Page 19 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DARCY’S OVERTURE

“Colonel Forster will respond with haste, I am certain,” Darcy said, struggling to maintain focus as the letters were folded and sealed.

The effort of dictation had drained him more than he cared to admit, and the room had begun to swim at the edges of his vision.

His shoulder throbbed with renewed intensity, the wound hot and insistent.

Elizabeth looked up from the writing desk. “You’ve overexerted yourself, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Johnson warned against?—”

“I am perfectly well,” he insisted, though the beads of perspiration on his brow belied his words. “These matters could not wait.”

Elizabeth rose, approaching the bed with her characteristic directness. “Your fever is rising again.” She pressed her palm to his forehead. “I should fetch Mr. Johnson immediately.”

“Later, perhaps.” Darcy caught her wrist as she withdrew her hand, the gesture surprising them both. He released her immediately, embarrassed by the impropriety. “I have one more request before you go.”

“Yes?”

“Would you ask Bingley to attend me? There is a matter I wish to discuss with him.”

Elizabeth hesitated, clearly torn between duty and his request. “You should rest, Mr. Darcy.”

“It cannot wait,” he interrupted, then softened his tone. “Please.”

Something in his expression must have conveyed his urgency, for she nodded reluctantly. “Very well. I shall find Mr. Bingley and dispatch these letters.”

As Elizabeth departed, Darcy struggled to organize his thoughts. The fever was making concentration increasingly difficult. There was something he needed to do—something important—before the illness claimed him completely.

Elizabeth Bennet believed him. More importantly, he believed her.

The weight of distrust between them since Hunsford had finally begun to crumble, revealing something unexpected beneath.

Not love, perhaps—he dared not presume—but understanding.

A foundation upon which something might be built, if only he could find the right words.

And therein lay the difficulty. Words had failed him repeatedly where Elizabeth Bennet was concerned.

At Hunsford, they had been too proud, too cold, too revealing of his struggle rather than his heart.

In his denial of the proposal, they had been too defensive, too calculating—a lie.

Even this morning, they had been too blunt, too probing, nearly driving her from the room before he could make amends.

He could not trust himself to speak what needed saying, not when fever lurked to muddle his thoughts, not when their fragile peace remained so new.

The solution came to him in a memory: Georgiana, bent over a small leather-bound volume, carefully selecting blooms for a bouquet. “It’s a language, brother,” she had explained. “Each flower carries a message. This white violet means innocence, while the yellow one requests modesty.”

He had indulged her fascination as a harmless feminine pastime. Now, he wondered if it might serve where his eloquence had so often failed.

A light knock preceded Bingley into the room.

“Darcy! You’re awake. Miss Elizabeth has gone to take air with her sister. She was most reluctant to leave your side, but Miss Jane insisted.”

“She needed rest,” Darcy said, his voice rougher than he intended. “She has been too vigilant.”

“Indeed.” Bingley moved to pour water from the pitcher by the bed. “I’ve never seen such dedication. But then, Miss Elizabeth Bennet has always struck me as a woman of exceptional character.”

“Yes,” Darcy agreed. “She has.”

Bingley handed him the glass, his expression shifting to concern. “You seem improved from this morning, though still far too pale for my liking.”

“I have a favor to ask,” Darcy said, ignoring the observation. “I wonder if you might visit your greenhouse.”

“My greenhouse? Whatever for? Are you developing an interest in botany during your convalescence?”

“Not precisely.” Darcy’s cheeks heated in addition to the fever. “I wish to send a message to Miss Elizabeth. A message of… appreciation. For her care.”

Understanding dawned in Bingley’s eyes, followed swiftly by delight. “What a capital idea.”

“If it would not be too much trouble.”

“Trouble? My dear fellow, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” Bingley was already backing toward the door. “Any particular blooms you favor? Mrs. Nichols has cultivated a remarkable selection for Netherfield, though I confess I know little of their names.”

Darcy hesitated. To specify precisely would reveal too much of his intent. “I leave it to your discretion—perhaps a rose or two.”

“Consider it done.” Bingley paused at the door. “I believe there is a book in the library about the meanings of such things. My sisters were quite taken with the notion when it became fashionable in town. Shall I bring that as well?”

