Page 23 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Elizabeth knew exactly what he would think. He had gone white last night when she gasped. She hurt herself hiding for my sake. He would take the blame for it. He took the blame for everything, and let nobody help him carry it.

But she was too late. Mr. Darcy stood at the window with Mr. Bingley, in a blue coat that fitted him and a cravat Parrish had tied. He bowed when she came in and said, "Miss Elizabeth." It was perfectly correct. His eyes went straight to her ankle, and stayed there. His mouth went tight.

She pushed her foot under her skirts and looked hard at her workbasket.

"Who asked after Mr. Darcy?" said Mrs. Bennet. "Lydia, sit down. You are making the fire smoke."

"Mr. Wickham!" Lydia threw herself onto the sofa. "He is a lieutenant, or he will be, in Colonel Forster's regiment. Denny brought him to my aunt's this morning. He has the most delightful manners, and the finest leg, and he knew all about the fire."

At the window, Mr. Darcy froze.

Elizabeth saw it only because she was not looking at him. She was very carefully not looking at him. So she saw it at the edge of her eye. He had been turning to say a word to Mr. Bingley. He stopped halfway.

"And what did he want with Mr. Darcy?" asked Jane.

"Only to know if he was much hurt. I told him both hands, and Mr. Jones says three weeks. He looked quite grave." Lydia giggled. "Then he said he supposed Mr. Darcy must be very cross to be waited on. Is he, Lizzy? You would know. You are always in his way."

Elizabeth felt her face go hot.

"Lydia," said Jane gently.

"Well, she is."

Mr. Darcy bowed to the room. "Excuse me," he said. He went out. The door closed quietly behind him.

"La!" said Lydia. "What did I say?"

Nobody answered her. Aunt Phillips had not come about Mr. Wickham at all, it turned out. She had come to invite them. She was giving a little party tomorrow evening, with supper and lottery tickets. Some of the officers would come. She would be so honored if Mr. Collins would join them, and her dear sister, and the girls.

"Lizzy cannot go," said Jane. "Her ankle."

"Lizzy will sit in a chair, as she sits in a chair here," said Mrs. Bennet. "Mr. Collins will be there. She will go."

Mr. Collins, from his corner, bowed and said he would be delighted. He asked whether the officers played whist.

Elizabeth said nothing. She was looking at the door Mr. Darcy had closed.

She stayed away from the library that night. She could not have gone. The ankle had stiffened by evening, and Jane had to help her undress.

The crutch leaned by her bed, where it always leaned. She lay in the morning room and heard the clock in the hall strike one, and then two. She thought of him alone by the fire, listening for her uneven step. She thought of him going still at Lydia's news, and walking out of the room.

It must not happen again, he had said. She had agreed. Perhaps it was as well that her ankle had agreed too.

She heard the clock strike three. She lay awake until it was nearly light.

On the evening of the twentieth, he was waiting in the hall.

She had not expected it. Parrish had dressed him for dinner. His hair was brushed, his cravat very white. He stood by the open front door, looking out at the carriage lamps.

She came across the hall on the crutch. It thumped on the marble at every swing. It had never sounded so loud. He turned at the noise and watched her come.

At the top of the front steps she stopped. There were six of them, steep and wet with dew. The crutch was no use on steps. She had learned that on the terrace.

He held out his arm.

Elizabeth looked at it. There was no one else's arm to take. Jane was fetching her shawl, and her mother was scolding a footman about the lamps. She handed the crutch to the footman. He stowed it in the carriage, crosspiece first, with some difficulty.

"Lean on me," Mr. Darcy said quietly.