her had changed consid erably since the day of Darcy's accident.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived at Pemberley three days after she sent her letters. He had ridden posthaste from London and came directly to Darcy's sickbed before he had even changed out of his dusty riding coat. As usual, Darcy was in a restless sleep.

  The colonel did not mince words. "Has he shown any improvement?"

  Elizabeth was too tired to stand when he entered and too worried to care about this breach of etiquette. "Very little, I fear. His fever continues, and he is growing weaker with time. He is often confused and has no interest in food or drink."

  "What does the doctor say?"

  Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment before she answered. "He says Mr. Darcy's youth and healthy constitution are our best hopes."

  Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted. "Doctors."

  Darcy's eyes fluttered open. "Richard?" His voice was little more than a whisper.

  "At your service." Colonel Fitzwilliam placed his arm under Darcy's shoulders, lifting him partway from the bed. "Darcy, you must drink." He motioned to Elizabeth for a cup.

  Darcy shook his head weakly. "Not thirsty."

  The colonel's voice hardened. "Drink this, or I will drag you out to the old stable and thrash you soundly."

  Elizabeth stared at him in shock, but her husband obedi ently sipped the broth. His cousin held the cup for him patiently then wiped the corner of his mouth when he was done. Darcy's eyes drifted closed, and the colonel eased him down on his pillow. "You may rest a moment but then you must sit up."

  "But he cannot sit," Elizabeth objected.

  "He will sit, and later we will get him to his feet. I have seen my share of festering wounds, and the ones who lie abed do not recover. He must use his body, no matter how weak it may be."

  Elizabeth nodded. She had no idea if it was true, but she would take any hope. "Tell me what I should do."

  ***

  "No, thank you. I will have a tray here, I think." Elizabeth,

  in her accustomed seat at Darcy's bedside, did not pause in her embroidery.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned. "Elizabeth, go down to dinner. I will stay with him."

  "Thank you, but I prefer to stay here."

  "You will not help him by making yourself ill. Georgiana, tell her."

  Georgiana stepped forward. "He is right, Elizabeth. Please, come away for at least a few minutes."

  Elizabeth looked up in surprise at the genuine concern in the girl's voice. "I appreciate the sentiment, but truly, I am perfectly well here."

  The colonel crossed his arms. "Elizabeth, either you go down to dinner with Georgiana of your own accord, or I will wake your husband and have him tell you to do it."

  "You would not! He needs his rest." Elizabeth recognised his implacable look, the same one he used so effectively on Darcy. It was definitely a new side of the gentleman she knew. "Very well, since you insist. But I will return after dinner."

  "The change will do you good," Georgiana said earnestly.

  Elizabeth laid aside the embroidery. She did not want to add to Georgiana's worries. She forced a smile to her face. "You are right. I should take more care."

  ***

  "Up you go," Colonel Fitzwilliam urged, with a hand on Darcy's shoulder.

  Darcy opened his eyes. "Not you again, Richard."

  "You were about to sit up, Darcy. Now," he said sharply. With Ferguson's help, he assisted Darcy to a sitting position. Darcy's face was tight with pain. "Good." Supporting his cousin's back, Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at Elizabeth with a hint of a smile. "There is something to be said for being three years his elder."

  Elizabeth could picture the two men as squabbling boys. "And did you indeed take him out to the old stable and thrash him?"

  "Not often, and he soon learned to thrash me back." For a moment, he looked like his old amiable self, telling an amusing story.

  Darcy began to cough deep, hacking coughs that made him clutch at his side. Colonel Fitzwilliam held his shoulders. "That's right. Cough it up. Get it out of you."

  Elizabeth hated seeing him in such discomfort. "Are you sure this is helping him?"

  Colonel Fitzwilliam looked across Darcy to her, his counte nance more serious than usual. "It is the best I have to offer."

  She noticed he had not answered her question.

  ***

  "Mr. Dunstan, what can I do for you?" Elizabeth was puzzled by the steward's request to speak to her, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had urged her to meet him, no doubt to get her out of the sickroom for a few minutes.

  He cleared his throat. "I have a question regarding the estate which requires a timely response."

  "I will be happy to help if I can, though I know little of estate management."

