Chapter 6
A Good Understanding
Unusual noises roused him; clatters, bangs, and the occasional frustrated huff from beyond the door to Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He knew not what she was doing, but it sounded as though she was being typically belligerent about it, and that made him smile.
There was another shuffle, another clang, and then the sound of pouring water.
An unbidden image of Elizabeth bathing came to mind, and he cursed in vexation, thoroughly ashamed of such ungentlemanly thoughts.
By way of distraction, he resolved to attempt to sit up unaided.
It worked on both counts, for he managed to both haul himself much farther upright and banish all thoughts from his mind but for the agony of doing so.
He reached for the glass on the nightstand, but water did nothing to relieve his discomfort.
Swallowing only radiated pain along his tongue and made the base of his skull thrum.
He discarded the glass clumsily on the stand and felt it spill over his hand but could do nothing about it.
He held himself still and waited for the pain to ease, though he began to suspect it never would.
While he lay panting in short breaths, Elizabeth emerged from her room.
She had not been bathing, but she had apparently washed her hair.
She walked bent forwards, with her head tilted to one side as she rubbed it dry with a towel.
She started when she saw him and, though Darcy could not be certain in the candlelight, he thought she blushed.
“I thought you were asleep!” Her embarrassment quickly changed to concern upon looking at him properly. “Has something happened? You look very ill.”
He could not even bring himself to point at the glass of water in explanation. He wished everything would cease hurting for just a moment.
“You are in pain.” It was not a question.
She hastened to the side of the bed. “Allow me to rearrange your pillows. They are pushing your head forward, I think.” As she had done before, she knelt over him and supported his head as she tugged and batted at the pillows behind him.
When she lowered him back down, his pain halved instantly, leaving him wholly at the mercy of the overwhelming surge of yearning for the woman poised above him, with her warm hand at the back of his neck, her wet hair falling all about his face and her breath brushing his forehead.
She retreated a heartbeat later. “Is that better?”
He touched one finger to the back of his other hand. “Yes.”
She retrieved her towel and stepped back from the bed, returned to her earlier embarrassment. “Sorry if I dripped on you.”
Darcy’s mind made yet another unchaste connexion, and he clenched his jaw in annoyance. She deserved far better than to be the object of baser imaginings, yet she had such power over him as frequently rendered him breathless with desire.
The want of any response and perhaps his staring at her wet hair evidently unsettled her.
“I could not put up with it another day,” she said defensively.
He could think of no immediate response, prompting her to continue even more heatedly.
“I am aware it is highly improper, sir, but frankly, nothing we have endured these past few days could be considered proper. Compared to blood, gore, and chamber pots, I hardly think my hair being unpinned ought to be what offends you most. I am sure you will survive seeing me in this way!”
Darcy was not sure he would. He signalled for paper and pen, which she grudgingly provided.
Nothing you do offends me.
He showed her, though it only deepened her frown. On a whim, he brought the paper back to his lap and added,
Your hair looks very pretty.
He showed her that also. He did not mistake her blush this time, though he thought she looked more bemused than flattered. She muttered her thanks and left the bedside to sit by the fire.
Ordinarily, Darcy would never have been so ungentlemanly as to watch a lady in any state of undress, but as Elizabeth had so rightly pointed out, there was little either of them could do about their present circumstances.
Moreover, she evidently did not object to his seeing, else she would have sat by the fire in her own room.
He watched her repeatedly run her fingers the length of her hair until the desire to go to her and perform the task himself became too much to bear, and he forced himself to close his eyes and at least feign sleep, if not actually achieve it.
“Mr Darcy?”
He started, having not heard Elizabeth approach, and carefully rolled his head so as to see her. She was standing at the foot of the bed with her hair loosely rebound and an unusually contrite turn of countenance.
“Forgive me for waking you. I am going downstairs to get some food. I thought you would like to know where I am going.”
He smiled warmly at such a conciliatory gesture.
She did not leave directly but remained rather awkwardly, unable to meet his eye.
Though he knew not what troubled her, he could not but be endeared by her manner, in particular the conscious way in which she rubbed her temple with the tip of her middle finger.
Just as he thought he must put her at ease somehow, she found her tongue.
“I beg you would forgive my poor manners, sir. No matter how little I like this situation, I recognise it is not your fault, and that you have even more reason to be unhappy about it than I. It is particularly ungenerous of me to be so captious when you are this ill.”
“Pray, do not concern yourself. I perfectly understand.”
