Chapter 5 #3
She fed Mrs Reynolds spoonfuls of tincture between coughing fits, dabbed her face with cool cloths, changed the bedding as best she could when it became soaked with sweat.
She whispered soothing nonsense when the older woman moaned, and braced her weight when the spasms grew too violent for her frail body to bear alone.
The fire had been rebuilt three times. She had boiled water, steeped herbs, scrubbed her hands raw with vinegar. Her fingers were sticky with honey and bitter with bark. Her dress clung damply to her back. Her bodice was laced too tight, or perhaps her ribs were simply tired of breathing.
At some point, she thought she dreamed of Darcy. Not the man himself, but pieces: the warmth of his hand, the scent of his coat, the way he said her name like it mattered more than anything in the world.
She blinked. The shadows had shifted.
Night had fallen. Again.
She had eaten nothing since a heel of bread the day before. Her stomach cramped in protest, but she ignored it. Her mouth was dry, her limbs heavy, her mind fogged by fatigue, but her hands kept moving.
Mrs Reynolds stirred. Whispered his name. Again.
Elizabeth swallowed against the ache in her throat. “You’re not alone,” she whispered once more, whether to the woman, to Darcy, or to herself, she didn’t know.
The second night wore on. She slipped once, her head lolling back, neck angled sharply on the chair. She jerked awake moments later, heart pounding, cold with guilt.
She didn’t sleep.
By dawn, her limbs were trembling. Her eyes refused to focus. Her body screamed for rest, for food, for warmth.
But the fever had broken.
Mrs Reynolds lay breathing, shallow but steady, skin no longer clammy, her brow dry. A faint flush returned to her cheeks. Elizabeth touched her hand, and the old woman stirred, not with a moan, but a sigh.
Elizabeth let herself sag in the chair. The fire was still going. The last tincture sat untouched. The tea had gone cold.
She folded her hands over her lap. She meant to sit up straight. To stay alert. But her head tilted. Her lashes fluttered. Her spine curved…
And finally, sleep claimed her.
* * *
Darcy had been up since dawn, restless with some unnameable disquiet. The sun had barely crested the hills when a footman appeared in the study doorway, hat in hand, face pale.
“My apologies, sir. There’s news. From Lambton.”
Darcy set down his pen. “What sort of news?”
“It’s… it’s Mrs Reynolds, sir. The housekeeper at the school passed word. She’s been ill. Gravely.”
Silence fell. Then: “Why was I not told yesterday?”
The footman flinched. “The apothecary was away, and… There was some confusion, sir. But she… she’s not alone. A woman’s with her. A widow, the schoolmistress said.”
Darcy stood sharply. “Who?”
“I don’t know her name… I believe she is not local. She’s been with Mrs Reynolds since yesterday morning. Hasn’t left her side.”
He was already moving. “Send a rider to Buxton. I want the best physician they have. Tell him cost is no concern.”
“Yes, sir.”
“ I shall go to the cottage myself.”
The staff scattered as he strode through the great hall, calling for his horse. Within minutes, he was on the road, coat flying, hooves striking the damp earth in a steady rhythm of urgency. The morning mist had not yet lifted, and the moors lay silent under it, heavy with dew.
His jaw clenched tighter with every beat.
How had he not noticed? How had he let her fall ill under his very nose? Mrs Reynolds, who had dried his tears after his mother died, who had packed his trunk for Cambridge, who had scolded him with more love than anyone had dared offer since.
He had always assumed she would live forever. That she would remain in her tidy rooms at Pemberley, warm and constant, as reliable as the sunrise.
And now,
Now she lies ill. And a stranger tends to her…
The thought cut deep.
He urged the horse faster, wind stinging his face.
The cottage stood just off the lane, half-veiled in mist, its chimney dark, the garden gone to seed. Darcy dismounted, boots crunching on gravel, his coat damp with sweat and fog.
He didn’t knock. He pushed the door open with a breath held tight in his throat.
The air inside was warm. Infused with peat smoke, boiled herbs, and the faint sweetness of honey.
The fire was low but steady.
And in the narrow bed, propped up by pillows, Mrs Reynolds sat comfortably, a chipped teacup in her hands and a thick shawl drawn across her lap.
She looked up, blinking as if he were a hallucination. Then, she smiled.
