12. The Waiting Heart #2
“I am merely—” But the cough that had been building finally escaped, rough and barking, and Elizabeth pressed her hand to her chest as though she could contain it through sheer will. Her eyes watered, and the room continued its gentle revolution around her.
Georgiana was on her feet in an instant, her hand flying to Elizabeth’s forehead. “You are burning! Fitzwilliam! Fitzwilliam, come quickly!”
“There is no need to—” Elizabeth began, but her protest dissolved into another cough, and then the doorway darkened, and Darcy entered, still in his riding clothes, his face tight with concern.
“What has happened?”
“She is feverish.” Georgiana stepped back as her brother crossed the room in three swift strides. “She was perfectly fine a moment ago, and then—”
But Darcy was not listening. His hand replaced Georgiana’s on Elizabeth’s forehead, his palm cool and steady against her heated skin, and Elizabeth found herself leaning into the touch despite every instinct that told her to sit up straight and insist she was perfectly capable of managing a slight chill.
“You are burning,” he said softly, and his eyes, dark and worried, held hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch. “Why did you not say something?”
“Because I am fine.” Her teeth had begun to chatter, which rather undermined the declaration. “It is merely a cold. I have survived colds before, and I do not require—”
“Bed,” Darcy said, with the particular authority of a man who was done entertaining objections. “Now. Georgiana, send for Mrs. Reynolds, and tell someone to fetch the physician from Lambton.”
“I do not need a physician for a cold.”
“You need rest and warmth and someone to ensure you actually take both.” His hand had not left her forehead.
His thumb traced a gentle arc across her temple, and the tenderness of it, so at odds with the command in his voice, made something flutter in her chest that she was too tired to examine.
“Please, Elizabeth. For my sake, if not your own.”
She longed to argue; her wit sharpened itself for battle, but the room spun in earnest, and her limbs grew leaden. She discovered, to her surprise, that she lacked the energy for a quarrel she was not entirely sure she wished to win.
“Very well.” The words came out a little more than a squeak. “But I maintain this is entirely unnecessary.”
“Noted.” The corner of his mouth twitched, relief perhaps beneath the worry. “Your objection is on the record.”
Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room, taking in the flushed mistress, hovering master, and anxious sister.
“Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy, you will kindly remove yourselves to the corridor. Clarice, turn down the bed properly. And someone be so good as to instruct the kitchen. The broth must be kept perfectly warm, not too hot to be scalding, but neither should they let it chill.”
“I assure you, I do not require—” Elizabeth began, her voice reedy.
“Madam.” Mrs. Reynolds fixed her with a look that had quelled three generations of Darcys.
“Your teeth are chattering. Your face is the color of whey, and you have a fever that could poach an egg. You are not perfectly capable of anything at present, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner we may all get on with the business of making you well.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to mount another defense, but her gaze caught Darcy’s over the formidable shoulder of the housekeeper. She saw the stark worry lurking beneath the outward composure and the genuine fear in his eyes. He cared.
“Very well,” she said, with what dignity she could muster. “But I maintain that fetching the physician from Lambton is entirely excessive for a mere cold.”
“We shall see about that,” Mrs. Reynolds declared, gesturing imperiously toward the open door. “Mr. Darcy. Miss Darcy. Out. Now.”
“I should very much like to remain—” Georgiana ventured.
“You should like to pace and fret and generally impede my ability to work. You may check on Mrs. Darcy in the morning, when she has slept, and the fever has broken, and she no longer looks as though a strong wind might carry her off.”
Georgiana squeezed Elizabeth’s hand once, fiercely conveying her concern, before retreating. Darcy lingered but a moment longer, his eyes clinging to Elizabeth’s across the room.
“If you should need anything—”
“I shall send word.” Elizabeth offered a smile that felt fragile but real. “Go. Before Mrs. Reynolds has you removed by force.”
