Chapter 1
ONE
It was central to Elizabeth’s understanding of Mr Darcy that he moved through life as one insulated from the common afflictions of ordinary men.
His ten thousand a year, his great estate, his connexions to the very finest families in the land—all conspired to create about him an air of invulnerability that she found vexatious.
But the dreadfulness of this, his broken leg, could not be denied. The physician pronounced the leg broken below the knee and said it was most fortunate that the knee itself did not appear to be injured. Mr Darcy would heal so long as the bone was properly set.
Elizabeth had no idea what was involved in the proper setting of a bone, but one terrible afternoon, the sounds from the bedchamber in the back persuaded her it was nothing she would ever wish on herself.
It did not last for long, but all that Elizabeth could think of, as she heard what he endured, was her own words as she tossed his letter down the well: May certain evils be brought down on your head, Mr Darcy!
Clearly it is not your fault, she told herself many times.
In fact, it might have been the fault of Mr Darcy himself.
Was it not his job to arrange for the foresters as needed?
Or perhaps the fault rested upon the colonel’s head, for it was he who made a tour of the park but evidently failed to observe a large tree branch about to fall.
And yet, somehow it felt like it was her fault.
Naturally, Elizabeth could not visit Mr Darcy in his bedchamber, nor did she wish to; but, after a day or so to let the pain subside, he was encouraged to leave the room and move about the house.
A crutch was ordered from London, and with it and the aid of a sturdy footman from Rosings, he was able to leave the confinement of the bedchamber.
There was talk of moving him to Rosings, but he reportedly refused, saying he was yet unequal to being moved that far.
He began to spend a great deal of time in Charlotte’s parlour, and Elizabeth began subsequently to avoid it.
Mr Darcy was not a man who endured idleness well.
His leg, propped upon cushions and bound in splints, was a source of obvious humiliation to him, and he submitted to the ministrations of his cousin or his manservant Fields with the grim tolerance of a man enduring a punishment he considered unjust. He spoke little, read a great deal, and picked at the meals brought to him from Rosings by Fields, a genial older man who was surprisingly pleasant in company.
Elizabeth did all she could to keep out of his way. If she learnt he meant to leave his chamber, she hastily fled to hers, or went for a walk, or even once went into the kitchens pretending to look for something. If she was absolutely required to be in his presence, she remained silent, as did he.
She had come into Kent along with Charlotte’s younger sister Maria, and their initial plan had been to return to London in mid-April, the Collinses having afforded the two a six-week stay.
With Mr Darcy in residence, however, she began to wonder if she and Maria ought to leave.
She broached the subject in the dining room one morning while Mr Darcy was having breakfast in the parlour.
“I wonder,” she began, looking at her friend’s tired countenance, “if perhaps having Maria and I here is making things more difficult.”
“How do you mean?” Charlotte enquired.
“Too many people about, extra people you need to care for.” Elizabeth smiled in a conciliatory manner. “I wonder if Maria and I ought to alter our plans and go back this week instead of next.”
“Oh no,” Maria cried out. “No, Elizabeth, pray let us remain.”
“I confess it does me good to have you here,” Charlotte said with a pained smile. “In fact, I spoke of the matter with Lady Catherine yesterday, and she urged me to remind you that if you remained until the end of the month, she can escort you back to town in her barouche.”
“Oh, what fun!” Maria giggled. “Just imagine us entering town like grand ladies!”
“Is it not taxing for your maid to have to care for us all?” Elizabeth said. The Collinses only kept a housekeeper and one maid of all work, and surely the latter was being run off her feet by now, with three extra people in what was usually a two-person establishment.
“Lady Catherine’s servants have been helping Molly,” Charlotte informed her. “And the laundry is being sent to Rosings. Molly is likely more at leisure than is her custom.”
“It sounds as if it might be better for us to remain,” Maria suggested. “Do you not think so, Charlotte?”
“I do not wish to be selfish, or to put my own desires in, but I would certainly like it above all things,” Charlotte admitted.
Elizabeth had no wish to remain. Trapped in a house with Mr Darcy! Could anything be worse? And yet, Charlotte’s sedate gaze undid her, silently begging her to remain.
“Very well,” she said. “I shall write to my father and uncle.”
Charlotte took Maria with her to call on the tenants after they ate.
Elizabeth declined the invitation to join them and instead sat down to write her letters in the little escritoire in the parlour.
She had not been there for five minutes when the door opened and Fields appeared, helping Mr Darcy enter the room.
Fields had his master settled quickly, in what had become Mr Darcy’s preferred spot by the window, and just as quickly disappeared.
And there she was, alone with Mr Darcy in the very same parlour where she had scorned his proposal so very recently. She sneaked a peek at him over her shoulder. Did he think of that too?
“I hope I do not disturb you,” he said, his deep voice stiffly polite.
She twisted in the seat to look at him. “No, of course not,” she said awkwardly. “I was writing to my father and my uncle. Mrs Collins wishes for her sister and I to remain until the end of the month, and so we will accept Lady Catherine’s generous offer of her escort back to town.”
“Did you…” He made a strange face. “Did you write anything else to your father? Other than the alteration in your travel plans?”
What does he mean? she wondered. “I am not sure what you mean. Should I have?”
