Chapter Nine #2
Darcy could barely breathe. He had been sure he was hearing Elizabeth’s voice back at the house. He had smelt her perfume. The book in the library—had he imagined her there, reading it? And now he was seeing her image.
He walked closer, but the image did not disappear. Elizabeth was at Longbourn, surely. Was he truly in danger of losing his wits, or was that . . . “Elizabeth?” His question was spoken somewhat louder than he had intended, the sound of his voice breaking the silence into jagged pieces.
The woman jolted and turned quickly, sending herself a little off balance. When she stepped back to right herself, there was nothing for her back foot to rest upon, and she toppled backwards with waving arms and a little screech.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy cried and ran after her.
The water was frigid. Frigid, but fortunately not so very deep. Elizabeth sat up spluttering, the water coming to her chin, but her head above the surface. Her bonnet was soaked and limp, her hair half caught up in her pins and half trailing down her back.
And the wind had picked up, making every damp inch of her face feel caked over in ice.
“Elizabeth!”
The panic she felt rising in her chest had nothing to do with the fact that she was currently sitting in a pond, soaked to the skin and very likely to catch her death of cold.
It had to do with the familiarity of that voice—the dearness of it—and that the man who belonged to it was currently charging towards her.
He could not come to the dinner when she had been perfectly attired, no, he must witness her gracelessness, he must see her looking like a vagabond who had been caught in a downpour.
Of course. This was a sad commentary on her life of late, and the absurdity of it could not help but make her laugh a bit.
The laugh died in her throat when Mr. Darcy tore off his greatcoat, dashed down the pier, and waded into the water, boots and all, until he was at her side.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, bemused. “It is not deep here.”
“Not for me,” he said wryly, and indeed, the water did not reach the top of his boots. He held out both hands to help her to her feet, then put one strong arm around her waist and led her the few steps back to the pier. “On the count of three,” he said, “jump, and I will lift you up.”
Her face must have turned a bright red, for he murmured, “We must get you out of the water as quickly as possible, madam.”
She had preferred it when he had called her Elizabeth. But she did not protest, simply nodded. Mr. Darcy’s large, strong hands nearly encircled her waist, and Elizabeth closed her eyes at the exquisiteness of his touch.
“One,” he said. “Two.”
Elizabeth bent her knees.
“Three.”
She pushed up with her legs as hard as she could and found herself being easily lifted onto the wooden platform again. Mr. Darcy placed both hands on the side of the pier and pushed himself up, gaining his feet in no time.
Then he stood before her, strong, tall, handsome, caring. She studied his face and noticed a small white scar near the corner of one eye. “I thought you were gone to Pemberley,” she said, irritated at how her shivering made her words stutter like a staccato note on the pianoforte.
“I intended to. Horse trouble,” he said roughly, and her disappointment was acute.
Stupid girl. Did you think he had stayed for you? How many times must the man rescue you from your family’s folly and your own?
He placed his arm around her waist again, leading her to the shore. Elizabeth leaned into his side, willing to be brazen for she might never have another chance to be so very close to him. When they reached the place where he had discarded his greatcoat, he let her go to retrieve it.
A blast of icy air blew through her wet clothes and froze every part of her. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and tried to stop shaking. She bent over, trying to make herself smaller, to conserve what heat she had.
Suddenly, she was swathed in warmth and was being lifted off her feet. “What are you doing?” she asked shakily, more surprised than offended.
Mr. Darcy had wrapped her in his greatcoat.
“You are shivering so hard you cannot stand,” Mr. Darcy replied sternly. “We must get you to the house and changed into dry clothing.”
He meant nothing by it, of course, his talk of changing her clothes, but Elizabeth imagined what it would be like were they wed, and he could take her to their chambers.
Would he see to her care himself or leave it to the maid?
Would they sit together before a fire after and laugh at her clumsiness?
Would he read to her until she fell asleep on his shoulder, then kiss her forehead and carry her to bed—carry her as tenderly as he carried her now?
“Put your arm around my neck,” he instructed her.
Elizabeth did so, then buried herself deeper into his coat and closer to his chest, mortified not by the thoughts themselves, but that she was having them at all.
The man clearly did not want her. He had been in the house, no doubt aware that she was in residence, but had not even bothered to come down for dinner last night.
