Page 51 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

She glanced down. He had. She began to laugh. "Mrs. Hurst's nightgown," she said. "I am wearing hers, still. She will never want it back."

He laughed too, shakily. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder and stayed there, breathing.

Her father brought the crutch on Sunday afternoon.

The Longbourn carpenter had made it between rafters. It was new ash, pale and clean, with a padded crosspiece covered in old green baize. It was cut to her own height. She stood up on it in the middle of the morning room. Her head was exactly where it ought to be.

"There," said her father. "Now you need not borrow from anyone."

She thanked him. She meant to be glad. She swung across the room and back. It went quietly on the carpet.

She could cross a room on it now. She could reach the library by herself. She would not need anyone's arm.

That night she left it by the bed. She told herself it was because of the noise.

On Monday morning Mr. Jones took the linen off.

He did it in the morning room, as he had done everything since the fire. He saw to the invalid on the sofa first. He pressed her ankle, and turned it, and told her she might put a little weight on it by Wednesday. "Not for dancing, mind," he said. "I hear there is a ball."

"I had not planned to dance, Mr. Jones."

"Good. Then we understand each other." He turned. "Now, Mr. Darcy."

Mr. Darcy sat down in the chair by the window and held out his hands.

Her mother was there, and Jane, and Mr. Bingley in the doorway. She watched Mr. Jones's scissors snip through the knot she had tied. She watched him unwind the last of the linen, turn by turn, from one palm and then the other.

The palms beneath were pink and new and shiny. The burns had healed into red, puckered ridges across each one. They looked tender. They looked very young.

Mr. Jones turned them to the light. He pressed the heel of each with his thumb. "Close them," he said.

Mr. Darcy closed his hands. He did it slowly. Elizabeth saw his jaw tighten at the stretch of the new skin. Then his fingers met his palms, and his fists were whole.

"Open."

He opened them.

"They will be stiff for a week, and tender for a month," said Mr. Jones. "Gloves for the ball, and nothing heavy. You will carry no more young ladies down lanes, sir."

"No, sir," said Mr. Darcy.

"Well!" Her mother clapped her hands. "Well! Is that not wonderful? Mr. Darcy may dance after all!"

"Mr. Darcy may not, madam," said Mr. Jones. "Not unless he wishes to split them again."

Her mother's face fell. Mr. Jones packed his bag. Jane went to see him to the door, and Mr. Bingley went with Jane. Her mother followed them, already telling Mr. Bingley about the white soup.

For a moment the room was empty except for the two of them.

Mr. Darcy got up from the chair by the window. He crossed the carpet to the sofa. He looked down at her.

Then he lifted his bare hand and laid it against her cheek.

It was the first thing he had touched.

His palm was warm and new, and a little rough at the scars. She felt it tremble. He did not say a word.

She turned her face into his palm and shut her eyes.