Chapter 11 #2
Elizabeth told herself sternly that she had never seen Mr Wickham wielding a knife, while awake. Thus, she addressed herself, you are clearly dreaming. If your dream upsets you, you might consider simply waking up.
Prying her eyelids apart, Elizabeth realised that she had fallen asleep while uncomfortably seated in one of the parlour’s wingback chairs.
Her back and neck complained as she sat up and then stood.
She looked at the clock on the mantel and, seeing that it was half past six and soon to be morning, she ran up to her bedroom to refresh herself and to scrub her face with the chilled water.
Looking in the mirror and seeing her dark-ringed eyes, Elizabeth felt regret that Darcy might see her looking this terrible.
Oh! She had sent her note with Franklin, and Darcy had not come.
Elizabeth felt curiously deflated. She soothed herself with a careful brush-out of her hair, and considering that she would certainly not be going anywhere that day, nor seeing anyone, she put her hair up in the simplest of styles with half the normal number of hairpins.
She wiggled her shoulders to rid them of their stiffness and quietly went down the stairs, hoping that her father was awake and had heard something….
Just as she entered the hallway, there was a quiet knock on the front door, and without a single conscious thought, Elizabeth opened the door.
It was Darcy! She flung herself into his arms with a single sob, and then she remembered her dignity and popped out of his embrace, blushing. He looked…well, gorgeous, but also weary. Very, very weary.
He clutched her back into his arms and laid his cheek on the top of her head, and he breathed out, “Elizabeth….”
She felt as if every part of her body had gone on high alert, but in the nicest way possible.
As if she should never want to leave Darcy’s arms. But along with feeling so happy with the comforting contact, she felt really upset that the man was so very exhausted.
“I should not have woken you last night. Or, I guess it was early this morning.”
“No, it was good that you did.”
“You are falling asleep on your feet.”
“I am actually falling asleep on a tripod—my two feet and you.”
“Jane? Did you—?”
“She is coming back to Longbourn in Bingley’s less showy carriage, with a maid. She should be here very soon.”
“Oh, thank you!”
Elizabeth smugly told herself that she knew how it would be. Somehow, despite all the risk-taking on Jane’s part and all the perfidy on Mr Wickham’s part—even, somehow, despite poor Darcy’s exhaustion—he had managed to find her sister.
Leading him inside, Elizabeth saw him settled on the most spacious sofa. A thousand questions flitted through her mind, but she asked none of them. Instead, she boldly removed his boots and lifted his legs onto the sofa, and she covered him with a blanket. He fell asleep mere moments later.
Trying to remember the steps she had seen Darcy use the day before to start a banked fire, Elizabeth carefully, and sometimes awkwardly, copied every motion as she remembered it. She was able to foster a sputtering little fire, and she felt quite proud.
Still crouched by the fire, ready to add a few more logs, Elizabeth listened for the sound of carriage wheels.
She heard sounds outside—a few birds, the ornery rooster that always crowed when the sky was barely greying, a gentle nicker that she was able to identify by peeking out the parlour window, as Darcy’s horse being rubbed down by Sam, the boy who worked in the Longbourn stables.
She did not yet hear indications of Jane’s arrival. …
Still, she wished to ensure her homecoming would be as silent and unnoticed as possible.
Moving away from the fire and to the little hallway window, Elizabeth kept watch.
When the carriage rolled up to the front steps, she ran out to help her sister down without waiting for the step; she murmured her thanks to the driver, the footman, and the maid, and she hustled Jane into the house.
The carriage made a turn on the drive and then headed back to Netherfield.
She quietly bundled Jane up the stairs and into their bedroom. She had no desire to ask Jane her thousand questions; she was not certain she would trust the answers. Perhaps surprisingly, Jane did not seem to want to talk, either.
As soon as she had helped Jane don her nightgown and then climb into bed, Elizabeth went back downstairs and sat on the floor, next to the sofa where Darcy slept, wanting to be near the best man she had ever known.
Of course, it was not the height of propriety for Elizabeth to be alone in a room with her suitor, and most of the family did not even know, at this point, that Darcy was her suitor.
