14. Man and Boy Both
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAN AND BOY BOTH
Sunlight, already far too triumphant for Elizabeth’s taste, spilled across the room as Clarice drew back the velvet curtains.
Elizabeth blinked, content to remain motionless while her maid orchestrated the day’s beginning.
The ache in her head had vanished, the fever retreated, leaving her with a clear mind and a collection of dreams so peculiar they could only be the offspring of Georgiana’s novels.
In one, Darcy was drowning beneath a stone archway, clutching a battered trunk brimming with women’s silks—a scene so extravagantly absurd that even the most overwrought Gothic heroine might have blushed.
“Clarice?” Her voice emerged as a dry croak, though the scratch in her throat had eased. Pressing a hand to her brow, she found her skin cool to the touch. “What hour is it?”
“Past noon, madam,” Clarice replied without turning. “Your fever broke in the night, and as your slumber was so restful, we thought best not to disturb you.”
“That is a most agreeable piece of news,” Elizabeth declared, sitting up and surveying herself as one might inspect a house after a tempest—half-expecting to find a missing roof or the sheep scattered.
“I feel so much improved that I believe I shall dress and join Georgiana for luncheon, or perhaps indulge in a quiet cup of tea in the parlor, if I am not too giddy with freedom.”
“Perhaps madam would prefer to remain comfortable today.” Clarice moved to the wardrobe, her expression placid. “I could bring chamomile tea and a warming pan for your stomach. And I have laid out fresh linens.”
“New linens are certainly required,” Elizabeth allowed, her smile tilting wryly as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“I have lain here so long I am in danger of sprouting leaves. The dark gray morning dress will suffice. But Clarice, you may set your mind at ease as I am entirely restored.”
Clarice’s expression did not change, but her eyes held a note of skepticism. “Madam’s color is indeed much improved.”
“My color is excellent, and my spirits are restored. I am a new woman, Clarice, risen from the ashes of Derbyshire’s most dramatic rainstorm.
” Elizabeth declared, though a low, insistent cramping in her abdomen made her pause.
“I shall take a turn in the garden, and the fresh air will complete my restoration.”
“I fear madam may wish to reconsider that notion.”
“Nonsense. I have been imprisoned in this chamber for days. The walls are beginning to close in, and I am developing an unhealthy attachment to that particular crack in the ceiling.” Elizabeth gestured toward the offending fissure, which she had spent considerable time studying during her convalescence.
“It resembles Mr. Collins in profile, and I cannot endure another hour of his company.”
Clarice’s lips twitched—the closest Elizabeth had seen to a smile from that impassive face. “It is not the ceiling that concerns me, madam. Miss Duntze has called, along with Miss Entwhistle and Lady Cathcart. They are taking tea with Miss Darcy and have expressed a particular wish to see you.”
Elizabeth’s enthusiasm cooled at once. The neighborhood’s surveillance committee had assembled in full force, and here she was, in her dressing gown, hair a tumble of curls, and her body staging its monthly insurrection.
“Ah.” She settled back against the pillows with rather less reluctance than she had felt moments before. “Perhaps the garden can wait, although I confess I am disappointed. I had hoped to check on Sidney—the snail, you understand—and to see Thomas.”
Clarice inclined her head as she held out a fresh dressing gown. “I could inquire whether Master Thomas might be brought to Madam’s chamber. Mr. Darcy has been most attentive to your comfort.”
The thought of Darcy’s concern sent warmth through her chest. He had indeed been attentive: appearing at her door to greet her between his duties, sitting with her and reading Cowper’s soothing if sleep-inducing verses, and touching her forehead when he believed she slept.
Once, she had woken and seen his profile in candlelight, conferring with Clarice, and when she had closed her eyes, she felt the soft press of his lips on her forehead as he whispered, Good night, dear Elizabeth. May the Lord keep you and bless you.
“Yes, please,” she said, her voice softer. “Ask if Thomas might visit. With Captain, of course, if he can be persuaded to share his toys.”
Clarice withdrew, and Elizabeth used the interval to wash her face, brush her hair into something resembling order, and arrange herself against the pillows in a manner that suggested recovery rather than collapse.
The cramping had intensified slightly with movement, and she pressed a hand to her stomach, willing it to subside.
She had endured worse, and this, too, shall pass.
A soft knock preceded Darcy’s entrance, balancing a drowsy Little Tom on his hip and a carved wooden box beneath his arm.
