Page 37 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Mr. Jones's linen was white and new. But across the right palm, a dark stain had begun to spread. It grew as she watched.

"You are bleeding," she said.

Mr. Darcy looked at her. For a moment she thought he would not answer at all. Then the corner of his mouth moved. "Yes."

He came the rest of the way. He stopped in front of her and held out his arm. He bent it at the elbow, as he had on the terrace. "Lean on me," he said.

She hesitated. She thought of the hall, and the marble, and Thomas's arm.

He saw her think it. His face changed. "I should have said it this afternoon," he said. "I wanted to. I am sorry."

She took his arm.

It was ten hops to the library. He took them at her pace, his arm firm under her hand. Once she wobbled, and his other arm came round her waist and stayed there. Neither of them mentioned it.

"I am heavier than I look," she said, testing the words.

When Mr. Darcy said, "You weigh precisely what you ought," Elizabeth could have wept. She laughed instead, a little unsteadily. Above her head, he let out a long breath.

The library was warm. He had built up the fire. Her chair stood where it always stood, and the kettle sat on the hob. On the table lay Mr. Jones's basket. He had brought it down already, on his wrist.

He lowered her into the chair. He went down on one knee and reached for the footstool.

"No," said Elizabeth. "Your hands first."

"Your ankle..."

"Has Mr. Jones's own bandage on it, and is not bleeding on the carpet. Sit down, sir."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he dragged the footstool round with his foot and sat on it, facing her. His knees nearly touched hers. He laid his hands palm up on his thighs.

She warmed water from the kettle. She wet the lint and soaked the stained linen, and unwound it slowly. He did not make a sound. She felt him not making it.

The palm beneath was dreadful. The new pink skin had split along every crease. It had opened wherever her weight had pressed, step after step, down a mile of lane.

She looked at it, and her eyes stung.

"Do not cry," he said.

"I am not."

"You are on the edge of it."

"I am the one who does not faint," she said fiercely. "I never said I was the one who does not cry."

She cleaned it. She laid oiled lint across the splits, lightly, and wound fresh linen over it. Then she did the left. It was a little better, and she told him so. He said nothing, but his shoulders came down a fraction.

When she had tied off the second bandage, she held out her hand. "Now the arm."

He kept his arms where they were.

"Mr. Darcy. Your arm."

Slowly he gave her his left arm. She unbuttoned the cuff and pushed the sleeve up past his elbow. Parrish's bandage from the morning was there. It was stained brown and red, and the stain was fresh at one edge.

She unwound it. The burn had opened along its lower edge. It lay raw and weeping where her body had pressed against it, all the way home.

"You did not show this to Mr. Jones," she said.