Page 79 of The Widower of Pemberley

She had feared so much that he would die in the night.

“He read Shakespeare to me, in a very fine voice. Though he admitted to never having readMuch Ado.”

“Ransacked my library?”

“Yes, sir.”

Heat rose in Elizabeth’s face as she recalled the passionate kiss they had shared the instant they had entered the room.

Her father raised an eyebrow and laughed, then Elizabeth and the footman helped him turn so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked better, more active and more himself than he had since the attack. And his speech had almost recovered its former fluency.

He stood with only Elizabeth supporting him on the one side, and it seemed as though there was much more strength and agility in his dragging leg.

“Odd wedding morning,” he said. “Your lover so eager to see another man that he leaves you alone.”

“I believe his business with the other gentleman to be of a most serious nature,” Elizabeth replied.

Her father sighed. “I wish all could return to usual, but the palsy will always persist. I shall miss you. Miss you greatly, my dear girl. If he returns. Does he mean to leave today?”

Elizabeth nodded. “But do not say that. Do not. He will. He will be well. He will not get shot. Do not say such things.”

The way that her father looked keenly at her suggested that he understood more than she had said from her words. And he smiled a little. “Ah, young love. I shall then hope very much that he returns to you.”

They went to sit in the breakfast room, and the familiar seemed strange. The wood panels, the door, the paintings on the wall, the early light of a glorious day sneaking through the windows, the crackling of wood on the fire, the rustling of Mr. Bennet’s newspaper, the smell of coffee and fresh bread, the slight chill in the air.

I might never see Papa again.

Elizabeth poured a cup of coffee for her father, and he sipped it.

He closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure. “I have already told Cook that I shall have nothing but aliments that are not too rich. Plain food, but that is what must be done. Thankfully, Dr. Cliff says that coffee and tea are not too stimulative and may even be salutary.”

“Oh, Papa.” Tears rose to Elizabeth’s eyes.

What if Mr. Wickham shot Mr. Darcy, then her father died immediately after?

Mr. Bennet took her hand. “Do not fret. I shall miss you. Very much. You have always been my favourite. It is not quite right for a parent to have a favourite. I would advise against having one if you can manage it. But you have always been mine. Exactly what I hoped for in a child. Clever, sweet, active, independent. A mind and humour that matched my own. Do promise to write often.”

“I shall. And you must as well.”

With a smile, he said, “I shall do my best. The letters will chiefly be dictated to Mary, for now. At least it was my left side that was struck. When I can sit up for longer periods, I shall be able to write, I think.”

“You never liked to write overmuch. But I shall expect many letters from you.”

“If it is expected, then I have no choice.”

“I shall miss you very, very much too, you know,” Elizabeth replied.

“I know, dear girl. Are you certain you do not wish to have Jane? She would be happy. I imagine it would make you more comfortable.”

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. She stared at her own coffee. “She must be here. For now. In the summer…or perhaps the spring, when we go to London for the Season…”

Her father studied her. “You wish her to be here should I die all of a sudden?”

“I must have one of us here! And I cannot be present. I wish—”

“My dear Lizzy,” he interrupted, “I only do not wish for you to be alone in that big house.”

“Sarah is coming with me as my lady’s maid. And I know Georgiana very well, and Emily, and of course Mr. Darcy—it will be best this way.”