As weary as he was, sleep eluded him. Each time he closed his eyes, images of Pemberley filled his mind: the rolling hills and tranquil lake, the grand halls that echoed with generations of his family’s footsteps, and the faces of the tenants and servants who depended on him for their livelihoods. He saw the pride in his father’s eyes as he spoke of their shared legacy, recalled the countless hours he himself had poured into maintaining and improving the estate.
Amid these visions, so familiar to him now, a new image arose—Elizabeth Bennet, her light, pleasing figure and excellentmind, the sweet impertinence of her clever quips, the kindness under all her teasing. His hopes for a future with her, so vivid and close only hours ago, now threatened by the truth that had begun to reveal itself at last. Would he still be the man she admired if Pemberley was no longer his to offer? If he had nothing to offer at all? Would she think he had pursued her only to maintain some sort of hold on Pemberley? He had never allowed himself to hope so boldly before, and now, his dearest wish was slipping from his grasp.
The hours dragged on, and the fire in the hearth dwindled again to faint embers. Darcy’s breathing grew shallow as the burden of it all refused to release him. By the time dawn began to light the edges of the horizon, he was feverish, his skin was clammy, and his chest was painfully tight.
He coughed, then winced.
A hard knock at the door jarred him from his restless haze, but he lay still, unable to find the strength to rise.
Fitzwilliam’s voice called through the heavy wood. “Darcy, I am coming in.”
Darcy summoned what little remained of his composure. He heard the door open, followed by footsteps and Fitzwilliam’s sharp intake of breath.
“You are worse,” Fitzwilliam said grimly, and Darcy felt his cousin place a hand on his forehead. “You cannot deny it.”
He sighed weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Send for Mr. Jones.”
Fitzwilliam turned without hesitation, calling for Harris and issuing orders in a commanding tone. Darcy closed his eyes again, hating his weakness and the cloud of recriminations plaguing his mind. He could not quiet his racing thoughts. Pemberley. Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet.
At least finding the apothecary would give Harris an easy excuse to leave the house and arrange to send the letters.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Fitzwilliam had returned. “You should have let me call for him last night,” he said harshly.
Darcy forced a faint smile. “I believed myself stronger than this, but it seems my body is unwilling to cooperate.” He was chilled, damp with perspiration and riddled with shivers that crept along his spine. When he tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness crashed over him, but he managed to prop himself up on several pillows so that his breaths were easier.
“You are no good to anyone if you are ill,” Fitzwilliam muttered, pulling the blankets roughly up around Darcy’s shoulders. “Rest until Mr. Jones arrives.”
Fitzwilliam retreated to the far side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and his shrewd eyes fixed on Darcy as if daring him to falter further. It was a comfort and an annoyance, not unlike Fitzwilliam himself.
The door creaked open, and Georgiana slipped in, her face pale and drawn. “I heard the servants,” she whispered, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of her gown.
Darcy forced his lips into a reassuring curve, though it felt more like a grimace. “It is nothing, Georgiana. It is only a cold, but please, you must not be here lest you also fall ill.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she took a hesitant step closer. “You are never unwell, Fitzwilliam. Not like this.”
Fitzwilliam crossed the room, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “He will be well,” he said firmly. “Mr. Jones is on his way. Darcy is too stubborn to let this keep him down for long. Your brother is correct, however, that it will be easier to deal with one patient than two.”
“What of you, then?” she asked with a trace of defiance.
“I am too contrary to fall sick.”
Georgiana’s gaze remained fixed on Darcy. She approached the bedside and gently placed her hand over his. “Promise me you will rest.”
Darcy gave her hand a faint squeeze. He had no choice but to rest. “I promise. But you must not fret.”
She lingered for a moment longer before Fitzwilliam guided her toward the door. “Come, Georgiana. Let him recover in peace.”
With a final, worried glance, she left the room. Fitzwilliam paused in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “Darcy, whatever storm is brewing in your mind, let it wait until you are well. We need you whole.”
His eyelids resisted every effort to remain open. He could not sleep, but it eased the pounding in his head to shut out the light. Unable to face the man who knew him so damned well, he did not attempt to raise them. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone once more as he awaited the arrival of Mr. Jones.
He was sick and he was embarrassed. While no one was immune to illness, Fitzwilliam Darcy was always in control of his emotions. He would banish the thoughts of Mr. Bennet’s blanket until he could act on them. Then he would face the truth, whatever it was—he would have to do so. But not today. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elizabeth stood by the drawing room window, her fingers gripping the curtain as she recalled the departure of Mr. Darcy’s carriage the night before. She could not banish the image of his pale visage or his troubling departure. He most certainly had the same cold as Papa, but there had been something else, she was sure of it.
His departure had sent Mamma into a fit of nerves, for she was certain that if a cold could affect young, hale Mr. Darcy in such a dramatic way that Papa was certain to be taken to his deathbed. She had insisted on Papa retiring immediately to bed. He had grumbled, but she had brought him a hot tea with brandy, and he had forgiven her.
