Breathless #2
By the end of the week, she had begun watching him in a perpetual state of anxiety, terrified there would be nothing she could do were his next breath his last. He was so very ill that his every twitch had drawn her from her chair to check his pulse.
Slumber had become a distant memory. As she lay in her bed at her aunt’s house, staring at the ceiling, she wondered whether she had forgotten how to sleep.
Or whether, perhaps, she would never be able to rest properly again until she could be sure that, wherever Darcy was, he was still breathing.
She must have slept eventually because she did not see the sun rise.
It was high in the sky before she became aware of the world once again.
She dressed with the maid’s help and, refusing a tray of breakfast, left to find her aunt and cousins in the parlour.
Three of the four children squealed with delight when she entered.
The eldest boy, Martin, did not look up from the sketch he was drawing, but Elizabeth found his attitude, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated, so endearing that she quite forgave him.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” Mrs Gardiner enquired.
She smiled noncommittally. “I hope you are not too tired.”
“I have four children, Lizzy. Tiredness is a way of life. Should you like some tea? The water is piping hot still.”
Elizabeth accepted a cup and sat in a chair near the pianoforte to listen to her cousins practise.
Mrs Gardiner did not press her for an answer to her question, and they settled into a gentle conversation, stopping occasionally to direct the young girls in their playing.
Darcy was never far from Elizabeth’s thoughts, but she could feign composure more easily when she was surrounded by such tranquillity.
It was blasted when Martin finished his sketch and came, all proud anticipation, to present it to her.
She looked at it and gasped sharply. He had drawn a picture of a person in a skirt—her, she presumed—holding what might have been a bandage.
A man lay supine at her feet, his chest, neck, and head covered in blood.
Her cousin had used a red crayon for that part; there was a web of scarlet scribbles etched across the sprawled figure.
He had not drawn it correctly. There had been far more blood covering Darcy. Elizabeth’s hands began to tremble.
“Whatever is the matter?” Her aunt came to peer at what her son had drawn. She gave a cry of dismay. “Oh, Martin! How could you? You thoughtless boy!”
Martin began to cry. “It is Cousin Lizzy, nursing the poorly man, Mama.”
“Pray do not scold him. He meant no harm,” Elizabeth murmured. She said nothing more because awful memories were filling her head, stealing all her words.
“Susan, quickly, ring the bell for Nanny,” she heard her aunt say. “Martin, cease making that racket. Go and put your crayons away this instant.”
Elizabeth did not wish to cause her family any more worry; she would not cry. But neither could she breathe properly. Again.
“What can I do to help?” Mrs Gardiner enquired quietly but urgently.
“Nothing. I shall be well in a moment. It is just—”
“The blood, I know. I am sorry, Lizzy. Martin is at that age—fascinated by gore.”
“It was not the blood. I am not faint of heart. It is only that I cannot forget him lying there. I keep seeing him fall.” And she kept replaying, over and again, what had happened moments before, when, despite being desperately unwell and on the brink of collapse, Darcy had insisted on correcting her misapprehensions about Wickham.
The necessity of his warning shamed her deeply; the revelations contained therein had shocked her beyond measure.
She wished she had been able to apologise to Darcy for the things of which she had accused him.
She wished there had been time to explain that she had not truly meant any of it—that she had only been exhausted, cold, and so very afraid of losing him.
But there had not been time for any of that.
He had fallen to the floor and bled, just like in Martin’s picture, and now she might never have the chance to tell him that she was deeply, irrevocably in love with him.
She had no power to stem the tears that began to fall.
Seeing her cry made Martin begin again and his sisters join in.
The door opened and Nanny arrived, but Mrs Gardiner’s instructions for her to take the children to the nursery was curtailed by the housekeeper, who apologised for interrupting, but said that a gentleman was there to see them on business that could not be delayed.
Elizabeth’s ears were ringing. The sketch in her hand was taunting her to look at it.
Her aunt was saying something about sending up the gentleman if it was urgent.
Martin continued to cry, one of the girls closed the pianoforte over-loudly, making all the strings resonate discordantly, Nanny berated them both loudly.
Then, without warning, everyone but her aunt was gone, and Mr Bingley was there.
Elizabeth had no idea why, but the likelihood that it was because he had news about Darcy made her feel faint.
“Mr Bingley,” she said breathlessly. “This is a surprise.”
He smiled. It was not an easy smile. “I beg you would forgive the unannounced visit.”
Elizabeth assured him he was welcome and introduced her aunt. She clutched her hands together as she spoke to disguise their shaking.
Mrs Gardiner gestured for them all to sit. “I am afraid, sir, if it is my eldest niece you have come to see, you are not in luck. Jane is not here.”
Mr Bingley’s disappointment was unmistakable and gave Elizabeth heart enough to set her own troubles aside for a moment.
“She will be exceedingly sorry to have missed you, sir. She called on your sister while she was in town, and I know she was hoping Miss Bingley would return the call—perhaps with her brother? Only she was called away when I—” She stopped speaking when her voice hitched, her troubles never forgotten for long.
