Darcy slept in fits as best he could through the night, waking now and again to check on Elizabeth and change the cloth on her forehead. When the first rays of morning were attempting to push their way through the clouds that refused to disperse, Bingley rose, made tea, and ensured that Darcy had both tea and something to eat before donning his coat and hat and heading out into the rain.
Darcy paced the cabin for a bit, allowing his legs to feel the pleasantness of movement after sitting for so long. He gathered Elizabeth’s clothes, which were dry, folded them and placed them in the wardrobe next to his own things in the bedroom. Then, with book in hand, he returned to his position of watchfulness at her side. She was still warm, but not frightfully so. The fever did not seem to be rampant. He lifted the blanket from her leg and checked her injury, satisfied that it was doing well, he opened his book and began to read. The words travelled through his mind, one after the other, but none of them made a morsel of sense. He reread the passage, but still, the words held no meaning. He placed the book on the table near the bed. Perhaps, he would try again later. He sought for something to do that would occupy his time. His eyes kept returning to the wardrobe. Ah, her stocking needed repair. He was not proficient with a needle and thread, but he was not without some skill. If she were to wear them home, she might appreciate that the one not have a large hole in it. So, he gathered what he needed and set to the task of repairing the damage her fall had done to the item of clothing.
He was just tying off his work when she moaned softly and rolled to her side, facing away from him. She drew her knees upward and hissed.
Darcy’s heart beat rapidly in his chest. He was happy that she was beginning to stir, but he was also nervous about her reaction to finding herself here, with him. He put his needle away and folding her stocking, returned it to the wardrobe.
“Mr. Darcy?”
He turned to see Elizabeth rubbing her eyes and looking at him in confusion.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Why are you here?” She attempted to sit up.
“Please stay lying down,” insisted Darcy. “You are not yet well.” He took his seat near her once again. “Do you remember falling?” he asked, watching her eyes closely to see if they would look distant or focused.
She nodded her head and winced.
“So you did injure your head,” he said with a small smile. “I did not feel any lumps, where exactly does it hurt?”
She still wore a look of confusion, but her eyes were focused. “Here.” She placed a hand on the right side of her head. “I stumbled and hit my head on a tree, which caused me to lose my footing altogether, and I fell.”
“Cutting your leg?”
She blinked. “Yes. There were some branches near where I fell. One of them caught my leg.” She moved her left leg slightly. “It is very sore.”
“It was no mere scratch,” said Darcy. “It took several stitches to close it.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “I am afraid my needlework is not a fine as yours would be, but it has managed to hold the wound closed.”
She began to sit once again. “You? You stitched my leg?”
He helped her to sit, drawing a pillow up to rest behind her back. “I would prefer that you remain lying down,” he murmured. “You are still slightly feverish and should not do anything to worsen it.”
Elizabeth would have taken exception to his comments if it had not been for the tender tone of concern with which they were delivered. She placed a hand on the sore spot on her head. Her brain must be thoroughly addled if she was attributing such sentiments to the dour and disapproving Mr. Darcy. The movement caused her to take note of the garment she was wearing. Her eyes grew wide. “What am I wearing?”
Darcy grimaced. His heart began to beat a rapid rhythm. “We must talk, but I am not certain you are well enough yet.”
She peeked beneath her covers. It did not feel like she was wearing her clothes, but for some reason, her mind would not believe it without proof. She sucked in a quick breath as she realized that she was not wrong. She was wearing a shirt and, it appeared, she was wearing only a shirt. She drew the blankets up to her neck and held them there. “Whose shirt am I wearing, and where are my clothes?”
The panic that Darcy saw in her eyes reflected that which he felt in his stomach.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy was right, she should have stayed lying down. She rested her head back against the headboard of the bed and closed her eyes against the spinning of the room. Perhaps when she opened them again, this confusing dream would be gone. She peeked one eye open and closed it again. Mr. Darcy was still there, looking just as uneasy as she felt. This was not a dream. “My clothes?” she whispered, daring to open her eyes and peer at him.
He ran a finger around the collar of his shirt as if needing to loosen a cravat, but, Elizabeth noticed, he was not wearing one. In fact, he was rather dishevelled. He was not wearing a jacket, his shirt was opened slightly at the neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to nearly his elbows. She closed her eyes again.
“They are in the wardrobe. Cleaned as best I could manage and dried. As soon as you feel well enough, you may put them back on. I just finished mending your torn stocking.” His hand motioned awkwardly to the wardrobe. She was not even watching. Why was he gesturing? He shook his head. He was not good at conversations with ladies in general. A conversation with a lady whom you had compromised and were about to tell must marry you, was even more challenging.
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.