The Secrets of Darcy and Elizabeth: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Victoria Kincaid

  Darcy regarded her with alarm. “Please take my coat.” He made a move to shrug it off.

  “No. Please, I cannot.”

  “I insist. I also have a waistcoat and shirt. You have only a dress.”

  “You are driving this carriage. Our well-being depends on your ability to guide the horses. My well-being is not so essential.”

  “On the contrary, your well-being is absolutely vital,” he said through gritted teeth. She shook her head, but said nothing. He appeared about argue further, and she set her chin, waiting to counter his arguments, but he finally just sighed. “In town I will search out an inn where we can await the passing of the rain.” She nodded, attempting not to think about how cold and wet she was.

  Darcy was growing increasingly concerned about Elizabeth. Over the past hour she had fallen into a kind of stupor, saying nothing and staring into space, only moving in occasional violent shivers. He recalled that Mrs. Radnor’s son had been ill and the maid Celeste had appeared unwell. Elizabeth could easily have contracted a fever or other illness – which the rain had then exacerbated.

  He turned his gaze away from the endless road and toward Elizabeth. Her eyes were closed and her head was drooping, but he could not imagine she could sleep under such circumstances. Then, even as he watched, she began to sway alarmingly, coming perilously close to pitching off the edge of the high carriage seat. Putting the reins in one hand, he quickly flung the other arm around Elizabeth before she could topple out of the carriage altogether.

  She awakened instantly. “Mr. Darcy!”

  The last thing he needed was for her to believe he was taking liberties! “You were about to pitch off the seat. I believe you fell asleep.”

  Her tense muscles relaxed a little under his arm. “It is possible, I am quite tired. I am not sure why.” She shivered violently. “It is so cold.” It had stopped raining, although the sky was still overcast; Darcy refrained from observing that it was a rather mild July day.

  “Perhaps we should get rooms for the night at the next town.”

  She brushed hair impatiently out of her eyes. “I thought we would attempt to reach to Calais today.”

  “We have not made as good time as I had hoped – and the roads are now muddy. We are still quite a ways from Calais. It would be better if we rested and started fresh tomorrow.”

  “But – “

  “Miss Bennet, you require rest,” he said in his firmest voice.

  “You are accustomed to people doing what you tell them. I can see.” Her smile took the barb out of her words.

  “No…well…yes.” He smiled a little at her riposte. “However in this case I am correct. I believe you are ill.”

  She immediately straightened up on the seat. “I am fine.”

  “Are you in the habit of falling asleep on carriage seats?” His voice was acerbic.

  “Well, no….”

  Without asking permission, Darcy stripped off his glove and put his hand to her forehead. She opened her mouth to protest the impropriety, but then closed it again at the alarmed expression on his face. “You are burning up! We must get you to an inn at once and find a doctor!”

  He slapped the reins and urged the horse into a brisker pace, causing Elizabeth alarm. “Additional haste is not required! I am certain is just a trifling cold. We should do nothing that will delay our departure.”

  “We shall see what the doctor says.” His face was implacable.

  Half an hour later Elizabeth was sitting on a battered chair in the crowded common room of a little inn while Darcy talked with the proprietor. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that she was not at all well; her body was exhausted and seemed to ache all over. Her head pulsed with pain and the thought of lying down was very appealing, although there was no space. Nonetheless she found Darcy’s devoted attention to be somewhat embarrassing. She wished to cause him no further trouble, but he insisted that she needed a doctor. If I could only sleep a couple of hours, I will be much improved, she told herself. Darcy was worrying himself needlessly, she was certain.

  She glanced around the crowded common room; it was full of weary travelers, many of them English. The noise was overpowering as was the stench of unwashed bodies, making her wish she could return to the cold, wet seat in the curricle. It occurred to her that Darcy might not find a room to let; there had been a large number of carriages resting in front of the inn when theirs had pulled up. Undoubtedly the news of the war had caused many people to rush to Calais and since this inn was on the route it would be popular.

  Finally Darcy sank wearily into the other chair at her table. Resting his elbows on the scarred surface, he shook his head. “There is no room at the inn.”

