Page 37 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FEVERED brOW
Elizabeth had just finished settling William for his morning nap when Georgiana burst into the nursery, her face alarmingly pale and her customary composure entirely absent.
“Miss Elizabeth, please—it’s my brother—he’s fallen ill,” she gasped, clearly having run through the house to find her. “His valet found him fully dressed on the floor, burning with fever.”
Elizabeth felt her heart stutter in her chest, even as her mind rapidly assessed the situation with practiced clarity. “Has the physician been sent for?”
“Yes, Lady Eleanor dispatched a footman immediately,” Georgiana confirmed, twisting her hands together in distress. “But many in the village were affected by the storm. We don’t know how long before he can attend.”
“I see.” Elizabeth glanced at William, peacefully oblivious in his crib. “Mary can watch him when he wakes. Take me to your brother.”
She followed Georgiana toward the master’s bedchamber, maintaining outward calm despite the fear clawing at her insides. Darcy had seemed somewhat fatigued the previous evening, but she had attributed that to his headache and the toll of escorting her through the rain.
“He was fine at breakfast,” Georgiana was saying, her voice thin with worry. “But after the storm… he said his head pained him more than usual.”
Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. “The change in atmospheric pressure often affects those with head injuries.”
Georgiana glanced at her curiously. “You seem quite knowledgeable about such matters.”
“I nursed my father through several illnesses,” Elizabeth replied. “One develops a certain practical understanding.”
They arrived at Darcy’s chambers, where a visibly relieved Lady Eleanor stood in conversation with Darcy’s valet. The gentleman looked appropriately grave, though Elizabeth detected the slightly panicked expression of a man out of his depth.
“Miss Elizabeth, thank heaven,” Lady Eleanor greeted her. “Fitzwilliam has taken quite ill, I’m afraid. The storm seems to have triggered a reaction in his injured head.”
“May I see him?” Elizabeth asked, already moving toward the bedchamber door.
Lady Eleanor hesitated only briefly. “Yes, of course. You are, after all…” She trailed off, glancing at the valet, then continued more carefully, “You have experience with nursing, I understand.”
Elizabeth appreciated his aunt’s discretion.
The household staff had been carefully instructed to treat her as “Miss Bennet” despite their knowledge of her marriage to Darcy.
Until he himself acknowledged her as his wife, Lady Eleanor had thought it best to maintain this fiction to avoid any potential awkwardness should his memory never return.
The irony that she was now being ushered into his private chambers—an intimacy permitted only to wives or professional nurses—was not lost on Elizabeth.
The bedchamber was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Darcy lay motionless upon the large bed, his face flushed with fever. He had been dressed in a nightshirt, his hair damp with perspiration despite the cool air in the room.
Elizabeth approached with clinical detachment, years of nursing her father allowing her to suppress her personal feelings beneath a veneer of practical concern. She placed her palm against Darcy’s forehead, noting the alarming heat radiating from his skin.
The fever burned through the fine linen of his nightshirt, and she could hear the harsh rasp of his breathing in the stillness of the room. The air itself seemed thick with the medicinal scent of vinegar and the underlying mustiness that accompanied serious illness.
“He has a high fever,” she observed. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“Since his valet found him nearly an hour ago,” Lady Eleanor replied. “He has stirred occasionally but seems confused when awake.”
Elizabeth nodded, already mentally cataloging the necessary treatments. “We need cool compresses for his head and neck. Willow bark tea if he can be roused enough to drink. The room should remain cool but not cold.”
Lady Eleanor watched her with a mixture of approval and curiosity. “You seem quite composed in the face of illness.”
“Hysteria serves no practical purpose,” Elizabeth replied, gently lifting Darcy’s eyelid to check his pupil’s reaction. “And I suspect Mr. Darcy would prefer competence to displays of feminine distress at his bedside.”
Despite her practical tone, Elizabeth felt a painful twist in her heart as she observed Darcy’s vulnerable state.
The proud, reserved man who had maintained such careful distance now lay utterly helpless, dependent upon the care of others—including the woman he had so recently dismissed as beneath his notice.
“There is a certain symmetry to the situation,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Eleanor inquired .
