Time stretched on, one long, quiet minute after another. Elizabeth shifted in her bed, attempting to get comfortable. The pain in her head and leg made the task somewhat difficult, but her mind made it nearly impossible. Mrs. Darcy. The words echoed in her mind over and over. She was to be married to the man she despised. There was no hope of avoidance of the fact. She was alone with him in a cabin somewhere near Netherfield, dressed only in his shirt — she closed her eyes in mortification — which he had put on her. How was she to accept such a fate? How was she to accept such a man? She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Perhaps after a good rest, her head would not hurt as much, and the spinning would stop. Then, possibly then, she would be able to reconcile herself to her fate.
Eventually, she drifted into a state of half-wakefulness. Her mind refused to stop its work, but her body was equally as eager to find rest. The card party at her aunt Philips’ house played in her mind — the tables, all neatly and cozily arranged; the excitement of Lydia at having won a bet; the droning of her cousin, attempting to fill the room with praises of his patroness; and Wickham. Even in her state of semi-awareness, she smiled at the name. His description of the weather had been most pleasant — an unusual occurrence for normally such small talk was dull. However, his ability with words had made it delightful. She almost wished for the rain as he spoke of it.
Ah, the rain, she would listen to that. Perhaps it would drown out her ruminations and allow for sleep. For a time, it worked. Her mind relaxed. She thought about nothing but the constant dripping and tapping of the rain. And then just as she was about to drift into a dream, Wickham’s voice returned but not as it had been before. This time, as the dream took it, the words twisted and turned, converging with those of her sister’s.
“I have no right to give my opinion.” Wickham smiled.
“He is correct,” said Jane from the corner, “he has no right on such a short acquaintance to speak to you of such things. Do not listen.”
“I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial,” Wickham continued.
“He speaks truth again,” Jane whispered in her ear. “His words are partial, he tells what he believes to be true, but it is only his view. The window might be cloudy.”
Play continued around them but did not include them. They sat as ghosts unseen by the others.
“The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.” Wickham cocked his head to the side and placed a hand on Elizabeth’s.
“He is trying to draw you in,” Jane’s whisper was sharp, and she drew Elizabeth’s hand out from under Wickham’s. “He wishes you to see him only as he wishes to be seen, and he only wishes you to see Mr. Darcy as he wishes you to see the man. Do not listen any longer.”
“He has treated me ill,” continued Wickham, “which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy.”
“Oh,” Jane moved between Elizabeth and Wickham, “jealousy is definitely at play but who is the more jealous remains to be seen. Come away with me, dear sister.”
Wickham’s eyes filled with sorrow, but Elizabeth could not tell if it was genuinely felt or feigned. “I would never dishonor his father, but to him, I cannot be just.”
“He is not just!” Jane’s hands cupped Elizabeth’s face. “He is not just! Mr. Darcy is good. Mr. Bingley is his friend, so how could he be anything less than good? Be reasonable, Elizabeth; come away with me. We have had enough of this man’s charming words.”
Wickham pushed Jane to the side with a wink and a smile. “Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversable companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous.”
“Dear sister, beware. Remember what you have seen of Mr. Darcy. Remember how he acted at Netherfield. Consider how he acted just now. Is this the man Mr. Wickham describes?” She pulled at Elizabeth’s arm to draw her away. “Do not judge a man based solely on the words of another man who shares such secrets when you have only just met. Be wise. Consider. Judge for yourself. Come away.”
“I will,” murmured Elizabeth as the images faded into the mist of sleep.
~*~*~
Darcy tapped lightly on Elizabeth’s door before opening it slowly and peering in to see if she was awake. She was not, but he entered anyway. He had slept for a short time on the couch, but his eyes still burned, and his body ached for more rest. However, despite the demands of his tired body, he wished to see that she was indeed well and had not suddenly taken a turn for the worse. He knew in his mind that such worries were foolish, but his traitorous heart would not allow him to push them aside. He stood next to her bed. She looked peaceful. Her cheeks were not so flushed as they had been. He gently rested his hand on her forehead. She was still warm. He sat in the chair and watched her. Her wellbeing would be his responsibility now. Unable to stop himself, he touched her cheek.
She turned towards him, her eyes fluttering open for a moment and a smile forming on her lips.
He sucked in a breath as he waited for her to recognize that it was him and for the beautiful expression she wore to fade as realization dawned. However, to his delight, her eyes opened, and her smile remained.
She lifted a brow. “You are a most attentive physician, Mr. Darcy.” Her tone was light.
“I worry,” he muttered, slightly unsettled by her teasing.
“Did I pass your exam?” She moved to sit up and immediately he was there to assist.
“I only wished to see if your fever had increased. It has not.”
“This is good,” Elizabeth commented. “But you should be aware that there is a slight scratchiness to my throat.”
“I will get you some tea.” He moved to leave.
“Not just yet,” she rested her hand on his. “We will speak for a while and then when you need to remove yourself from the conversation, or I need you to be removed, you may get me some tea.”
He blinked. She understood his unease? Very few did. “Of what shall we speak?”
Elizabeth pondered the question. There was much she wanted to know — indeed, much she needed to know. “You. I would like to speak about you.” Her heart thudded against her ribs.
He settled into his chair. “Very well. What shall I tell you about me?”
She studied him. He was relaxed to a degree, but there was still a rigidness to his shoulders, and the fingers of his left hand tapped the side of his leg. She smiled. “I know you are from Derbyshire. In fact, I have heard it told that you own half of it.”
“My estate is extensive. It has much land and many tenants, and the house is larger than Netherfield. It is well-tended and profitable. You shall want for nothing.”
“I was not inquiring in regards to myself.”