  “Indeed, I suppose I should be happy we are not traveling by donkey,” she intoned solemnly.

  For a moment Darcy thought she was delirious with fever and then he laughed. “Yes, although Joseph and Mary did not need to contend with rain-soaked roads or war.”

  To his eye, her answering smile seemed forced. She wishes to hide how ill she truly feels.

  “Are there other inns in the town?” She asked.

  “No,” he said, regret coloring his voice. “It is a very small village, and there are no other towns nearby.”

  “I suppose we will simply ride to the next village.” Placing her hands on the table, she pushed herself into a standing position, smiling bravely.

  “Not necessarily. I had a thought. When I saw the name of this village, I recalled that a friend of mine lives nearby.” Listening, she sank back into her chair. “Thomas Whitmore. I know him from Cambridge. He became a clergyman, but then married a Frenchwoman whose family owns some property near here. I corresponded with him when I planned this trip and he invited me to stay with him. When the war erupted, I thought circumstances would prevent my visit, but he would be happy to offer us hospitality.”

  “But, he is not expecting us!”

  “Under the circumstances I think he would understand. I just hope that he is at home. He wrote in his letter that he would need to travel to Toulouse soon. But I think we need to attempt it; he is our best hope for accommodations tonight.” He said nothing about how badly Elizabeth appeared to need such assistance.

  By the time Darcy pulled the carriage to a stop in front of Whitmore’s home, Elizabeth’s condition had deteriorated. Her face was deathly pale and she was in a stupor; with every mile, Darcy’s concern for her health grew.

  Whitmore’s home was a grand chateau whose grand entrance fronted a sweeping circular drive. In the gathering dark, Darcy could see little of the grounds, but they appeared extensive. Darcy drew the carriage as close as he could to the main entrance so Elizabeth need not walk far, but when he pulled the exhausted horses to a halt, she appeared to be sleeping once more -- despite the lack of support provided by the high carriage seat. Darcy descended to knock on the door. He explained to the butler who he was; within moments, Thomas Whitmore was striding across the foyer to greet him.

  “Darcy! You are here! What an unexpected pleasure.” The warmth of his tone conveyed how genuinely pleased he was to see his friend.

  Darcy was extremely relieved to find Whitmore in residence. “I apologize for appearing on your doorstep unannounced. The news of the war disrupted my travel plans.”

  “Of course. I am happy to see you no matter the circumstances.” He turned and spoke to the butler in excellent French. “Henri, please see that a room is prepared for Monsieur Darcy.” The butler bowed and left.

  “Actually, Thomas, I am not traveling alone.” Darcy strode out the open door with Whitmore on his heels. He gestured toward Elizabeth slumped in the carriage seat with her shawl around her shoulders. “This is—” At that moment, she slouched still farther, and began to topple sideways off the seat. Darcy rushed forward to catch her before she hit the ground. Her body landed heavily in his arms, but she still did not awaken. Holding her, Darcy could sense the warmth of her fever-wracked skin through the thin muslin of her dress. />
  “Oh my goodness!” Whitmore exclaimed, perusing Darcy’s burden.

  “I am afraid she is ill and can travel no further. The inns were full—”

  “I am so happy you came here,” Whitmore said reassuringly. “We will do everything we can for her. I will send for a doctor immediately.”

  Darcy carefully carried Elizabeth into the house’s marble-trimmed foyer, thinking how little she weighed; she had eaten almost nothing that day. Whitmore gave orders to the servants to bring in their trunks and to summon a doctor. Darcy took her up the stairs and into the guest room Whitmore indicated – a large room dominated by a grand carved wooden four poster bed. Laying her gently on the fine linen covers, Darcy noticed the pallor in her face. She had not stirred at all as he carried her, a very worrisome sign.

  Some of Elizabeth’s hair had come free of her neat bun and Darcy had been smoothing it unconsciously. Whitmore observed him closely. “I did not know you were married.”