Mrs Gardiner reached to squeeze her hand as she explained to Mr Bingley that Jane had returned to Longbourn when Elizabeth went missing. “May I presume that you know what recently befell Lizzy and Mr Darcy?”
He nodded gravely. “You may, madam. Indeed, that is why I am here. I have come directly from Darcy House. I am delighted to be able to report that Darcy regained consciousness this morning. He is going to be well.”
The room swung wildly around Elizabeth. A noise escaped her that was not dissimilar to some of those Darcy had made in the deepest throes of suffocation. She grabbed her aunt’s arm to stop herself reeling.
“Good Lord, Miss Bennet!” Mr Bingley exclaimed.
“Lizzy, breathe, for heaven’s sake,” cried her aunt.
She was breathing—or sobbing, or laughing, she was not sure which.
A flood of emotion too powerful to name was rushing through her veins, and every gasping breath she took was forced immediately back out again in wild, panting relief.
She heard her aunt apologise for her and explain that she had been excessively worried.
Mr Bingley—Jane’s wonderful, kind-hearted Mr Bingley—seated himself beside her and spoke in the gentlest of tones.
“There is absolutely nothing for which to apologise. We have all been excessively worried, and with good cause. I share your relief, but I assure you, Darcy is well. Indeed, given the nature of the message I have been asked to deliver, I must say your response is rather heartening.”
Elizabeth waited, hope flaring.
“I am here at Darcy’s most particular request. He learnt, upon waking, of the rather disgraceful way some of his relations treated you while he was out of action. You know what a curmudgeon he can be—you can imagine his displeasure.”
She gave a small, surprised laugh and nodded. Oh, how she treasured Mr Bingley for giving her a sliver of good cheer! How she wished he would return with those happy manners to Jane and make her so cheerful all the time!
“He has asked me to convey his sincerest apologies,” Mr Bingley continued. “He promises to call the very moment his strength is sufficiently returned. Indeed, he would have come today had he been able. Nevertheless, he was most anxious that you should not wait to hear his apology.”
Elizabeth nodded again, still somewhat breathless.
Darcy had renounced his family’s behaviour, and he was alive.
She told herself these two things would be enough to sustain her.
“I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for agreeing to be his messenger. I have been imagining the worst. Pray, is he very weak?”
“Compared to his usual vim and vigour, yes, he has taken rather a knock. But I do not need to tell you that, do I? I understand you are disagreeably acquainted with the severity of his injury.”
“I saw it, yes. Has it been stitched, do you know?”
“I suppose it must have been. I confess I did not ask.”
“Can he talk?”
“Regrettably not, though the physician hopes he might recover his voice in time.”
“I see. Can he nod or shake his head?”
“I do not recall, if I am honest.”
“What about his breathing?”
Mr Bingley grimaced uncertainly. “Well, I am fairly sure he was doing it.”
“What about swallowing? Can he do that?”
“Upon my word! I cannot have paid any attention to him at all, for I have no answers for you. He looked pale, tired, and bit on the thin side, and his neck was bandaged of course. But he was upright, on his own pins, and as intent on telling everyone what to do as ever, so well on the way to being his old self again. I should say the thing troubling him the most was his excessive concern for you.”
Elizabeth gasped slightly—a noise as full of doubt as it was of hope.
Mr Bingley regarded her shrewdly. “What do you say to coming with me to see him?”
“What?”
“Come with me now to Darcy House. I cannot answer any of your questions, and Darcy is champing at the bit to see you, so why not come and ask him directly.”
“Would—would he welcome a visit, do you think?”
“My dear Miss Bennet, it took me, his sister, both his cousins, his manservant, his physician, a slashed neck, and a belly full of laudanum to prevent him from coming here. I believe I can say with a good degree of certainty that he would be very well pleased were you to go to him.”
She let out another shaky laugh, this one borne of the profoundest relief.
So far from despising her, Darcy wished to see her!
She allowed herself to hope, for the very first time, that his ardent declaration had not been delirious ramblings.
And that made her need to go to him with an urgency that leant her voice a decidedly overwrought timbre when she turned to Mrs Gardiner and asked, “Aunt? Will you go with me? Please? So I may see that he is well.”
Mrs Gardiner looked excessively uncomfortable, her lips pursed and her colour heightened, but after a pause that felt like an age to Elizabeth, she nodded her consent.
“Very well. If Mr Bingley is certain we shall be welcome. I am not convinced it is wise, but I know you will not rest until you have been. Though you should know that if this does not go well, I shall insist upon you returning home immediately.”
Elizabeth agreed and was promptly overcome with a wave of apprehension for all the things that could transpire that would make her aunt consider the visit had not gone well. It passed quickly. Whatever might happen in a Mayfair drawing room, she was assured she and Darcy had survived worse.
She straightened her shoulders. “I should be very grateful if you would take me to him, Mr Bingley. And then, I should be very grateful if you would visit my sister. If it is not too much trouble.”
He beamed at her. “No trouble at all, Miss Bennet. Let us get you delivered to Darcy with all haste, then. For I have a visit to Hertfordshire to arrange.”
It felt to Elizabeth as though she held her breath the entire way to Darcy House. She was not alarmed. She knew she would be able to breathe when she saw him again.