Page 38 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
That night at the Red Lion, she had watched him sleep briefly before dawn, marveling at how the proud, reserved gentleman had transformed in slumber to something gentler and more approachable.
This same transformation was evident now, though marred by the flush of fever and the slight furrow between his brows that suggested discomfort even in unconsciousness.
“You are making quite a habit of upending my existence,” she informed him conversationally as she prepared another compress for his neck.
“First by marrying me in a coaching inn, then by forgetting said marriage entirely, and now by falling ill just when I had resolved to maintain a dignified distance from your disdain.”
Darcy made no response, of course, but Elizabeth found a certain comfort in speaking to him as if he could hear. It helped maintain the clinical distance necessary for effective nursing while providing an outlet for the emotions she could not entirely suppress.
The morning passed slowly as she maintained her vigil. Occasionally Darcy would stir, muttering incoherently before subsiding back into fevered sleep. Each time, Elizabeth would attempt to rouse him enough to swallow small sips of water or willow bark tea, with limited success.
“You are proving a most uncooperative patient,” she observed after a particularly unsuccessful attempt to administer the bitter tea. “Though I cannot fault your taste in rejecting this particular remedy. It is vile stuff.”
Around midday, Mary arrived to check on her progress and provide a brief respite. “You should eat something,” she advised, eyeing Elizabeth’s pale face with sisterly concern. “Martyrdom through self-neglect serves no practical purpose.”
“How prosaic you are,” Elizabeth replied with a small smile. “And here I had romantic notions of wasting away at the sickbed, the very picture of devoted sacrifice.”
Mary’s expression remained serious. “Your humor masks genuine concern,” she observed. “You still care for him, despite everything.”
Elizabeth sighed, her smile fading. “I made vows, Mary. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. The fact that he does not remember them does not release me from their obligation.”
“Obligation is not the same as love,” Mary pointed out with uncharacteristic insight.
“No. It is not.”
She did not elaborate further, and Mary, despite her occasional social obliviousness, seemed to understand that the subject was closed. They spoke instead of William, who was apparently delighting Georgiana with his attempts to build increasingly elaborate structures with his wooden blocks.
“She is remarkably patient with him,” Mary reported. “Though I suspect her indulgence will result in disappointment when his architectural ambitions inevitably collapse.”
After Mary departed, Elizabeth resumed her nursing duties with renewed focus.
Darcy’s fever remained high despite her efforts with the compresses, and his periods of restlessness increased as the afternoon progressed.
He would toss his head from side to side, murmuring words she could not quite catch, his expression distressed.
During one such episode, as Elizabeth bathed his face with cool water, his eyes suddenly opened. For a moment, he seemed to look directly at her with perfect clarity.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice hoarse but distinct. “You’re here.”
Her heart leapt painfully in her chest. “Yes,” she replied softly. “I’m here.”
“I tried to return,” he continued, his gaze intense. “I promised I would return to you.”
Elizabeth felt her carefully maintained composure begin to crack. “I know you did.”
Her vision blurred with sudden tears as her hands stilled on the damp cloth. The Red Lion—he remembered the inn where they had been married, where he had promised to return to her. Her pulse hammered in her throat as hope and disbelief warred in her chest.
“The Red Lion,” he murmured. “I must get back to the Red Lion.”
Before she could respond, his eyes glazed over once more, and he slipped back into unconsciousness, leaving Elizabeth trembling with the implications of his words.
Had he remembered? Was this merely delirium, or had the fever somehow loosened whatever blockage kept his memories of their marriage at bay?
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, allowing herself the intimacy of his given name for the first time since his return. “Can you hear me? Do you remember our marriage?”
There was no response, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the fine linen of his nightshirt. Elizabeth sat back, forcing herself to temper hope with caution. Fever-induced delirium often produced strange utterances that meant nothing upon recovery.
Yet he had spoken of the Red Lion. Of returning to her.
The afternoon waned into evening, bringing no improvement in Darcy’s condition. If anything, his fever seemed to intensify, his skin hot beneath Elizabeth’s touch despite the cool compresses. Dr. Harrison had not returned, presumably still attending to his many patients in the village.