She smiled lightly. “I have no idea what you just said, but here—” She came forward, holding out the pen. “I mended it for you. It seems only fair that you should have equal opportunity to express your displeasure.”
He accepted it, as well as the paper she then passed him, then dipped the pen in the watered-down ink she held out for him.
No apology is necessary.
He held it up and smirked when she rolled her eyes at it, for he was so rarely gainsaid in the normal course of things that it made the challenge of convincing her of his sincerity all the more appealing.
It would be entirely forgivable were you scandalised or inconsolable, yet you have been nothing but attentive. Your courage and dignity amaze me.
He passed her the note and watched her read it. She did not roll her eyes again, though it was not a complete victory for her reply made it clear she still was not persuaded.
“I am beginning to think you are teasing me.”
“How so?”
“One moment you are in high dudgeon, the next you are saying something astonishingly generous. I have not the slightest idea what to expect from you from one moment to the next.”
I apologise if I have seemed angry. I am—
He sought for a polite way to explain that unceasing pain and hunger, fear for his recovery, concern for her safety, and the constant battle against his impermissible feelings towards her were somewhat affecting his ability to be civil.
—not feeling myself.
It only made her laugh. “You are more yourself when you are angry than when you are not! It is all this forbearance and generosity that is puzzling me.”
He frowned, unsure of her meaning.
“That is more like it,” she said with a grin. “I know where I am when you are scowling in that fashion.”
Was it her design to vex him into an ill humour simply to prove her point, or was this her real opinion?
You think me an ill-tempered man?
“Mr Darcy, even you think you are an ill-tempered man. You told me as much that evening at Netherfield when we were discussing the evils of each other’s characters.”
He extended a finger in objection, then wrote,
Nay, I said my temper might be considered resentful.
“Oh. And yours is a cheerful sort of resentment is it?” she asked saucily.
He opened his mouth to protest and was exasperated to find that it widened into a smile instead. He could not resist it when she engaged him in this manner. He renewed the ink and his challenge with it.
Perhaps not, but though deep, intricate characters may be no more estimable than those composed of few sentiments, I hope there is more to me than resentment alone.
“Yes, I am beginning to see that,” she replied pensively, satisfying him that she had recognised the words as those she had said to him at Netherfield. After a brief pause, she smiled wryly and added, “I meant to apologise, not insult you again. You bring out the worst in me, sir.”
The admission set off a minor explosion beneath Darcy’s breastbone.
No offence taken, I assure you.
“Then I had better leave before I cause any.” She knelt and slid the chamber pot out from under the bed, saying nothing explicit to mortify them both as she held her hands out to help him sit up further—only, “I shall be gone for at least half an hour.”
Darcy was inexpressibly grateful for her discretion and for sending up the young boy, John, to remove the spoils before she returned.
He was pleased, also, that by then, he had regained some measure of equanimity after the simple task of remaining upright long enough to relieve himself proved so excruciating he could have wept.
Pleasure turned to palpable delight when Elizabeth arrived bearing a fresh serving of broth. He attempted to make less of a spectacle of himself eating this time and managed almost enough to allay his insufferable hunger before discomfort forced him to desist.
“Have you eaten?” he mouthed when Elizabeth set aside what was left of his broth.
“Aye, I ate with Mrs Ormerod while I was downstairs. She has promised to give us more of her paper and ink tomorrow.”
Darcy smiled. He stopped smiling when she said, “We ought to change your bandages again,” for he had not the strength to pretend the notion did not cause him the utmost dismay.
“Tomorrow.”
“I know it pains you,” Elizabeth said, “But those bandages are covered in ink. And blood.” His alarm must have been evident, for she immediately added, “Not a great deal! Only what one might expect from a wound that is not stitched.”
It was a stark reminder of quite how far he was from being assured of recovery.
There was little he could do but submit; to refuse would have been foolhardy.
He did, however, refuse Elizabeth’s offer of more brandy, for he had no wish for a repetition of the headache that beset him after his previous indulgence.
He would not say the process of peeling away the soiled cloth hurt any more as a result, only that his being more aware gave him far greater cause to be concerned by the pain.
“It looks better,” Elizabeth said of his exposed neck once she had cleaned it. “Should you like to see?”
“No,” he mouthed without hesitation. “I would get this over with, if you please.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said gently, taking up a clean strip of linen.
“I shall be as gentle as I can be.” She set to work, generously requiring that he need make no attempt to speak.
Indeed, they said barely any more for what little remained of the evening, other than his mouthed thanks and her gentle good night as she blew out the candles and retired to her room.