Chapter Ten
Elizabeth drifted upward through layers of sleep—slow at first, then abruptly, as though some sound had nudged her from very far away.
Cold air brushed her cheek.
Not Longbourn.
Not her room.
Too still. Too ornate. And the door—was that… open?
She blinked against the blur clouding her sight. The ceiling wavered, then steadied. Her pulse gave one uneasy skip.
Where—
A whisper of movement. Soft. Close.
She turned her head, sluggishly, and froze.
A dog sat only a few feet from her bed. Not some gentle, hearth-side creature—this one held himself the way men did when bracing for command. Broad-chested, dark-eyed, stone-still but for the faint rise and fall of breath.
He watched her as though she were the one intruding.
Her throat balled up into a dry, scratchy thing. “…Hello?”
A single thump of his tail. Nothing more.
She swallowed. Her tongue felt thick, useless. “Where… where did you come from?”
Another blink, slower this time, and she recognised the slope of his muzzle. The rangy wolf-hunting lines. Had she seen him once—at a distance? At… Netherfield?
The name stumbled into her mind and hung there, unanchored. Yes, Netherfield. She remembered now. She had been brought to Netherfield.
But that… that was a dream. Was it not?
Her wrist warmed beneath the covers, a small, disquieting pulse she did not examine. Not with that creature staring as if waiting for her next move.
The dog’s ears flicked toward the hallway.
Voices. Low. Two of them. A man’s tone she half-knew, tugging at recognition.
The dog rose—not quickly, not with enthusiasm, but with purpose. He stepped to the threshold, gaze fixed outward, muscles taut.
“Brutus? Brutus, what are you doing?”
The sound itself barely touched her. What caught her attention was the dog’s pause—the alert way his ears shifted, the way he considered the doorway, then her, as though choosing between two duties.
He looked torn—watchful—almost protective, and far too aware of her for a creature she had never met.
Then Mr Darcy appeared in the doorway.
He looked first at the dog, confusion written plainly across his features. Then his gaze shifted—too fast, too intent—straight to her.
She had not expected the jolt of embarrassment that followed. Her hair—she could feel it tangled across her temple. Her gown—where was her gown? What about her pelisse, her stays, her petticoat? She was not even decent!
And Mr Darcy stared at her as though he had not planned on seeing her awake.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly.
Her lips parted, but nothing coherent followed. The room sat strangely crooked for a moment, tilted and skewed as if reality itself had bent. She caught one breath, thin and unsteady.
Darcy stepped forward—and halted at once, as though suddenly aware of proximity, propriety, every rule that governed sickrooms and young ladies.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “Brutus slipped away from me. I—I had not meant…” His voice trailed when she blinked too slowly.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth startled. Jane was there, crossing the room toward her. “Lizzy, you are awake!”
Her whole body flinched. Jane’s voice wasn’t a memory this time—it was real, and she was rushing past Darcy, dropping to her knees beside the bed.
Her hands fluttered—one brushing Elizabeth’s hair back, another cupping her cheek with the gentlest caution.
“Oh, my dear girl. I stepped out only for a moment—they told me you would be sleeping for hours yet—I never meant to leave you alone.”
Elizabeth tried to smile. It felt crooked. “I am… awake now.”
“Yes.” Jane laughed a small, trembling breath. “Yes, you are. And quite yourself again, I see.”
Elizabeth held the expression, though her limbs still felt as though they belonged to someone else. Quite yourself suggested a comparison, and the idea of what she must have been moments before stirred unease. “What happened?”
Jane’s fingers tightened around hers. “You were tired. Very tired. You frightened us, Lizzy, but that is past now. There is no need to trouble yourself with it.”
“But I caused a deal of fuss,” Elizabeth said. It was not a question. She glanced past Jane, toward the doorway she had not quite dared to look at again. “Did I not?”
Mr Darcy had not moved from his place. He stood just inside the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other loosely at his side. Brutus waited behind him, alert and silent.
“You were unwell,” Darcy said. He did not soften it. “Disoriented.”
Jane shot him a look—quick, warning.
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to him at once. “In what way?”
Darcy hesitated. Not long. Only long enough to seem as though he had considered evasion and rejected it. “You spoke. Not always to those in the room.”
Jane leaned closer. “Lizzy, truly—”
Elizabeth did not look at her sister. “What did I say?”
Darcy’s mouth opened. Closed again. For a moment, she thought he would tell her regardless of Jane’s disapproval.
