Chapter Fourteen
D arcy had not yet reached the depths of despair, but he was beginning to understand why men in extreme confinement often gave way to it.
For three days, he had been subjected to a regimen of enforced idleness, propped up on pillows when allowed and otherwise left to his own thoughts while his back—and everything else—mended. Lying prone for hours on end was both undignified and maddening, and his disposition had suffered accordingly.
Fitz had been entirely too amused by his suffering, though at least he had proven useful in relaying information. He knew that Elizabeth had not suffered any infection—or at least, none yet—and was healing as well as he was himself.
Darcy could not even look out the window from this position. It was unbearably dull. “Dare I hope there is no gossip about my condition?”
“You are resting,” Fitz informed him, smirking as he sat in the chair Darcy longed to occupy. “That is the consensus of the household.”
Resting.
Whenever he asked, he was told the same about Elizabeth.
No one, it seemed, was willing to provide a more precise account. He buried his face in his pillow and growled.
Just as he was contemplating whether he might drag himself from the bed and down to her chamber by sheer force of will, the door creaked open, and Fitz entered.
“All alone, Darcy?” he asked.
“I can hardly tell,” Darcy grumbled, for he could not see most of the room.
Fitz made a noisy show of closing the door and checking the room.
“What are you about?”
Fitz walked in front of him to check behind the curtains. “Ensuring we are alone, of course.”
Darcy let out an impatient breath. “And why, precisely, does that matter?”
Instead of answering, Fitz wandered over to the door, nudged it open just enough to scan the hallway, then, apparently satisfied, shut it firmly behind him. He turned back and walked into Darcy’s view, his expression positively gleeful. “I have something of interest,” he announced, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
Darcy’s attention snapped to it at once. “What is that?”
Fitz held it up to the light, inspecting the fine parchment. “A note,” he mused, as though he had never seen such a thing before. “Quite neatly written. Feminine hand. I wonder—” He turned it over, affecting deep contemplation. “Who could it possibly be from?”
Darcy scowled. “Give it to me.”
Fitz glanced over at him. “How do you know it is for you?”
“Because you would not be creating a performance over it if it was for anyone else. Give it to me.”
“Ah, but should I?” Fitz tapped his chin, as if weighing the decision. “What if it contains scandalous declarations? Or shocking revelations? Perhaps I ought to read it first. Protect your delicate sensibilities.”
Darcy grasped the nearest thing he could lay his hands on. “I will throw this book at your head,” he growled, gripping the volume in warning.
Fitz grinned, clearly enjoying himself, but relented, stepping forward and placing the note just within Darcy’s reach. “Very well. No need to destroy Anne’s book.”
Darcy seized it at once, hardly waiting for his cousin to retreat before his eyes devoured the elegant hand. Elizabeth had written to him. It was a breach in propriety, of course, but their sojourn in the ruins had put paid to any real formality between them.
“Who gave this to you?” he asked, hoping that whoever had handed the missive to Fitz had been careful of Elizabeth’s privacy.
“Anne. Miss Elizabeth’s aunt approached her as the mistress of the house and asked her permission to send it along.”
Darcy stared at the paper, his pulse quickening and his mood lifting. He struggled to turn over, and Fitz stepped in to help.
“Easy, cousin,” Fitz chided. “I was instructed to see you do not overexert yourself.” He arranged the pillows behind Darcy and gently pushed him back into them.
Darcy shot his cousin a dark look. He unfolded the missive with care, his lips curling up into a smile as he read.
The message was very like her. The quick wit, the sweet teasing, the genuine concern it hid in every word. And, more than that, it was personal. It was not merely an inquiry, but a note written to him in a way that betrayed her expectation of an equally direct response.
She wanted to hear from him—she needed to know that he was well. That alone was enough to improve his mood immeasurably.
When he finished reading it, he felt lighter.
“I need to write back,” he said at once. “Between you, Anne, and Mrs. Gardiner, you can see she receives it without anyone else knowing. Help me sit up properly.”
Fitz let out an exaggerated sigh. “I ought to have known you would not listen to the physician, but this little letter has vastly improved your disposition, and so I will not inform him.”
Darcy ignored his cousin, focusing instead on the agonisingly slow process of moving into a sitting position. It took some manoeuvring, but at last, he was perched on the edge of the bed, his legs draped over the side, breathing slightly harder than he liked to admit.
Fitz had the decency not to comment—though he did shake his head when Darcy gestured for the small writing desk to be brought closer.
“Do you mean to make a habit of this?” Fitz asked as he set the table before him.
“I mean to respond to Miss Elizabeth.”
“I was referring to the flagrant disregard for propriety.”
Darcy reached for the quill that Fitz set before him. “Since when do you care about such things?”
