T here was no time to waste. Elizabeth barely registered her movements as she turned on her heel, her skirts brushing against the doorframe as she slipped back into the assembly hall.
Her heart was still racing, but this time it was from panic. The bright, lively noise of the ballroom hit her like a wall. The laughter, the chatter of the guests, the musicians tuning their instruments for the next dance—how could everything be so normal when only a few steps away, someone was struggling for breath?
The drink table had been set up just to left of the doorway and was laden with glasses of weak punch and lemonade. Most of the guests were far too absorbed in changing partners or speaking with friends to notice her movements. She ducked her head, thankful for the distraction provided by the lively reel that had just begun, and crept towards the table as inconspicuously as possible.
Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for a glass of lemonade, her attention divided between the task at hand and the thought of Mr. Darcy waiting outside. Grasping it tightly, she quickly—but carefully—made her way back outside.
Darcy was still leaning against the column, but his coughing fit had seemed to ease somewhat. His chest still heaved with uneven breaths, and a faint sheen of perspiration beaded on his forehead, but at least his face had resumed a more usual color.
“Here,” she murmured, pressing the cool glass into his gloved hands.
He hesitated for just a moment before taking it, his fingers brushing against hers. The brief touch sent a tingling sensation up her arm that lingered even after he lifted the drink to his lips. Sipping carefully, some of the tension in his shoulders loosened.
Elizabeth remained at his side, watching him in silence. His attack reminded her of the ones Kitty used to get as she was recovering from her pneumonia as a child. Poor man, to be so afflicted as an adult .
After another sip, he lowered the glass and exhaled slowly. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
“Shall I fetch your friend for you?”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
Her stomach tightened. Is he angry with me again? Did he not wish for my assistance?
Then she looked into his eyes and saw reflected in them a hint of desperation, not anger. It was the same pained expression he had worn inside earlier, when he had been suppressing his cough.
Understanding dawned. “I think I understand,” she said gently. “Speaking makes it worse, does it not?”
He opened his mouth to reply, and she hastily added, “No need to strain yourself. You may nod or shake your head as you like.”
After looking at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, he gave a small incline of his head.
“My sister, Kitty, is the same way. She contracted influenza at a young age, and it left her with a horrible cough. I am so sorry; I remember the pain was quite agonizing at times for her.”
He gave a brief nod again. Reaching for the small purse attached to her wrist, Elizabeth unfastened it and withdrew a tiny sachet of powders wrapped in a scrap of muslin. “My uncle, who owned an importing business in London at the time, used his contacts to make inquiries in far-off countries on their local treatments. After much trial and error, we finally found a combination of herbs from the Far East that work well.”
Darcy watched her intently as she spoke, his dark eyes fixed on her face. Swallowing, she continued. “Kitty is much better now, but if she exerts herself too much—like dancing—her breathing grows difficult again. I always keep some of these herbs with me.”
He remained silent, the weight of his gaze boring into her. She cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious about her ramblings. “Did you fall ill as a child?”
A brief nod.
“Did the smoke from the London fire make it worse?”
Another nod.
“I suspected as much.” Elizabeth sighed. “The air was dreadful for days afterwards.” She lifted the sachet slightly. “Usually, I steep this in hot water for Kitty, but lemonade serves just as well in a pinch. Would you like to try it?”
He hesitated, his gaze flickering from her face to the small pouch in her hands. She realized in that moment just how much he was trusting her. To take an unknown remedy from a woman he technically had never been introduced to… especially given their secluded location.
I could easily claim compromise!
But before he could refuse, another cough burst from his lips, shaking his entire frame. She saw his jaw clench in frustration; then, in a rasp barely above a whisper, he said, “Please.”
Elizabeth gave a small nod and took the half-filled glass from him. Kneeling on the ground, she unwrapped the powdered herbs and began pouring them in. She swirled the glass to dissolve them as best as she could. “It will taste bitter,” she warned. “Even when we prepare it properly, we add honey and milk to make it more palatable. I am afraid you shall have to simply bear the taste.”
He gave no response, merely watching her with quiet intensity.
“No sugar, either, I am afraid. We do our best to avoid it.”
His brow furrowed slightly, and she let out a nervous giggle. “It is a rather long story, but a few years ago, my father read us an article about the abolitionist movement. There was a call to boycott sugar from the plantations that relied on slavery. Lydia—my youngest sister—was only thirteen years old at the time, and she was so moved by the idea that she insisted we all give it up.”
Something shifted in his expression. She bit her lip and swirled the mixture more quickly, her words bubbling forth. “I supposed ‘insisted’ is too gentle a word. She rather bullied us about it for days. My father protested at first, but it was far easier to concede the point than to endure her lectures on morality.”
Something like amusement flickered across Darcy’s features. She gave him a small smile, then passed him the glass. “I am afraid I could not get all of it to dissolve—not without a way to stir it properly. I hope it helps.”