  “I am not.” Darcy’s hand froze as he realized what he was doing. Suddenly it occurred to him that Whitmore would wonder how he came to be traveling with a woman who was apparently unrelated to him. “This is Elizabeth Bennet…Her father is a gentleman in Hertfordshire and I recently became acquainted with her family. I encountered her in Paris, but when news of the war broke she had no means of leaving Paris, so I offered to….”

  As he spoke Darcy stood and turned toward Whitmore, but did not venture from Elizabeth’s side. The other man’s face had lost its warmth and he was regarding Darcy with disapproval. “I would never have thought that you of all people -- with a respectable woman – a—”

  Darcy was exhausted and losing his patience. “She is not my mistress, blast it! We are simply traveling together. We are just friends.”

  Whitmore narrowed his eyes at Darcy, who looked down and noticed he was holding Elizabeth’s hand. “I do admit to having…some affection for her,” he admitted grudgingly. As much as he disliked laying bare his sentiments for another’s scrutiny, he knew he needed to give some explanation – an honorable explanation – for his actions.

  Whitmore’s glare softened. “That much is obvious. We will take good care of her. I will send a maid to help her undress. We shall put you in the room next door. I am certain you will wish to change your clothes.”

  Darcy was reluctant to leave Elizabeth, but he could do little for her at that point. Furthermore, propriety dictated that he should not visit her bedroom alone. Before he left the room, he took one last glance at the pale, still figure – very small in the huge bed.

  An hour later, Darcy’s disposition had improved after having washed and changed his clothing. He joined Whitmore and his wife in their sumptuously appointed dining room. “Darcy, this is my wife, Marie,” Whitmore introduced them. Marie was a pretty, petite woman of about 25 with dark hair and a heart-shaped face.

  Her smile to Darcy was quite warm and gracious. “Welcome to our home, Monsieur Darcy. I am pleased to finally meet Thomas’s friend. Though I am sorry it is not under better circumstances.” Her English was excellent, with only a slight accent.

  “I greatly appreciate your hospitality,” Darcy returned. “It is providential your home was so close.”

  They enjoyed a pleasant conversation during the delectable, but simple country dinner. Darcy explained their situation and described their travels, but he found he could give his hosts only half of his attention. At every moment he wondered how Elizabeth fared and if there had been any change in her condition. Whitmore smiled knowingly when Darcy once again lost the thread of the conversation. “The doctor should arrive soon. Do not worry. Flouret is the best to be found in the neighborhood.”

  “If it is only a fever, we can hope it will pass quickly,” Marie ventured. Darcy tried to smile at their reassurances, but it turned into more of a grimace.

  The doctor arrived while they were finishing up their meal, so Darcy followed as Whitmore escorted Monsieur Flouret to Elizabeth’s room. Then he stood in the hallway, hovering around the room’s entrance while the doctor examined her. When Flouret had finished, he met Darcy in the hallway. “Monsieur, your wife is very ill.”

  “She is not my wife,” Darcy corrected automatically.

  The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. Damn now he thinks she is my mistress! Darcy reminded himself it hardly mattered what the doctor thought. Flouret continued, “She has a high fever and her pulse is weak. I gave her some medicine and will return in the morning to see how she fares.” He could see that the doctor was speaking slowly and enunciating every word to ensure Darcy’s comprehension.

  “What can I – we do for her comfort?” The French came very naturally to Darcy after being in the country for so long.

  The doctor’s eyes were downcast as he made notes in his notebook, but continued to give instructions. “Cool compresses for the fever. If she is awake, she should drink water or weak tea so she will not become dehydrated.”

  Darcy thanked the doctor and the man left. When Whitmore came upstairs a few minutes later, Darcy was again sitting in Elizabeth’s room holding her hand. Darcy was aware of his friend’s scrutiny, but could not bring himself to take his eyes off Elizabeth’s face, which was beaded with perspiration and flushed. She did not sleep restfully, but rolled her head from side to side and shifted listlessly every few minutes.

  Anxiety closed around his heart. What he would not give to see her fine eyes open and smiling at him! All he wanted was to see her alive and well, even if he could never have her for his wife.

  When Darcy finally met Whitmore’s eyes, the other man’s face was full of sympathy. “Are you planning to ask Miss Bennet to marry you?”

