Chapter 7 #2
Elizabeth stood before him, the morning light barely filtering through the heavy curtains.
She was bare, wrapped only in the warmth of last night, her skin still flushed from sleep.
She didn’t hesitate. Instead, she reached for his waistcoat, pulling it over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric down with practiced hands.
Her fingers worked quickly, tying his cravat into a precise, elegant knot.
He smiled as he watched her concentration, unbothered by her own nudity, she seemed entirely comfortable around him. He saw some of that admiration for his physique she had demonstrated last night, as she ran her hands down his body and lingered just a tad longer than strictly necessary.
He kissed her forehead. “Will I see you later?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I am going to see Mrs Reynolds. We could meet…”
“I will be there, waiting.” He kissed her lips and had to stop before desire, and the naked body in his arms overwhelmed him. Then he slipped outside.
Fletcher stood in his study expectantly, armed with clean clothes and shaving things. There was a muffin, butter, and coffee on his desk. Darcy’s mind, still sluggish from lack of sleep, from her, struggled to process the sheer efficiency of what had just happened. This was… seamless.
He cleared his throat and looked at his man. “Fletcher, I…” He did not know how to continue, how to make sure she was protected from judgement… it all felt so right, so natural, but now he remembered why he never dallied with ladies.
Fletcher watched his master squirm. “Mr Darcy, may I speak plainly?”
Darcy nodded. He almost expected his notice. He expected to be told that no decent man could work in such circumstances.
“I would like to assure you of my utmost discretion and loyalty. And if I may be so bold to say… I do remember Miss Bennet, and I am ready to assist you in your… pursuit of her affections.”
Darcy stared at him for a moment, his mouth agape. Then he burst into uninhibited laughter. “Fletcher! You sly sod!” But he noticed his man was not quite finished. “I see you have thoughts about this?”
“It is my job to anticipate my master’s needs, sir.”
Darcy nodded. “Very well. Let us hear them.”
Fletcher laid out his intricate plan, the rules, and also the inevitable conclusion when they got caught: marriage. Darcy listened, but his demeanor turned pensive. Fletcher sensed the change in his master and grew uneasy, was he too forward? Did he not wish to be trapped?
“Fletcher, you must know that in my mind, Mrs Morley is the mistress of this house, and not just since last night. The pursuit of making her a true mistress of this house, in front of the law and God, is a delicate matter, and I am not in any way sure if it could be successful. Mrs Morley is hurt and disillusioned. She values her independence more than anything, and I value her safety and happiness more than anything. Please, be mindful of those facts in everything you do.”
The servant obediently nodded his understanding, and then they got to the business of making Mr Darcy look like Mr Darcy.
* * *
Elizabeth skipped down the path to Mrs Reynolds’ cottage.
Her mind was occupied not by the beauties of Pemberley, but by memories of last night and this morning.
He could not get enough of her and frankly, the feeling was mutual.
She had left the bed they shared only an hour ago and was already full of anticipation for their next meeting, their next coming together… She shivered.
She rapped on the door of the small stone building and was pleased to hear Mrs Reynolds’ voice, strong and alert. When she entered, she saw the older lady abed, but her eyes were very much full of life.
“Come, my dear, sit. Tell me about yesterday evening.” She patted the bed next to her and coughed a little.
Elizabeth went to the stove first, lifting the small pot and giving it a careful stir. “You need to take your medicine,” she said, her voice steadier than her heartbeat. She focused on the steam, the herbs, anything but the older woman’s knowing eyes.
“Oh, don’t fuss,” Mrs Reynolds said with a smile. “I’m still warm and breathing, aren’t I?”
Elizabeth returned the smile as she poured the tonic into a cup and brought it over. “Yes, and I would rather you stayed that way.”
Mrs Reynolds took the cup with a raised brow, sipping it obediently. “This tastes less like pond water today.”
“I let the elderflower steep longer. And I remembered to add honey.” Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, aware of the sudden quiet between them. Mrs Reynolds was watching her.
“Ah. So you’ve settled into the kitchen, then?” the older woman asked, a thread of amusement curling around the words.
“I only offered suggestions.”
“Did you offer them before or after you made yourself at home in the guest chamber?” The look in her eyes was kind, but very sharp.
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed, but she kept her tone even. “Mr Darcy offered it. It was late, and I needed rest.”
“Of course he did.” Mrs Reynolds leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. “He’s always been considerate. Especially toward people who matter to him.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I doubt I matter much.”
