Page 5

E lizabeth made a valiant effort to walk on her own two feet, but even as the two of them covered the half-mile distance between the lake and Netherfield, she felt her strength flagging, and with each step, she found herself leaning further onto the arm Mr. Darcy had offered for support.

"Are you well, Miss Braxton?" His voice was all warmth and concern as he spoke and Lizzy, though she could not quite lift her head high enough to look at him, tried her best to nod. Her skull felt like it was filled with cotton wool and she could feel cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. Despite the warm coat Mr. Darcy had wrapped around her earlier, she was shivering, and her feet were almost dragging against the ground with each step.

Abruptly, Mr. Darcy stopped. Elizabeth blinked heavily, wondering what was wrong but she did not have enough energy to ask him when suddenly, he pulled his arm away from under her hands only to slide one behind her knees and the other around her waist so that he could pick her up. She gasped his name, one hand clutching onto his shoulder in a tight grip while the other pressed against his chest. Mr. Darcy had on only a soaked shirt and waistcoat and Elizabeth could feel the warm skin of his arms and shoulders under the thin, wet material.

"Mr. Darcy?" She whispered, bewildered,

"Rest, Miss Braxton. We shall be at Netherfield in no time."

She wanted to protest, wanted to ask him to let her down, and yet Elizabeth knew her feet would not carry her. As it was, the earlier panic and terror at having fallen into the lake was receding and giving way to shock and exhaustion. Her head felt like it weighed a ton and her bones were ice, chilling the rest of her. Even as she blushed in mortification, Elizabeth allowed herself to lean against Mr. Darcy's very broad, very comfortable chest, and rested her cheek on his shoulder, sighing a little in contentment as his warmth engulfed her.

A moment later, she lost consciousness.

Miss Bingley was in the parlour room, working on an incredibly complex piece of embroidery that was sure to impress any man. Her crewel work was intricate, colourful and extensive. She'd spent over a week just working on the design of the piece even before she'd taken up the thread. Oh, Caroline was sure even someone as staid and solemn as Mr. Darcy would not be able to stop himself from openly admiring it.

Very deliberately, Caroline had chosen a seat near the fireplace such that the flames from the hearth were reflecting against her light-auburn hair in the most flattering manner. She'd had her new French maid style it in the popular and iconic Apollo Knot and was wearing an obscenely expensive silk gown in the popular shade of puce . Her modiste, a Madame Ellofe , had tried to dissuade Caroline from choosing that particular shade of pink, something about it clashing with her ginger hair, but Caroline had simply scoffed at such a ridiculous notion.

Why, just last season, she'd heard that Lady Roseline Braxton, the Countess of Wrexham herself had worn that colour for her annual ball and since then, it had been all the rage amongst the society women. Lady Wrexham might be an old woman well in her sixties, but she still had a fair figure and carried herself with such elegance and grace that nobody could deny her mature beauty. Constantly, she was setting new trends and disrupting old ones and the women of the ton could do nothing but follow her example. Caroline had never met the lady; had only really seen her briefly from afar once at the Royal Theatre, but she admired the woman more than anyone else in the world. In Caroline's eyes, Lady Wrexham was the ideal!

And so it was, Caroline was sitting in an ideal location in the parlour room, was sporting an ideal hairstyle, was dressed in an ideal gown and was immersed in an ideal pursuit. Mr. Darcy had left for his walk an hour or so ago, and would at any moment now, be arriving back to the manor. Caroline was sure he would take one look at her, realise he would find none better in all of polite society, and fall deeply in love with her.

And then she heard commotion.

Caroline debated getting up to see what was going on, after all, she was the mistress of the estate, but before she could, the door to the parlour room opened abruptly and Mrs. Norris, the housekeeper, rushed in in a manner that was appallingly frantic. Caroline started to reprimand her, but then froze when the woman was followed by a wet and coatless Mr. Darcy, carrying an equally wet and unconscious Miss Braxton in his arms.