Darcy took it without a word and lifted it to his lips. He grimaced slightly at the taste but forced himself to drink it entirely.
As soon as he finished the vile concoction, Sir William’s voice echoed faintly from the assembly hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, the final dance of the evening will be La Boulangere .”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “I should return before someone sees us out here alone.”
Darcy nodded wordlessly and extended the glass to her. She took it, hesitating. “If you find the herbs are helpful, have Mrs. Nicholls—she’s the Netherfield housekeeper— send a note to Mrs. Hill at Longbourn.”
He looked at her questioningly, and she hastened to assure him. “They are both very discreet, and I can easily have more herbs sent to you through them if you would like.”
“Do not want… use all,” he rasped.
“Oh! Please do not worry about that. We grow them in our still room now, so we have plenty. I can easily send over what we have stored and dry more if Kitty needs.”
He gave her a small bow. “Thank you.” His voice was still hoarse.
“My pleasure,” she replied. “I will be sure to include a list of their names and properties as well.”
Darcy bowed again, and Elizabeth gave him a small smile before turning around and slipping back into the assembly room to watch the final dance of the evening. Her heart and face were both warm from their private tête-à-tête , a conversation unlike any she had ever shared with a gentleman before.
She had expected coldness from him, perhaps even further rudeness or even disdain. Instead, she had found a man struggling not with arrogance, but with something far more human—pain, vulnerability, and an affliction he clearly tried to keep hidden. And yet, despite his silence, he had listened to her, trusted her.
As she wove through the crowd, the lively strains of the musicians filled the air, yet the world felt strangely distant, as though she were caught between two realities: the bright, bustling warmth of the assembly and the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit corridor where she had just stood with Mr. Darcy. Even now, she could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her back, as if he were still watching, still trying to puzzle her out.
Shaking herself, Elizabeth shook off the strange spell of the moment and smoothed the folds of her gown. It was foolish to dwell on it. In the morning, everything would return to normal. And yet, as she found her mother at the edge of the dance floor, she could not quite shake the feeling that something had shifted—something she did not yet have the words to name.
∞∞∞
Darcy stared at the retreating figure of Elizabeth Bennet— Miss Elizabeth! He could scarcely believe his good fortune. Of all the women in all the places in all the country, she was here, and she was unmarried.
The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air long after she had left, a quiet reminder of her presence. His hands dangled at his sides, fists clenching and then opening again in disquiet, the warmth of her kindness settling deep into his chest.
When he first realized she had followed him, he braced himself for at best, embarrassment at being caught in such a state, or, at worse, a tongue-lashing for having walked away her before being introduced. He had resigned himself to either the wide-eyed horror or simpering concern that women often displayed upon witnessing his coughing fits.
Yet none of that had occurred.
No recoiling, no nervous fidgeting, no forced reassurances that made him feel all the more like an invalid. Instead, she had been calm and practical—just as capable in an emergency as she had been that morning in Hyde Park.
He had not been treated thusly since… Since Wickham.
Brushing the thought of his long-lost friend aside, Darcy considered Elizabeth’s unique response to him. Other women often turned pale or even had a fit of the vapors at his struggles. Even his aunt, Lady Matlock—who was often spoken of as a woman with considerable fortitude—had pressed a perfumed handkerchief to her nose and fled the room the last time she witnessed a particularly bad fit overtake him.
Do not forget Lady Catherine . He shuddered at the memory of the last time he had been in her presence during an attack. She had lambasted him the way his father often did, decrying him to be a weak, worthless man. The only good thing to come from the experience was that she had declared him to be an unfit husband for her daughter.
But Elizabeth Bennet had done no such thing. She moved toward him, not away.
When she first fled, he had resigned himself to having made a fool of himself in her eyes. He could scarce believe it when she actually returned to his side with a cup of lemonade, offering comfort and aide instead of derision and scorn. She had spoken gently to him, understood that he need not force words out, and had produced— from her own purse, no less —a possible treatment.
And it seems to be working!
To Darcy’s great astonishment, his breath was coming easier. The tightness in his chest, the raw constriction that had been his constant companion since the fire, was noticeably lighter. He had not even realized just how crushing it had been until now.
For the first time in months, he could almost draw a full breath without it catching painfully in his lungs and sparking a round of coughing.
Could it really be the herbs ? The foul taste lingered in his mouth, a mix of dirt and lemons, and he laughingly thought that he would never taste lemonade the same way again.
He tried countless treatments since his lungs were damaged in childhood—poultices, tinctures, and even blood-letting—but none had offered more than temporary relief, if that.
But after trying these are herbs, he felt better.
He exhaled slowly, his mind turning over this revelation, when Bingley strode through the doors from the assembly hall, followed by his sisters and Hurst. “There you are, Darcy!”
Darcy straightened as his friend approached with his usual easy smile. “We have been looking for you, old chap. I was beginning to think you had entirely abandoned us.”
“You never returned to the ballroom, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley with an exaggerated pout. “You left me feeling quite bereft.”
