Mr. Darcy laughed.
“I dare say you loved him as much as I, or even Mrs. Younge.”
“Mrs. Wickham, mercy.”
Elizabeth was happy to see that his recovery had progressed sufficiently that Mr. Darcy’s handsome laughter did not leave him groaning in pain, though he did wince.
Mr. Darcy then took Elizabeth’s hand. “I have no right to demand anything of you, but if it would relieve you to speak what lays upon your mind, I dearly wish to know. We have become friends. When I say that, I do not mean as an useful fiction, but in sober reality. It is strange that we can be friends. It does make little sense. But we are.”
“I...” Elizabeth swallowed.
She felt a strong surge of emotion and a desire to cry. She felt supported.
Darcy still held her hand. His hand was large, warm, and soft. Elizabeth did not think that any other man had held her hand that way. Certainly no one had since Mr. Wickham had abandoned her.
Elizabeth brushed tears away with her free hand. “It is nothing, it’s nothing. It is stupid. I simply am—oh, I’m so stupid.”
“You know that you are not.”
“And tears do not help anything.”
“You know that is not true either,” Darcy replied softly.
“I ought to at least find something useful to do. At least I ought to go to sleep.”
“You need not always be in motion. Elizabeth—” a confused expression crossed Mr. Darcy’s face. The candlelight flickered. She should remove her hand from Mr. Darcy’s.
The moment hung.
“I apologize.” Darcy closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Mrs. Wickham, you do not need to busy yourself ceaselessly. Everyone who knows you, knows that you seek to be useful. I wish you would allow yourself to be helped.”
“I do, I am, I have.”
“You have what?”
Elizabeth stood and pulled the hand from Darcy’s. Her heart hammered. Tears were falling, and they really did not help anything.
“I tried to write a letter to my father...” Elizabeth took long slow breaths. She shut her eyes for several seconds. She wished to run away. “Why is this so difficult.”
“It affects you deeply. Whatever it is. It speaks to the soul of who you wish to be and who you think you are.”
“Yes, yes—you know me well.”
Mosquitoes buzzing. Mr. Darcy’s breathing. Her own breathing. The candle made a soft painting of the room. Elizabeth sat back down. She wanted to take and squeeze Mr. Darcy’s hand again, but that would be too forward. Maybe a little bit too much like Mr. Wickham. No, worse, much worse, it would be too much like the fifteen-year-old Elizabeth who’d eloped with Mr. Wickham.
“I wished to ask my father for a little help, not much, certainly not enough to burden his estate—I plan to ask for a thing that I believe he will happily do…If I understand his character and his feelings correctly. Perhaps, I presume. Perhaps I do not. But that is not the fear that stopped me…Just…”
“Breathe, Elizabeth.”
“I cannot ask for help. I —” Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I cannot.”
Darcy asked, “Mrs. Wickham, why do you hate so much the notion of receiving help from those who love you and owe you support?”
“Do you not hate receiving help?”
“No. I love it when those who love me show their affection to me. And I trust that when they are in need, I shall give them what aid they require.”
“Simple foryou. You can always give more aid than you receive.”
