Chapter 5 #2
“Mr Darcy, while we are discussing the matter of debts, I must tell you that I had no choice but to use the money you were carrying on your person, for what little I had with me also remains in my uncle’s carriage out in the snow.
I have kept a tally of everything I have spent, as well as everything we have borrowed or consumed. ”
“There is no need.”
“There is every need!” she replied indignantly. “I shall not allow it to be put about that I am in receipt of gifts or subsistence from any man who is not my relative.”
Darcy winced at the indelicacy of the further misunderstanding and mouthed exaggeratedly to eliminate any possibility of misunderstanding, “I meant only that I trust you.”
“Oh.” She flushed a little and looked at her hands, as she often did when she was uneasy.
After an uncomfortable pause, she took a deep breath and continued.
“Mr Timmins has been most generous, but we shall have to pay him for the lodgings, food, and candles at least. Oh, and the feed for your horse. Then there was your shirt from Lieutenant Carver, my gown from Mrs Stratton, the paper and ink from Mrs Ormerod, the—”
“I shall settle it all.”
“Pardon?”
“I shall—” He stopped and mimed writing something instead. “Any more ink?”
Elizabeth appeared relieved to have some manner of activity, for she moved with alacrity around the foot of the bed to the nightstand on the other side. There she poured a drop of water from the ewer into the inkwell and swirled it around with the pen.
“We do this at home occasionally. It makes for frightful letters, but it lasts longer. You will despise us for it, no doubt, but there it is.”
He did not oblige her by objecting, for she well knew it to be nonsense.
On the contrary, he was gratified to have been told as much, as though being privy to such a thing marked a greater intimacy with Elizabeth than others were permitted.
He watched her deftly drag the pen around the inside base of the well to ensure no ink went unused and wondered how often she had performed the task.
She would never want for ink at Pemberley.
“There.” Elizabeth held the paper and newly inked pen towards him. “Now, what were you attempting to say?”
It took him a moment to recall, for his mind had emptied of all else but the vision of Elizabeth at the writing desk in the yellow morning room. At length he wrote,
I shall settle any debts accrued.
And replace your uncle's carriage.
She began to object to this, and he forestalled her by adding,
It is the very least I can do. You have saved my life.
“But your life would not have been endangered were it not for me.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him.
“I have been used to your reasoning being less easily gainsaid, but I shall forgive you this once since you have been injured, and on my account.” She did not allow the conversation any further latitude and instead held up his crumpled list. “These questions are more sensible. I will answer them as best I can, if you are not too tired?”
Darcy agreed with a smile and watched as she pulled a chair closer to the bed and made herself comfortable in it.
Mrs Stratton’s dress was too large for her; it masked the lightness of her figure.
The excess fabric ruched and slid over her hips in exactly the route a hand might take were it to navigate the same curves.
“Very well, question one.”
Darcy started, clenched his jaw to keep from mouthing an oath, and forced himself to attend to the matter at hand.
Elizabeth smoothed the crumpled list upon her thigh with the palm of her hand and read aloud his first question, about the length of his indisposition, then answered, “Today is Friday. The accident occurred on Tuesday. You were insensible for much of Wednesday and Thursday.”
Almost three days. That would explain the beard.
“I have answered this next question twice already,” she said, and he was poised to beg her forgiveness when she looked up and smiled wickedly at him. “’Tis a good thing I know you to be such an ill-humoured man, else I might think you meant to tease me by asking me to repeat myself so often.”
Darcy could not look away from the bewitching glimmer of challenge in her eyes and certainly had not the wits about him to invent an adequate riposte before she grew impatient and continued without one.
“There is the innkeeper, Mr Timmins, and his nephew, Master John. A merchant from Bristol—Mr Stratton, and his wife. Mr and Mrs Ormerod. Mr Ormerod is a parson. Lieutenant Carver—a soldier, obviously—and Mr Latimer, who claims to be an actor, but whom I believe may just be overfond of wine and verse.”