Caroline paled.

Mrs. Norris directed Mr. Darcy towards the divan nearest to the fireplace and the gentleman very delicately deposited his charge onto the settee, brushing a stray lock of hair from her pale face and adjusting his coat that she wore before straightening up.

"Oh, dear Lord, dear Lord!" Mrs. Norris muttered, fretting and fussing as she walked over to the hearth and added more wood into the fire without even sparing a glace towards her mistress. Caroline finally managed to get her bearings,

"What in the world is going on?" She asked, her expression aghast as she imagined the brocade on the divan getting soaked and ruined by the sopping wet girl lying on it. Mr. Darcy turned to face her, his countenance inscrutable,

"Miss Braxton accidentally fell into the lake nearby. I was out walking when I saw it happen and thought it prudent to bring her here instead of Longbourn which was much farther away in distance."

"She…" Caroline started, wondering how such a thing happened to a grown woman, "...fell into a lake? Accidentally?"

Darcy raised a brow, "I daresay it could happen to any one of us. None but God himself is infallible after all." Then turning to Mrs. Norris, he continued, "If you could prepare a guest room, Mrs. Norris, and send for some warm blankets, and perhaps a cup of strong, hot tea. Miss Braxton will also require a change of dress." Here, he turned back to Caroline, "I am sure you, Miss Bingley, capable hostess that you are, will not mind lending one of yours to an ailing guest."

As it were, Miss Bingley minded very much. Knowing that she was to spend this time with a ridiculously rich, handsome and eligible gentleman, Caroline had very carefully catalogued and selected the gowns and dresses that she would wear during her sojourn at Netherfield. All of them were brand new, all of them were of the richest silk and all of them were much too fine to be worn by the likes of Miss Braxton.

Caroline had commissioned a little season's worth of outfits for their stay in the country and she resented having to share even a stocking from her collection with a rival. But Mr. Darcy was looking expectantly at her, and she knew that as a good, competent mistress, it was her duty to see to every comfort of her guests, no matter how unwelcome they were.

"Of course." She said finally, "Mrs. Norris, have one of the guest rooms in the west wing prepared for Miss Braxton. And have Monique decide on an appropriate dress for the lady to be sent over. Molly can help Miss Braxton change out of her wet clothes."

Mrs. Norris curtsied, "Yes, madam." and then left to comply with both their requests.

Darcy once again turned back to Miss Braxton and Caroline saw as he placed his bare palm against her forehead. Panicking at the liberties he was taking, she quickly addressed him,

"Mr. Darcy! You ought to see to a change of clothes for yourself! The weather has been abominable today and it would not do for you to get sick."

Darcy hmmed, "Yes, it is very cold today. I'm afraid it might be a little too late for Miss Braxton. She is burning up."

One of the footmen entered the room with a pile of blankets and was followed by a man Caroline knew to be Mr. Darcy's valet,

"Sir, a hot bath has been prepared for you in your room." Alfred said, and handed his master a dry and warmed towel. Darcy took it with a nod, and threw it over his shoulders, but did not make a move to leave the room until another footman entered the parlour to let them know Miss Braxton's room had been readied. Miss Bingley, about to order one of the servants to carry the unconscious intruder upstairs, could not even open her mouth before Mr. Darcy took the task upon himself and once again picked up Elizabeth and started walking towards the staircase.

Elizabeth's guest room was only a few doors down from his own and already had a maid waiting for her. A fire was roaring in the corner, and a rather heavy-looking dress had been laid out on the bed. Darcy grimaced at the sight of it, for it did not look like an attire fit for a sick person.

Netherfield was not his. He was not master and the staff was not his to command. He should go back downstairs and find either Bingley or Miss Bingley and suggest to them ways to make Miss Braxton's stay more comfortable.

He did not.

"I shall write a note to Mr. Bennet. Have it sent over to Longbourn." Darcy said to the maid, "Miss Braxton seems to have taken ill and she will need her own wardrobe. Who is the nearest doctor here?"

