Chapter Five
The broth was ready by the time Darcy came downstairs.
Mrs Reeves had made it—a proper broth, not the thin stock Darcy had attempted that morning when Miss Bennet arrived and his hands had nothing else to do, but the slow-drawn chicken broth Mrs Reeves prepared for Georgiana when she would eat nothing else.
There was enough for two bowls. Mrs Reeves had set one aside for Georgiana’s midday tray and kept the other warm on the range.
When Darcy entered the kitchen, she looked at him, then at the second bowl, and said without preamble, “Miss Bennet will need feeding, sir. The surgeon said so.”
The surgeon had said so. Aldridge had come down from Georgiana’s chamber an hour earlier and, on his way out, told Darcy what he thought.
Miss Bennet needed food. Not much, not rich, but regular—broth, tea with honey, bread softened in milk, whatever she would take.
The body could not rebuild blood on nothing.
Aldridge also said in his usual dry tone, careful not to be mistaken for reassurance, that Georgiana was no worse than last week.
Neither better nor worse. The joint pain in her hands had eased slightly.
The fatigue remained unchanged. He would return in three days unless summoned sooner.
Three days. The longest interval Aldridge had permitted between visits since Darcy brought Georgiana north. Darcy took the interval as offered—not good news, for Aldridge did not bring good news, but the absence of misfortune, a kind of currency in a house rationing hope since December.
“Thank you, Mrs Reeves. I will carry it in myself.”
“Sir—”
“There is no one else to do it, Mrs Reeves. Unless you are presently at liberty.”
“I’ve got bread rising, sir, and Miss Darcy’s supper to get on.”
“Tend to Miss Darcy, then. I may as well make myself useful.”
Miss Bennet lay where they had laid her, propped against the pillows by arrangements too careful to disguise suffering.
The colour had not returned. The set fracture kept her still in one fashion.
Pain kept her still in another. Her hair had been smoothed away from her face, but dried sweat plastered it in an uncomely fashion across her temples.
Her eyes opened when he crossed the room.
"Mr Darcy."
He set the bowl on the small table and moved the chair nearer the bed. "I sent word to the cottage for your sister, but it is too soon to expect a reply. Mrs. Reeves is with my sister, and Mrs. Bannon is occupied elsewhere. You must therefore endure me. I have brought broth."
A faint line came between her brows. "What a punishment."
"A severe one. I shall do my best to shorten it. Can you sit a little higher?"
"That depends on how much help I have."
He slid an arm behind her shoulders before she could attempt the movement alone. She sucked a breath against her teeth, every muscle in her body going hard under his hand. He waited until the wave passed, then placed another pillow behind her.
"There. You should be quite comfortable now, Miss Bennet."
She did not open her eyes at once. When she spoke it was on careful breath. "You say that with more confidence than truth warrants."
"I am discovering that confidence is useful in a sickroom. Here."
The spoon shook once against the rim before he stilled his hand.
He lifted a small measure to her mouth. She took it because refusal would have cost more strength than obedience.
He counted while she swallowed. One, two, three.
The motion in her throat was slight and slow.
When it was done, he put down the spoon and waited.
"Again," he said.
She swallowed dryly and mustered the reply. "You are very absolute for a nurse."
"I am a poor nurse. I must make up in tyranny what I lack in practice."
The next swallow took longer. Her lashes lowered halfway and did not rise at once.
"Miss Bennet?"
"I am here."
"Then remain so. I am under instruction not to let you sink into sleep the instant the bowl is in sight."
A small inhale. "You take instruction badly."
"I take it resentfully. Another."
She opened her mouth. Her brow furrowed, and the spoonful went down by degrees. When it was managed, the reply came in pieces. "Perhaps you would be so good"—a breath—"as to tell me if this is supposed to taste like something."
"I've no idea. But I can assure you this was made by Mrs Reeves, not myself."
She grimaced as he held another spoonful for her. "Then there is hope for it."
"A great deal. If it had been mine, we should both be in despair."
"You attempted it?"
"This morning. In ignorance and presumption. Another."
A small heave moved through her, and she eyed the spoon without comfort. "I do not think—"
"Mrs. Reeves holds waste to be a moral failing," he said. "If I return this bowl untouched, I shall lose what standing remains to me in my own kitchen."
