Chapter 6 #3
“I thank you,” Mr. Darcy said almost bashfully.
He leaned forward. “Your father must have used the fact that my carriage stopped at Longbourn that morning to support his version of events, claiming it was your uncle’s conveyance.
It was only Anders, another coachman, and Slipworth, so I did not require them to wear their livery.
With the family sleeping late, it is not surprising that no one recalls it clearly, and that is to our advantage.
“ He tapped his fingers on his thigh in a distracted manner. “You said you were still on your father’s lands when you were taken, and that you leapt from a carriage. Yet somehow you ended in mine.” He shook his head, and Elizabeth heard him whisper, “A moving carriage.”
High-handed, tender-hearted man. He was blaming himself for this as well. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth?” He opened his eyes. They were dark, expressive eyes, and she hated to see them so haunted.
“If you do not stop doing that, you will drive me to some drastic act.”
“I do not understand you.” His forehead creased, and she attempted not to chuckle at his befuddlement.
“You really must stop taking responsibility for the actions of other people,” she scolded him firmly. “It is a little arrogant, sir, to think that you can claim fault for the decisions I have made.”
“I am not arrogant,” he protested. “In truth, I seem to have little pride left at all where you are concerned.” Mr. Darcy shook his head grimly. When he glanced at her, though, she could see his lips twisting up.
“As it should be,” she told him cheerfully. “Now, if I promise to rest, will you promise to go upstairs to your chamber and do the same? It is entirely self-serving, you know. I am afraid you will fall ill yourself and leave me to the mercy of your cousin and Mrs. Spencer.”
“I shall, Miss Elizabeth,” he said warmly. “Once we have you settled upstairs.”
Miss Elizabeth. She enjoyed it when he said her name. She tipped her head to one side, and he held his hands up, palms out.
“Mrs. Spencer has already outwitted me today. I simply wish to be certain you sleep.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Please, may I remain until then?”
She was quite tired, and he had asked politely. “Very well,” she told him, and leaned back into the pillows. She said a little prayer for her quick-thinking father and was soon drifting away.
“Pleasant dreams,” she heard Mr. Darcy say, but she was too far gone to reply.
It was a fortunate thing, Darcy thought with some exasperation, that most of the staff were from the house. Moving Elizabeth from the room off his study was not proceeding smoothly.
Elizabeth had insisted upon walking, rather than being carried.
Of course she had. Infuriatingly obstinate woman!
She simply would not admit that she had been ill and could not expect to have the strength to climb three flights of stairs.
He watched as she took another step, pulling herself up as much with her one good arm as with her legs, then standing still and taking a breath.
It was so excruciatingly slow he was certain his hair would be gray by the time they reached her new chambers.
Step, rest. Step, rest. Step . . . They were no more than halfway up the first flight. Elizabeth’s head was bowed, and her breath came too quickly. Darcy glanced downstairs. He had sent his butler to the wine cellar, but how long would he be gone?
Elizabeth’s hand tightened on the bannister, and she lifted her head. Darcy’s impatience vanished when he saw the defeat in her expression.
“May I assist you?” he asked gently.
She offered him a smile—a pale imitation of the one he loved. “Please,” she whispered.
He positioned his feet to support her weight and swept her up into his arms immediately.
As he reached the top of the second flight, his arms began to complain. As light as Elizabeth was, lighter still, Darcy thought, from her lack of appetite these past days, it was still no easy feat to carry another grown person up so many stairs.
He glanced up, spying Mrs. Spencer waiting for them on the landing.
He shifted Elizabeth in his arms and then, intent on his goal, mounted the final flight, feeling his burden growing progressively heavier.
He was nearly there, one foot on the landing, when his trailing foot caught the edge of the final step.
Darcy lunged forward with one leg, then, still off-balance, spun around to keep them both upright.
Elizabeth released a little squeal of surprise and her arms tightened around his neck as his elbow knocked into a table in the hall.
He had watched, helpless, as his father’s Qing Dynasty porcelain vase teetered, tipped, and plunged over the side.