“I do not, but I rather thought you did.”
“Fitz, need I remind you where you found us?”
His cousin’s teasing expression faltered for a moment.
“We are owed our reassurances.”
Quickly recovering, Fitz chuckled. “I daresay no one shall wrestle that note from your hands in any case.”
Darcy was already setting pen to paper, the words coming with surprising ease. Miss Elizabeth, I must confess myself flattered by your selfishness, and it aligns most conveniently with my own. I, too, have been forced to rely upon the meagre assurances of well-meaning attendants, and I find myself wholly unsatisfied with reports that you are “resting.” As you have said, it will not do. Therefore, I am much relieved to have proof that you are still capable of wielding your pen to both amuse and chastise me. As for my condition, I am well enough if one disregards the necessity of remaining in a position most unbecoming to a man of dignity. I am assured it is for my own good. I remain unconvinced. My cousin has proven an able steward of my care, and though I am compelled to admit that he is not entirely without usefulness, I will not say so where he might hear of it. Should my handwriting appear unsteady, do not assume I swooned midway through writing, but rather that Fitz has jostled the table whilst laughing at my expense. You advise me to write even if I can only manage a pencil. Very well—I shall, in turn, advise you against embroidery in your current state, for it might turn dangerous. Instead, if you are inclined to further selfishness, you might consider writing to me again. Your most devoted correspondent in captivity, Fitzwilliam Darcy
When the ink had dried, Darcy folded the letter and glanced at the small pile of books on the table beside him. Selecting one at random, he slid the letter between its pages, pressing the cover shut with quiet finality. Then, he held it out to Fitz.
“Give this to Anne,” he instructed, his voice low but firm. “Make certain Mrs. Gardiner agrees before it is delivered.”
Fitz accepted the book with exaggerated gravity, slipping it under his arm. “And if she does not?”
Darcy exhaled sharply. “Then I shall find a way to smuggle it out myself.”
His cousin's eyes crinkled at the corners and he shook his head. "This part of your character is entirely unknown to me, Darcy. I am not afraid to say that I am greatly enjoying it."
He had no need to defend himself when Fitz knew as well as he that Elizabeth had been permitted to write first. Darcy allowed himself a small, private moment of satisfaction. She had written to him , not merely sent a message through some intermediary. And now he had written in return.
It was a simple enough thing, a letter. And yet he had the distinct sensation of having crossed some invisible threshold, as though the boundary between them had altered in some imperceptible but meaningful way.
His reverie was shattered by the unmistakable sound of Lady Catherine’s voice echoing from the corridor. “I demand to know who thought it wise to give him mutton!” she was exclaiming, her voice rising in righteous fury. “Have they lost their senses? Has the cook taken leave of her faculties? Do they mean to weaken him further?”
Fitz’s eyes widened in alarm. “You had better get back into bed.”
Darcy briefly entertained the foolish notion of resisting but thought better of it. With a grimace, he allowed Fitz to help him lower himself back down onto the bed, turning his head just as the door swung open.
Lady Catherine swept in, her expression one of supreme indignation. “Nephew, this will not do.”
“So we heard,” Darcy replied. “Along with the rest of the household.”
Fitz tucked the book under his arm and turned towards the door. “I shall leave you in the hands of your most devoted advocate.”
Darcy gave him a dark look, but Fitzwilliam was already gone, the sound of his quiet laughter trailing behind him.
Lady Catherine sniffed, looking down at him as though his current state were a personal failing. “I shall have Cook dismissed at once.”
Darcy, now well acquainted with his aunt’s unique brand of benevolence, closed his eyes briefly. “Do not dismiss the cook.”
“Nonsense! If she cannot grasp the simplest principle of nourishment for an invalid, she is of no use to this household. You should not be eating such things for weeks yet. No, I shall have none of this insipid nonsense.”
“I do not object to mutton.”
Lady Catherine made a dismissive noise. “Do not be absurd. You are in no condition to make such decisions. That is what I am here for.”
He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “I had rather hoped you were here to see how I fared.”
She waved a hand. “I can see that you are faring well. The real question is whether you are being managed properly. And I think we both know the answer to that.” She cast a withering glance at him.
Darcy, resigned, exhaled through his nose. “As you say, Aunt.”
Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. “You should not be propped up like that. You must keep to your prescribed position if you mean to recover properly.”
“For once, we are in agreement.” With no further preamble, Darcy turned onto his stomach, effectively turning his back to his aunt and ending the conversation.
Lady Catherine, far from taking offence, gave a little grunt of satisfaction. “Good. See that you remain so. I shall send Anne to look in on you shortly.”
As her footsteps grew softer, Darcy smiled. “Yes,” he said quietly, “do send Anne.”