Chapter 7 #3
Dr. Tacker paused in the doorway, clearly unsure if he was being mocked. Then, deciding he was too important to care, he huffed and strode out.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly and turned back to Mrs Reynolds, who raised an eyebrow.
“That one’s got more vinegar than brains,” the older woman said. “I’ll wager he bled his last patient to death and blamed the weather.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “You should not provoke him.”
“I didn’t,” Mrs Reynolds said, settling deeper into her pillows. “I only told him the truth.” She tilted her head, watching Elizabeth. “You’ve a spine under those good manners, Mrs Morley. I like that.”
Elizabeth smiled, truly smiled this time, and reached for the medicine pot again. “Good. I will need that spine if you plan to argue with me about taking your next dose.”
* * *
Darcy stood by the window of his study, one hand curled loosely around a crystal glass of brandy, though he had not taken more than a sip.
Rain flecked the windows in slow, drowsy drops.
His thoughts were at the cottage. With Elizabeth.
At the way she had looked that morning, her hair a tousled halo, her fingertips fastening his cravat with quiet devotion.
The knock on the door was sharp and self-important.
“Enter.”
Dr. Tacker strode in like a man accustomed to admiration and rarely denied the floor. He did not bow, merely inclined his head with stiff professionalism.
“Well?” Darcy asked.
“She is recovering,” the physician said, placing his gloves on the edge of the desk. “Naturally. The fever has broken, and her lungs appear to be clearing. I expect she will be on her feet again within the week.”
Darcy allowed himself a small breath of relief, but his tone remained cool. “And you attribute this recovery to?”
Dr. Tacker’s lips curled faintly. “Good fortune. And time. The body can be quite resilient when left to its own devices.”
Darcy set his glass down slowly, deliberately. “She was not left to her own devices.”
The doctor gave a dismissive wave. “There was a woman tending to her, some widow from London with an apothecary. Passionate, no doubt, but hardly qualified. A dabbler. She fed the patient flower-water and poultices. Harmless enough, I suppose.”
Darcy’s jaw ticked.
“She made herself rather authoritative,” the doctor continued, unaware, or uncaring, of the storm brewing before him. “Typical, really. Some women overstep when given a taste of purpose. But in the end, the illness would have resolved on its own. There is no need to romanticise her involvement.”
Silence.
Darcy stepped forward.
“She sat at Mrs Reynolds’ side for thirty-six hours,” he said, each word heavy with fury. “Alone. Without rest. She soothed her, fed her, nursed her through the worst of it. And you waltz in after the storm has passed and call it a lucky breeze.”
Dr. Tacker blinked, as if unsure whether he was being reprimanded.
Darcy’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, dangerous, deadly calm. “You may collect your fee from my butler. Then kindly return to Buxton. And should you ever attempt to belittle Mrs Morley in my presence again, I shall consider it a personal affront.”
The doctor flushed. “I was merely—”
“You were dismissed, Doctor.”
Tacker gathered his gloves in silence, bowed stiffly, and left without another word.
As soon as the door shut, Darcy paced the room like a caged animal.
His hands balled into fists. The nerve of that man, sneering at her work, her sacrifice.
Had she faced such condescension every day of her life?
Had she been forced to prove her worth over and over to men who did not deserve to speak her name?
He crossed to his desk, snatched up a sheet of paper, and began to write.
Elizabeth,
Forgive the abruptness of this note. Might I meet you on the path near Mrs Reynolds’ cottage this evening? I am desperate to see you.
Yours,
F.
Darcy had just sealed the note to Elizabeth when Fletcher appeared, gliding in with the uncanny silence only years of practice could hone.
“Sir,” he said, not waiting to be asked. “I took the liberty of preparing the gatehouse.”
Darcy looked up, blinking. “The gatehouse?”
Fletcher stepped forward, presenting it like a fait accompli.
“If you needed somewhere to speak privately with Mrs Morley. It is stocked with a fresh fire, clean linens, a cold supper, and claret. And the maid you requested is ready to set off for the cottage, delivering the basket to Mrs Reynolds.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, his brows lifting.
Fletcher gave a faint shrug. “You did say you needed to speak with her.”
There was a pause.
Darcy glanced down at the note still in his hand. He held it a moment longer, then,
“Very well,” he said. “Give this to the maid to deliver to Mrs Morley.” He handed him the note and took out another sheet of paper.
Fletcher observed without comment, though the corner of his mouth twitched in faint satisfaction.
Darcy dipped his pen, and with clear, deliberate strokes, wrote another note:
Mr excitement, nervousness, and something that felt a great deal like longing.
She stepped outside and touched the maid’s arm gently. “Would you please relay a message to the Gardiners? Tell them I have decided to stay the night with Mrs Reynolds. She is not yet out of danger, and I am not comfortable leaving her.”
The maid nodded crisply. “Yes, ma’am.”
Elizabeth watched her disappear down the path, her heart thudding in a rhythm she refused to name.
* * *
The dining room at Pemberley glowed with soft, buttery light, firelight bouncing off silver and polished mahogany. The footmen moved like shadows, placing steaming courses and clearing plates with quiet grace. Yet the absence at the head of the table lingered.
“I daresay,” said Mr Gardiner, folding his napkin after the third course, “this feels more and more like we’ve taken over someone else’s house rather than being merely guests.”
His wife gave him a sidelong look. “We are guests. Lavishly hosted guests, but guests nonetheless.”
“Lavish, indeed. And where is our host?”
Mrs Gardiner raised her eyebrows, but did not answer.
“And Elizabeth,” he added, his voice quiet now. “Staying behind to care for Mrs Reynolds? At this hour?”
His wife kept her gaze on her wineglass. “She has always been devoted to such matters.”
“I sincerely hope it is devotion that keeps her occupied and not coercion,” he muttered, his brows furrowing with worry.
He found Fletcher inspecting a tray in one of the back passages a little later, just as the dinner hour wound down. He wasted no time.
“Fletcher. A moment.”
The valet turned, polite as ever. “Sir?”
“I understand Mr Darcy has gone away on a business matter?”
“Yes, sir. Left for Buxton not long after luncheon. Urgent errand regarding Mrs Reynolds’ condition.”
“And Mrs Morley is still with her?”
Fletcher nodded slowly, his eyes calm. “The patient was declining, sir. Mrs Morley insisted on remaining close by. No one at Pemberley would question her dedication.”
Mr Gardiner studied him. “So you are telling me… there is nothing improper going on?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” Fletcher replied smoothly. “But I can assure you Mrs Reynolds is not alone tonight. That is all Mr Darcy is concerned with.”
The older man held his gaze a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. “Very good. Thank you.”
As he turned to go, Fletcher allowed himself the smallest, most imperceptible smile.