Page 25 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Elizabeth looked down at her hands.

He cannot bear to owe anyone anything.

She had seen that. She had seen it every day for a fortnight. He would sooner bleed through his shirt than ring for help. He would sooner smell of smoke than let another man touch his hair. She had thought it was only pride. She had thought it was almost dear.

"I daresay he hates being nursed," said Mr. Wickham lightly. "Who has the nursing of him, I wonder?"

He looked at her a moment longer than was polite. He smiled again, all ease. "But you must not take my word for it," he said. "Ask him yourself. He will not deny it. Darcy never explains himself to anyone. It is beneath him."

"I had not thought him so bad as this," she said slowly.

It was what she ought to say. She heard herself say it. It sounded false.

Mr. Collins lost five shillings at whist. He told the whole table it was a trifle. Lady Catherine had placed him far beyond such small concerns. Lydia giggled at a joke of Denny's. Mr. Wickham fetched Elizabeth a glass of negus and a plate of supper. He was attentive all evening. He was charming all evening.

She thought about Mr. Darcy's bandaged hands.

In the carriage home, her mother talked of Mr. Wickham the whole way. Mr. Collins talked of his five shillings. Jane held Elizabeth's hand under the rug and said nothing.

It was Jane's arm that got Elizabeth up the Netherfield steps. Jane was kind and patient, and a little too slow. Elizabeth hopped beside her and felt every step. A footman brought the crutch in after them.

The hall was empty.

At two o'clock she went down to the library.

She had not decided to go. She had lain in bed with Mr. Wickham's voice in her head until she could not bear it. Then she was up, and in the wrapper. She looked at the crutch by the bed and left it there. It would wake the house.

She hopped down the passage in the dark, one hand on the wall. Each hop jarred the swollen ankle. She set her teeth and went on.

This is the stuff of ruin, she thought at the door. Mama would die of it.

She was too angry to care. She pushed the door open.

He was there. Of course he was there. He stood by the fire in his shirtsleeves, with his waistcoat open and no cravat. Parrish must have undressed him for bed, and he had come down anyway.

He turned when the door opened. "You came," he said.

"I met a friend of yours tonight."

He was silent a moment. "I know."

"How could you know?"

"Your sister named him yesterday. And you are here." He looked at her face. "You are angry."

"I am not angry." She hopped to the back of her chair and held it. "I am curious. He says you knew each other as boys. He says your father was his godfather. He says your father left him a living, and you gave it to someone else."

The fire ticked. He stood where he was.

"Is it true?" she said.

"I will not discuss Mr. Wickham."

"He said you would say that." Her voice shook. She hated that it shook. "He said you never explain yourself to anyone. He said it was beneath you."

"Then he told you one true thing."

"He told me more than one." She gripped the chair. "He told me you cannot bear to owe anyone anything. Not money, not kindness. Not even gratitude. Was that true too?"