Page 15 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

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The linen had stuck to his ribs. Darcy discovered it at a quarter to two, when he shifted in his chair and felt the linen tear. Pain went down his side, hot and bright. He looked down. A dark stain had spread through his shirt, just above the waist.

He said the same word he had said the first night.

Mr. Jones had dressed the burn that morning. He came every second day and was pleased with the palms. The side, he said, was slower. It wept. It must be kept clean and the lint kept wet with oil, or it would stick.

It had stuck.

It had been a long evening before that. He would not be read to in private. So Miss Bingley had decided he should be read to in public. She had sent to Meryton for Marmion, because everyone in town had read it. She read two cantos aloud in the drawing room, with feeling. She paused after every battle and every swoon to see how he took it.

He had taken it badly. He had sat through every word with his bandaged hands on his knees.

Across the room, Miss Elizabeth had sat with her foot on the stool and her face perfectly grave. Once she had caught his eye over Miss Bingley's shoulder. She had not smiled. She had only raised one eyebrow, very slightly, and looked back at her needlework.

She knew exactly what he thought of Marmion. He had told her at length, at three o'clock that morning. He had nearly laughed aloud in the middle of the second canto. After that, he had looked only at the clock. He had watched every quarter hour crawl by until the house went to bed.

Parrish would have known what to do. But Parrish was in London, choosing coats. Mr. Bingley's man was asleep in the attics. Darcy would sooner bleed through every shirt Bingley owned than ring for him.

He had brought Mr. Jones's basket down to the library after dinner. He had some notion of managing it himself. The basket sat on the table now. It held lint, a roll of linen, the brown bottle of lime liniment, and scissors. He looked at it. He looked at his hands. He could not have cut the linen with those scissors to save his life.

He tried with his teeth. He got the shirt hem between them and pulled. The stain spread.

That was how she found him.

He heard the uneven rhythm of her in the passage first. Step, pause. Step, pause. It was the sound he listened for every night now. He had begun listening for it at midnight.

The door swung open. She stood in it, in Mrs. Hurst's wrapper, with her plait over her shoulder and a candle in her hand. She took in the chair, the basket, and the shirt in his teeth. He let go of the shirt.

"Mr. Darcy," she said. "What have you done?"

"Nothing."

"Do not lie to me, sir. You are bleeding." Elizabeth hopped into the room without waiting for his arm and caught the back of the other chair. She looked at the dark patch on his shirt. Her face changed. "It has stuck," she said.

"Mr. Jones will see to it in the morning."

"Mr. Jones will need a chisel by the morning." She was looking at the basket now. "Is that his?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall do it."

"You shall not."

Elizabeth turned and looked at him. It was the look she gave Miss Bingley across the dinner table. He had never had it turned on him before. He discovered he disliked it very much.

"We have a bargain, sir. I am your hands."

"This is not turning a page."

"No. It is a great deal more useful than turning a page." She lowered herself into the chair and set down the candle. Then she hesitated. Her eyes went to the door, and then back to him.

He understood. She was a gentleman's daughter. She knew precisely what she was about to do, and what any person in England would call it.

He watched her decide. It took her a moment.

"Sit on the footstool," she said. "Here, in front of me. I cannot stand long enough to do it properly."