  “No, well, yes. It is complicated.” Darcy was so worn down by exhaustion and worry it actually felt good to unburden himself. “I hope she will someday accept me.”

  Whitmore raised his brows at the uncertainty in Darcy’s tone. “You must love her very deeply.”

  “I do. She is a remarkable woman.” Darcy fell silent, his throat felt suddenly constricted.

  Concern was reflected in Whitmore’s face. “You should rest. I will send in a maid to stay with Miss Bennet during the night. She will awaken you immediately if there is a change in her condition.”

  “No!” Darcy realized right away that his exclamation had come out more fiercely than he intended and he moderated his tone. “Thank you, Thomas. I – I could never rest easy if I could not see her myself and know how she was faring. And when she awakens she will not know where she is. You can have the maid stay as well if you wish.”

  “Even with a chaperone, Darcy, you cannot stay in her room,” Whitmore said gently. “She is not your sister or your wife.”

  “I would never take advantage of a sick woman!” Darcy hissed.

  “I know that, but she is under my protection. I am concerned about her reputation,” Whitmore’s voice was soothing, but Darcy was in no mood to be calmed.

  “And I am thinking of her life!” Darcy spat out. He stood abruptly and strode to the window. The moon was rising, casting shadows on the surrounding grounds. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his disordered nerves. Once he was in better control of his emotions, he continued in a more conciliatory tone. “No one need know of it save you, Marie, and your staff.” Whitmore was still shaking his head and Darcy swore. “Unless you summon your footmen to remove me bodily from this room, I am staying!” Darcy swung around and regarded Whitmore challengingly.

  Whitmore returned his gaze steadily for a moment and then sighed. “Very well. I do trust you Darcy – and I suppose what occurs here is unlikely to affect her reputation in England. I will have a maid wait in the hallway. Let her know of anything you need.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said gratefully, watching as Whitmore left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Darcy settled himself into the brocaded chair near Elizabeth’s bedside. It would be a long night.

  Darcy woke with a start. He had fallen asleep sitting in the
chair, but with his head resting on the bed by Elizabeth’s side. He heard noises, but it took a moment to pinpoint the source: Elizabeth was thrashing violently in the bed covers and calling out.

  “Oh…oh…the French…the soldiers! Papa, we must run! Help! Papa, please hurry! Where are Lydia and Jane? Papa!” Her tone was frantic and her face was creased with worry.

  Darcy realized she was in the throes of a feverish nightmare. He laid his hand gently on her arm, hoping to shake her out of her delirium. “Miss Bennet, it is a dream. You are perfectly safe.” She did not react to his touch or the sound of his voice, but continued to thrash and moan. Hoping his soothing words would penetrate the fever, Darcy continued to talk in soothing tones.

  Suddenly she sat bolt upright in the bed, startling him. “William! William! Where are you? They cannot capture you. I need you!” She screamed the last word so loudly he feared she would awaken others in the household. He tried to shush her gently, wondering – somewhat jealously – who this “William” was. Suddenly the realization penetrated his sleep-fogged brain: she meant him! Few people in his life called him by his given name and most called him Fitzwilliam. He had never heard Elizabeth call him anything other than “Mr. Darcy,” but perhaps she thought of him as “William” in the privacy of her own thoughts. Despite the seriousness of the situation he smiled to himself, thinking that maybe she did harbor some positive opinions regarding him.

  She cried out again and Darcy grabbed her shoulders, staring into her flushed face and unfocused eyes. “Elizabeth, it is just a bad dream! It is only a dream!” But she gave no indication that she heard him. He released her shoulders and she sank back on the pillows, continuing to toss and turn and mutter, although the words were barely coherent.

  The maid had brought a basin of water earlier, so Darcy took a rag and bathed Elizabeth’s forehead in water. “So hot!” she murmured. He could sense the skin through the thin cloth of her nightgown; she was burning up. Pulling down the covers, he pushed up the sleeves of her nightgown to cool off her arms. He bathed her hands and throat in cool water, wishing that propriety allowed him to access other parts of her skin. Perhaps he should get the maid….