“You do,” Mrs Reynolds said simply, with the assurance of someone who had seen a hundred small gestures and overheard a thousand quiet words. “He wouldn’t have sent for the physician otherwise. Or a maid. Or three footmen. And certainly not… Fletcher.”
Elizabeth looked up at that. “Fletcher?”
“Sending Fletcher means he’s fretting,” Mrs Reynolds said, smiling at her like one might smile at a skittish animal.
“He trusts Fletcher to manage what he cannot. Why, only an hour ago I saw him on the lower path with one of the maids, a cart piled higher than harvest behind them. Heaven knows what he was about.” She waved a hand.
“But if Fletcher is involved, Mr Darcy has set his mind to something.”
There was a pause. The kettle simmered softly on the stove.
Mrs Reynolds looked at her hands. “I’ve known him since he was four years old, you know.
Bandaged his knees, watched him grow into a man who carries the weight of the world and never complains.
” Her voice softened. “He’s lonely. And proud.
And stubborn as old boots. But he has a good heart. He… feels things very deeply.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. She Couldn’t. Her fingers tightened in her lap.
Mrs Reynolds looked at her with a quiet, steady gaze. “You’re different from what I expected.”
Elizabeth blinked. “What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure. But I know you are not a woman to take a man’s attention lightly.”
“I don’t,” Elizabeth said at once, her voice sharper than she intended.
Mrs Reynolds only nodded, accepting the answer with a calm, grandmotherly patience. “Good.”
A knock at the door broke the silence, sharp and officious.
Mrs Reynolds sighed. “That’ll be the doctor. I expect he’ll try to scold us both.”
Elizabeth rose, smoothing her skirts and straightening her spine. “He can try.”
The door creaked open before Elizabeth reached it. A stocky man in a worn but carefully brushed coat stepped into the cottage, looking around with an expression of mild distaste, as though the scent of boiled herbs and peat smoke personally offended him.
“Dr. Tacker,” he announced, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “I have been summoned from Buxton under some urgency.” His tone suggested this had been an outrageous imposition.
Elizabeth stepped forward. “Mrs Reynolds is resting, but you may examine her when she is ready.”
He gave her a glance, shoes to hem to face, and frowned. “And you are?”
“I am Elizabeth Morley,” she said coolly. “I’ve been tending to her for the past two days.”
His brows rose. “A nurse?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, tilting her chin up. “I am a physician’s widow. I own an apothecary in London.”
Dr. Tacker snorted, pulling off his gloves with dramatic flair. “Ah. A shopkeeper. That explains the miasma of lavender and overconfidence.”
Mrs Reynolds gave a quiet chuckle from the bed. “She explains herself quite well, Doctor. And she’s the reason I’m still here to greet you.”
“I see.” He looked unconvinced, as if her survival were more nuisance than miracle. He turned to Elizabeth, speaking in clipped syllables. “What have you administered?”
“Elderflower for the fever. Willow bark for the aches. Mullein for the lungs. Honey to soothe the cough. Tincture of lobelia, sparingly.”
He hummed as he scribbled notes with theatrical speed. “Hmph. Amateur concoctions. The fever would likely have broken on its own.”
Elizabeth folded her arms. “Not if her lungs had filled with fluid. Which they were well on the way to doing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A dangerous claim, madam. Dangerous, and unfounded.”
Mrs Reynolds gave a hacking cough. “She sat with me when I could barely breathe. Held my hand when I was afraid I’d not wake again. Where were you, doctor?”
Dr. Tacker sniffed. “I was seeing to real patients, madam. Ones with means and those who needed proper medical supervision.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tensed, but she held her peace.
He leaned over Mrs Reynolds, poked her wrist, pulled back the blanket without asking, and pressed on her belly like she was a sack of grain. She grimaced.
“Well,” he said at last, straightening. “The crisis has passed. No thanks to you, madam,” he added to Elizabeth, already repacking his bag.
“I am alive,” Mrs Reynolds said tartly, “thanks to her.”
Dr. Tacker waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. A woman’s touch and all that. Herbal this, folk remedy that. But proper medicine, science, must not be forgotten in favour of sentiment.”
Elizabeth stepped aside as he moved to the door.
“I shall be making my report to Mr Darcy, of course,” he said, with the sort of satisfaction only petty men enjoyed. “He will want to hear a professional assessment.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said, her smile polite and razor-sharp. “Please give him my regards.”