Page 39 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Exhaustion crashed over her like a spilled sack of grain. Her hands shook as she reached for the water basin, her legs unsteady beneath her. She had been functioning on determination and fear for hours, but now her body demanded acknowledgment of its limits.
“You must stop frightening me this way,” she told him shakily, reaching for his hand without conscious thought. “I cannot bear to lose you again.”
To her surprise, his fingers tightened around hers—not the involuntary reflex of unconsciousness, but a deliberate pressure. His eyes opened, clouded with fever but undeniably present .
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Failed you. Forgive me.”
The words pierced her heart. Here was no confused delirium, but genuine remorse—a recognition of their shared past and his perceived failure to honor his promise to return to her.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she assured him, her voice thick with impending tears. “You were attacked. It wasn’t your fault.”
His eyes held hers for a moment longer before sliding closed once more, his hand still loosely clasping hers. Elizabeth made no attempt to withdraw, allowing herself this small connection as tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
“I am still here,” she whispered. “I have always been here, waiting for you to return.”
The night deepened around them, the house settling into silence as the household slept.
Elizabeth maintained her vigil, applying fresh compresses, monitoring Darcy’s breathing, and occasionally managing to administer small sips of water when he stirred.
There were no further seizures, for which she offered silent prayers of gratitude.
In the darkest hours before dawn, Elizabeth found herself struggling against exhaustion.
She had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and the emotional toll of Darcy’s revelations weighed heavily upon her.
To keep herself alert, she began to speak softly to him, sharing thoughts she would never have voiced had he been conscious.
“I tried to hate you, you know,” she admitted, gently bathing his face with cool water. “When you looked through me as if I were a stranger, when you treated me as a servant, when you questioned my character. I told myself it would be easier to hate you than to love a man who had forgotten me.”
Darcy’s breathing remained steady, giving no indication that he heard her confession.
“But I find that hatred requires an energy I cannot seem to muster,” she continued. “And there is William to consider. He has your eyes, your determination. How could I hate the father of my child, even when that father does not recognize his own son?”
She paused, replacing the compress with a fresh one. “Besides, I made vows. For better or worse. This is decidedly the ‘worse’ portion, I believe, but vows do not come with exemptions for inconvenient circumstances.”
As she spoke, Elizabeth noticed a subtle change in Darcy’s breathing—a slight deepening, a more natural rhythm. When she touched his forehead, she found the burning heat had diminished considerably. His fever was breaking.
Relief flooded through her, so powerful that she had to grip the edge of the bed to steady herself. The crisis had passed. He would recover.
Whether he would remember anything of his feverish revelations remained to be seen, but for now, it was enough that he would live. Elizabeth allowed herself a moment of pure, uncomplicated gratitude for this small mercy.
As the first pale light of dawn crept through the gaps in the curtains, Darcy settled into what appeared to be natural sleep rather than fevered unconsciousness.
His expression was peaceful, his breathing deep and regular.
Elizabeth checked his pulse once more, finding it strong and steady beneath her fingertips.
Exhaustion finally claimed her then, her body demanding the rest she had denied it for so long.
She meant to rise, to call for Lady Eleanor or Georgiana to take her place while she sought her own bed.
Instead, she found herself lowering her head to rest against the edge of Darcy’s bed, her hand still loosely clasping his.
“Just for a moment,” she murmured, her eyes drifting closed. “Just until someone comes…”
She woke with a start some time later, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings.
The room was lighter now, morning having fully arrived while she slept.
Darcy still lay in peaceful slumber, his fever noticeably reduced.
Their hands remained entwined, a fact Elizabeth observed with a mixture of embarrassment and reluctance to disturb the connection.
Gently, she disentangled her fingers from his and rose, stretching muscles stiff from her awkward sleeping position. She looked down at Darcy’s face, so vulnerable in repose, and felt a rush of tenderness that she had been trying to suppress since his return to Bellfield Grange.
Despite everything—his forgotten vows, his unconscious disdain, his bewildering behavior—he was still the man she had married.
The man who had held her through a storm-lashed night, who had promised to protect her when all others had abandoned her, who had given her a son whose existence had sustained her through her darkest hours.
Before she could reconsider, Elizabeth bent and placed a gentle kiss on Darcy’s forehead—not a nurse checking for fever, but a wife acknowledging the fragile bond that still existed between them, whether he recognized it or not.
“Recover swiftly,” she whispered. “There is much we need to discuss when you are well.”
She straightened, composed herself, and moved toward the door, intending to find Lady Eleanor and report on Darcy’s improved condition. As she reached for the handle, a new determination settled over her, born of the night’s revelations.
Wickham. So it had been Wickham after all. As Elizabeth closed the sickroom door behind her, exhaustion gave way to quiet resolve. She had protected Darcy through the night; now she would find the truth about the man who had torn them apart.