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It was five days before an opportunity to act upon her design presented itself, and Lizzy would likely have talked herself out of the notion as useless, had not Georgiana’s situation been so dire. Each early morning, she walked with the younger girl, who was beset by worry and troubles. That morning, she had showed Lizzy a letter she had received the day before from the countess. It was full of exhortations regarding Georgiana’s duty to marry her cousin and co-guardian, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to do so before her brother’s possible demise meant a delay for mourning. It was the most tactless, insensitive missive Lizzy had ever read.
“I would not answer her at all,” Lizzy replied, handing it back. “How far her son might approve of her interference in his affairs, I cannot tell, but she certainly had no right to say any of it to you in his absence. Did he ever speak to you of marriage? He has not written?”
“No, never, and I have not heard from him,” Georgiana admitted, plainly in some state of shock. “I wrote him in care of Darcy House, as is usual whenever he’s gone to London. But I have no idea whether she—I mean, whether my letters are posted.”
Another reference to the mysterious ‘she’ intervening again—but Lizzy knew by now that pressing Georgiana would yield nothing except tears. The girl was no good at deceit yet obviously was too fearful to reveal any more.
So even though it was perhaps a silly plan, with little chance of useful result, neither did it hold much risk. The scheme was simple enough: purchase a few flowers, present herself at Younge’s servant’s entrance, and say Lady Matlock had ordered her to bring them to Mr Darcy. If she wore her oldest dress and roughened her accents, she could perhaps pass for a flower seller or maid. At worst, they would refuse to let her bring them to him herself, even if she tried to insist—but why should the house servants care whether she did? It was but one more chore, and they were doubtless busy enough.
All she wished for was a brief visit to judge the strength of his illness for herself, or perhaps even see some sign of improvement that had not been conveyed to Georgiana. If successful, she might try it again in the future. If he was as ill as Georgiana had feared, Lizzy would whisper to him of his sister’s love and prayers on his behalf and know that in this, at least, the poor girl had been told the sad truth.
The likeliest outcome was the waste of the coin on the flowers, and although the money was dear, at least she could hope that they might cheer him a bit; she refused to count the cost.
* * *
Harriet and Mrs Morris were away visiting an elderly relation, an outing for which Lizzy’s presence was discouraged; it gave her the freedom to carry out her private errand. She felt deeply conspicuous when she slipped out of the house alone, without a maid to accompany her. It was one thing to walk out alone at first light, when there was hardly a soul about to notice. But it was a bright, clear day, and the park and walkways were alive with people. Luckily, she saw no one she recognised. Besides, amongst the brightly coloured gowns and feathered millinery, her drab brown wool and linen cap gave her a like appearance of most of the servants scattered amongst the crowds.
After obtaining a cheerful bouquet, Lizzy walked purposefully to the rear entrance of Younge’s and knocked, rehearsing in her mind what she would say, hoping to sound both dutiful and determined.
“I have a—” she began, but the harassed-looking woman at the door interrupted her.
“Are ye the help from Mrs Finch? Yer late!”
“I was told to bring these flowers for Mr Darcy,” Lizzy said firmly, hoping to carry her point. “I know nothing of any other assignment.”
“Flowers! Next the doctor will be wantin’ a crown fer his head. Pfft!” The woman glared at Lizzy. “Too many folks in this town, what with troops overrunnin’ the place, takin’ all the best help. ’Tis a mystery to me why we pay Finch three pounds a year for nothin’. Ye can take those flowers upstairs to him and stay put for a bit. His coun-tess be comin’ to visit him and with almost no notice, today of all days, when Mrs Tipple be gone to her sister’s. Flowers.” She shook her head in disgust. “I usually do fer him when the fancy folk come, but I have to be at the door. Keep yer mouth shut. Straighten his bedclothes. Fill his water glass. Sit still, an’ look sharp. The doctor’s given him somethin’ so he won’t have no fits. Go on upstairs, then. Two flights up, last door on the right. When it’s over and done, come down and ask fer Smith. I’ll get yer pay.” She opened a door leading to a set of stairs, making a shooing motion towards Lizzy.
* * *
Well, that was unexpected,Lizzy thought as she walked through the quiet corridor, looking about her as she made her way to the door as directed. For a private retreat at the seaside, it seemed absurdly opposed to fresh air—all the windows were covered in heavy velvet draperies, cloaking the place in shadows. The whole was a hushed atmosphere, heavy rather than peaceful. The doors were tall, substantial, and most of them were open, revealing neat, empty chambers. She saw no other servants, heard no sounds of people talking or going about their business. It was almost as if she were alone in the place. Finally, she reached the last door on the right and paused before it.
She had been given an almost incredible opportunity to see Mr Darcy—but for the first time, she considered that he would also be seeing her. Of course, she was breaking every rule of propriety, and the very idea of a young, genteel lady entering a gentleman’s bedroom, for any reason, even a sickroom, was beyond the pale. But he was a patient, a sufferer, not a man—not really. And instead of the disgust and dread a lady ought to feel at such a situation, there came upon her the same emotions she felt the time she had unexpectedly been on hand at the birth of a tenant’s son. Inquisitive, yes, and a bit afraid—but also an intense desire to help, to ease.
Couldshe help? Probably not. But could she try? Always, always. She opened the door.
* * *
Darcy clamped his mouth shut at the creak of door hinges. The room was kept so dim that he could tell nothing about the arrival except that it was a female and, judging by the mobcap, a servant. She was likely there to tend to the fire or empty the chamber pot. But then she did a strange thing—strange, at least, to his previous experience with the servants here, a silent bunch who barely glanced his way unless compelled. She walked directly to the windows and pulled back the heavy draperies, allowing sunlight to flood into the room. He had to close his eyes to slits to cope with the force of it.
“There! That is much better. When one is feeling poorly, I believe sunshine to be of great benefit.”
Her voice was strangely familiar, a pretty, almost lilting sound imbued with good cheer—and the complete opposite of any he had ever heard in this place.
She worked for a few moments at the window latch, but it evidently would not open. “That is too bad,” she murmured. “The fresh sea breezes are very restorative, I find.” Then she turned to face him.
It was her. The face from his most private dreams and memories, the ones he quickly banished whenever they occurred to him. Even with the ugly cap covering her magnificent hair, she was lovely. Although not precisely beautiful, she possessed that certain something, in her air and manner, in her expression, in her uncommon green eyes—some arresting allure. Her long, slender fingers clutched a bouquet of yellow flowers tied with a ribbon, a glorious splash of colour against the dull brown of her gown.
He must be dreaming. The doctor’s potions did that to him—one could hardly tell what was real. He must not have spit out enough into the gruel during his pretence of eating. His captivity and the medicines had made him foolish. She could not be here, staring at him in astonishment, her eyes fixed upon the manacles lashing him to the bed. It was impossible.
But then she spoke with such vast understatement, he had to smile.
“Mr Darcy. Oh, Mr Darcy. This is a pickle.”
* * *
Lizzy could not quite fathom what to do. She had been prepared for the sight of him, sick, perhaps unconscious, even in some state of maddened insensibility. She had not been prepared for him to look at her with that same penetrating dark gaze, acute intelligence and questioning arrogance in equal measure. She had not been prepared for the sight of his strong throat, the vee of dark hair exposed at his broad chest. She had not been prepared for the sight of him cuffed to the bed, as if he were a dog.
Then he smiled at her, a smile that lightened his countenance, a smile that clutched at her heart.
