Chapter Thirteen
E lizabeth had always prided herself on bearing discomfort well. She did not weep over trifles, nor did she indulge in untoward distress.
Yet as she lay abed at Rosings Park, still stiff and sore from her injuries, she found herself uncommonly frustrated with the pace of her recovery.
Elizabeth had asked Charlotte not to explain the severity of the event to her relatives lest it worry them unnecessarily. Her father had evidently been so reassured that he had simply asked Jane and Aunt Gardiner to write to him should he be needed. The ladies, on the other hand, had arrived at Rosings yesterday, two days after the accident, and had been met with great civility by Miss de Bourgh. They had been ushered upstairs and assigned the bedchambers nearest Elizabeth.
Now that Elizabeth’s family were with her, Charlotte returned to the parsonage to spend time with her sister. She promised to return to visit.
Elizabeth woke each morning expecting significant improvement, only to find her bruises deepening in colour, her aches and stiffness fading by mere degrees. The surgeon assured her that she was healing well thus far, and she certainly wanted for nothing material. But she was confined to her chambers and sitting room while the spring returned in a blaze of sunshine and warmth. An open window was simply not enough.
Even more disconcerting was the fact that he had not yet stepped outside his chambers.
She knew little of Mr. Darcy’s condition beyond the one note Colonel Fitzwilliam had relayed through the housekeeper—a polite reassurance that the patient was still abed but improving, that he required rest, that he would recover in time. But the vague nature of such a report only unsettled her further.
Was Mr. Darcy truly recuperating? Was he in pain? Was he suffering from being indoors as much as she? Was he restless, uncertain?
She wished to ask after him directly—had nearly done so any number of times—but the presence of her sister and her aunt had held her back. They would not understand her desire to breach etiquette. So she did nothing but express her best wishes for Mr. Darcy’s recovery and wait placidly for further information. Her relations could not know—no one could—how much of themselves she and Mr. Darcy had revealed to one another in the hours after the collapse. She had told Jane and Aunt Gardiner how gallant Mr. Darcy had been, how he had protected and cared for her, but there were no words to express the anxiety she still felt for his well-being.
Instead, she was left with her thoughts. And her relatives.
Jane had expressed alarm at Elizabeth’s bruised face and the sling that bound her arm but, upon being assured that the injuries were not severe, had settled into her usual manner of quiet attentiveness. She did not press Elizabeth for details, nor did she make any undue fuss, but her eyes held a quiet concern that Elizabeth could not allay.
It was Aunt Gardiner who watched her with a sharper scrutiny.
“I cannot help but feel that there is more upon your mind than mere impatience to be well, Lizzy,” she observed as she unfolded a blanket to lay it over Elizabeth’s lap before sitting down beside her.
Elizabeth shrugged, keeping her gaze fixed on the blanket. “I have not much to say.”
Her aunt hummed. “That would be the first time in your life.”
Elizabeth huffed laughingly. “I suppose even I must have a moment’s rest now and then.”
“And yet your thoughts do not appear restful.”
Elizabeth plucked at the blanket’s fringe. “Perhaps not. I—” She exhaled and confessed. “I admit that I think a great deal about Mr. Darcy.”
She had not meant to say it so plainly. But the words hung in the air between them, unmistakable, irrevocable.
Jane, seated at the writing desk, glanced up.
Aunt Gardiner was unperturbed. “I see.”
Elizabeth shifted, unsettled by her own admission, but unable to keep her worries inside any longer. “I think of his welfare, naturally. He was injured far worse than I, and yet I hear so little of his progress.”
Jane set her letter aside and moved to sit on the bed beside her, taking Elizabeth’s good hand in hers. “You are anxious for him.”
Elizabeth looked down at their clasped hands. “Yes.”
“It is only natural to be grateful,” Jane assured her, but Elizabeth knew better.
Aunt Gardiner studied her for a moment. “Is your concern borne only of gratitude, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth felt a rush of warmth creep up her neck. She had not allowed herself to ask that question.
Was it gratitude? Was it the natural regard of one who had endured a harrowing event beside another?
Or was it something else entirely?
“I do not know,” she admitted, her voice quiet.
Jane’s fingers tightened around hers.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, her mind returning to those hours beneath the rubble, to the steady cadence of Mr. Darcy’s voice, the warmth of his presence beside her, the moment he leaned towards her and began to ask her a question.
She had felt, in those hours, something profound happening between the two of them, but of course there had been more pressing issues to attend. She had been frightened, injured, vulnerable. He had been steadfast, protective, unfaltering.
Was her forced idleness giving her too much time to think? Was she imagining a connection that had only existed due to their exceptional circumstance? Had she mistaken his kindness for something more? He had said he wished to marry her, but had that all been naught but a dream? Or had he assumed he must wed her, as Lady Catherine had implied?
It troubled her.
Elizabeth was not accustomed to doubting herself, yet now, in the enforced stillness of her recovery, her mind turned over every memory, every word, searching for certainty where none could be found.
She exhaled, turning her head toward the window. Perhaps, in time, she would know the truth of Mr. Darcy’s sentiments. But for now, she could do nothing but wait.