Elizabeth’s heart performed an unruly skip at the sight—man and boy, both possessed of dark, untamable curls and that singular intensity of focus she was beginning to recognize as the Darcy birthright.
“I understand you have been plotting escape,” Darcy said with the particular dryness in his voice she was learning to recognize as affection. “Clarice informs me you demanded access to the garden despite your physician’s orders.”
“I have no physician, as you well know, and I merely expressed a reasonable wish for fresh air.” Elizabeth smiled at Thomas, who was watching her with those dark, serious eyes, his thumb planted firmly in his mouth. “Good morning, Master Thomas. Have you brought Captain to see me?”
Thomas removed his thumb long enough to say, “Horse.”
“He has been asking for you since yesterday,” Darcy said, settling into the chair beside her bed. “Or rather, asking for ‘Lizba,’ which I have chosen to interpret as your name rather than a demand for biscuits.”
“I shall take it as a compliment either way.” Elizabeth patted the coverlet beside her. “Would you like to sit with me, Thomas? I have missed you dreadfully.”
“No,” Thomas declared, throwing his wooden horse onto the bed with a thud. “Want Sidney.”
“I’m afraid snails are not permitted on my bed,” Elizabeth said, picking up the horse and giving it a little bounce. “But Captain is quite eager to gallop across the fields.”
She bounced the wooden horse across the coverlet.
“Mine!” Thomas shrieked, raising his arms.
“Yes, Master Thomas, a most reasonable request indeed,” Elizabeth said, holding out the horse. Darcy, at the same moment, deposited the boy onto the bed beside her. “Captain is feeling quite tired and requires a good grooming.”
The boy snatched the horse and settled on the bed, walking the horse across Elizabeth’s legs, which were underneath the covers.
“I brought reinforcements,” Darcy said, opening the wooden box. “Thomas wished to show you his soldiers.”
Thomas’s eyes lit up at the sight of the painted tin figures, and he scrambled forward to peer into the box with the intensity of a general surveying his troops, but not before carefully handing his horse to Elizabeth.
“Mine,” he said firmly, reaching for the soldiers.
“Yours indeed. Shall you show Mrs. Darcy how they stand?”
Thomas extracted the soldiers with careful fingers—more careful than Elizabeth would have expected from a child his age—and began arranging them on the coverlet.
He did not scatter them randomly or crash them together in mock battle, as she might have expected.
Instead, he lined them up in precise rows, adjusting each one until they stood at identical intervals, their painted faces all turned the same direction.
It was almost fastidious, as if each soldier were an entry in a ledger, carefully inscribed in its proper column.
“How very orderly,” Elizabeth said, genuinely surprised. “You arrange them like a proper quartermaster, Thomas.”
Darcy’s posture stiffened so slightly she might have missed it had she not been looking at him. His expression remained neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes.
Had she said something wrong? She had meant it as a compliment, but perhaps she had inadvertently criticized. Perhaps little boys were meant to crash their soldiers about, and she had exposed her ignorance of such matters.
“I confess I know nothing of how boys play,” she said lightly, hoping to smooth whatever wrinkle she had created. “I grew up with four sisters, and Lydia’s dolls were always lying about with half-removed dresses and tangled hair. Order was not among her virtues.”
Darcy’s shoulders relaxed. “Thomas has always preferred… precision.”
“Then he shall make an excellent estate manager someday.” Elizabeth watched Thomas nudge a soldier a fraction of an inch to the left, correcting some imperfection only he could perceive. “Or perhaps a military commander. Wellington would approve of such attention to detail.”
Thomas, satisfied with his arrangement, sat back to survey his work. Then he selected one soldier—larger than the others, with a splash of gold paint that suggested rank—and held it up for Elizabeth’s inspection.
“Sidney,” he announced.
Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sidney.” Thomas waved the soldier emphatically.
“Ah.” Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I see. You have named your general after your snail.”
Thomas nodded solemnly, as though this required no explanation.
“An excellent choice. I imagine Sidney the snail would be most honored by the tribute.” Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who was watching the exchange with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. “Though I wonder whether the general shares the snail’s fondness for lettuce?”
“No,” Thomas said, with the authority of one who had considered this question at length. “He eats… redcoats.”
“A cannibal general! How fearsome.” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her heart in mock horror. “I shall take care to stay on his good side.”