Darcy chuckled and instantly regretted it for it made him cough, which was agonising. Elizabeth passed him the glass of water, and though he was grateful, he wished to God he could cease appearing so confoundedly infirm before her. To cover his mortification, he took up the pen and wrote,
Not many people.
“No, but enough, for it is a very small inn—and full.”
Fortunate they had rooms for us then.
She smiled faintly and returned to looking at the list. “The next two questions have the same answer, I suppose.
Mr Timmins is a dear man, but he has some manner of affliction that affects his posture.
His back is stooped, and he seems to suffer weakness on one side of his body.
His nephew cannot be older than my youngest sister, for he still has the voice of a choirboy.
Mr Ormerod is seventy if he is a day, and his wife is as frail as he is ancient.
I have yet to see Mr Latimer sober enough to stand up without listing, and Lieutenant Carver is in possession of only one of his legs.
I doubt either of them could outrun a snail.
Mr Stratton has no discernible affliction other than being a tradesman, and that does not trouble me half as much as I am sure it troubles you.
He is never apart from his wife, and I have no reason to suspect that either of them are not respectable people.
“So you see, I have reasonable cause to believe myself safe, but nobody upon whom I could reasonably impose to help me tend to you, or whom you would be content to do so.”
There was something mesmeric about the way Elizabeth presented an argument. She was pert without being impertinent, factual without being prosaic, teasing without being cruel. It made Darcy wish to disagree with her simply to hear more. He picked up the pen.
What about your uncle’s coachman?
“He left with Merryweather—Mr Stratton’s man.
” His puzzlement must have been obvious, for she shifted impatiently in her seat and began again.
“The coach in which I was travelling overturned, as you know. Mr Stratton was the only person here with another, and he very generously lent us the use of it to transport you back here. His man and my uncle’s then returned with the carriage to the scene of the accident to collect—” She faltered.
Darcy mouthed the deceased man’s name for her, at which she nodded gratefully and continued.
“It was their intention to deliver him to London and inform my uncle of what had happened. It can only be assumed that they, too, have been hampered by the weather, for no help has arrived and Merryweather has not returned with the carriage.”
She paused to sip some water. Darcy knew not whether they were limited to one glass by circumstance or whether she had unconsciously drunk from his. Either way, it gave him a strange thrill.
“In regard to what I have told people of our situation, the answer is as little as possible,” she said, returning to the list. “We are neither of us known in this area, so it matters little what assumptions have been made. I hope we shall be gone soon enough to be quickly forgotten.”
He yearned to assure her he would do whatever it took to protect her reputation, but such promises were not in his power to give. He watched her, shamed to consider what she must think of his reticence. She kept her eyes downcast, however, and he could not guess her opinion.
“I confess, I do not know the answer to your question about provisions. Mr Timmins does not appear to be short of supplies, though we are obviously in want of anything fresh.”
That was concerning.
Can someone not be sent on foot for more? This Stratton fellow, or the young lad?
Elizabeth, leaning forward to read his scribblings, sat back and began her objections before he finished writing.
“Master John insists that if the lower road is blocked, then the high road beyond the rise will be worse. And I know the lower road is blocked, because I tried to get through this morning and could not.”
Darcy whipped his head up to look at her so quickly that stabbing pain ricocheted along his neck. He gritted his teeth against it and stared in disbelief at Elizabeth until his pain subsided sufficiently that he could unclench his jaw and mouth furiously, “That is where you went this morning?”
Elizabeth’s fleeting look of surprise morphed instantly into her more usual defiance. “Aye, sir, it was.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I am aware you think walking alone is terribly unfashionable, but as we have already established, I am scarcely overrun with individuals who might have accompanied me.”
Darcy shoved the pen into the inkwell—too hard, for the end of the nib cracked.
To hell with fashion! What if you had come to harm?
He cast her a fierce glance at the end of each sentence for emphasis.
You know neither the way nor the lay of the land beneath the snow.
When so much watery ink had run from the broken nib as covered most of what he had written, he abandoned it and mouthed the words instead. “Damn it, Elizabeth, what if you had taken a fall?”