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing of consequence. Merely an observation on life’s curious patterns.”
Before further discussion could ensue, a commotion in the outer chamber announced the physician’s arrival. Dr. Harrison was a thin, serious man with intelligent eyes and a harried manner that suggested he had indeed been attending numerous patients affected by the storm.
“Lady Blackmore,” he acknowledged with a quick bow. “I came as soon as I could. Mr. Darcy has taken ill, I understand?”
“Yes, collapsed with fever this morning,” she confirmed, gesturing him toward the bed. “Miss Bennet has been examining him.”
The physician raised an eyebrow at Elizabeth’s presence but made no comment, immediately moving to conduct his own examination. Elizabeth stepped back, watching as he checked Darcy’s pulse, temperature, and responsiveness with efficient movements.
“The injury to his brain makes any fever concerning,” Dr. Harrison said finally. “It appears to be a severe chill contracted during yesterday’s storm, but with his particular condition, we must be vigilant for complications.”
“What complications?” Georgiana asked, her voice small with fear.
Dr. Harrison hesitated, clearly weighing how much to reveal in front of the young lady. “There is a possibility of seizures,” he said finally. “The fever may trigger the already damaged areas of the brain.”
Elizabeth felt her stomach clench with dread. She had witnessed seizures before—a tenant’s child at Longbourn had suffered from them—and knew how frightening and dangerous they could be.
“What treatment do you recommend?” Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped the bedpost.
“Cool compresses to reduce the fever. Small amounts of water or willow bark tea if he can swallow. Keep the room quiet and dim. If he convulses, hold him still and put a comb in his mouth so he doesn’t swallow his tongue.
” The physician began packing his bag. “I would stay, but I have three more patients requiring immediate attention, including a young child with pneumonia.”
“When will you return?” Lady Eleanor asked.
“This evening, if possible.” Dr. Harrison looked apologetic. “The storm has left much illness in its wake.”
After voicing his concerns and reminding them not to upset his mind, the physician departed, leaving an uneasy silence. Elizabeth continued her assessment of the sickroom, mentally inventorying the supplies they would need.
“We require fresh linens, cool water, vinegar for compresses, willow bark for tea,” she listed. “And someone should remain with him at all times to monitor for changes.”
“I’ll sit with him,” Georgiana offered immediately.
Lady Eleanor placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “My dear, you are exhausted already, and your brother would not want you made ill through worry.”
“But he needs someone who—” Georgiana began.
“I will nurse him,” Elizabeth interrupted, the words emerging before she had fully considered them. “I have experience with fevers, and I…” She hesitated, then continued more softly, “I am not afraid of contagion.”
Lady Eleanor and Georgiana exchanged a glance that contained volumes of unspoken communication. Elizabeth waited, understanding their hesitation. To place Darcy in her care was to acknowledge a connection he himself did not recognize.
“You are his wife,” Lady Eleanor said finally, her voice low but firm. “Whatever his current memory may suggest, that remains the truth. There is no one with more right to tend him.”
Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude for this acknowledgment, though she kept her expression composed. “I will need someone to look after William.”
“Mary and I shall share that duty,” Georgiana offered quickly. “And we will bring you anything you require. ”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said simply.
Once the necessary supplies had been arranged and instructions given to the servants, Elizabeth found herself alone with Darcy for the first time since their corridor conversation the previous night.
The irony of their situation struck her anew—after weeks of his careful avoidance, they were now confined together in the most intimate of settings, though he remained oblivious to her presence.
She moved quietly about the room, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, hyperaware of every sound—the soft whistle of his labored breathing, the occasional creak of the bed frame as he shifted restlessly, the distant tick of the mantel clock marking each slow minute.
“Well, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, wringing out a cloth in cool water, “it seems you have contrived to place yourself entirely at my mercy. I wonder what you would make of that, were you conscious to appreciate it.”
She placed the compress gently on his forehead, allowing herself a moment to study his face without the self-consciousness that accompanied his usual penetrating gaze.
Even in illness, his features retained their handsome regularity, though now softened by vulnerability in a way she had only previously observed in sleep.