Chapter 2 #3
Elizabeth leaned over and rolled up her pant leg. The ankle was swelling. Lovely, the bruise will match my scar. She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped on the screen. It showed two voicemails and three texts from Jane.
She listened to the voicemails first. “Lizzy, don’t hate me! Charles surprised me with tickets for James Taylor! You don’t mind, do you? I had no idea. Where are you, anyway?”
Thrown over for another boyfriend. Elizabeth gritted her teeth listening to her sister’s bubbly, joyful voice. “Please try to get along with Darcy! Watch a movie. Charles has all the Bond and Bourne movies and tons of comedies! Just pretend you never saw his Adam Sandler collection.”
And the texts: “Where are you?” “Text me!” “Tons of food in the fridge!”
“Well?” Darcy looked at her impatiently, a bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a lumpy tea towel in the other.
“I believe we’ve been thrown over for a night with Sweet Baby James.”
“Excuse me?
“Charles surprised Jane with tickets to James Taylor. We’re on our own.”
“Oh.” He stared at her blankly. “Ohhh.”
Elizabeth sent Jane a quick, vaguely threatening text. “You owe me, big time.”
Darcy gently laid the towel-covered ice bag on her ankle. His eyes lingered on the long scar that decorated her leg from shin to anklebone.
“Old injury?”
She nodded. “Broke it playing soccer in college. Two pins and one surgery later, it was all good. Except for any chance to play professionally.”
He stared at her.
“I’m kidding. I wasn’t good enough to go pro.”
“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” He appeared about to say something else but then shook his head. “You’re still a good player. Certainly had me.”
Elizabeth smiled and rolled her eyes. After canvassing her about her appetite, Darcy headed to the kitchen, soon returning with tea and a plate of crackers, cheese, and fruit. “There’s a lasagna in the oven.”
“Did you preheat?
He appeared confused.
“Never mind. How about some wine?”
He looked at her doubtfully. “Will it help your foot?”
“A sip o’ the grape helps everything,” she replied, grinning. Elizabeth drank some tea and watched him open a bottle of merlot. “So where did you get all these Nurse Darcy skills?”
He stopped twisting the corkscrew. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, you’re good at this; you’re very nurturing. Like you’ve done this a lot.” She smiled up at him. “And you’re shockingly domestic. I’d never have guessed it.”
“Slicing cheese and sticking a casserole in the oven is the extent of my culinary talents, I’m afraid.”
He handed her a glass of wine and placed his own on the table near the tray before sitting down in an overstuffed chair across from her.
“How about you? Do you cook?” he asked.
“A bit. Soups and stir-fry mostly. I prefer baking.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re not a chef or a professional footballer. Um, may I ask what it is you do?”
“Marketing and public relations. For now, anyway. I’m just finishing my MFA at Columbia.”
“Really?”
“Hard to believe, hmm?” Elizabeth leveled an annoyed look at him.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“Did my undergrad at UM. That’s what my family could afford. I had a scholarship to play soccer, and I saved up for grad school.”
“You didn’t wish to go there? To Meryton?” He picked up a cracker and stared at it.
She watched him and started laughing. “What, are you phobic about all things orange?” She gestured to the orange cheddar on the plate.
Darcy flushed and smiled. “Um, no, actually.” He picked up a slice.
“Can you keep a secret? I despise orange,” she said solemnly. After coaxing another small smile from him, she continued, “I had some amazing professors at UM. I learned a lot. But I really wanted to leave town.”
He nodded. “But now you are in the city, working and studying. Full-time?”
“Best as I’m able.” She shifted her leg and decided to change the topic. He was staring at her far too intently.
“And you’re an Oxford man?”
“Um, no. Cambridge and Harvard.”
“Do you work with Charles?”
“No.”
She considered him. “Do you work?”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth sighed and stroked her chin dramatically. “Let’s see. You always wear black, you speak as little as possible, and you ask pointed questions. I’m guessing CIA, MI6, or, perhaps, cat burglar.”
He furrowed his brow and bit back a smile.
“Fine. Keep your secrets.” Elizabeth sipped her wine. “So, it’s Fitzwilliam, right? That’s an amazing name, you know. Which came first—the name or the accent?”
He looked at her.
“Oh, come on. It’s like the name of a subdivision or a sofa at Pottery Barn. ‘Please note the extra firm cushions on The Fitzwilliam.’”
Darcy chuckled. Wow, he can laugh?
“So, do you have extra-firm cushions? Do you carry extra padding?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Or are your springs sprung?”
“God, you are a loose cannon.”
“Yup. Always sinking ships.” Elizabeth drained her wine glass and burrowed down further into the sofa. “Seriously, though, are you a New Yorker or a Londoner?”
“I’ve been a New Yorker for the last five years but in the States for most of a decade. After I finished school, I came here to run some business interests.”
“Do tell.”
“My mother’s family owns some companies here.”
“She’s American?”
“Um. She was, yes.”
“Oh.” Was? Oh. “So you are a citizen of the world astride the pond.”
“Barring that unfortunate imagery, yes, I suppose so.”
Elizabeth felt the spreading warmth of the alcohol and the lovely effects of the Vicodin. She snuggled deeper under her blanket and gazed through the dim light at Darcy. He still hadn’t shaved. Grubbiness became him. She watched him place another log on the fire and turn back to face her.
“You look good with a beard.”
“What?”
“Then your father is the British one? The one who dubbed you Ferdinand?”
“Fortunately for me, neither of my parents were inclined to name their son after a bull or a bear or a rabbit. It’s Fitzwilliam, remember?” He bent over, adjusted her ice pack, then sat on the floor and leaned back against the sofa.
“Oh, sorry. I’m a bit fuzzy,” she yawned. “Well, Peter is a nice name for a rabbit or a boy,” she insisted. “Your father?”
“He passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh. When your mother did?”
“Er…no. That was longer ago.”
“When you were a boy?” she asked sadly.
“I was sixteen.”
“You’re an orphan.”
Darcy played with a loose thread on his sweater, avoiding her curious stare. “I’m twenty-eight, hardly an orphan.”
“Are there more of you besides you and your sister?”
“You ask a lot of questions. Are you always this inquisitive?”
“You intrigue me. I’m sorry to hear that you’ve lost your parents, and I’m sorry if I was rude for asking.”
He turned away from her, drew his knees up, and leaned on them, staring into the flames. “My father died of pancreatic cancer five years ago. It was…fast and painful. I think he was happy to let go.”
She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Because it was so awful?”
He sighed. “Not as painful as the previous decade. He…drank. He never got over the accident.”
“That’s how your mother died? A car accident?”
He nodded and mumbled a few words.
Elizabeth clenched his arm a little tighter. Oh God. “Come here.”
He turned around and shook his head. “Um, why?”
“I’m not going to test your cushions for firmness; I need your help.”
Darcy immediately scooted closer to her. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t feel my leg. I think it fell asleep. Can you check it?”
He looked befuddled and on the verge of asking her a question, but instead he nodded his head and put his hand under the covers. “Can you feel this?
“Yes.”
“This?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. I think you’ll live.”
“Thanks, Nurse Darcy.” Elizabeth met his eyes. They lacked the steely glint she’d grown used to seeing there. Now they were soft and very dark. She lifted her hand to his cheek.
“Oh, my God, you’re so bristly.”
“I forgot to pack a razor.”
She ran her fingers across the two-day-old growth and watched him close his eyes. Elizabeth pulled his face closer and gave him a brief kiss. He leaned in and she kissed him again, pulling him down.
He followed willingly.