Chapter XXX #2
Darcy obeyed without reflection.
Mrs. Barnes looked quietly from one to the other. “I shall send tea.”
Neither answered.
The housekeeper allowed herself the smallest smile before withdrawing. She left the door open only a little and quietly instructed the footman that they were not to be disturbed.
Silence settled again.
Elizabeth crossed the room slowly. “I received your note.”
“And you thought it warranted you checking up on me?”
“I would not have known anything had Lydia not added her own explanation.”
Understanding dawned immediately. “So that explains it.”
“If not for her, I would have remained ignorant.” She looked at his face again, and her expression softened. “You alarmed me.”
Darcy lowered his eyes. “I am sorry. That is precisely why I did not wish you to know.”
“I was frightened.”
Those words struck him harder than anything Wickham’s fists had managed.
“For… me?”
She nodded repeatedly.
Darcy stared at her. For several moments, he seemed unable to find a response.
Elizabeth glanced around the room, searching for somewhere to sit. The other armchair, placed across the small table, was clearly too distant for the conversation she intended to have. Her eyes fell upon a small footstool near the window.
Without hesitation, she moved it beside his armchair and sat down.
The action was so entirely unlike the careful formality he had always associated with visits from ladies that Darcy could only watch her in silence.
She had not considered whether it was proper. She had not considered whether it was expected. She had simply wanted to be near him. And somehow that affected him more than any expression of concern could have done.
She examined his face once more, but her attention soon returned to his injured hand. The skin across his knuckles was reddened and swollen, with several small cuts that the struggle had left behind.
Without a word, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a small leather case. Opening it, she removed a small pot of ointment.
Darcy watched her with quiet astonishment.
“Miss Elizabeth…”
“Do not object.” The words were gentle but left no room for argument.
Before he could think of a suitable reply, she took his hand carefully in hers and began to apply the soothing lotion to his injured knuckles.
Darcy did not resist. Indeed, he scarcely seemed capable of doing so.
For years, he had been accustomed to responsibility.
He had comforted others, protected others, and placed his own concerns aside whenever they were inconvenient.
Yet sitting there, allowing Elizabeth Bennet to tend to him, he discovered that there was a particular kind of trust in accepting care from another person.
And he found, rather unexpectedly, that he did not wish to refuse it.
“My aunt swears by this,” Elizabeth said softly. “And as you know, as the mother of four lively children, she has had considerable opportunity to judge its usefulness.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
She continued tending his hand, though her expression became more thoughtful. “When I told you to punish him…” She hesitated. “I could say that I never imagined you would actually fight him.”
Her eyes lifted briefly to his. “But on the way here, I realised that would not be entirely honest.”
Darcy watched her silently.
“I meant what I said. I wanted him to answer for what he had done. I trusted you to see that justice was done. After all, you had already purchased his debts with that very intention.”
She looked down again, smoothing the ointment carefully over his bruised knuckles.
“I simply did not expect…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“That you would place yourself in danger to do it.”
Darcy said nothing. Then, quietly, “Miss Elizabeth, I assure you, I took your words very seriously.”
She looked up.
“That man had escaped consequence for too long. I could have sent him directly to the magistrate, and it was done. But before that, I wished him to understand that there was one injury he could not simply walk away from.” His expression softened.
“I fought him not because I sought revenge, but because he had wronged those who trusted him.”
A pause.
“Your family.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to be overwhelmed.
She could not answer. Instead, she returned her attention to his hand, smoothing the last of the ointment over his injured knuckles with far more care than the wound required.
Darcy watched her in silence.
There was something almost astonishing about seeing Elizabeth Bennet, who had once been so determined to think ill of him, sitting beside him as though she had every right to be there.
As though caring for him was the most natural thing in the world.
She seemed unaware of his thoughts. When she had finished, she lifted his hand slightly to examine her work. Then, without thinking, she leant forward and gently blew upon the sore skin. It was such an ordinary gesture.
A gesture she had likely offered to her younger sisters, to her cousins, to anyone who had suffered some small hurt and needed comfort.