Mr Darcy glanced towards the parlour door. Fields had left it ajar for the sake of propriety, and from his look, Elizabeth surmised that he meant to say something that was best not overheard.
“Mrs Collins and her sister have gone into the village,” she said quietly. “And Mr Collins is out as well; I am not certain where he has gone. Likely to wait upon your aunt.”
Mr Darcy nodded, his gaze not leaving her.
“Being in the state that I am,” he said, “has afforded me a great deal of time for thinking. One thing that does not sit well from me in retrospect is that in protecting my own interests, I have opened many others to the dangers…well those that I shared with you in my letter.” He gave her a significant look.
“Your letter,” she echoed faintly. “Of course.”
“If you felt that others might gain an advantage in understanding…well, what I said, you may share that information with them as you see fit, using your own discretion as you can. I trust you.”
“Thank you,” she said. He trusts me?
Then again, she trusted him too, did she not? No matter what she might have thought of his manners, she had no reason to doubt his honour. His integrity could not be questioned. It was something in his favour, she supposed.
“There is another matter I have given substantial thought. Apart from telling you those things that I did, very much, wish you to know, I do recognise that my letter was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. I said things which in retrospect, I am ashamed of, and for that I would like to apologise.”
A bitterness of spirit? “Thank you,” she said and then, while they were giving one another apologies, she added, “My conduct on that evening was not irreproachable.”
“In fairness, you did try to avoid the argument which ensued,” he said. “It was I who would not allow it to stand, I who urged your disclosures.”
She gave a little laugh and said, “You surely did not urge impudence and spleen, and I gave you both aplenty.”
“And I gave you the equal,” he said. “I pray you will forgive me. I ought not to treat anyone in such a way, but particularly you. It is ironic that in the same half an hour in which I proclaimed my ardent love of you that I should behave in such a way.”
His words made her cheeks flame. “Perhaps we may both agree to forget that evening,” she said.
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it is inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me.”
“Forgive me,” she said, unable to raise her eyes to meet his gaze. “I ought not to have spoken so. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling; I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.” He sighed heavily.
“Only know that with this injury shall come a healing of both body and spirit. You have provoked in me to be a true gentleman, to behave in a way that recommends me to a woman worthy of being pleased.”
To know what she felt to such a statement was impossible.
There was nothing but swirling discomfiture in her mind, hearing such disclosures from him and being inevitably softened towards him.
And with those feelings, guilt pricked at her.
She ought to have at least read the letter which he had so clearly spent the whole of the night writing.
My unrelieved curiosity will be my punishment, she thought.
Mr Darcy opened his book and she turned back to her letters, but before she wrote a word, the sound of the front door being opened to admit someone was heard. It seemed the colonel had come to call, and moments later, he was shown into the room.
Elizabeth rose to greet him, but the colonel did not hazard a glance her way. His countenance, usually so open and amiable, was drawn tight with an anxiety he was making no effort to conceal. “I received an express from London,” he informed his cousin. “Georgiana is ill.”
“Ill?” In that one syllable, Elizabeth heard every bit of Mr Darcy’s alarm. “How ill?”
“Putrid throat, a fever.” The colonel then noticed Elizabeth and said, “Pray forgive me, Miss Bennet, I did not see you there. How do you do?”
“Think nothing of that,” she assured him. “I am sorry Miss Darcy is unwell.”
“Thank you,” he said, then turned back to his cousin. “I can see that look on your face, Darcy; you are thinking the worst but you need not. She is young, and was in good health before the illness struck.”
“I can see the look on your face as well,” Mr Darcy replied. “And such assurances do not match the alarm on your countenance.”
The colonel sighed and took a seat next to his cousin, and as he did, Elizabeth turned back to her letters, though her pen did not move as she eavesdropped unabashedly.
“Thorne writes that the fever is high, and she has not—she has not been eating.”
“Not eating? How long has it been?” Mr Darcy demanded in clipped accents.
“She fell ill very suddenly, Friday morning, it seems.” The colonel tried for a bit of levity, saying, “Likely right around the time when you were being crushed by a tree branch.”
That bit of news struck Elizabeth. Friday morning? When she threw a letter in the well? She bit on her lip, worrying it a bit as she considered that. She was thankful her back was to the two men.
“And we are only informed now?” Mr Darcy demanded. “Am I not still the head of my house?”
“They knew there was nothing you could do about it and did not wish to worry you,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam gently. “A trifling cold…she will improve, I am sure of it. But in the meantime, I would like to return to London, to see her for myself.”
“Pray do, yes.”
She could hear the disgust in Mr Darcy’s voice. Then he lowered his voice, likely because he wished for only his cousin to hear him curse. “Damned fool of a leg.”
“All will be well,” she heard his cousin reassure him. “Do not worry.”
“I despise being helpless while those I love suffer,” he said. To his credit, his statement was said neither by rote nor in petulance, but rather the sombre tones of a man disappointed in himself.
“I will go to her,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied and she heard the sound of a clap on the arm. “All will be well, I assure you. I will ride up and be with her by dinner.”
“Pray send word as soon as you can,” said Mr Darcy, the volume and tone of his voice returning to what was usual. “And as often.”
Elizabeth turned round, hearing the colonel rising to his feet. She offered a smile, and the colonel nodded to her and bid her good day, and then was gone.