Only Mrs. Spencer’s quick hands kept it from hitting the floor.
In the end, he found himself kneeling in the hall, still holding Elizabeth. “Are you well?” he asked quickly, hoping she had not been further injured by his clumsiness.
Miss Elizabeth had the good grace not to laugh aloud at him, but she was greatly tempted.
He could tell by the way her eyes shone.
Darcy swallowed, trying not to respond physically.
Laughter, even at his expense, was preferable to the look in her eyes when she had reluctantly allowed him to carry her.
He set Elizabeth on her feet and stood up next to her, straightening his coat and pulling at his cuffs before leading her to the bedroom they had designated for her use.
Fitz was waiting there with his arms crossed over his chest. “What took you so long?” he asked peevishly.
Elizabeth worked valiantly to hold her laughter in, and Darcy glowered at his cousin. Fitz did not appear to notice.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mrs. Spencer said with a pointed look at them both. “We will carry on from here.”
Darcy hated leaving Elizabeth with Mrs. Spencer. He knew his housekeeper was in every way more qualified to see to Elizabeth’s health and comfort. Still, it felt wrong to relinquish her to the care of another.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Every interaction with Elizabeth increased his danger.
He needed to revisit the rules of propriety that so far had been disregarded.
It was not wrong to leave Elizabeth to Mrs. Spencer’s care, it was right.
It was proper and prudent, yet it had never been so difficult to persuade himself to gentlemanly behavior.
He had been justified in his original decision to leave Netherfield after the ball, and after the events in the library, his departure from Hertfordshire had been earlier than intended.
But not even a day later, Elizabeth had been thrust back in his path.
God help him, though he wished to erase the terrible ordeal Elizabeth had suffered, Darcy could not be sorry for her presence here with him.
Was it simply bad luck, or was it fate? He could not think about it too carefully, as Fitz was already hurrying him downstairs.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, did not believe in fate.
He did not even believe in luck, good or bad.
He believed that it was one’s preparation for either opportunity or adversity that determined outcomes.
But even as he continued to work through his jumbled thoughts, he had to admit that he had not been prepared for his life to be so thoroughly set on its end by Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The morning after she had been moved to her delightful little bedchamber, Elizabeth awoke and sat up carefully.
When she did not feel any dizziness, she slid her feet into a pair of silk slippers and donned the matching silk dressing gown, both of which had been left out for her.
She padded across the floor cautiously—the slippers were too large, and the dressing gown too long—and sat in a beautifully embroidered wingchair near a large window.
She sighed happily at the view of a rather bare garden in the back of the house and turned her face up to the late autumn sunlight.
It was nothing short of glorious after having been cooped up in the dark little room off Mr. Darcy’s study, no matter that she had slept much of the past several days away.
She was feeling much better, despite the weakness that plagued her.
The Darcy townhouse had so many stairs! There were yet two floors above this one, the top floor serving as servants’ quarters, but Mrs. Spencer had locked the doors that led from the servants’ stairs to the family floors.
Elizabeth closed her eyes to revisit the feeling of being held safely in Mr. Darcy’s arms. He had stumbled near the end, to her great amusement, but despite her initial protestations, she had been grateful for his help.
She dozed for a time in the chair. When she woke, Elizabeth opened and closed her left fist. It was painful, but improving, and she wondered whether the splint on her arm was still necessary.
She should very much like to remove it. Then she walked around the room, fingering a few small porcelain figurines and examining the relief on the fireplace.
“Fluted pilasters and Ionic capitals,” she told the room, touching the cool, hard marble.
“Very elegant.” When she was finished, she stood in the middle of the room.
There were no books here, not even a work basket.
What was she supposed to do to pass the time?
Mr. Darcy must have thought she would still be sleeping all day, but instead of being frustrated at his lack of foresight, she chuckled a little.
He really was so intent on seeing her well.
She would not be surprised had he purposely removed everything from the room so that she would sleep for want of any other employment. Sadly, she was not tired.
Elizabeth tiptoed over to the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened for any activity, but it seemed she had been left on her own. Excellent.