Elizabeth fell silent, her thoughts racing. Mr Darcy... here, in Meryton again, and just when everything seemed to be falling apart. “Did he look... ill to you?” she asked after a moment, her concern slipping into her voice.
Her father paused, his gaze sharpening as his thoughts refocused. “Perhaps... now that you mention it. He did seem a bit off-colour. But then again, it could just be the strain of travel.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Perhaps.”
“Well, it is not for us to puzzle out, I suppose. Neither is Sir Anthony, who, I imagine, will run his election quite uncontested.” Her father stood, moving toward the sideboard to pour himself a drink. As he passed back in front of her, he paused, his expression softening. “You ought to go to bed, Lizzy. You need the rest, and I shan’t be good company tonight.” He set his drink back on the side table, then extended a hand to help her up.
Elizabeth blinked out of a brief reverie, then nodded. “Yes, I think you are right.”
As her father extended his arm, Elizabeth accepted it with a quiet nod, determined to hide the sharp pang in her ankle with every step. She found herself relying on his support more than she intended, the pain intensifying with each movement. The throb in her ankle deepened, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing.
With every lift of her foot, the swelling in her ankle tightened uncomfortably against the confines of her stockings, the ache intensifying as she struggled to keep her balance. Her grip on her father’s arm tightened, and she fought back a wince, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The stairs seemed to stretch on endlessly, and she focused on the bannister, trying to will herself up each step without faltering.
Her father glanced at her with concern, but Elizabeth kept her gaze down, not wanting him to see the strain etched on her face. She couldn’t help but recall Mr Darcy’s words from their conversation, the way he had mentioned his own pain, the throbbing in his head that had made him retreat from their company. How similar it felt now, this relentless pounding that seemed to consume her entire being, making each movement an ordeal.
Finally, they reached the landing. The last few steps to her room felt like a final trial, and by the time she sank onto the edge of her bed, her ankle was screaming in protest. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself, and whispered a faint thanks to her father, her voice tight with exhaustion and lingering pain.
Her father lingered long enough to say, “Good night, Lizzy. Sleep well,” before he closed the door. Elizabeth dropped backwards onto her pillow, hissing in pain as she lifted her ankle to lie on top of the bed.
Sleep was the last thing on her mind. All she could think of was Mr Darcy. What had brought him back to Meryton so soon, and why was he going north again so suddenly? Had his headaches improved? If so, what would it be like to talk to him once more when he was feeling himself, his personality not hidden beneath the dark shroud of chronic pain?
Would he smile at her again, with that warmth in those dark eyes that could make her stomach pool in her shoes? Understand her thoughts before she spoke the words, as he had done the very first day they met?
But more importantly, and much more urgently, she was aching to know what he thought of Sir Anthony. It was not an exaggeration to suggest that the welfare of their community might depend on clear heads and honest men. Mr Darcy was… well, he was one of those, at least.
And it would be good to see him again. But if he was leaving again soon, she would not have a chance before he went.
Not unless she did something desperate, and probably ill-advised.
Chapter Thirty
Darcy awoke to thenow familiar fog of illness that had clouded his mornings for weeks. The pain in his head was a dull, insistent throb, pulsating behind his eyes and making every blink feel like an effort. He lay still for a moment, hoping that by some miracle, the heaviness in his limbs might lift and the world might stop spinning. But as his vision slowly cleared, the reality of his condition settled over him like a shroud.
With a weary sigh, he forced himself to sit up, his body protesting the movement with a wave of nausea. The room tilted slightly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the cold floor. For a moment, he simply sat there, gathering what little strength he could muster before standing and moving towards the mirror.
The man who stared back at him looked like a shadow of his former self. His skin was pale and drawn, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, and his hair, usually so meticulously kept, was dishevelled from tossing and turning all night. He looked as though he had one foot in the grave, and perhaps, he thought grimly, that was not far from the truth.
“What am I even doing here?” he muttered to his reflection, his voice raspy with the night’s disuse. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his own disillusionment. What had possessed him to stop at Netherfield, to involve himself in matters that were no longer his concern? He already knew the answers to the questions he had come to ask. Wickham was lying, as he always had. Nothing Darcy could do would change that. Bingley, ever the trusting soul, was taken in by him—just as Elizabeth Bennet had been.
The thought of Elizabeth brought a fresh pang of pain, one that had nothing to do with his physical ailment. She, who had seen him so clearly on so many occasions, had been so quick to believe him to be riddled with spiteful jealousy.
Well, perhaps he was.
But hang it all, she had been ready to trust every one of Wickham’s lies! That she, of all people, had been deceived was a particularly galling realisation to accept. He had hoped...No, he had been a fool to hope that she might see through Wickham’s charm, that she might become that one person he could look to for a kindred mind and spirit. Those hopes had been dashed, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Still, there was one consolation in all of this mess: Georgiana. She was finally able to understand Wickham for what he truly was—a master deceiver who could make an honest man look like a fraud. With his last visit to Matlock House, the breach that had opened between them had been mended. That, at least, was something to hold on to, something that gave him a measure of peace amidst the chaos.
But what business did he have trying to mend what was not his to mend? The men of Meryton were happy to be swayed by Wickham, eager to vote for Sir Anthony Mortimer—or whoever he truly was. Darcy’s head throbbed with the effort of trying to piece together the puzzle. It was all too much to think about.
He pressed a hand to his temple as if it could stop the agony. The best thing he could do—the only thing that made any sense—was to wash his hands of the whole affair and continue his journey to Cambridge. He might not find any answers there, but one thing he would not find was more doubt, confusion, and questions.
He heaved himself forward to reach for the bell for his valet. He would leave as soon as possible.
Elizabeth’s eyes shot openbefore the first light of dawn, snapping her upright in her bed as though something had struck her on the cheek. Sleep had been elusive, her mind restless, and her body sore. As she tried to shift her weight in the bed, a sharp pain shot through her ankle, a reminder of her ill-fated tumble the evening before. The throbbing had mercifully subsided, but the pain lingered, a dull ache that flared whenever she attempted to flex it.
She pulled the covers back and gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her ankle was still swollen, and the idea of forcing it into a stocking seemed impossible. Theskin was an ugly mottling of purple and green, stretched and hot over the swelling. There was no possible way she could bend the joint enough to pull the wool stocking up over it. Wincing, she reached for one of her stockings and, with some effort, managed to stretch it enough to wrap around the tender joint as a makeshift bandage. To her surprise, the added support offered some relief, the pain less intense when she shifted her foot.
Ordinarily, she would have waited for the maid to arrive to help her dress and pin up her hair after tending to Jane, but Elizabeth could not bear the thought of waiting idly. A wild scheme had formed in her mind during the sleepless hours of the night, a plan so reckless that even in the light of day, it seemed half-mad. But her need to speak with Mr Darcy before he left—before it was too late to question him about Mr Wickham and Sir Anthony—overpowered her sense of caution.