Lady Eleanor visited briefly, bringing food that Elizabeth barely touched and reports that William had been put to bed without incident.
“You should rest,” she advised, noting Elizabeth’s evident fatigue. “I can sit with him while you sleep for a few hours.”
“I’m quite well,” Elizabeth insisted. “And I would prefer to maintain consistency in his care.”
Lady Eleanor studied her with knowing eyes. “Has there been any change?”
“He spoke briefly,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I cannot determine whether it was memory or merely delirium.”
“What did he say?”
Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. “He… mentioned the Red Lion. And returning to me.”
Lady Eleanor’s expression softened. “That seems significant.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed cautiously. “Or perhaps merely coincidental.”
After Lady Eleanor departed, Elizabeth settled in for what promised to be a long night.
The room had grown chilly as darkness fell, but Darcy’s fever made additional blankets inadvisable.
She added another log to the small fire, creating just enough warmth to prevent discomfort without overheating the patient.
“You have the most inconvenient timing,” she informed Darcy as she replaced the compress on his forehead. “Could you not have fallen ill when I was still angry with you? It would make maintaining emotional distance considerably easier. ”
As if in response, Darcy began to stir once more, his movements more agitated than before. His breathing quickened, and a look of distress crossed his features.
“No,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Stop. The documents…”
Elizabeth leaned closer, her clinical detachment temporarily forgotten in her desire to understand his fragmented speech.
“What documents?” she asked softly. “Fitzwilliam, what are you trying to say?”
“Marriage… the license…” His head thrashed from side to side, dislodging the compress. “He took them. He took everything.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. The marriage license. The document that had disappeared along with Darcy on that fateful morning. He was remembering.
“Who took them?” she urged, unable to contain her desperation for answers. “Fitzwilliam, who took our marriage license?”
Darcy’s eyes flew open, but they were unfocused, seeing something—or someone—that wasn’t in the room with them. His expression contorted with a mixture of rage and fear that Elizabeth had never witnessed on his features before.
“Wickham,” he spat, the name emerging with such venom that Elizabeth recoiled slightly. “Trap… on the road… Wickham.”
The pieces crashed together in Elizabeth’s mind with sickening clarity—Wickham’s sudden appearance at the inn, his insistence that Darcy had sent him, his obvious lies about taking her to London for “rest.” He had been there when Darcy was attacked.
He had stolen their marriage documents, leaving her with no proof of their union.
Her fingers clenched into fists as rage joined her fear.
George Wickham. The militia officer who had attempted to lure her from the Red Lion, who had claimed Darcy sent him to escort her to London.
The man Darcy had once described as the son of his father’s steward.
Wickham had blamed Darcy for denying him a living.
But Darcy had clearly distrusted the man. Why?
“He attacked you,” Elizabeth breathed, the pieces finally falling into place. “Wickham attacked you on the road.”
Before Darcy could respond, his body suddenly went rigid. His back arched off the bed, his limbs stiffening as his eyes rolled back. Horror washed over Elizabeth as she realized what was happening—the seizure Dr. Harrison had warned them about.
Years of practical nursing experience took over, pushing aside her personal feelings.
She quickly turned Darcy onto his side, ensuring his airway remained clear, and removed anything that might injure him during the convulsions that had now begun to wrack his body.
She wedged a comb between his teeth and held his arms, to keep him from hurting himself.
“It’s all right,” she said steadily, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
The seizure lasted less than a minute, though to Elizabeth it seemed an eternity.
When Darcy’s body finally relaxed, she checked his breathing and pulse with trembling hands, relieved to find both had stabilized.
His eyes remained closed, his expression now peaceful, as if the violent episode had somehow relieved some of his inner turmoil.
Elizabeth sank back into her chair, suddenly aware of her own racing heart and shallow breathing.
Fear had gripped her more powerfully than she cared to admit.
For all her practical knowledge, for all her determined composure, the sight of Darcy’s powerful body rendered so helpless had shaken her to her core.