Chapter 6
Elizabeth allowed herself to be persuaded to her own rooms for a bath. Exhausted and enveloped in the warm water, her maid’s soothing hands washing her hair, she felt herself slipping into sleep. Not yet.
A few minutes later, she was dressed in her nightgown and robe.
Hearing a cough, she hurried to Darcy’s chambers.
Edwards rose, gave her what seemed to be a reassuring nod, and went to have his dinner.
She smiled, seeing that the valet had managed to change her husband into a clean, dry night shirt and comb his hair into some semblance of order.
His whiskers remained untouched—Edwards would not risk injury should a coughing fit erupt—but Darcy looked better, more himself, regardless.
A soft touch to his shoulder and forehead gave her one of the first signs that he was indeed more himself.
He was warm but no longer hot, and after putting an ear to his chest, she began removing the remaining jars of melted snow.
Her hope burned fiercely, but she could not allow herself to smile, to believe his ordeal was nearly over.
Sitting, she noticed a tray that had arrived while she dressed. She stared at it numbly until Mrs Reynolds knocked and stepped into the room. “His fever is down, and his breathing seems easier,” Elizabeth said, her voice nearly breaking. “He-he is improved.”
The housekeeper smiled kindly, looking over at Darcy.
“The master has always been strong, and he is too stubborn to be ill when Christmas is so near. The broken arm he had when he was nine years old did not keep him from eating his share of mince pies and plum cakes and playing merry games with his cousins.”
The image of her husband as a bright-eyed boy beset with anticipation for Yuletide brought a wistful smile. In another year or two, their sons would be equally enthusiastic. Unconsciously, she touched her stomach.
“And you, ma’am?” Mrs Reynolds’s eyes darted quickly to Elizabeth’s waist before glancing at the untouched tray. “Mr Darcy will be displeased if you do not take care of yourself. You must eat something. Some soup. It is your favourite.”
Indeed, the aroma of leeks and potatoes was wonderful. She was hungry and had a baby to feed. Nodding, she moved to the small table and began to eat as the housekeeper slipped from the room.
Somewhat restored after emptying the bowl and eating a roll with some butter, she curled up into the oversized chair that had been placed by Darcy’s bedside and reached for the ribbon-wrapped pinecone Bennet had brought for his father. Our sons await their papa. She began singing softly,
God rest ye merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.
Remember Christ our Saviour
Was born on Christmas Day,
To save us all from Satan’s pow’r
When we were gone astray,
Oh tidings of comfort and joy…
Darcy coughed, but only once, and turned towards her as he slept.
Humming the rest of the tune, Elizabeth leant forwards, resting her arms on the mattress and gazing at him.
The rattle in his chest had lessened; he was breathing more peacefully than hours ago, and his colour was better.
She touched his cheek; the growth of his beard, harsh against her fingers two days prior, was softer now as it lengthened.
In five years of marriage, she had never seen him thus and could not think whether she liked it.
His hair, despite Edwards’s best efforts, was a disaster—lank with sweat.
Nevertheless, her hand was drawn to it, smoothing it down, over and over.
Darcy lifted his hand and pushed away a lock of hair, dampened by splashes of lake water, from Elizabeth’s cheek. She took a breath and tightened her grip on the oars.
“Remember,” he said, chuckling. “You must pull each of the paddles at the same time, over and over, or we shall continue to go in circles rather than forwards.”
The sun angled past her bonnet, interfering with her appreciative inspection of her husband of seven months.
Never had she seen him look so temptingly handsome, in just a shirt and waistcoat, sitting tall in one of Pemberley’s rowing-boats.
His jacket and cravat had been discarded on the embankment; his sleeves rolled up within moments of helping her into the craft.
With more effort than she would like to admit, she tore her gaze away from his bared forearms to reply to his instruction.
“Yes, I understand the physics of it, but one hand is stronger than the other, and pulling them in unison is difficult.” She tugged again, feeling his watchful observation.
“Are you certain you wish to continue?”
“Yes. I have a meagre list of accomplishments and desire my husband to boast in town of his new wife and her rowing prowess.”
His answering grin gave way to a mischievous look. “Beauty, intelligence, strength, and a happy spirit are chief among your arts and allurements, though I am especially fond of that freckle on your shoulder. It is a pity I cannot boast of that in town.”
“Teasing man,” she laughed, her hand slipping.
“Do not let go of the oar!” Darcy reached past her, attempting—in vain—to catch the wooden paddle as it disappeared into the pond.
“Oh!” she cried as the boat rocked back and forth in the water.
Darcy sat down carefully and took the other oar from her. His look was one of amused exasperation. Her own, she was certain, was more sheepish.
“I am sorry the oar is lost.”
He chuckled. “As am I, for it puts an end to your rowing lesson.”
In truth, Elizabeth was not unhappy about that; her arms ached, and despite her bonnet, the sun was too much in her eyes. “Alas, it was a sturdy oar, and I mourn its demise within the watery depths.”
Her husband nodded solemnly before mirroring her smile.
“Never fear, it joins at least three others sunk to the bottom of this pond. When we were boys, Fitzwilliam dropped both oars when we decided to dive in and swim. Swim we did—all the way to the embankment only to be caught by my father and the gamekeeper. Another was lost three years ago, when Georgiana wished to learn to row. As then, I can navigate us back to shore well enough.”
“Of course you can. After all, what is an oar to the enjoyment of an afternoon spent in the company of ladies you adore?”
She smiled, distracted as he plunged the oar into the water and urged the boat forwards before repeating the movement on the other side.
“Elizabeth?”
She blinked.
“Elizabeth?”
Shaking herself from sleep, she lifted her head and looked up sleepily to find her husband’s dark eyes, bleary and tired, watching her. His chest rose high with the easiest, steadiest breath she had seen him take in three days.
“Elizabeth?”
“Fitzwilliam!” Lightheaded with joy, she flung her arms around him and burrowed her face in his neck. “Thank goodness.”
Her husband’s hand was sluggishly rubbing her back, and he was murmuring hoarsely into her hair. “Elizabeth,” he said again. “What has happened? I do not know what I did, but it feels as though a horse fell on me.”
“Nothing so easy as that,” she murmured. “You have been ill, with pneumonia.”
He sat quickly, tumbling Elizabeth back to the pillow, and looked at her wide-eyed. “Pneumonia? You are well? The boys?”
“We are. It was only you. Three days in bed, my love. You must never wear yourself down like that again.”
“No, ma’am.” Groaning, Darcy sank back gingerly onto the mattress, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.
Her heart pounding with happiness, Elizabeth leant over to shift his pillows around him and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Your fever is gone, and you sound so much better.”
“Was it so dire?”
“You can be a quiet man, but not hearing your voice, only your wretchedly tortured breathing and coughing, was dreadful.”
“I am sorry.”
“Edwards and Mrs Reynolds, everyone was so helpful. Oh, I must tell them you are awake! The boys… Are you well enough to see them?”
“Of course. Please.” He rubbed his beard, then his hand travelled to his hair. “Dear Lord, I need a bath.”
“You do.” She smiled.
“I do not like your whiskers,” announced Henry a few minutes later, sitting under one of Darcy’s arms and happily clutching Cat to his chest.
“You look like a pirate!” cried Bennet.
Darcy pulled him close, wincing a bit as he did. “Aye, but does the pirate code permit hugs?”
“No pirate,” murmured Henry, closing his eyes and burrowing deeper into Darcy. “Papa.”