More than that, he had been at Netherfield since the wedding!
Her thoughts slowed. She was very cold. Instead of trying to figure out what the confusing man holding her had been about, she simply laid her head against his chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
Darcy was nearly frantic with worry. Elizabeth’s shivering had abated somewhat, but she had fallen silent.
She was soaked from head to toe. Between the nearly freezing temperature of the water itself, the wind was biting, making her body respond as though it was even colder.
If the undergardener’s illness was spreading through the house, she would be more susceptible to it.
He lengthened his stride, ignoring how the gusty winds were increasing in strength.
When he reached the top of the rise, his hat flew from the top of his head, and he involuntarily paused to see where it had gone.
But the next moment, he tightened his grip on Elizabeth—she felt so small in his arms—and plunged ahead towards the house.
“My goodness, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice muffled in his coat, “your legs are very long. Perhaps the next time I need to walk to Meryton I should ask you to carry me there. I should save nearly half my time.”
Darcy’s heart eased a fraction to hear her teasing, but he could not think of her, bent over, shaking, her lips painted with a faint bluish hue, and be entirely sanguine. “I am at your service, Miss Bennet,” he told her without breaking his stride.
She sighed, and Darcy imagined carrying Elizabeth like this on their wedding night.
God forgive him, if this was the only way he would ever have her in his arms, he would cherish it.
“My sister Georgiana used to insist on riding me like a horse throughout the nursery and out in the hall. She once wanted to ride me down the stairs, but even as a reckless youth I would not risk that.”
“You are full of surprises, sir.”
“Is it surprising, Miss Bennet, that I was once a boy like any other?”
She was silent for a moment before saying, “I suppose not. Were you much in the way of surprising young ladies and making them fall in the pond?”
“Are you blaming me for this?” he cried in mock affront.
“Of course. It could not possibly be my fault.”
He barked out a laugh at that. “No, of course not.” Netherfield was close now; they would be at the stairs in a few moments. He summoned his courage. “Miss Bennet, when you are restored to yourself, I should like to speak with you.”
There. The stairs were just before him, and not a moment too soon. Elizabeth was not a large woman by any measure, but she no longer felt as light as she had back at the pond. He took the first step up, adjusted her in his arms, and then hurried up the rest.
“As long as you are not gone off to Pemberley,” she said faintly, as they reached the top, “I will listen to whatever you have to say.”
“Thank you,” he said, breathing a little heavier.
The door opened so quickly that it nearly hit Darcy. He turned a bit so that his shoulder would take the blow and not Elizabeth. She had enough to contend with.
“I startled Miss Elizabeth, and she fell in the pond,” Darcy said brusquely, walking inside past the butler.
“You may set me on my feet now,” Elizabeth told him, and Darcy complied, unwilling to let her go, but knowing that her peril was less extreme now that they were indoors.
“Fetch Mrs. Bingley,” Carstairs told a footman. “Quick, now.” He beckoned to a maid. “Tell Mrs. Nichols we have need of her.” Then he bellowed, “Kerr!” and Darcy raised his brows.
The maid appeared as though from the thin air. “Oh, Miss Bennet,” she said reprovingly. “Come with me and we will set you to rights.”
One of the staff was already approaching with a blanket, and Darcy gently lifted his greatcoat off her shoulders and allowed Kerr to wrap the dry wool around Elizabeth.
“The fire is still warm in your chambers,” Kerr told Elizabeth. The maid could not be more than a year or two older than his Elizabeth, but she behaved more like a mother, wrapping an arm around her mistress as she clucked at her. “What were you doing out by the pond on such a blustery day?”
Darcy watched until they disappeared into the family wing. Only then did he realise that Carstairs was standing next to him, his hands clasped behind his back, watching as well.
“You should change your boots, sir,” Carstairs said without actually looking at the boots or at Darcy. “It would not do to leave your feet wet.”
The butler had already picked his damp greatcoat up from the floor and stepped into the little room off the entrance where wet outerwear was hung to dry.
His feet were not wet, but they were cold, so with a grunt that passed as a response, he walked up the other staircase—the one that led to the guest wing.
When he reached the top, Darcy could not help but look back.
Elizabeth was here. She was here, and she had agreed he might speak to her.
He would make certain that this time, nothing would go wrong.