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Reluctantly, frowning, he opened his mouth.
She inserted the wet cloth into it, waiting. Then it was her turn to frown. “When…ill…unconscious, somehow knew…suck, drawing…moisture out…it.”
Had he? Was he reduced to stable yard meals now? It was cool and wet upon his parched tongue, but dash it, he was a man, not a horse.
However weak, he was nevertheless determined to sit up. She clucked and sputtered over him but helped too—had she not, he would have toppled right out of bed and onto his face. When at last he managed it, he had to remain very, very still while the room tilted and whirled about him. Finally, however, he steadied, extending his hand for the cup. It took her a moment to realise what he wanted, but she gave it into his trembling hands at last.
He swallowed, the fresh, pure liquid trickling down his throat in a moment so beautiful he nearly cried.
His back was sore, unquestionably. But compared to the screaming agony of pain he’d endured in London, it was…bearable. As he sat quietly, elbows braced upon his knees, a salt-scented breeze entered through an open window. Were they in Brighton, at the house Bingley had leased? How long had he been insensible? Where was Bingley?
“Liz-zy.” Oddly enough, it seemed he could manage her name every time he tried. “What the devil…no…what hap-pened?”
To his surprise, she knelt at his feet, looking up at him so she could see his face. Her eyes were wide, a fathomless green, thick-lashed. Beautiful eyes, intelligent eyes, darkened circles beneath, testifying to her fatigue. Her flaming hair was hidden beneath ugly linen instead of flowing over her shoulders as he had once dreamt of seeing it. A fading bruise faintly yellowed upon her jaw. He reached to touch it; she flinched back, just a little.
And he knew. He had done this to her. No, no, no! Not acceptable, not had she been the lowest creature in England. But to her…? He ought to be shot. Carefully, he traced its outline up the smooth skin of her jaw while she simply looked up at him, a little puzzled, a little…bemused.
“I…harpy—No! Hurt.” He closed his eyes. “Sor…sorry.” As apologies went, it was woefully inadequate.
“Must forget all,” she said dismissively. “Cousin…Fitzwilliam arrived…Darcy House…escaped to Brighton…ten days ago, remember?”
He gave a short nod of agreement; the action caused discomfort, and he must have winced, for she talked of his wounds.
“I have tried…keep lesions clean…treating…honey. Seems helped. Old…remedy…burns. Drawn away…poisons from…wounds. Or something.” Her cheeks pinkened with a pretty blush, a few freckles adding character and kindness on otherwise pale golden skin.
Suddenly, he realised that he sat here shirtless, clothed only in breeches. This young maiden had plainly been caring for him, caring for him intimately. But she was talking again, and it was all he could do to follow her words.
Lady Catherine had ejected her from Darcy House for attempting to stop Mr Donavan, and Lizzy had to pause in her narrative until he could restrain vocabulary that, for once, expressed his feelings perfectly. In fact, it was necessary, over the next hour, for her to stop her explanations a number of times, and not simply because she spoke too quickly.
Lord Matlock, it seemed, planned to marry Georgiana off to Fitzwilliam!
He remembered more clearly now the distress of leaving Georgiana behind, but he had believed, in the moment, that the colonel would always protect his sister. Now, too much of his faith and trust in his family had been shattered; could he trust him still? It did explain, however, why Fitzwilliam had so quickly abandoned Darcy in Ramsgate—believing, perhaps, that avoiding his father was the best thing he could do to protect her.
Meanwhile, had Lady Matlock proceeded with her plans to marry him off to Caroline Bingley? Would her ladyship begin gossip and rumour about the match, enough to make the marriage expected? His aunt was ruthless enough to do it. He had most recently stayed with the Bingleys, had several times danced with her, had never definitively rejected her. His thoughts raced.
Then Elizabeth began to explain the misunderstanding she had taken advantage of to permit their stay here. Together. Mr and Mrs Bingley. The real newly wedded couple had never appeared for some unknown reason.
She finally ceased her explanations, looking up at him expectantly. As if he somehow held the answers, could take charge of the tangle. Jupiter, he could barely even string a simple sentence correctly, much less fathom how to fix all that was wrong. She appeared very weary; even so, she was so pretty, he nearly ached with it. And she was posing as his wife.
“Liz-zy,” he said. “Devil take it.”
Her smile started in her eyes long before it reached her mouth. Life made more sense when he looked into them; there was laughter there, and hope, not to mention strength and caring.
He had so many difficulties—problem upon problem stacked in limitless piles around him. Against all that, there were her beautiful eyes, her priceless smile. He had been at death’s threshold, he knew. He had felt it, the longing to give way, to let go, to leave the pain and ugliness behind. But always, always, at his moments of greatest weakness had been her voice calling him back. She had cared for him with little assistance, directing his journey earthbound, although he must have hurt her more than once in his maddened, feverish state.
He would love Elizabeth, he knew, until the day of his death—which, thanks to her, was likely years in the future. It was an ironic stab to his heart—realising he would never be able to reveal to her that plain and simple truth.
* * *
Lizzy was beginning to feel great hopefulness. Since Mr Darcy’s—no, Bingley’s—fever-free awakening of one short week past, he was recovering in many ways. His speech was unreliable, and his handwriting worse still, but he grew stronger daily. The hollows in his cheeks were beginning to fill as he put on weight, and a daily stroll down to the beach had provided him healthy colour. Now that Mr Darcy was out of danger, James had taken over the dressing of his bandages and acting as valet. But Mr Darcy dined with her at mealtimes—which she looked forward to more than was perfectly reasonable, telling herself it was a natural consequence of her weeks of care and attention. She ruthlessly quelled her attraction in every way she could, but it was not easy. In certain ways, he relied upon her, especially in assistance with his correspondence. His estate, financial, and business concerns were vast, she discovered, and although he apparently trusted the men in charge of those affairs, he wanted them to be assured of his soundness of mind as quickly as possible.
“Liz-zy?” he would ask, holding out pen and parchment.
They would sit together in The Breakers’ small book room, and she would proceed to ask questions and interpret his answers—in the beginning, especially, a tedious process.
“To whom shall I address this letter?”
“Strumpet…no…Stewart.”