But Darcy was not accustomed to such tenderness. He looked at her in complete bewilderment.
And then she pressed a gentle kiss upon his injured hand.
For a moment, Fitzwilliam Darcy forgot every carefully constructed thought he had ever possessed. He forgot Wickham. He forgot the bruises. He forgot the pain.
He could only look at her.
For several seconds, Elizabeth remained unaware of what she had done. Then she felt the silence. A peculiar silence.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes. Darcy was looking at her.
Not at her hands. Not at the ointment. At her.
A sudden warmth rose to her face. She looked down immediately, as though the injured hand before her had become the most fascinating object in existence. “I…” She paused.
What could she possibly say?
She had not intended to kiss his hand. It had been no more than a habit, a gesture of comfort offered without thought. Yet now that she had thought about it, she found herself unable to explain it at all.
“Did you notice?” she asked quietly. The question escaped before she could prevent it.
Darcy’s expression softened. “Miss Elizabeth.”
Her eyes returned to his.
“I fear I noticed.”
The colour in her cheeks deepened.
The only sound in the room was the quiet ticking of the clock.
Then, with the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, he asked, “Are you attempting to heal me, Miss Elizabeth?”
She looked at him, uncertain whether he was teasing her or entirely serious. “I believe my aunt would say the ointment is responsible for that.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“Then I must confess,” Darcy replied, still looking at her, “that the ointment appears to have been assisted by other means.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile. “Mr. Darcy, you are taking advantage of a wounded condition.”
“Perhaps.” He glanced down at their joined hands. “But I have been assured that wounded men require care.”
Elizabeth smiled despite herself.
Neither spoke for a few moments.
Darcy continued to look at her, and slowly the amusement in his expression softened into something warmer.
Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “It also hurts here.”
His free hand had moved lightly towards the bruise beneath his eye. Elizabeth followed his movement.
Her expression changed at once. “Mr. Darcy…”
“I believe,” he added quietly, “that this injury has been somewhat neglected.”
She gave him a look that suggested she was not entirely certain whether he was serious. Yet she reached for the ointment again.
Carefully, she shifted upon the small footstool until she was kneeling upon it, bringing herself closer to him. Darcy instinctively leant forward as well, lowering his head slightly so that she could reach the injured skin more easily.
The distance between them became almost nothing.
Elizabeth tried to concentrate on what she was doing. She applied the ointment gently beneath his eye, her expression one of complete seriousness.
Darcy remained perfectly still, though his attention was no longer upon the injury. It was impossible to think of pain when she was so near.
When she finished, she looked at him. And found him watching her. There was no teasing in his expression now, only quiet expectation.
Elizabeth understood.
She hesitated, then a small smile touched her lips. “You are quite determined to be a difficult patient.”
“Apparently.”
She shook her head, but she leant forward. As she had done before, she blew softly upon the injured place.
Darcy closed his eyes. And then he felt the gentlest touch of her lips against his skin.
Neither moved. Her face remained close to his – close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath, close enough that every sensible thought he possessed seemed to abandon him at once.
When he opened his eyes, Elizabeth was still there.
And neither of them looked away.
Then Darcy spoke quietly. “Elizabeth…”
The way he said her name made her heart beat faster.
“I have spent many months thinking about what I did wrong.” His thumb moved gently over her hand. “I did not love you properly.”
The words surprised her.
“I loved you deeply. But I loved you selfishly.”
Elizabeth remained silent.
“I thought only of what I felt. I never sufficiently considered what you must have felt.” His eyes lowered briefly. “I knew my own heart, but I did not ask enough about yours. I was so certain of the strength of my affection that I believed it must be enough.”
A faint, rueful smile touched his lips. “I thought I had only to ask, and I would receive.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
“But I understand now that love is far more than wanting someone. It is not merely the happiness another person gives you.” He looked at her. “It is protecting them. It is considering their needs before your own. It is wishing for their happiness even when it requires sacrifice.”
His voice became quieter. “I thought love meant that I wished to make you mine.”
A pause.
“Now I know it means that I wish to make you happy.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled slightly.
“I do not wish to love you as I did before.”