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“I was very angry at the unfairness,” Lizzy agreed. “So I told my sisters that I had been given a fairy princess of my very own as a gift and even arranged a prank or two proving I had such a benefactress! Oh, were they jealous, and you may believe I exulted in my triumph! The nursery was in an uproar.” She shook her head in remembered dismay. “But after a day or two of my gloating, Jane, Mary, and even Kitty, who was only three, came to me with gifts—Mary, a new lace handkerchief, Kitty had drawn a picture, and Jane gave her silver thimble—each humbly asking if they could share my fairy with me. I am certain, had they complained to my mother instead, I would have been punished for telling lies. But they did not. They made peace.”
“Or else, they really wanted part ownership of that fairy,” Georgiana said, with unusual asperity, and Lizzy laughed again.
“Perhaps. But as the years have passed, they have shown kindness towards me, especially Jane, who is all that is good. My point is that my sisters love me, I think, and I love them. Regardless of everything wrong in my life, to possess such love is the greatest of gifts. One ought never to take it for granted.” She took a deep breath and made a further confession. “I was supposed to be banished to an unknown uncle in London after refusing Mr Collins. Instead, I went with Harriet to Ramsgate. My sisters could have ruined the trip at any time by telling my parents the truth of my whereabouts, but they would not see me hurt. It is what family is supposed to do.” Lizzy clasped Georgiana’s hand. “Your brother is equally loyal to you. You and Mr Darcy have not received that loyalty from your aunts and uncle, however. I understand your feelings, truly—you know I do. But their disloyalty is not your fault.”
Georgiana sighed. “What can I do to be loyal to Brother now, Lizzy?”
Lizzy pursed her lips. “Family has failed him. Perhaps his friends might do better? You might write to…to someone her ladyship would not suspect of aiding you. Mrs Hurst, perhaps? You might congratulate her upon her new sister and include a letter to be forwarded to Mr Bingley, supposedly with a message from your brother? Beg his assistance, and I will include my own note. He is a kind man and will hopefully have an idea.”
“What if Lady Catherine reads the letters? I would not put it past her.”
“Then you shall have to ask Mrs Taylor to post them without her knowledge and hope she is loyal enough to you to do it.”
“My aunt will contrive to withhold any response. She doubtless reads everything that arrives in the post.”
Lizzy grimaced. “Yes, and we must hope Mrs Hurst will forward the letter in the first place. Perhaps Mrs Taylor has an idea for whom the return post might be directed in order to avoid notice. But it is a plan, is it not? If it does not help, it will not hurt.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon writing a long letter of delicately couched enquiry and explanation, praying that it would reach Mr Bingley, and that he would care enough to act.
* * *
The doctor did not leave until late in the evening; Lizzy knew this because her window was over the mews, and she watched at it, wrapped in a blanket, until the carriage was called. Then she had to wait an additional hour or so for the house to settle and to ensure all were abed before she made her way again to see Mr Darcy. There was no question in her mind that she must.
The clock showed midnight, and she was beyond tired. Georgiana was asleep in Lizzy’s bed; she had tried to wait up with Lizzy and failed.
The route upstairs was familiar this time, and avoiding each creaky floorboard and stair was easier. Lizzy quickly found herself at the nursery, listening for Stimple’s sonorous snores. When she was satisfied the attendant slept, she quietly entered, this time closing the door separating Stimple’s couch and Mr Darcy before setting her candlestick in the holder beside his bed—she had not bothered with the dark lantern. Stimple’s snores were an adequate alarm and loud as ever.
The stink in the room was fetid, smelling of bile.
She gasped, to see the change in him. He appeared utterly white against his sheets, restless, mumbling soundlessly. How was it possible he should appear as though he had lost so much weight in twenty-four hours? His cheekbones positively jutted from his skin, the creases on either side of his full mouth now deep slashes.
“Mr Darcy,” she whispered, but he did not seem to hear.
“Mr Darcy!” she whispered more urgently, touching his bound hands.
He started, briefly struggling away as if trying to escape. Then his bleary eyes opened, and she saw when recognition returned.
“Bug-ger,” he said, and Lizzy knew he’d meant to say her name. He shut his eyes again.
Daringly, she brushed his hair back from his clammy forehead. He did not respond to the touch, so obviously unwell. What could she do? She did not have her stillroom and possessed very few herbs. Precious little, anyway, that would help him.
She glanced around for the expected pitcher of water, frowning when she realised there was none in the room. Had not there been some the night before, futilely out of his reach, perhaps, but present?
Last night, he had been hale, and while his speech had embarrassed him and he had hated the chains, he had yet been the Mr Darcy she had always known, and had seemed somewhat improved over Ramsgate. Tonight, he seemed…frail.
Heavens above,she thought. What has Donavan done? The difference between last night and now was so vast that she truly feared he might be dying.