“I have been wrong about him,” she told her aunt. “Oh, not completely wrong, but in the most significant ways.”
Aunt Gardiner nodded, as though she had suspected as much. “People are often not what they first appear, my dear, and you now know a great deal more about his character than you did before.”
Elizabeth looked toward the window, the golden afternoon light spilling across the floor. “Yes.” She hesitated, fingers tightening around the fringe of the blanket.
She had believed Mr. Darcy to be proud, aloof, and indifferent to all but his own consequence. Yet she had seen him bruised, bleeding, his fine coat in tatters—and his care for her had never wavered. She had once thought him unfeeling, and yet his stories suggested he was instead a man beset by feeling but required by circumstance to suppress it.
“What is it that you know now, Lizzy?” Jane asked.
“I know,” she said, her voice quieter, steadier, “that I have not judged him fairly.”
Aunt Gardiner tilted her head. “And why do you think the knowledge of your misjudgement troubles you so?”
Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers curling against the blanket. “Because it was not a small error,” she admitted. “I did not merely misunderstand him—I resented him; I ridiculed him. I was so determined to think ill of him that I refused to see what was before me.”
She looked down. “I have always prided myself on my discernment. And yet, where Mr. Darcy was concerned, I was blind. I allowed myself to become prejudiced against him.”
Aunt Gardiner regarded her thoughtfully. “You cannot fault yourself alone, however. I believe he made a very good job of hiding himself.”
“He must not be able to trust those he does not know well, or he would have no reason to conceal himself in such a way,” Jane said. “Poor Mr. Darcy.”
That was not how Elizabeth would describe him, but the idea that he did not trust easily—well, that made sense to her.
“And now that you see more clearly,” her aunt asked, “what is it that you find?”
“A man I admire.” Elizabeth hesitated, her heartbeat quickening. “And perhaps a man who I might come to—” She broke off, unable to say it.
A small, knowing smile touched her aunt’s lips. “I see,” she murmured.
Jane’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. “You have never spoken this way before, Lizzy.”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “For I have never felt this way before.”
A soft silence stretched between them.
Aunt Gardiner’s voice was gentle when she next spoke. “And what will you do with this knowledge, dear?”
Elizabeth let out a breathless laugh. “I have not the faintest idea.”
Aunt Gardiner smiled, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Elizabeth’s ear. “Perhaps, for now, you need not do anything at all. You must wait for him to speak.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her mind continued to race long after Jane and Aunt Gardiner had withdrawn to dress for dinner.
For now, she would do nothing.
But she could not escape the truth that had settled in her heart, nor could she shake the growing certainty that when she next looked into Mr. Darcy’s eyes, he would see it there too.
Elizabeth pressed a hand against her heart, willing it to slow.
The severity of her condition had been much exaggerated, in her opinion. The physician had made a great fuss over her bruises and her arm and had insisted that she be kept abed.
After that first day, she had never been less inclined to rest in her life. And now . . .
The truth of the matter was that she missed Mr. Darcy. Having admitted as much to herself—if only in the privacy of her own mind—she could not possibly wait another moment for someone else to tell her of his state.
With a decisive movement, Elizabeth pushed herself upright and limped to the small table where Jane had been writing her letter. There was still pen, ink, and paper there. She was grateful that her writing hand had not been injured.
She selected a sheet and took up the quill, hesitating only briefly before setting it to the page. Mr. Darcy, You must forgive the impropriety of my writing, but I find that I am a selfish creature. I am aware I ought to wait for yet another of your kind relations to assure me of your well-being, but I cannot. I must have it from your own hand. If you are able, I beg you would write me a line. If the use of ink is beyond your present strength, I would be satisfied with the merest pencil scrawl, though you must not make the effort at all if it would cause you pain. I should think it excessively discourteous were you to faint before finishing your note to me. I am, at present, as well as can be expected for one who has been sentenced to idleness, though I begin to fear that if I am confined to my chamber much longer, I shall be compelled to engage in the truly desperate act of taking up my embroidery. Your anxious friend, Miss Elizabeth Bennet
She set down her pen with some satisfaction, scanning her words with a critical eye. It was neither too sentimental nor too distant. A gentle demand, a light jest—it would do.
Now, the question of how to see it delivered. This would require more delicate handling. She thus waited for Aunt Gardiner to return.
Her aunt gazed at her with gentle reproach. “Lizzy, you ought not to be sitting up—”
“Aunt,” she interrupted swiftly, knowing that she could not send the missive in her hand without her aunt’s approval. She held up the folded piece of paper. “Will you please see this delivered to Mr. Darcy?”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brows lifted slightly. “To Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes.”
“May I inquire as to its contents?”
“You may inquire,” Elizabeth said cheerfully, “but I should rather you did not.”
Her aunt’s gaze was unwavering.
“Very well,” Elizabeth acquiesced. “You may read it if you like. It is not sealed.”
Her aunt nodded. Her lips twitched as she read the message. She studied Elizabeth carefully as she refolded it. “Very well, but it will be up to Miss de Bourgh whether she will allow it.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief as Aunt Gardiner departed, and then she settled back against the pillows with the novel sensation of having done something, however small, to remedy her dissatisfaction.
And now, she must wait.