  "Thank you, madam." He clasped his hands. "It is a matter of poaching. Jack Bridges, who is the youngest son of one of our tenants, was caught taking a rabbit on Pemberley grounds. He could be sent to the magistrate, but this is his first offence, and Mr. Darcy's custom in such cases has been to suggest some form of restitution instead."

  "Is there some reason it would not be suitable in this case?"

  "No, madam; it is simply that Mr. Darcy feels such decisions should come from him, not from me. In his illness, I thought it best to bring the matter to you."

  Elizabeth could see why it could cause difficulties if the steward were to administer justice on his own. "What would he usually suggest as restitution?"

  "For poaching? Most often six months' labour on the estate."

  "Six months for a rabbit?"

  "Madam, it needs to be a serious enough punishment to deter others, or we would have an epidemic of poaching. It is preferable to expulsion."

  "Is the estate in need of labour?"

  "Not at the moment, madam, but something can always be found."

  Perhaps she should ask Richard to make the decision. If Darcy did not recover, the colonel would be running Pemberley as Georgiana's guardian. She swallowed the lump in her throat. No, she would not allow for that possibility. She would choose for herself.

  The safest option would be to do as her husband had done in the past, but she knew the Bridges family fr
om her tenant visits, and they could ill spare the labour on their own farm. Yet there must be some consequence. If she acted as judge, would it affect her position with the tenants? She preferred to be the one who brought them relief rather than punishment.

  "Mr. Dunstan, what would you say to this? He must chop firewood for the widow Gibbs for a year and make the needed repairs to her cottage as well as work two days a week at the Hammond farm until Mr. Hammond's leg is sufficiently healed for him to return to his fields."

  The steward's eyebrows shot up, but he quickly resumed his normal expression. "That would no doubt be well received, madam."

  "Would you consider that an adequate deterrent? I fear old Mr. Bridges cannot work his land by himself."

  "A valid point, madam. I think it would do very well indeed."

  "If you would be so kind, I would like to be kept abreast of the developments in this case."

  Mr. Dunstan nodded. "If you have time tomorrow, I will let you know the outcome."

  "Thank you." She would certainly have time tomorrow; time was all she had. Any distraction would be welcome.

  ***

  That night, as exhaustion overtook her, she lay down beside Darcy and fell into a sleep of disturbing dreams. In one dream, she was adrift in a small boat with a leak in the bottom. She could do nothing but watch the water creep in, becoming deeper and deeper, until she was soaked to the skin. She awoke to find the sensation was true; there was a salty wetness on her face, and her nightdress, damp where her body touched her husband's, clung to her. She thought at first she must have been crying in her sleep, but then she realised the moisture had a different source. Darcy's body was beaded with perspiration, the sheets around him soaked. Torn between desperate hope and fear, Elizabeth laid her hand against his forehead. His fever had broken.

  ***

  She returned to her own bed for the first time since his accident, and Ferguson stayed with Darcy. Her first thought when she awoke, refreshed by uninterrupted sleep, was for her husband. She immediately rang for Lucy, who brought the welcome news that his fever had not returned and he had taken a little broth earlier. Eager to see him, she hurried through her toilette, making Lucy laugh at her impatience.

  When she arrived at his room, he was asleep again. Taking her accustomed seat beside his bed, she noticed his cheeks no longer had the heightened colour of the previous days and his breathing was easier. She smiled, thinking of the future they would share together.

  One time when she glanced up from her embroidery, she found him looking at her, his eyes clear once again. She reached out to take his hand, but he did not respond to her gentle pressure.

  "Elizabeth." His voice was gravelly.

  "It is good to see you looking better, Fitzwilliam."

  "Why are you here?"

  Her smile slipped. "To be with you, of course."

  He turned his head away, staring up at the canopy. "I want nothing of you."

  A chill ran through her. Surely he could not mean it, not after all the hand-holding and whispered intimacies of the last few days? She had been so certain he felt as she did, that all their troubles were in the past. Had it just been his fever and the laudanum speaking? Her skin burnt at the thought of it.

  She swallowed hard. "You wish me to leave?"

  "Yes. Be gone. And trouble me no more." There was a cold implacability in his expression she remembered from the days after their quarrel, one she had hoped never to see again.