Elizabeth remained still for longer than it usually took her to read his lips.
He knew not what emotion held her thus, but her silence made the rasp of his quickened breathing seem stentorian by comparison.
With a concerted effort to compose himself, he mouthed in a more controlled manner, “Why did you attempt it?”
She looked away and frowned, twisting her mouth curiously as though mulling something over. When she answered, it was said to the far side of the room.
“I wished to post the letters I have written to my father and uncle begging for their assistance. I made it quite far—far enough that my hopes were raised. But I could not even see where the road was, once I got beyond the rise, and by then I was cold and muddy.” She gave a sardonic little huff of laughter and returned her gaze to his.
“Mud has never troubled me, as I am assured you know, but I detest being cold.”
She had written, begging for assistance.
Her distress settled as a tangible weight upon Darcy’s shoulders.
For all her courage, she was miles from her family with neither possession nor protection—ostensibly alone, for he was of no use to her.
She had witnessed one man die and another get as close to it as be damned, and she wished to go home.
And he could not comfort her in any meaningful way.
He turned the ink-stained sheet of paper over and scratched out a plea of his own on the reverse.
I beg you would not attempt it again—if only for my peace of mind. We are strangers here. There is no guarantee you would be safe. Let one of the men deliver your letters.
She finished reading at the same moment he finished writing, and they raised their eyes to each other’s in unison. He was vastly relieved when she gave a reluctant nod. He smiled his appreciation and returned pen to paper—though the words danced disconcertingly on the page before his eyes.
I shall write to my cousin when the snow begins to melt. He is in the army. He will send men to clear the ro—
The cracked nib of the pen gave way beneath his leaden grip and scudded across the bed.
“Where is Miss Bingley when she is needed?” Elizabeth said lightly, taking the pen from his hand. “She will kick herself when she learns that you genuinely required her services.”
A smile crept across Darcy’s lips to lift the heavy corners of his mouth. He well recalled Elizabeth hiding her smile behind her book while Caroline Bingley fluttered around him one evening at Netherfield making overtures about his sister and offering to mend his pen.
“She is not as awful as you believe,” he attempted to mouth, though his lips did not form the words well. His throat had begun to throb—a new and worrying development.
“I do not recall ever expressing such an opinion, Mr Darcy.”
The mischief in Elizabeth’s expression produced a palpable flurry in his gut. “No need. I know well enough when you despise someone.”
She watched him say it, and when she had deciphered his meaning, her look of amusement intensified. “Indeed?”
He nodded, too sleepy to remember not to do so, and the pain it incurred was sickening.
The room swung around him, and he grabbed at the bedclothes to prevent himself sliding to the floor.
When the spinning slowed to a halt, he blinked his eyes open to discover Elizabeth standing over him with an expression of unalloyed compassion.
It was a look he had jealously watched her direct at her friends and family back in Hertfordshire, one he had coveted for a very long time.
“You ought to sleep now, Mr Darcy.”
“I am well,” he insisted mutely. He did not wish to sleep. He wished to talk more to her, to make her smile again, to ease her mind, if he could.
“You are not well, sir. You can barely hold a pen. You must rest.”
To his surprise, she stepped forward and tugged and smoothed the blanket to better cover him. It was such a comforting gesture it quite disarmed him and without meaning to, he found himself divulging something of his unease. “I ought to be improving by now.”
“It has been little more than two-and-seventy hours since you were almost killed. You ought to be resting.” Elizabeth’s eyes moved over him as she checked his covers, his pillows, his bandages. His eyes remained fixed upon her—something she noticed eventually. “What is it?”
“Thank you for helping me.”
He could not discern the meaning of the look she gave him. He might have thought it was surprise had not there been something intensely searching about it.
“You are welcome, sir. Sleep now, and I shall heat some more broth for you when you next wake to help rebuild your strength.”
Darcy knew not whether it was in the waking world or his dream that she took up his hand and sat beside him until he slept. He did know that if he let go at all, it was long after oblivion claimed him.