(Or would be soon? She remembered that Darcy had said that he needed to handle Mr Wickham first, and she had no idea if that had happened.
Certainly, that blackguard was the subject of a majority of Elizabeth’s many questions.)
But she just sat there, near Darcy, watching over him, propriety or not. She read Lady of the Lake at times, and when the two maids and Hill went in and out of the room, she acknowledged them with silent nods.
Hill brought her a cup of tea with lemon and honey. Mary was the first family member to discover her; she crouched down to give her a quiet hug. Elizabeth whispered to her, “In case you did not know, Jane is here.” She cast her eyes upwards to indicate where “here” was.
Her father came in from his bookroom, looking years older than he had just a few mornings ago. He stood in the doorway and wagged his eyebrows at her, as if he was demanding information, and she mouthed Jane and pointed upstairs.
Mr Bennet looked vastly relieved and a bit more himself.
Elizabeth’s first realisation that Darcy had awakened was his arm snaking around her waist and boosting her up towards him. She spun about on her knees and, dropping her book, cupped his cheeks with both hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.
Darcy tried to speak, but his voice must have caught somewhere in his dry throat. She had a bit of tea left and insisted he drink it, and then she hustled to bring him some cool well water. He sat up and drank down the entire glassful.
“Tea or coffee?” she offered. “And do you need to eat?”
He chuckled a little, suddenly looking years younger. Then he made an exaggeratedly contemplative face and said, “Hmm…I think I want coffee…and Lizzy!”
She shot him a smile as she hastened to the kitchen. “Hill, Mr Darcy is awake. He wants coffee, and he takes it with a bit of milk but no sugar. And…he did not say he was hungry, but maybe a tray with a few foods? He has done this family an incredible service.”
Of course, Elizabeth did not know exactly what service he had done. Not yet.
She hurried back to him with his coffee and murmured, “Mr Darcy, thank—”
“Umm…Elizabeth, I thought you were to call me Fitzwilliam.”
“A Darcy by any other name would smell as sweet,” she quipped.
“Although I do not actually know why that should be so. It seems like you should be quite as odiferous as Mr Rushmore, our blacksmith, since you have been travelling and riding and walking and rescuing Bennets, for days now. How do you still smell like sandalwood and cloves?”
Darcy threw his head back and laughed, then ducked his head in embarrassment and quieted down. The sun was now well up, but the night had been so badly interrupted, of course there were people still abed.
Elizabeth said, “Laughter is not an answer. Dear Fitzwilliam, this is deeply unfair that you can smell so well after the two or three days you have just had. How?”
He chuckled one more time and said, “I blame my valet. I have been able to squeeze in regular wash sessions and a bath, so it was not all riding and rescuing…”
Elizabeth returned his affectionate gaze, and he said, “Besides, lovely Lizzy, you smell even more delightful.” Darcy pulled her gently onto the sofa next to him and held her two hands in the hand that was not holding his coffee cup.
She looked down at her hands, which managed to look quite dainty within his.
Hill arrived with a tray. She put it down on a large table and then carried a smaller table to be convenient to the sofa, where she arranged all the foods.
Rolls and lemon cakes. A tart pippin apple cut into wedges.
Several hard-boiled eggs. Slices of ham and cheese.
A butter dish and a pot of jam. Plates and utensils.
“I thought maybe you were hungrier than you knew, Will.”
“Will?”
“Well, I cannot always say four syllables, and I hate the idea of calling you Fitz.”
Darcy flinched, an expression of pain flashing onto his face but as rapidly disappearing. He asked in careful, neutral tones, “Why should you hate that nickname?”
Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. “I had a nightmare, and Mr Wickham was terrible to you. And one way he was being horrible was that he was taunting you…and he kept calling you…Fitz.”
Darcy carefully put his cup down and held her in a tender embrace. “Elizabeth, that is quite odd, because Wickham does call me ‘Fitz.’ And I hate it. Because I despise the name, nobody else uses it but of course he continues to do so since he wishes to upset me by doing so.”
Nuzzling her neck, Darcy said, “I hope you will eat a little with me, keep me company, and then we can go to the bookroom. I owe your father and you a report of last night’s—or, rather, this morning’s—events…”