Her eyes narrowed against the pillow. The retort came on what air she had. "Then you must protect your standing."
"At any cost."
"Even mine."
"Especially yours. You are the one refusing to cooperate."
The corner of her mouth altered. A smile would have cost her more than she had to spend. She opened her mouth dutifully, swallowed, and let her head fall back against the pillow.
Her lashes were sinking. He spoke before they could close.
"It has begun to snow again."
She gave a faint sound and did not lift her eyes.
"Miss Bennet, you must take a little more. Here."
Her lashes opened by half. The swallow went down at the back of her throat slowly, and he watched the work of it.
He lowered the hand holding the spoon and let out a breath. "Do you prefer honesty or flattery, Miss Bennet?"
That brought her eyes open. "That sounds an ominous subject. What danger threatens?"
"I may say the broth is good, which is true, or that you are taking it with angelic patience, which would be falsehood and an insult besides."
"Then keep to the truth."
"Very well. You are troublesome, half frozen, and exceedingly difficult to feed. The only thing that seems to provoke you to wakefulness is when I manage to say something to startle you."
She gathered herself. "Sir, you overwhelm me with your flattery."
"I have not yet begun. Another."
The corner of her mouth altered again. He fed her another spoonful on the strength of it.
Half the bowl went by such means. A gentleman of eight-and-twenty, proprietor of Pemberley, arguing the merits of provincial bread to keep a woman from slipping under his hand like a candle guttering in wind.
When at last she could take no more, her head turned weakly upon the pillow.
“Enough.”
It was scarcely a breath, yet he obeyed it. To press further would be folly. He set the bowl aside and drew the coverlet higher where it had fallen from her shoulder.
"You have done what was required. Sleep now."
"Have I?" The words barely formed. "How fortunate."
He waited for her eyes to close.
They started to. Her lashes came down by half. Her jaw eased. The hand that had been working at the coverlet went still.
Then her chin lifted by an inch. Her eyes opened—not all the way; she could not manage all the way—and went past him to the wall, to the chair, to the bag.
Her hand worked again on the coverlet. Two fingers closed and opened, twice. He watched the small motion and did not understand it.
Her lashes dropped. He waited for her breath to lengthen. Instead her throat worked, dry, around nothing. Her head turned by a fraction toward him.
"Miss Bennet."
She did not answer at once. Her tongue moved against her lip. He saw her gather some small amount of air, and then her eyes opened wider, by force, and found the chair again before they found him.
He looked at the chair himself. He could see nothing on it but the bag.
Her hand opened and closed on the coverlet. Once, twice, three times. The work of it was minute, as if her fingers themselves were testing whether they could still answer her. Her chest rose by a careful inch. Her eyes were closing again.
She fought them open.
The fight was visible in the line of her jaw. In the breath that scraped out. In the small toss of her head against the pillow, as a horse will refuse a bit.
"Miss Bennet."
He had not meant to say her name twice. The room was quiet enough without it.
She did not turn to him. Her eyes were on the chair.
She should have been asleep. She was not asleep. She was fighting against something he could not see, and she would not yield.
His hand had gone to the coverlet. He had not put it there consciously. It was beside hers, not touching, and he could not have explained the reaching.
He waited. "You have done with the broth, and with the trial of my company. There is nothing further required of you tonight."
That brought her eyes to his. They were slow to move, and slow to find him, but they came. Her throat worked. He saw her marshal the small machinery of speech.
"Your conversation"—she found another breath—"has been the greater trial."
His hand closed on the coverlet and opened again. He bent nearer.
"Ungrateful woman. I save your life and am repaid with criticism."
Her hand opened and closed once more. Her eyes started to close. She fought them up. They went to the chair.
Whatever was on the chair, she was guarding. He could not tell what required guarding.
"Then we are quits, for you dragged me from a lake and I bled on your coat."
“I have another coat.”
“I am glad of it.”
The last word scarcely formed. Sleep, or something perilously near it, was already drawing her under. But the bowl was half empty, colour had not worsened, and the dry crack in her lips had lessened after the broth. It would have to suffice.