“Master Fitzwilliam,” she said, as if he had merely returned from a walk. “You’ve come.”
He stared. “You’re awake.”
“Of course I am. Though I’ve no business being, after the fright I gave everyone.” Her voice was hoarse but strong. “I’ve been well cared for. Over-cared for, really.”
His eyes darted to the side of the room. There, curled in a stiff-backed armchair, her knees drawn up, her head tipped against the cushion, hair slipping from its pins… Was Elizabeth.
She snored, gently, unapologetically, face flushed, mouth parted, hands folded limp in her lap.
Darcy could not move.
Mrs Reynolds followed his gaze with mild amusement. “She arrived with the boy. The apprentice. Took one look at me and turned this place upside down. Made her own tinctures. Sat in that chair, I think, since the hour she walked in.”
Darcy’s heart stuttered.
Mrs Reynolds sipped her tea, unbothered. “I did not ask her name, but she said she was from London. That’s all I remember. But, Mr Darcy,” her eyes turned fond. “She’s a godsend, I am sure she saved my life.”
He took a slow step forward.
Her boots were by the hearth. Her satchel, unbuckled. A spoon still rested in a half-filled mug. The air smelled like her.
Darcy couldn’t look away.
“She never complained,” Mrs Reynolds went on. “She just… stayed. Even when she could barely keep her eyes open.”
Elizabeth shifted, murmured something incoherent, then stilled again.
Darcy exhaled, almost shakily. “She saved you.”
“Yes,” Mrs Reynolds said simply. “Though I imagine she’d say otherwise.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice.
He stood very still in the quiet room, the fire crackling low, the world outside holding its breath.
And he looked at her, really looked at her. This woman who had crossed counties and heartbreak and pride, only to find herself here, unconscious in a stranger’s armchair, because someone needed her.
His Elizabeth.
Darcy turned back toward the bed, his voice low. “Her name is Elizabeth Morley.”
Mrs Reynolds tilted her head, thoughtful. “You know her…”
“A little. She’s a widow. Her husband was a physician in London. When he passed, she kept the apothecary herself, running it alone now.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the chair. “Or… she did, when I last saw her.”
There was a pause.
Then Mrs Reynolds smiled, slow and knowing. “You speak of her like she hung the moon.”
Darcy didn’t smile back, but something in him softened.
“She has been…” He stopped. Then, simply, “More than I deserved.”
The cottage door creaked open again and Jacob stumbled in, cheeks pink with cold, a bulging sack slung over one shoulder.
“Oh, sir!” he blurted, startled at the sight of Darcy. He immediately bowed, awkward and too low. “I beg your pardon, Mr Darcy, I didn’t know.”
Darcy lifted a hand, quieting him.
Jacob beamed anyway. “I only came to bring what Mrs Morley asked for, more willow bark and comfrey, and the peppermint tincture she instructed me to brew last night. It’s steeped perfect, I promise you.”
He caught sight of Elizabeth asleep in the chair and grinned with boyish affection.
“Mrs Morley is brilliant, sir. She prepared three mixtures I’ve never even read about, and she showed me how to dose by weight instead of guesswork.
Look,” he tugged a small notebook from his coat pocket, already smudged with ink and oil.
“I copied everything she said. Look at that penmanship!”
He beamed, proud.
Darcy glanced down at the page. The script was familiar. Sharp, practical. A list of instructions in Elizabeth’s own hand, annotated with Jacob’s clumsy sketches and misspellings.
“She said knowledge should be shared,” the boy said. “That medicine is a kindness before it’s a science.”
Mrs Reynolds laughed softly. “Wise woman.”
Jacob stepped forward and gently laid the sack near the hearth. “If she wakes, tell her I’m minding the shop. And I won’t touch the tinctures before I wash my hands.”
Then, with a nervous nod, he slipped out into the morning fog.
Silence settled again, warm, thick, and gentle.
Darcy reached for the teapot on the low table, and poured it slowly into the cup beside Mrs Reynolds’ bed. The scent of mint and something sweeter, lavender perhaps, rose with the steam. He held the cup steady as she reached for it with a grateful hand.
Behind him, Elizabeth stirred.
Her breath caught. Her shoulders shifted. Then a small sound, half yawn, half groan.
