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Carefully extricating himself from the bed, he walked around to Elizabeth’s bedside. It was dawn and the early morning light was peeking through the room’s sheer, lacy curtains. Elizabeth’s condition had not changed from the night before. Darcy sighed. He had hoped for some evidence of improvement, but thus far her illness had progressed just as the doctor had predicted.
He gazed at Elizabeth’s beautiful, full lips, thinking how soft they might be and how they tempted him. He had never even kissed her. Now he might never get the opportunity.
Quietly he leaned over and pressed his lips briefly to hers before pulling back. Her lips were as soft as rose petals, just as he had imagined. It was pleasant, but not the same as kissing an awake and happy Elizabeth who might kiss him back. Then he smiled at his foolishness. Did he think he was a prince who could awaken the lady with a kiss? This is no fairy tale, he thought bitterly as he stood, shaking out his stiff legs. Walking to the window, he pressed his face to the cool glass.
Elizabeth awoke from confused dreams where she was first in empty, desolate fields of dying crops and then standing in rooms that were crowded with people who ignored her and spoke in a language she could not understand. When she finally struggled to some kind of alertness, she realized that the experiences had been dreams. She must have had a fever. This was her room in Mr. Whitmore’s house, she realized, and it was early morning, judging from the yellowish-red light shining from behind the drapes.
A huge weight seemed to have settled on her chest, making it an effort even to breathe. Each breath was only a shallow gasp and she could hear a raspiness deep in her lungs. Her body seemed to ache everywhere at once and her skin alternated between being too hot and too cold. Even as her hands pulled at the covers, she was uncertain whether she wished to pull them further up or push them down. The covers stubbornly remained where they were; the muscles of her hands were numb and would not obey her.
As she glanced around the room, she noted that even small movements of her head caused pain. Mr. Darcy was leaning on the window frame gazing out. “Mr. Darcy?” Her voice cracked with disuse.
He whirled abruptly and strode to the side of the bed, his face a mixture of trepidation and hope. “Eliz—Miss Bennet. How are you feeling?” Elizabeth was shocked at his appearance, taking in his rumpled clothing, his lack of cravat, and the fact that he was wearing no coat at all. Even his hair was in disarray. Despite the circumstances, she felt herself coloring a little; she had never seen any man so informally attired except for her father.
However, most shocking of all, Darcy’s eyes were red-rimmed as if – as if he had been crying. No, that was not possible! Surely the redness was from exhaustion. But then, even as she watched, he discretely wiped his nose with his handkerchief – she was certain he had been crying. He must have received some terrible news, she thought. Had something happened to Georgiana or Colonel Fitzwilliam? But how would any news have reached him here? Surely no one knew where they were.
She recalled that he had asked her a question. “I am—” She had anticipated reassuring him, but realized he could easily discount any false claims to improved health. “To own the truth, I have felt better,” she finally admitted. “Could I please have some water?”
He hastily poured a glass for her, but when she attempted sitting up to drink it, she realized how incredibly weak she had become. Darcy needed to put his hand against her back to help her into a sitting position and then steadied the glass in hands which shook too much. The half-glass of water she could manage was cool and refreshing on her dry throat, but even that small effort exhausted her. She shook her head slightly when he offered more and sank back on the pillows.
“You should drink more,” he insisted.
“Later.” Her voice came out in a croak. She scrutinized him ag
ain. “How do you fare, sir?”
“Me?” Surprise colored his voice. “I am fine – although I suppose I am somewhat tired.”
“No.” She was too weary to be anything but direct. “Something has distressed you, I can see. What has happened?”
“Nothing. Truly, I am fine. Please do not concern yourself with me. You need your strength to recover.” He projected reassurance, but his eyes would not meet hers, instead fixing on a spot above her right shoulder.
Suddenly Elizabeth realized the source of his distress. Why had she not recognized it before? It was her! It was her illness that troubled him. But surely circumstances were not so dire that he should weep over it – surely he was worrying needlessly. Then she considered how her body felt: it was difficult to breathe – as if each breath had to be dragged from the bottom of her stomach. The muscles throughout her body seemed incapable of supporting her or undertaking even the smallest movement. In all her life she had never felt the like.
“What – What did the doctor tell you about me?” Her eyes focused directly on Darcy.
Darcy flinched and she knew all she needed to know. His eyes drifted to the window. “He says the disease is serious, but you can fight it.”
“He does not think – He thinks I will d—” The realization was shocking, but she found herself more concerned about the effect it had on Darcy than on her own reaction. Then she thought about her family. Oh my God! What terrible grief it will inflict on all of them. “I am so sorry.” She attempted to catch Darcy’s gaze, but his eyes were now fixed, staring at nothing.
Her apologetic tone shook him out of his lethargy and he turned his gaze earnestly on her face. “Please, do not distress yourself. You need your strength to recover. To—” He paused and swallowed hard. “The doctor himself explained there is much they do not know about fevers of this type. You are young and strong….”
His words faded away as his façade began to falter. She knew he was a painfully honest man and found it hard to profess reassurances he did not experience, but it made no difference; he had confirmed her worst fears. At the same time she was oddly pleased he had not lied to her.
Her sluggish brain returned to her previous realization: Darcy had been crying. He had been crying because he feared she would die. For the first time, Elizabeth felt tears leak from the corners of her own eyes.
What had she done to him? If she had not misunderstood him so horribly at Hunsford – If she had not said such hurtful things -- events would have unfolded differently. They probably would have never come to France and she would not have fallen ill. I am the cause of his pain, she realized. I refused him and caused him pain – and now I will die and bring more anguish into his life. He deserves better – far better.
“Oh, Elizabeth….” He found a clean handkerchief on the bedside table and tenderly wiped her tears away. The soft cloth felt good against her skin.
Unable to bear her sorrow and guilt, she glanced down at her hands. “I am so sorry,” she sobbed.
“For what? For falling ill? You can hardly accept the blame for that.” He managed a little smile.
“No, I never should have…” Her words trailed off. She attempted to force her fever-clouded mind into some semblance of coherence. What should she have done? With a shock she realized that she regretted not accepting his proposal. She wished she had accepted it -- wished it with all her heart! When had these emotions stolen over her? When had she fallen in love with Mr. Darcy? And why had she only realized it now, when it was too late?
This realization made her weep more, which, in turn, troubled Darcy further. Murmuring reassuringly, he attempted to wipe away the tears as they fell. The fine linen handkerchief was now quite damp. Her hand reached out to grasp his.
“I am so sorry….” She wished to put the conviction of her sentiments into every word. However, it took great effort to speak at all.
