Elizabeth’s eyes widened, her hands moving quickly to steady him, to offer comfort. “Shh… All is well, Mr Darcy,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “You are safe. Just rest.”
But there was no rest to be found in the humiliation that wrapped around him like a blanket. He had prided himself on control, on strength, and now he was reduced to this—a man who could not even speak without stumbling over his words. The feeling of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him, his mind reeling as he fought to regain some semblance of composure.
Darcy blinked hard, willing his vision to steady as he tried to focus on Elizabeth’s face. The world around him still swam in and out of clarity, but gradually, he could make out the details—the muddied hem of her gown, the way the fabric clung to her form, and the shawl draped hastily over her shoulders. It did little to hide the state of her dress, and he could not help but notice how vulnerable she appeared, even as she tried to keep her composure.
Their eyes locked, and for a fleeting moment, the room seemed to stop spinning. His breathing steadied, and he managed to find his voice, though it was strained and tinged with an attempt at levity. “It seems, Miss Bennet… we are fated… to meet… when you are covered in mud.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, a hint of relief mingling with her concern. She looked helplessly at Mrs Nicholls, who hovered nearby, and then cleared her throat. “You do have a talent for stating the obvious, Mr Darcy,” she replied softly, her tone caught between humour and worry.
Gently, she shifted her hands beneath his head, her touch careful and steady, as she nodded to the footman to place a pillow beneath him. As soon as the cushion was in place, Elizabeth began to rise, but Darcy shook his head, a stubborn resolve flickering in his eyes.
“No… I will not… lie here any longer,” he muttered, the words coming with more force than before. He struggled to sit up, his pride pushing him to action even as his body resisted. The footman started to protest, his hand hovering uncertainly over Darcy’s shoulder.
“Please, sir,” the footman urged, “you must rest—”
“Enough!” Darcy’s voice was low but firm, brooking no argument. “Give me your hand. I will not… remain here like a helpless invalid.”
Reluctantly, the footman complied, offering his hand and helping Darcy to his feet. The room tilted alarmingly as Darcy swayed, the effort of standing far greater than he had anticipated. He clenched his jaw, determined not to show weakness, but before he could steady himself, Elizabeth was there—swift and sure, sweeping up under his arm on the opposite side, her small frame providing unexpected support.
“Easy now,” she murmured, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos of his thoughts. Her presence—strong yet gentle—was both a balm to his pride and a reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet he could do nothing but lean into her, grateful for the strength she offered even as his heart ached at the thought of her seeing him like this.
Darcy took a tentative step forward, his legs trembling beneath him as if they might give way at any moment. Elizabeth, pressed close to his side, felt like both a lifeline and a fragile support. But as they took another step, Elizabeth’s foot caught awkwardly beneath her, and she stumbled, hopping on her left foot to avoid putting weight on her injured ankle. She tumbled into his chest, and for a terrifying moment, Darcy feared they might both go down before anyone else could reach them.
But somehow, between the two of them, they struggled to stay upright, their breaths coming in uneven gasps as they leaned heavily on each other.
Darcy’s pulse quickened, a jolt of fear snapping through his haze as he saw Elizabeth stumble. “Miss Elizabeth, you are hurt,” he rasped, his voice taut with alarm. “You should sit… please.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her determination cutting through the pain that must be searing up her leg. “No, Mr Darcy,” she insisted. “I must speak with you. I came all the way from Longbourn this morning on that wretched horse because it was too important to wait.”
Her words hit him with an unexpected force, a warmth spreading through the cold dread that had gripped him all morning. Even through the fog clouding his mind, he grasped the weight of her determination, her loyalty, and the desperation that had driven her here. She had suffered to reach him.
“I know… how much you hate that horse,” he managed. “I am honoured… truly honoured.”
But Darcy knew he could not keep this up—his thoughts were slipping, his vision still a blur, and each word felt like it was dragged out of him. His gaze dropped, catching sight of her gown again—mud-streaked, clinging to her body, entirely too revealing. The sight sent a flush of embarrassment through him, mingling with his disorientation. “Miss Bennet…” he began, his voice strained, the words barely holding together. “Your… attire… it is not… suitable for… a proper conversation.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed as she realised the truth of his words. She looked around, tugging the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, but it did little to cover her properly. Just then, Darcy’s valet, Giles, hurried into the room, his face pale with worry.
“Sir, I only just heard that you needed me,” Giles stammered, quickly moving to Darcy’s side. “I came as quickly as possible.”
Darcy was reluctant to be pulled away from Elizabeth, but he was in no state to hold this conversation here and now. The best course of action was to try to continue with his departure as planned, though he doubted he looked strong enough to take his leave without arousing Wickham’s suspicion. Wickham would certainly expect to see him off.
Elizabeth leaned closer to Mrs Nicholls, her voice dropping to a whisper that Darcy could not quite catch. He watched as the housekeeper’s expression shifted from concern to outright shock.
Mrs Nicholls straightened, clearly flustered, and responded in a tone that was just loud enough for Darcy to hear. “But Miss, as I’ve said, we’ve nothing here. Perhaps I could send to Longbourn for—”
Elizabeth quickly interrupted her with another hushed whisper, her eyes intense and pleading. Darcy strained to catch even a word, but Elizabeth was speaking too quickly, too low.
Mrs Nicholls looked deeply uncomfortable, her face etched with hesitation, but after a moment of consideration, she nodded slowly. “Very well, Miss Bennet,” she said quietly, her reluctance evident in every word. “I will do as you ask.”
Darcy wearily turned to Giles. “Help me… make myself more presentable. I need to… recover somewhat.”
He turned back to Mrs Nicholls, who was still standing nearby, her expression conflicted. “Mrs Nicholls… I apologise for… the trouble I have caused. Thank you for your discretion in… keeping this from Mr Wickham. I would not ordinarily ask you to keep something from your master.”
Mrs Nicholls gave Darcy a searching look, then sent the maids and the other footmen away, leaving only Giles in the room as Elizabeth hobbled out with a maid’s assistance. Once they were alone, she spoke quietly. “Mr Darcy, I must confess… I would be very happy if Mr Wickham quit the region altogether. He is not an honest master.”
Darcy’s spirits plummeted as the reality of her words hit him with full force. Wickham had deceived everyone, not just in society, but within his own household, manipulating those who served him with the same calculating charm. The idea of abandoning these people to Wickham’s mercies seared his conscience. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them to suffer under such a man’s control, not when he had the power—however limited—to make a difference.
“I will do something,” he vowed, the words escaping before he had fully formed a plan. The promise hung in the air between them, a commitment he felt compelled to make, despite the uncertainty of how he might keep it.