Darcy didn’t turn right away. He only smiled. Soft, unseen. Then he said, gently, without looking:
“You’ve missed the worst of the drama, Mrs Morley.”
Her spine protested as she sat up too fast, her mouth as dry as ash. Her hair had come completely undone. Half of it stuck to her temple, the other half trailing somewhere down her back.
She blinked.
Darcy stood at the hearth, pouring tea.
Her eyes widened in horror. She glanced down,her dress was rumpled, her bodice askew, a faint trail of oh my, was that drool dried along her chin.
She scrubbed at it with the back of her hand and immediately regretted the gesture, her fingers were sticky, stained faintly with honey and ash.
“Oh,” she croaked, voice raw.
Darcy turned, very calmly, holding the teacup.
“You’re awake,” he said.
Elizabeth froze. “I… yes. I suppose.” She tried to sit straighter, but the blanket Mrs Reynolds had tucked around her had somehow looped itself around her ankle, and she nearly kicked over the tin of dried herbs near the chair leg.
Darcy made no move to assist. He only smiled.
Not mockingly. Not even amused. Just… soft.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks bloom with heat. She pulled her hair back with one trembling hand and muttered, “You must think I’ve gone entirely feral.”
“Not at all,” Darcy said, stepping forward to hand her the cup. “You’ve saved a life. That sort of thing tends to ruin a hairstyle.”
Her blush deepened. “I’m sure I look appalling.”
“You have never looked more beautiful,” Darcy said, almost smiling.
Mrs Reynolds snorted into her tea. Lord above. It’s like watching a novel unfold.
Elizabeth gave an incredulous laugh, mortified, and more than a little delighted. She brought the cup to her lips, sipped, and let the warmth settle deep in her bones.
She still felt half-dead. She needed a bath, a nap and possibly divine intervention.
But she didn’t look away from him.
And he didn’t stop looking at her.
She darted a glance toward the small table by the fire, where her neatly coiled half-laced stays sat in quiet betrayal.
She winced. Had she really…?
Of course she had. At some hour of the second night, somewhere between scalding kettles and soaked linens, she’d unlaced her bodice with shaking fingers and tossed the thing aside just to breathe. Practical. Necessary.
But now he was here. And her spine wasn’t straight, and her waist lacked its expected precision, and she was acutely aware of how unforgiving the morning light could be.
Her hand twitched toward the blanket on her lap, as if it might somehow correct the lack of structure around her body.
Darcy, of course, appeared not to notice, or perhaps had noticed everything and didn’t care.
Mrs Reynolds cleared her throat.
“Mrs Morley needs a bed,” she announced to the room, adjusting her shawl with theatrical fuss. “And a bath. ”
Elizabeth blinked. “Yes, I shall go back to Lambton to freshen up and return shortly. I only meant to close my eyes for a moment…” She stood and started to look around the cottage, swiftly gathering her things into the satchel.
She stopped at the door, swaying slightly, a shawl gathered around her shoulders. Her face was scrubbed but still faintly flushed, hair pinned hastily back into something approximating order. She looked like a woman who’d fought a war and only just remembered how to walk again.
Darcy lingered at Mrs Reynolds’ bedside, his hand wrapped gently around hers.
“You’ll be well soon,” he said softly.
“I already am,” she replied, her eyes warm, voice rasping but strong.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead; a gesture he hadn’t done since he was a boy. She closed her eyes with a sigh.
Then, barely above a whisper, as he straightened:
“Give her the Blue Room, Mr Darcy. She’ll be comfortable there.”
He stilled.
“And the view’s beautiful,” she added, more innocently. “Morning light and all that.”
He glanced down at her. Her expression was guileless. Her eyes were not.
“That room,” he said under his breath, “is opposite mine.”
She squeezed his hand. “So it is.”
He glanced toward the door, where Elizabeth was watching with polite detachment, and said nothing.
But Mrs Reynolds caught the way his eyes lingered a moment too long.
And the way he didn’t correct her. Darcy exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly weighing dignity against logistics and losing.
At last, he turned to Elizabeth, offering his hand. “May I escort you?”
Elizabeth hesitated, still flushed but steadier now. She did not take his hand, but she nodded, chin lifted just slightly.
“I suppose,” she said, “if you insist, I should at least walk with some dignity.”
Mrs Reynolds grinned into her shawl.