Then Jane’s look hardened—Elizabeth had almost thought her sister incapable of such an expression.
Darcy exhaled with a grimace. “Nothing of consequence,” he said, though the words did not entirely convince. He straightened. “You should rest. Mr Jones will wish to see you again shortly.” He turned toward the dog. “Brutus. Come.”
The dog rose at once and came to heel, though his head turned back once, gaze lingering on Elizabeth before he followed.
Darcy paused only long enough to incline his head. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr Darcy.”
He withdrew, the door closing softly behind him.
Elizabeth lay back against the pillows, the space he had left feeling oddly bare. Jane brushed her hair away from her temple with gentle insistence.
“You need not worry,” Jane said. “You are safe now.”
Everyone kept telling her that. Elizabeth sighed and stared at the ceiling. Spoke. Not always to those in the room.
She shut her eyes, dizzy with memory.
Darcy descended the stairs slowly, as though his footsteps on the carpet might carry upward and disturb the fragile order that had finally settled in the bedchamber above.
The house felt altered—no longer merely Netherfield, but something temporarily rearranged around the presence of a guest who had not arrived by invitation.
Bingley was pacing the length of the drawing room, turning sharply at each end as if he meant to wear a path into the carpet. He stopped short when he caught sight of Darcy.
“Well?” he asked at once. “Is she—did she wake again?”
“For a moment,” Darcy said. He took the chair nearest the window without quite meaning to. “She is clearer than before. Still weak.”
Bingley let out a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. “Thank heaven. I thought—when Jones shook his head like that—” He broke off, then resumed his circuit. “I cannot abide waiting. It feels heartless to sit when a friend and neighbour is upstairs—”
“It would not serve her for the house to turn itself inside out. She requires quiet.”
Miss Bingley, who had been seated at the escritoire with an air of injured patience, rose at once. “Of course she does,” she said. “Though I cannot imagine what possessed Miss Elizabeth Bennet to walk so far alone. It is scarcely prudent behaviour.”
Mrs Hurst nodded. “One hears so many cautionary tales. A young lady wandering without escort—”
Darcy did not look at either of them. His gaze fixed instead on the far wall, where the light fell evenly and refused to waver. “She did not wander,” he said. “She was walking, as many do for exercise. There is no impropriety in it.”
Miss Bingley’s brows lifted. “I meant no offense. Only that the household must now manage a delicate situation. Her mother will certainly wish for her to remain here, and for goodness knows how long.”
Bingley stopped pacing. “As long as she needs. Jane Bennet will stay with her. Nicholls is perfectly capable of managing the maids for her care. And if there is anything more to be done, it shall be done.”
Darcy’s attention shifted then—to the foot of the stairs, where Brutus lay stretched across the rug, head lifted, eyes trained upward.
The dog had not moved since they returned.
Not even at the sound of voices, which was strange enough, for he usually listened to conversations as if he could comprehend them.
Miss Bingley followed his look and frowned. “Must he lie there?”
“He will not stir unless called,” Darcy said. He did not add that Brutus rarely chose such a post without reason.
Mrs Hurst folded her hands. “It will look odd, you know. Two Bennets staying on, and for no cause Mr Jones could determine. People talk.”
“Let them,” Bingley said, already turning away again. “They talk whether invited or not.”
Darcy listened to the exchange with only half his mind. The other half remained upstairs, replaying a question Miss Elizabeth had asked—What did I say?—and the look she had fixed on him while waiting for an answer he had chosen not to give.
Then there were footsteps in the hall. A servant appeared at the door, holding out a small tray. “A letter for Mr Darcy, sir. Just arrived.”
Darcy rose at once. He took the letter from the servant with a brief “Thank you.” Richard’s seal caught the light.
Bingley halted mid-stride. “News from Pemberley? I hope your sister is well.”
“From Fitzwilliam. He was in London last week,” Darcy said, and turned away before the question could widen.
He broke the seal standing, unfolding the page with controlled movements while Miss Bingley resumed speaking—something about accommodation, about whether Mrs Bennet would insist on bringing the younger sisters, about how exhausting it must be for Miss Bennet to sit up so long and for so little cause. The words washed past him.
Richard’s hand was brisk, the lines tight.
Darcy,
You will be pleased to know that I have been deemed indispensable once again. Evidently, England cannot be defended without my presence in a place no one has thought worth occupying for the better part of thirty years.
Darcy snorted. Typical.