Her smile had faded, and he grimaced. “I apologize. I did not mean to offend. I can tell you of my tenants and my fields if you prefer or of the house itself. I also have a house in town in Grosvenor Square.” He shook his head. “I only wished to assure you that marriage to me would not be without benefit.” He grimaced again. “That was not well said either.” He blew out a breath. “I shall no doubt offend with my comments, but I would rather you be aware of what lies ahead and be prepared than enter into our marriage blindly.”
Elizabeth took note of how he shifted slightly, and all but one of his fingers stopped their nervous tapping of his leg. She had thought that speaking of himself might put him at ease, but it was apparent she was quite incorrect about that.
“To say my estate is half of Derbyshire is not an exaggeration. I am responsible for a great many things and a great many people. If I do not do well, neither do they. It is not a responsibility I take lightly, and I would expect my wife to show an equal amount of care for her duties to the estate and our home in town.” He held up the finger that had been tapping his leg. “Not that I think you would not give such things their due, but it is a new situation in which you will find yourself. It is not Longbourn.”
She nodded, unsure if she should be offended at his comments or not. It stung to have her abilities doubted, and she wished to tell him that she was prepared to run any household he might have. However, he had said it was larger than Netherfield, and although she was positive she could manage Netherfield, she was uncertain if she could manage something far more grand.
“My uncle, you may be aware, is an earl.”
“I have heard. Your aunt is my cousin Mr. Collins’s patroness.” She waited, fearful of his response to such a connection.
His brows rose. “Lady Catherine?”
She nodded. “He was recently given the living at Hunsford.”
“And your cousin — it is he who visits you now?”
“It is.”
“And he has told you of Lady Catherine?”
“In great detail.” She smiled. “My cousin is not a man of few words or paltry praises. He has, I would suspect, given her even greater homage than she is due. He is quite insufferable.”
Darcy chuckled. “Indeed?”
“Quite. It was his presence that drove me out of doors when rain threatened.”
“He speaks so much?”
“Far more than you might imagine and about the most ridiculous things.” Elizabeth smoothed the blanket over her legs. “He has come to Longbourn at your aunt’s request to find a wife among his cousins. It appeared as if he had selected me, and since I feared staying too long in the house with him might give him an opportunity to propose, I fled to the woods.”
Darcy nodded. “You do not wish to marry him?”
“Most decidedly I do not!” She shuddered. “I cannot even bare a few moments of his babblings without wishing to do him harm. I should never survive a marriage.” She shuddered again.
Darcy chuckled again. “Or he would not.”
Elizabeth laughed. “There is that, too.” He was capable of jokes. That was something in his favour.
“Since you have mentioned her,” Darcy began, “I must speak to you of my aunt and my uncle.”
“The earl?”
He nodded. “Your mother is from trade. They will take note of that fact. My uncle, I expect, to be more tolerant of it, but Lady Catherine will be…” He paused and though a host of colourful descriptions passed through his mind, he did not employ them for fear of being offensive, so he simply added, “…less so.”
His eyes held hers, his gaze was most intent, and she understood that what he had said was done carefully.
“She will be outraged?” she asked quietly.
“Not an unusual state for my aunt.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide as she remembered something Wickham had said. “You cannot marry me.”
His brows furrowed. “I believe, I must.”
She shook her head. “You are promised to your cousin.”
“Your cousin told you this?” He tried to keep the anger from his voice, but from her response, he knew he had not been successful.
“No,” her reply was barely above a whisper.
“Then who?” Bingley knew of his aunt’s desires, as did Caroline, but would they have told her? Perhaps Caroline might.
“Mr. Wickham.”
Her reply arrested his thoughts and his breath.
She watched his jaw muscle clench and relax, clench and relax as his face took on a look of great displeasure.
“My aunt Philips had a gathering, and he was there.”
“And he spoke of me and my affairs?” His tone, he knew, was harsh.
She nodded.
“And you listened?”
She could not look at him. He was furious. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
He rose. “I will get tea. Do not be too long out of bed doing whatever you might need to. You are still not well.” He stopped as he reached the door. “Mr. Wickham’s lot is of his own making and far better than he deserves.” He opened the door. “I will return.”
Tears ran down her cheek as he closed the door. She brushed them away. Foolish things, tears. Always appearing unbidden. It was not as if they could actually wash away her shame. She climbed out of bed and attended to her needs, then, feeling somewhat stronger than she had before, she wandered the room for a few short circuits before returning to bed. Her stomach twisted in knots as she waited for him to return.
It was not a short wait. Darcy did not hurry with his tea preparations. He needed time to calm himself. Nearly a full quarter hour of moving wood outside the door under the shelter was needed before he felt ready to begin a task as genteel as tea preparation. He searched through the supplies and found a box of biscuits. Elizabeth might need more than just tea. She seemed to be doing better. “Wickham.” He spat the name at the tea tray. “Always Wickham.” He leaned his head against the wall as he waited for the water to boil.
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth stood at the door to the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “I must apologize.”
“You are not to be out of bed.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her, and directed her back towards her room. “I will get the tea, and then, you may talk.”
“I must apologize,” she insisted as she limped along ahead of him. “I knew it was wrong to listen. I did not inquire anything from him, but I also did not stop him from speaking. I did not want to stop him.”
Darcy froze at the comment, and Elizabeth, who was just outside the bedroom, turned to him.
“I wished to hear him disparage you. I know it is wrong, and I am sorry.” Tears once again tried to wash away her shame and sorrow. She swayed slightly.
“You must get in bed.”
She took a wobbly step towards the bed, but before she could take a second, he had lifted her into his arms and carried her to bed.
“Please, stay here,” he said softly.
She grasped his sleeve. “I am sorry.”
He nodded, gave her a tight smile as he pressed his handkerchief into her hand and, once again, left the room.