“I should dearly love to witness that attempt,” he murmured, though he did indeed go, casting one last, lingering backward glance before the solid door clicked shut.
Mrs. Reynolds moved briskly about the room, adjusting the fire, straightening the bedclothes, and issuing quiet instructions to Clarice, who received them with her customary impassivity.
Elizabeth allowed herself to be bundled into bed, propped against a small fortress of pillows, and tucked in so tight, she might as well be on exhibit in the Egyptology section of a museum.
“Now,” Mrs. Reynolds announced, settling into the chair beside the bed. “The matter of the physician.”
“It is entirely unnecessary,” Elizabeth countered immediately.
“Hmm.” The housekeeper studied her with sharp eyes. “Your symptoms?”
“A slight fever, a sore throat, and a general sense of being damp and rather cross about it.”
“Cough?”
“From time to time.”
“Aches?”
“My head chiefly, and my neck, and if I am to be utterly frank, rather a large portion of the remainder of me.”
“You are being utterly frank because I am no simpleton, nor are you.” Mrs. Reynolds folded her capable hands in her lap.
“Here is my proposal. You will remain abed until the morning light. You will consume the broth when it arrives and gargle with salt water every three hours. And should your fever persist by dawn, the physician will be summoned, and you will offer no further argument.”
“And if my fever has broken by morning?”
“Then you may have tea and toast and the satisfaction of having proven me wrong.”
“A powerful inducement, indeed. Very well, I accept your terms. But I want it noted that I consider the salt water gargling to be a form of punishment disguised as medicine.”
“Noted.” Mrs. Reynolds conceded with a ghost of a smile.
“Clarice will attend you through the night. She has instructions to report any change in your condition—any symptom, however small. Do not attempt to conceal anything from her; she has been well-trained in the management of reluctant invalids.”
“Has she indeed?” Elizabeth glanced at Clarice, who stood by the fire with her hands folded, her face betraying nothing whatsoever. “And where did she receive this training?”
“That,” Mrs. Reynolds said, “is not my story to tell. Rest, madam. The broth will arrive shortly.”
Rattling her keys, she swept out of the room, leaving Clarice to bank the fire.
Elizabeth lay against the pillows, watched the shadows dance on the ceiling, while fighting a losing battle against the memories that clamored for attention: the dimness of the barn, the startling warmth of the Darcy kiss, and the unspoken question that had echoed within her all the way home.
Why did I kiss him?
The thought circled her mind, persistent as a determined fly against a window pane.
She had meant to deflect, to tease, to banter, to maintain the careful protective distance she had diligently erected since arriving at Pemberley.
Instead, her own body had betrayed her resolve.
She had closed the distance and pressed her lips to his as though her body knew what her mind had not yet admitted.
Because he asked, she thought, the memory of his quiet question resonating. Because he waited, and for the first time in my entire life, someone treated my choice as though it carried genuine weight.
But was that truly the reason? Or merely a convenient justification? Was it a sound motive, or merely a flimsy excuse, whispered to quiet the disquiet within her soul?
The broth arrived, carried by a kitchen maid who bobbed a curtsy and fled as though Elizabeth’s fever might be contagious. Clarice set the bowl on the bedside table and handed Elizabeth a spoon.
The broth was richer by far than anything that had ever graced the table at Longbourn, where Cook stretched every chicken carcass until it had finally surrendered its last whisper of flavor.
This broth was thick with glistening, golden fat floating on its surface.
The first few spoonfuls slid down easily enough, warming her from the inside.
But her stomach, already unsettled, began to rebel before she had made her way through even half the bowl.
“I cannot eat any more.” Elizabeth set the spoon down, pressing her hand to her middle. “It is too rich, and I fear I shall be quite ill.”
Clarice removed the bowl without comment and returned with a cup of water instead. Elizabeth sipped it, grateful for the coolness, and lay back against the pillows. The nausea swelled again, and she pressed her hand harder against her belly, willing it to settle.