“I required fresh air.”
Her expression changed into one of sympathetic disapproval. “Oh, yes, I understand. How intolerable it was in there. So crowded, so stifling. I truly cannot imagine how anyone endures such an event.” She let out a delicate sign. “But of course, Charles absolutely insisted on attending, though I know not why.”
Bingley chuckled, unbothered. “I found it delightful. So many pretty ladies—several of them were uncommonly pretty.”
Miss Bingley sniffed. “You are far too good-natured, Charles; always insisting on seeing the best in every one and every thing .” She shot Darcy a sidelong glance. “I daresay Mr. Darcy did not enjoy it in the least.”
“I found it to be lively.” Darcy’s tone was emotionless.
Mrs. Hurst lifted her chin. “It was overwhelming. The smell alone was unbearable—sweat, smoke from the tallow candles, and cheap perfume. Ghastly.”
“Shall we go?” Bingley asked, attempting to change the conversation.
The group made their way to the front, the driver waiting for them outside. As soon as they all entered the carriage, however, the ladies’ chosen topic was once again at the forefront.
“I do so despise attending a public ball,” Miss Bingley complained. “They allow all sorts in—merchants and tradesmen, even attorneys—to mingle with the local country gentry. Quite savage.”
“And the fashion!” Mrs. Hurst shook her head with dismay. “Did you see those gowns? I counted at least three young women wearing styles that were from at least two years ago.”
“I counted five ,” Miss Bingley replied smugly.
Mrs. Hurst pressed a hand to her chest as if wounded. “If one cannot dress properly, then one should not attend at all.”
“Little wonder poor Mr. Darcy sought fresh air outside.” Miss Bingley cloying tones gave Darcy a headache. “To be breathing such thick, plebeian air—had I thought of the idea myself, I should have joined you in the hall.”
Darcy shuddered, doing his best to mask his feelings. The very the idea of Miss Bingley being the one to discover him instead of Elizabeth was repugnant.
Mrs. Hurst, who had followed her siblings from the room on her husband’s arm sighed. “I do not know why Charles insists on these little excursions into the country. The company is so much better in town, is that not right, my dear?”
Mr. Hurst, barely paying attention, let out a lazy grunt of agreement.
Miss Bingley scoffed. “Naturally! The right people attend private gatherings. But these public assemblies? Anyone may come. And anyone does.” She shuddered theatrically. “It was oppressive, really.”
Louisa nodded sagely. “And the conversation was even worse.”
“Indeed! I had to endure the dullest discussion about farming, of all things! Do they truly have nothing better to speak of?”
Mrs. Hurst made a face. “You think that was dreadful? I was accosted by some old woman who prattled on about pickling for nearly half an hour.”
Darcy barely heard them. His thoughts were still back in the corridor, with Elizabeth Bennet offering him an herbal remedy from her own purse.
Miss Bingley prattled on, oblivious. “And do not even speak to me of the gentlemen. Did you see some of those men? Coarse hands, thick accents—ugh! Why, I nearly expected to see one of them attempt a jig in the middle of the ballroom.”
Louisa let out a quiet laugh. “Did you see the woman who tripped on the hem of her own gown? She landed directly into her partner’s arms. I was mortified on her behalf.”
“It was exactly as I feared,” Miss Bingley continued with a sigh. “When one allows the lesser classes to mingle freely, one simply must expect such vulgarity.”
Bingley rolled his eyes. “Caroline, you enjoyed yourself well enough. I saw you speaking quite pleasantly to Miss Bennet.”
Miss Bingley stiffened but quickly recovered. “Oh, well, she is—mildly agreeable. But even she is far too tolerant of her dreadful family. I suppose she’s the best that the country can offer, but were I to see her in London, I daresay I would not give her the time of day.”
“Precisely, Caroline.” Mrs. Hurst nodded emphatically. “At least in town, one may be selective about with whom one associates. It is hardly our fault if the standard of company is lacking.”
Miss Bingley turned back to Darcy, her voice shifting to something more honeyed. “You must admit, Mr. Darcy, that an event in town would have been far more enjoyable?”
Darcy let the silence stretch long enough that she began to fidget. Then, in a flat voice, he replied, “I do not much care for dancing, whether in town or in the country.”
This set Miss Bingley on a string of assurances that she agreed with him, and how their thoughts were always in perfect harmony. She declared it to be remarkable but understandable, as they were such close friends.
Darcy said nothing. He had neither the patience nor the inclination to argue, nor did he wish to encourage further discussion. But as he followed his party down from the carriage and into Netherfield, his thoughts remained fixed not on Miss Bingley’s complaints, but on a woman with warm brown eyes, who had met him at his weakest and had treated him not with pity, but with quiet understanding.
And as he retired to his room, he allowed himself a single, private thought: Elizabeth Bennet had been the most remarkable part of the night.
Because for the first time in months, he could breathe.
And not because she did not take your breath away.