When Darcy entered the kitchen, she looked at him, then at the second bowl, and said without preamble, “Miss Bennet will need feeding, sir. The surgeon said so.”
The surgeon had said so. Aldridge had come down from Georgiana’s chamber an hour earlier and, on his way out, told Darcy what he thought. Miss Bennet needed food. Not much, not rich, but regular—broth, tea with honey, bread softened in milk, whatever she would take. The body could not rebuild blood on nothing. Aldridge also said in his usual dry tone, careful not to be mistaken for reassurance, that Georgiana was no worse than last week. Neither better nor worse. The joint pain in her hands had eased slightly. The fatigue remained unchanged. He would return in three days unless summoned sooner.
Three days. The longest interval Aldridge had permitted between visits since Darcy brought Georgiana north. Darcy took the interval as offered—not good news, for Aldridge did not bring good news, but the absence of misfortune, a kind of currency in a house rationing hope since December.
“Thank you, Mrs Reeves. I will carry it in myself.”
“Sir—”
“There is no one else to do it, Mrs Reeves. Unless you are presently at liberty.”
“I’ve got bread rising, sir, and Miss Darcy’s supper to get on.”
“Tend to Miss Darcy, then. I may as well make myself useful.”
MissBennetlaywherethey had laid her, propped against the pillows by arrangements too careful to disguise suffering. The colour had not returned. The set fracture kept her still in one fashion. Pain kept her still in another. Her hair had been smoothed away from her face, but dried sweat plastered it in an uncomely fashion across her temples.
Her eyes opened when he crossed the room.
"Mr Darcy."
He set the bowl on the small table and moved the chair nearer the bed. "I sent word to the cottage for your sister, but it is too soon to expect a reply. Mrs. Reeves is with my sister, and Mrs. Bannon is occupied elsewhere. You must therefore endure me. I have brought broth."
A faint line came between her brows. "What a punishment."
"A severe one. I shall do my best to shorten it. Can you sit a little higher?"
"That depends on how much help I have."
He slid an arm behind her shoulders before she could attempt the movement alone. She sucked a breath against her teeth, every muscle in her body going hard under his hand. He waited until the wave passed, then placed another pillow behind her.
"There. You should be quite comfortable now, Miss Bennet."
She did not open her eyes at once. When she spoke it was on careful breath. "You say that with more confidence than truth warrants."
"I am discovering that confidence is useful in a sickroom. Here."
The spoon shook once against the rim before he stilled his hand. He lifted a small measure to her mouth. She took it because refusal would have cost more strength than obedience. He counted while she swallowed. One, two, three. The motion in her throat was slight and slow. When it was done, he put down the spoon and waited.
"Again," he said.
She swallowed dryly and mustered the reply. "You are very absolute for a nurse."
"I am a poor nurse. I must make up in tyranny what I lack in practice."
The next swallow took longer. Her lashes lowered halfway and did not rise at once.
"Miss Bennet?"
"I am here."
"Then remain so. I am under instruction not to let you sink into sleep the instant the bowl is in sight."
A small inhale. "You take instruction badly."
"I take it resentfully. Another."
She opened her mouth. Her brow furrowed, and the spoonful went down by degrees. When it was managed, the reply came in pieces. "Perhaps you would be so good"—a breath—"as to tell me if this is supposed to taste like something."
