Chapter 11 A Lively Disposition #2
“Now,” Elizabeth continued, oblivious, “I could not help but notice the manner in which you looked at your reflection yesterday, so I have taken the liberty of borrowing this for you.” She held aloft a razor.
Darcy smiled broadly in gratitude for her simple yet vastly welcome bit of thoughtfulness.
Once she had provided water, soap, and a mirror, and removed to her bedchamber that he might shave in private, he lathered his face and took up the razor.
It took fewer than three attempts and more than as many nicks to his face to determine that his wound rendered him incapable of holding his head at the required angle.
He tossed the razor down and pounded his fist on the table in vexation.
He wished he had not when the noise brought Elizabeth hastening back to his side before he could rinse either the soap or the blood from his face.
“Can you fetch the boy to assist me?” he mouthed. “John, is it?”
“He is the innkeeper’s nephew, not a valet.” She said it gently, though Darcy still felt strangely admonished. “In any case, I do not believe he is yet shaving himself. I am not sure how much help he would be.”
Darcy closed his eyes and let out a cautious sigh.
“Should you like me to do it?”
He looked at her sharply. “Certainly not!”
“Why not? It does not look to be all that difficult. Besides, technically, you have already had your throat slit. How much more damage could I possibly do?”
“No!” he insisted, vexed that his muteness made a mockery of his resolve. “It would be insupportable.”
Elizabeth grinned disconcertingly. “Come now, Mr Darcy. ’Tis not as though you have been asked to dance with me at a ball. That would truly be a punishment. This is merely a practicality.”
Her grin notwithstanding, he felt certain she meant more by this than a passing jest. She spoke on, however, giving him no time to dwell on it.
“Nay, you are right, though. I think you ought to remain as you are, with that little bit bald”—she pointed at the part he had attempted to shave already—“and the rest au naturel, as God intended.”
She was devilishly alluring when she was being teasing. So be it! Let the stubborn woman do as she pleased. They were a few weeks of recovery and a question away from being married anyway. All being well, they would be pursuing more improprieties than a paltry shave soon enough.
He indicated with a gesture and a small smile that she should proceed, and there passed an exceedingly enjoyable few minutes as Elizabeth laughed and joked her way through shaving the right side of his face.
She leant close enough that he could feel the heat of her and see dozens of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks that he would wager bronzed delightfully in the summer.
And to his vast pleasure, she appeared to have recalled, almost precisely, the outline of his side whiskers.
Whether that meant she had paid closer attention to his countenance above any other or was just generally observant, he dared not suppose, but he knew which he wished to be true.
“What were you doing on the same road as me on the day of the accident?” she enquired out of the blue.
The answer was mortifying enough that Darcy flinched with chagrin.
The razor slipped slightly, startling Elizabeth into adjusting her grip.
Regrettably, her snatch for it only hastened the blade’s trajectory, and it sliced into his cheek.
She dropped it with a shriek and recoiled.
Darcy unintentionally gasped, a sound that stuck in his throat and left him spluttering and gulping for breath.
“Forgive me!” Elizabeth begged over and over again, snatching up the facecloth and dabbing at his bleeding cheek. “I should never have insisted upon doing it. Forgive me!”
After a slow, steadying breath, Darcy took her by her wrists and gently pulled her hands away from his face. “A scratch, nothing more. It is well.”
“It is not well, sir. I have cut your face!”
Darcy glanced sidelong at his reflection. A small nick about an inch long ran just above his jaw line. He doubted it would even scar, but Elizabeth was evidently mortified regardless. He pointed at the several scrapes his attempt to shave the other cheek had left. “As have I.”
“That is hardly the same; those are tiny.”
“Being cut shaving is not uncommon.”
She gave him a withering look. “Either that is a lie, or you are in dire need of a better manservant.”
He only just recalled not to laugh aloud but smiled broadly and cautiously leant towards the table for the pen and paper.
I have had facial hair for longer than my present man has been in my employ.
Elizabeth read it then sank heavily into the nearest chair. “You are very good to try and ease my mind. It is not working, but I appreciate the effort.”
It is in my interests. I need you to finish the job.
“Under no circumstances!” she exclaimed. “Look how my hands are shaking!”
You cannot leave me with half a beard!
“It is more like a quarter of a beard now. I daresay nobody will notice.”
“Elizabeth!” he mouthed, beginning to enjoy the matter less—until she smiled and her whole face lit up.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Only be sure not to wriggle this time. Nobody’s looks are such that he requires his face be underscored twice.”
Darcy sat as still as he was able while she worked, though his heart tripped over itself as he attempted to discern whether she had intended to flatter him.
Nonetheless, he hoped she would finish soon, for his neck still throbbed mercilessly, and now the cut on his cheek stung too.
As evasive manoeuvres went, sacrificing one’s face was an excessive recourse, but he supposed it had spared him from the awkward admission of chasing Elizabeth about the country.
He smiled to himself. All his recent injuries notwithstanding, Darcy was inordinately pleased to have caught up with her at last.