Elizabeth’s face burned with a mix of discomfort and urgency. “I appreciate your care, Mrs Nicholls, truly, but...” She hesitated, glancing around the room to ensure they were alone. “I desperately need to speak with Mr Darcy before he departs.”
Mrs Nicholls’ eyes widened in surprise, and Elizabeth hastened to explain. “It is not... that is, I am not seeking an improper meeting. This is about the election of the new MP. I believe Mr Darcy may have information that could help my father, but my father did not have the chance to speak with him privately. I believe… that is, I think Mr Darcy might be willing to speak with me, but only if I can catch him without…” she cleared her throat. “I would rather not alert Mr Wickham of my presence… not yet.”
The housekeeper’s expression softened, but she shook her head. “Miss Bennet, Mr Darcy is not in a position to speak with you.”
“Even if I make haste?” She tried to rise out of the chair. “I can make it to… oh, to the library if someone will help me. Surely, he is not already standing at the door, and—”
Mrs Nicholls shook her head. “I mean, Miss, Mr Darcy is in no condition to leave immediately. He... he is somewhat incapacitated.”
A jolt of alarm shot through her. Mr Darcy incapacitated? “What do you mean?”
Mrs Nicholls’ frown deepened as she deliberated on her response. Finally, she spoke, her tone cautious. “Mr Darcy is resting in my workroom, Miss Bennet. He is in some distress.”
Without thinking, Elizabeth pushed herself upright, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle. “Take me to him at once.”
Mrs Nicholls raised her hand, shaking her head vehemently. “Miss Bennet, it’s not proper. He asked for privacy. It is not for a lady’s eyes.”
Elizabeth hopped on her good foot, wobbling precariously. “Mr Darcy has been unwell for some time now. If he is in distress, I might be the only person in Hertfordshire hewouldaccept help from. Please, Mrs Nicholls, take me to him—now.”
The housekeeper hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She helped Elizabeth across the kitchen, down a narrow hallway, and to the door of her own quarters. Two footmen stood guard outside, their faces taut with worry and helplessness.
Elizabeth limped forward, bracing herself against the doorframe, and pushed into the room. What she saw made her heart lurch.
Mr Darcy lay on a makeshift pallet on the floor, his body convulsing in a terrifying rhythm. His eyes were rolled back, only the whites visible, and his limbs jerked uncontrollably. The room had been carefully arranged to keep the furniture out of his reach, and padding had been placed around his head to prevent further injury, but it was clear no one knew how to help him.
Without hesitation, Elizabeth moved to his side, grabbing hold of the nearest stable surface to support her weight. She dropped to her knees beside him, the pain in her ankle forgot in her urgency. She cradled his head in her hands, her fingers brushing against his clammy skin.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the violent spasms wrack Darcy’s body, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before. Her hands trembled as she reached out, not knowing what to do, but unable to stand by without trying. “Mr Darcy,” she whispered, her voice thick with panic as she cradled his head in her lap, gently brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “Please, stay with me. Please.”
The convulsions showed no sign of stopping, and Elizabeth’s desperation grew. She had no idea how to help, but she couldn’t bear to see him suffer like this—couldn’t bear the thought of losing him without ever understanding what it was that had drawn her to him so powerfully. “You cannot leave me now,” she pleaded, her fingers tracing the linesof his face with a tenderness that surprised even her. “You must fight this, Mr Darcy. You must!”
As the seconds dragged on, each one feeling like a lifetime, Darcy’s body finally began to still. Elizabeth held her breath, her hands hovering uncertainly over his chest, desperate to sense any sign of life. When he went limp, her heart seized with a terror so profound it nearly stole her own breath away. “No, no, no,” she murmured, pressing her ear to his chest, her tears mingling with the sweat on his skin. She strained to hear, to feel, to find any indication that he was still with her.
And then, faint but undeniable, she caught the soft, fragile thump of his heartbeat. Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, her tears spilling freely now as she clung to him, the realisation crashing over her like a wave. She could not lose him—not now, not ever. The truth of her feelings, so long buried beneath layers of misunderstanding, surged to the surface, leaving her raw and exposed.
“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I cannot lose you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Please... I cannot lose you.” She held him tightly, refusing to let go, even as her own body trembled from the strain, from the enormity of what she had just discovered within herself.
Darcy’s return to consciousnesswas slow and muddled, like swimming through thick fog. His mind struggled to grasp reality, his body sluggish and uncooperative. The first thing he became aware of was a dull ache radiating through his entire body, accompanied by a strange weight pressing down on him. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts fragmented and disjointed.
Voices swirled around him, distant and tinny, as though muffled by layers of cotton. He could not make out the words, but the tone was gentle, concerned. He tried to focus, to pull himself out of the darkness, but his body refused to respond. The fog in his mind was suffocating, pressing down on him, making it nearly impossible to think clearly.
A sensation of warmth—comforting and familiar—stroked his face, the touch soft and soothing. His cheek rested against something warm, something that shifted slightly as though breathing beneath him. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming, the thought drifting in and out of his filmy consciousness.
“Mr Darcy… please, try to drink this.” The voice was clear but distant, as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. There was something familiar about it, something that made his heart leap, but the haze in his mind clouded his recognition.
Another voice, louder and more insistent. “Sit him up a bit, Miss. Are you certain we shan’t send for Mr Jones? The gentleman looks nigh spent.”
“No,” the second voice countered, softer but firm. “Mr Darcy would prefer discretion, I am certain of it.” There was an edge of protectiveness in the tone that sent a shiver of warmth through him.
The words were muffled, echoing in his head, but there was something in the way they were spoken—a gentleness, a familiarity—that tugged at the edges of his awareness. As he tried to make sense of the world around him, he became distantly aware of hands still stroking his face, a tender, rhythmic motion that soothed him even as it confused him.
His senses gradually sharpened, and he could feel the softness of a shawl draped over him, the scratch of wool against his skin. The fog in his mind began to lift, revealing the outlines of the room around him. He blinked, his vision clearing in fits and starts, until the world came into focus.
Elizabeth.
She was here. It reallywasElizabeth Bennet, her face pale with worry, her eyes filled with something that looked dangerously close to tears. He felt the warmth of her legs beneath his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of her breath as she cradled his head. The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning, sending a surge of mixed emotions through him—relief, confusion, and a deep, searing sense of embarrassment.
He tried to move, to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs jerked awkwardly, and he could feel the tremor in his hands as he attempted to push himself up. “Miss Bennet…” he tried to say, but the words came out as an unintelligible mumble, thick and slurred. The humiliation burned through him, a flush of heat rising in his cheeks as he realised how helpless he must appear.