The maid was young and wide-eyed, she fidgeted with her hands nervously even as she answered him in a voice heavy with an accent he could not bother to recognize, "A Mr. Jones is the apothecary, sir. He lives just outside Meryton."

Darcy nodded, "I will have a note written for Mr. Jones also. In the meantime, keep Miss Braxton dry and warm. Try to bring her temperature down with wet cloths. Do you understand?"

The maid curtsied, "Yes sir."

Darcy once again placed Miss Braxton on the sofa nearest to the fireplace, only this time, she stirred when he put her down. Her usually crystal clear eyes were bleary and unseeing as they blinked open to look at him, but he was arrested by her gaze just the same.

"Mr. Darcy?" She mumbled, brows furrowed. Darcy crouched next to her, aware of the impropriety of their situation and quite helpless against it.

"Miss Braxton. How are you feeling?"

She was shivering. He could see gooseflesh rising over the bare skin of her arms.

"Cold." She whispered, "'Tis very cold, sir."

She needed to get out of that soaked dress, and she would not be able to do it until he left her rooms. Darcy stood up,

"Molly will help you dry and warm, Miss Braxton. You shall feel better in no time."

In record time, Mr. Jones was being admitted through the Netherfield doors and at the same time, three miles east from the property, the Bennets were receiving a note from the same household. Outside, rain had started falling in pelts and night was falling. When Mr. Bingley heard of his ailing guest, he was beside himself with worry, and asked after Miss Braxton with all the genuine empathy a gentleman of his gentle disposition could possess.

The diagnosis Mr. Jones imparted was not very encouraging. Miss Braxton had a high fever and had been given a dose of laudanum so that she could sleep restfully. She would need to be monitored through the night, the fire in her room was to be kept roaring and she was not to be moved. The apothecary promised to visit again the next day, but begged pardon for the night, as he hoped to reach his own home before the rain could get any worse.

Dinner that evening at Netherfield was a silent —if not a little uncomfortable— affair. Darcy's mind was upstairs with Miss Braxton, leading him to be even more silent than was his wont, Miss Bingley quietly seethed at what she considered to be a successful scheme of an artful, grasping country girl who hoped to get the attention of and spend time in the company of rich, eligible gentlemen. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were never ones for conversation even at the best of times, and Mr. Bingley was much too lost in the thoughts of his blonde, blue-eyed angel to do his duty as master and promote conversation.

After dinner, Darcy excused himself before Miss Bingley could suggest moving the party to the music room for an after-dinner performance. He was too exhausted after having valiantly rescued a fair maiden from a near drowning, and much too anxious over said maiden’s well-being to be good company to anybody. On his way to the bedroom, he paused in front of Miss Braxton's. Part of him wanted to open the door and look in —wanted to see for himself that she was safe and fast asleep in bed and yet—

He did not have the right.

He respected her far too much to violate her privacy, or commit any impropriety, never mind that there was no one around in the hallway to see him.

Taking a deep, heaving breath, Darcy stepped away from the door and continued on over to his own chamber. Alfred already awaited him inside, his sleep attire ready for the night and a basin of warm water prepared for his ablutions.

Darcy smiled to himself. Leave it to his near psychic valet to always know exactly when he wished to retire. It was no wonder his friends, including his cousin, the colonel, were jealous of him and routinely tried to steal Alfred away. Darcy did not think there was a servant in all of England more attuned with his master than his valet was with him.

"Thank you, Alfred." He said as he pulled on his deshabille and performed the rest of his nightly ritual before dismissing his valet and getting into bed with one of the many books he had brought with him to Netherfield from his townhouse.

Through it all, even as he moved through the motions, his mind, his body, his very psyche was hyper-aware of Miss Braxton, only a few bed chambers away, under the same roof as him.

Tired or not, Darcy did not think he would be getting much sleep either way.