  She had forgotten that his ill-fated ride had begun after another disagreement with her, this time over Jane. Apparently, he had not. Stricken, she stood, straightening her skirt before picking up her embroidery. "Should you wish to see me, you need only send word, and I will be happy to attend you."

  He said nothing, and she turned to go, but not before noticing Ferguson's sympathetic look. No doubt he was sorry for her, but not so sorry that everyone in the household would not be aware within hours that her husband had dismissed her. She gathered what remained of her dignity and made her way to the adjoining door. She glanced back once at Darcy, the twisted expression on his face only accentuating his pallor. "My best wishes for your recovery, sir."

  She closed the door blindly behind her and stumbled across the sitting room to the safety of her own bedroom, where she could give way to the luxury of tears.

  Chapter 12

  ELIZABETH WENT DOWN TO dinner with high colour in her cheeks, wondering how many of the servants knew she had been banned from her husband's bedside. She would have to accustom herself to the humiliation of it; anyone who was not aware of it already would discover it soon enough. Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam gave no sign of any change in her situation, but perhaps they were just being kind. She managed to choke down only a few bites during a meal which seemed to last for hours, and fortunately, no one showed surprise when she excused herself as soon as it was over.

  Her mortification could not still her concern for her husband's health. If only her disgrace had the power to stop her from caring for him! But it was not to be. It was understandable enough that he would reject her overtures now; she had rejected his in the past. Finally, exhausted with the struggle of not knowing, she asked Lucy to have Ferguson wait upon her. She could ask him about Darcy's well-being; he could have no doubts as to why she could not find out for herself.

  She had never known one could feel pain through every inch of one's being, but now it became her familiar companion. Was this how Darcy had felt after their argument? If so, it was no surprise he wanted nothing to do with her any longer.

  She resumed her tenant visits, giving purpose to her days which otherwise would be full of useless self-reproach. With Mr. Dunstan's advice, she expanded the circle of families she visited and became a familiar figure among the cottages as she brought food to the ailing and the invalids. She was received by them with gratitude. The word of her judgement regarding Jack Bridges had spread, and with it the esteem in which they held her. When she spoke with the people of Pemberley, especially the children, sometimes she could forget her grief for a few minutes, but never for long.

  Back at Pemberley House, she threw herself into the task of becoming the best possible mistress of Pemberley. If she could not have Darcy's love, she would do her best to satisfy him in that regard. She learned the names and habits of the plants in the hothouses and took over arranging flowers throughout the house, planned meals in conjunction with the cook, and spent hours practicing on the pianoforte as she had heard Georgiana do. She played in the evenings for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Georgiana; it was easier than conversing with them. She grimly rode Pandora each day accompanied by a stable hand, finding her earlier panic in riding now returning with Darcy's absence. But he had wanted her to learn to ride, and ride she would. If she enjoyed none of it, there was nothing to be done for it. She found no pleasure in anything.

  Her only ray of hope was that less than a fortnight remained until the Gardiners were due to arrive. Although her first thought was to disguise any troubles from them, on reflection, she decided she would tell her aunt everything, in the hope that she might have some wisdom to impart. She had nothing left to lose.

  From Ferguson's reports she knew that Darcy continued his slow recovery. He relapsed into a fever that lasted several days, and Elizabeth found herself once again unable to sleep at night for worry, even though he was no longer hers to lose.

  ***

  Elizabeth was practicing her music when Colonel Fitzwilliam strode into the room. She had successfully avoided being alone with him until now, given how Darcy had responded to her behaviour in his presence at his last visit. A cosy tête-à-tête while she played was not in her plans, so she closed the pianoforte and asked him the question most on her mind. "How does my husband?"

  "He continues to improve slowly."

  "I am glad to hear it."

  He lowered himself into a chair and put his legs out in front of him. "I have spent a great deal of time at my cousin's bedside with little to do apart f
rom reflect. I have been wondering why a woman who never left her husband's side during his illness would suddenly absent herself when he started to recover. I confess I am exceedingly puzzled."

  Of course her behaviour must look odd if he had not heard the household gossip. She chose her words with care; she did not want him to think too ill of her. "I promised to love, honour, and obey my husband. I believe this would fall under 'obey.'"