Elizabeth stood and addressed Mr. Harris. “You should rest as well. Mrs. Simmons and I will tend to Mr. Darcy for now.”
Mr. Harris hesitated, then relented. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. If you require my assistance, simply ring for me. I will return later.”
Once they were alone, Elizabeth and Mrs. Simmons worked in quiet harmony. Old Mrs. Simmons outlined a regimen of cool compresses and medicines, dipping a clean cloth into the willow bark tea and showing Elizabeth how to trickle the liquid into Mr. Darcy’s mouth drop by drop. Elizabeth set to work without hesitation, alternating between encouraging Mr. Darcy to take both the nourishment of broth to strengthen him and the medicine that would help lower the fever.
“Wherever did you find the myrrh?” Mrs. Simmons inquired when it was time for another dose.
“My Uncle Gardiner imports it for the apothecaries in town,” Elizabeth answered, her eyes never leaving Mr. Darcy’s face. At least he seemed to be sleeping more comfortably.
As the hours passed, Elizabeth remained by his side, speaking softly to him whenever he stirred. “You must continue to fight this, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. “You have so much yet to do. We all need you.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips moved again, his voice a little stronger this time. “But the blanket.”
The blanket. She knew that something about their discussion that night had upset him, but why the blanket? She exchanged a puzzled glance with Mrs. Simmons, but the older woman merely shrugged. “He’s fevered, my dear. Often, they speak of nonsense in such states.”
Yet Elizabeth could not shake the feeling that it meant something, that even in the throes of such an illness, Mr. Darcy’s mind was hard at work. It mattered not, for she must first help ensure his recovery.
When the sun was high in the sky and exhaustion began to claim her, Mrs. Simmons intervened gently. “Go and rest, Miss Bennet. Call for Mrs. Nicholls. I shall advise her, and then I shall rest for a time as well.”
Elizabeth hesitated but finally nodded and rang for the housekeeper.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared in his shirtsleeves, rubbing one eye. “How is he?”
“He is cooler, though that is common enough in the early part of the day,” Mrs. Simmons replied.
“I must apologise,” he said. “I should have thought to have rooms prepared for you.”
Mrs. Nicholls stepped into the chamber; she must already have been on her way upstairs. “Miss Darcy anticipated as much and made the arrangements early this morning.”
Elizabeth murmured her thanks and retreated to a nearby room where sleep quickly overtook her. She awoke some hours later to the sound of voices in the hall. Dressing swiftly, she ventured to her door, drawn toward the familiar cadence of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice.
“And what happens if Darcy dies?” the colonel demanded, frustration evident. “What will you do with your secret orders then?”
Elizabeth stilled, her pulse quickening as she listened. She pressed her ear to the slight space between the door and the jamb.
A reply came from a voice she did not know, measured and unyielding. “Mr. Darcy would have explained in his will who would be handling his affairs. He leaves nothing to chance.”
Fitzwilliam sighed heavily. “I need to know, Anders, so I can reassure him.”
The other man did sound regretful. “I am sorry, sir, but my orders were very clear.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced. Reassure him. That was what Mr. Darcy needed. She did not know what secrets the men spoke of, but she could at least confess her feelings. He had been very clear with his own, and she could do the same for him, now that she knew what they were. Indeed, it might be her only chance—no. It would not. But still, she wished him to know. She opened the door and hurried past the colonel and two surprised men to cross to Mr. Darcy’s room.
Old Mrs. Simmons was already there, wringing out a cold cloth. “Miss Bennet, you have not been abed long enough.”
“Is he any better?” Elizabeth inquired as she again took Mr. Darcy’s hand in hers.
“He is no worse” was the reply.
Elizabeth reached for his other hand, and when both were safe in her own, she leaned over him. “Mr. Darcy,” she murmured in his ear, pouring everything she felt for him into the words. “You must hear me. Whatever troubles you, whatever burdens your heart, you are not alone. I will stand by you through everything. I love you, Mr. Darcy, and I will never leave you.”
His fingers tightened around hers, his grip surprisingly strong. Tears stung her eyes, but she held firm.
There was no question of her returning to her bed. For hours, she stayed at his side as the servants and the colonel moved about her. She coaxed him to swallow tea and broth and his tinctures, she laid cool cloths on his forehead, she kissed his hands, and always, always, she spoke soft words of comfort and reassurance. As the sunlight lengthened and then faded, disappearing into twilight, the fever that had gripped Mr. Darcy for days began to wane. Elizabeth sagged with relief, her heart swelling with gratitude.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had just called for the candles to be lit when Mr. Darcy stirred, his lips moving as if to speak. She leaned closer, catching the faintest whisper: “Is it the same?”
Her brow furrowed, confusion mingling with hope. The mystery could wait—for now, Mr. Darcy’s recovery was all that mattered.
