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As the week passed, she grew accustomed to being thought of as the sick man’s wife and managing the small establishment; even James and Mr Frost seemed to almost believe it, deferring to her as if she were—and both serving Mr Darcy with unflinching devotion.
“If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better man,” Frost said to her once, after she thanked him yet again for his help. “But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up. He was always the most even-tempered, kindest lad in the world. All who’ve known him as long as I would count it a privilege to help him in his troubles now.” His voice lowered. “’Tis for the best that we lie low with him, missus, and have no truck with earls.”
The household, she had learnt to run from her mother, of course. Other lessons, however, came only by hard experience. She grew to understand that there were no rules of gender and propriety on the battlefield of illness. Perhaps a small part of her had believed, at the onset of this journey, that she might heroically be Mr Darcy’s saviour, envisioning his thanks and deep gratitude for her accomplishments of rescue and restoration. All such pride was swallowed up in the beauty and ugliness of real care. His body’s demands dictated action. When weakened, it still must be fed. If it vomited the broth she’d managed to get down it, it must be bathed then fed again. When overheated, it must be cooled. When insensible or distressed, it must be calmed, coddled, or commanded. He was not a man, although his body was so different from her own, nor an object of romance—but he was a person, whose daunting needs must somehow be met.
Mr Frost had suggested a method of nourishment similar to one used in the stables for ill horses, involving towelling twisted and soaked in water or broth and placed upon his tongue. Instinctively, he usually sucked upon it, though at his worst, he spat it out and fought against its intrusion into his mouth.
She spoke to him constantly, and he sometimes obeyed her wishes, often enough that she was hopeful he’d somehow heard.
“Come now, my love, you must lie still and not disturb your dressings. You know your sister requires you to be well and healthy.” Although not quite conscious, he, at times, allowed himself to be soothed. It gave her hope during the times he would not, when he blindly struck out as she changed his bandages and she was forced to have James hold him. She would not bind him, no matter that, occasionally, he hurt her when she did not move away swiftly enough. Never again would he be bound, if she had aught to say about it.
Thus, one day bled into another, with Lizzy scarcely aware of the passage of time. Sometimes she thought he worsened—insensible, feverish, crying out. Just when she decided she must find a real physician, he would quiet and cool. James, of course, watched him nightly while she slept. But she could never sleep for long; once her initial exhaustion was satisfied, she found herself again at his side.
Naturally, she wondered where Jane and Bingley were and why they had not come and if the earl sought his nephew and whether Georgiana was well. All these worries lived at the back of her mind. But for the most part, seeing that Mr Darcy lived through one more day was all the consolation she required and all the anxiety she could endure.
* * *
Darcy regained awareness to the sound of mild cursing. It was not the voices from his nightmarish past, praise heaven, nor any of his relations. His vision gradually came into focus. A comely girl with ginger curls peeking from a linen cap stood by his bedside—some thick viscous substance streaming down the front of her apron.
“Devil take it, Mr Da—I mean, Mr Bingley—I am attempting to help you!” she muttered.
In his disoriented state, he could not offer up his own name, much less hers. Bingley? I am Bingley? But the pretty girl before him, he knew. Even before his beleaguered brain identified her, instinctively, he associated her with safety. Affection. Peace. Not a gaoler.
In the moment, however, his thirst overrode all other considerations; he shut his eyes, trying to fix on the correct words. “What the flaxwench. No!” He closed his eyes, tried again. “Wa-wa-ter.”
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes.
“Oh, it is—why, you are awake! You cannot know how glad I am to see you thus!”
Her voice grew into a rapidly flowing mishmash of syllables; he could not follow her words. He reached out, snagged her sleeve. The syllables stopped abruptly.
“Frig-no, wa-ter,” he said.
“No water,” she repeated, carefully echoing his own tangled speech.
“No!” he shouted, more loudly in volume than he had meant, his inherent frustration with his muddled tongue escaping his control.
And she threw up her hands as if defending against a blow.
What? Why would she…she could not think he would ever—ever—hurt her, or any female. Could she?
But how had she come to be covered in…in whatever it was? Had he…no, surely not. He was not the animal his captors believed.
Slowly, she lowered her hands, looking at him warily.
He tried harder to make his blasted mouth work. “Wa-ter,” he managed.
“Oh! You wish a drink. Of course.” She went to a nearby pitcher, poured a cup.
He knew he must move, get himself up, and made a futile attempt to roll over. Noticing, she hurried back to his side. “No, no, you must be careful. Your back, sir…it is very painful.”
But the very act of moving released fiery, smarting waves, freeing his memories within the torrent of pain. Donavan and his torture instruments. Escape. Georgiana, James, Frost, and Elizabeth breaking him free. Lizzy. Lizzy. She was still here; she had not left him.
They must have gotten him away, although he could not recall the journey. But she was talking again.
“Frost devised…means” she was saying, her voice fading in and out of comprehension, “which…easier…awake.” She took a piece of cloth from a large stack of them on the bedside table, dipping into the cup. “Open.” She tapped his chin.
