She watched him with mounting terror. Was it already too late for this doctor in Cambridge to help him? Would he even survive the journey? Certainly, stress and fatigue worsened his symptoms, but how much worse could they get before he collapsed irrevocably?
The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, nearly throwing Darcy, and Elizabeth with him, forward. She glanced out the window and saw a familiar sight—Sir William Lucas’s carriage barreling toward them, the horses frothing at the mouth from exertion.
Her father was turning in the rear-facing seat to peer out of the window. “Stay calm, Lizzy,” he murmured, his voice low. “We must not appear panicked.”
Sir William’s carriage drew up alongside theirs, and he leaned out the window, waving frantically to catch their attention. “Mr Darcy!” he called, his voice tinged with alarm. “Do you need assistance? What is happening at Netherfield? I saw the smoke and came as quickly as I could!”
His gaze darted anxiously toward the rising smoke in the distance, then back to the figure slumped in the opposite carriage. It took a moment for reality to sink in—Darcy was there, but he was not alone, nor was he in any position to speak.
Elizabeth tensed, her eyes fixed on Darcy. His lips moved, but no sound came out, and the right side of his face twitched uncontrollably. Her heart twisted painfully at the sight. He was struggling, desperately trying to form words, but the seizure or whatever was gripping him made it impossible.
Sir William’s eyes widened further as he took in the scene, shock spreading across his features. “Mr Bennet?” he stammered, finally noticing the older man seated beside Elizabeth. “What on earth—?”
Mr Bennet cut him off with a brisk wave of his hand. “There is no time for explanations, Sir William. Darcy is unwell, and we have been caught in a rather nasty business with Wickham and Sir Anthony. I suggest you turn back at once and raise the alarm. Get the whole of Meryton involved if you must.”
Sir William blinked, struggling to comprehend the gravity of what he was hearing. “Wickham, you say? And Sir Anthony? But… the fire—”
Elizabeth glanced up from Darcy, her eyes sharp with urgency. “I assure you, Sir William, the housekeeper has her people well managed. Everyone is quite safe, but they could use help putting out the flames.”
“I should say so! Look, let me call for others. I shall drive out to Purvis, and might you—”
“Not now, Sir William,” Mr Bennet cut him off. “We need to reach Cambridge as quickly as possible. Please, go back and warn the neighbourhood. Wickham and Sir Anthony are not to be trusted by any measure, and by no means should any responsible man give them his vote.”
“But, sir! You speak vague accusations against a good and generous man, who—”
“A corrupt man who has been paid to engineer this entire by-election to place another corrupt man in the House!” Mr Bennet retorted. “I can offer you proofs if you like, but just now, we have a more pressing crisis at hand.”
Sir William’s gaze flickered back to Darcy, who seemed barely able to hold himself upright. “Yes, it appears so. Mr Darcy, sir, are you… are you quite all right?” he asked, his tone softening with genuine concern. “Do you need anything?”
Mr Bennet leaned forward again, his voice commanding. “Sir William, I assure you, Darcy is in no state to converse. He needs medical attention. Go back to Meryton and do as I have asked. Now.”
Sir William hesitated, clearly torn between the instinct to help and the urgency in Mr Bennet’s voice. Finally, he nodded. “Very well, Bennet. I shall see to it at once.” His eyes flicked briefly back to Elizabeth, noticing the way she clung to Darcy, and he added, almost as an afterthought, “And… congratulations, I suppose, on your daughter’s future engagement.”
Elizabeth flushed, glancing quickly at her father, who merely raised an eyebrow. The coachman, sensing the exchange had gone on long enough, cracked the reins, and their carriage jolted forward, leaving Sir William staring after them.
As their carriage jolted back into motion, Elizabeth shifted her weight to support Darcy better, but he was too heavy and too limp for her efforts to have much effect. His head lolled to one side, resting awkwardly against her shoulder, and she could feel the uneven rise and fall of his chest, his breath laboured and shallow. Her stomach knotted with every bump and sway of the carriage, each jolt sending a new wave of worry through her. She wanted to do something—anything—to ease his suffering, but she felt utterly helpless.
Her father, noticing her struggle, said nothing at first. He simply unfastened his greatcoat, balled it up, and leaned across the carriage to gently place it under Darcy’s head. The improvised pillow provided some measure of comfort, and she saw Darcy’s tense features relax slightly as his head settled more comfortably.
Elizabeth offered her father a grateful smile, whispering, “Thank you.” Mr Bennet nodded curtly, his expression softening just a little in response. He watched Darcy for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought.
“Papa,” Elizabeth began quietly, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the carriage wheels, “do you truly think we can make it to Cambridge before nightfall?”
Her father’s gaze shifted from Darcy to the road outside, calculating the distance in his mind. “We have little choice,” he replied, his tone pragmatic. “We had a late start, and we have already been delayed some two hours from that point. On good roads, it might take eight hours to reach Cambridge, including a stop to change horses. That is a long day of travel even if we had started out at a decent time. But still, I would rather press on if the driver is confident in navigating after dark. Those are well-traveled roads, and there seems a better chance of getting help for Mr Darcy there than taking whatever lodgings we might find along the way and delaying our arrival further.”
Elizabeth nodded, though her heart remained heavy with doubt. She glanced back at Darcy, his face pale and drawn, and she squeezed the large, powerful hand that lay nestled in hers.
He tried to smile back at her, but only half his face complied.
Darcy woke with astart, the dim light filtering through the curtains, unfamiliar and disorienting. His body felt heavy, his limbs sluggish, as if he were submerged in water. The room around him swam in a haze, and a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the fog in his mind only seemed to thicken. Where was he? Panic gripped him as the thought struck:Elizabeth!
He sat up abruptly, too quickly. A sharp pain shot through his head, and the room tilted violently. He gasped, pressing a hand to his temple to steady himself. The last thing he remembered was being at Netherfield, Wickham’s sneering face, the smoke… “Elizabeth!” Where was she? He needed to find her.
“Sir, please—lie back,” a familiar voice urged gently, and Darcy turned his head to see Giles standing by the bedside, his expression one of calm concern. “You are safe, sir, and so is Miss Elizabeth. She is just down the hall, on the same floor.”
Darcy blinked, trying to process the words, but his mind felt sluggish, as though it were moving through treacle. “Elizabeth… down the hall?” he repeated, his voice rough and hoarse. His heart still pounded, the fear for her safety lingering. “Is she… is she safe?”
“Yes, sir, she is quite safe,” Giles reassured him, stepping closer. “She was here not ten minutes ago, asking after you.”