“Yes,” Darcy said, relieved at not having to make the request himself. “That would be most helpful.”

After Bingley departed, Darcy sank back against the pillows, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. To send flowers was presumptuous—he had no proper understanding with Elizabeth, no established courtship.

And yet, he could not shake the feeling that this might be his last opportunity to express what lay in his heart.

The fever had receded temporarily, but he was not fool enough to believe it was gone.

Mr. Johnson had warned of worse to come before recovery could begin in earnest. If his condition deteriorated, he might lose the clarity needed to make his sentiments known.

He would not speak of love—that would be too forward, too reminiscent of his disastrous proposal at Hunsford. But he could speak of regret, of hope. He could offer, through the silent language of flowers, what his tongue had so often mangled.

Time crawled with excruciating slowness, the shadows growing longer. When the door finally opened, Bingley entered with arms laden with what appeared to be half the greenhouse’s contents. Behind him came Jane Bennet, carrying a small green leather volume.

“I may have been overenthusiastic,” Bingley admitted, depositing his fragrant burden on the bedside table. “Mrs. Nichols was quite bemused, though exceedingly helpful once I explained they were for a particular purpose.”

“You did not mention—” Darcy began, alarmed.

“That they were for Miss Elizabeth? Certainly not.” Bingley looked wounded at the suggestion. “I merely indicated that they were for a lady of particular esteem who had shown great kindness. Mrs. Nichols drew her conclusions, naturally, but I assure you, your secret remains safe.”

Darcy doubted that very much, but the deed was done. He surveyed the abundance before him with growing dismay. There were far too many blooms, and some whose meanings he suspected might be too forward.

“Miss Bennet was kind enough to locate the book.” Bingley gestured to Jane. “ The Thoughtful Gardener’s Companion , I believe it’s called.”

Jane stepped forward, her expression containing the same quiet intelligence that animated her sister, though without Elizabeth’s fire. “Charles mentioned you wished to express gratitude for Lizzy’s care. Perhaps you might like guidance in selecting the most appropriate blooms.”

“Yes,” he said. “I would be grateful.”

“Then we might begin by setting aside those that speak most clearly to your sentiments.” She moved to the table, her hands hovering over the abundant collection. “The purple hyacinth, of course, conveys a request for forgiveness. A most humble sentiment.”

Darcy nodded, not trusting himself to speak as she selected several elegant purple blooms.

“White tulips suggest worthiness,” she continued, her voice neutral though her meaning was clear. “Ivy speaks of friendship and fidelity.”

She worked methodically, selecting some blooms and setting others aside. Among those chosen were sprigs of delicate forget-me-nots, a few stalks of lily of the valley, and pink camellias.

“And the roses?” he asked, noting she had left them untouched.

Jane’s eyes met his, gentle but knowing. “That would depend, Mr. Darcy, on the precise nature of your gratitude.”

He found himself unable to look away from her steady gaze. “I wish to convey my sincere apology for past misunderstandings, my appreciation for her care, and my hope for… continued acquaintance.”

“I see.” Jane selected the light pink roses. “This speaks of unconscious beauty—a quality few would deny my sister possesses, though she herself remains unaware.”

She left the red roses—those that might declare passionate love—untouched. Darcy found himself both relieved and disappointed by her discretion.

“There,” Jane said, stepping back to reveal a bouquet of surprising harmony. “I believe this arrangement will convey your sentiments clearly, without presumption.”

“Thank you, Miss Bennet. You have been most helpful.”

“I shall fetch a ribbon to secure them,” Jane offered. “And perhaps locate a suitable vase.”

As she departed, Bingley lingered, a poorly concealed smile playing about his lips. “Well, Darcy, this is certainly a development I did not anticipate.”

“It is merely an expression of gratitude,” Darcy replied stiffly.

“Of course,” Bingley agreed. “Just as my daily visits to Longbourn are merely neighborly courtesy.”

Darcy fixed him with a warning look, but found it impossible to maintain in the face of his friend’s genuine pleasure. There was no malice in Bingley’s teasing, only the good-natured delight of a man who wished happiness for those he cared about.

“I am not entirely certain what I am doing,” Darcy admitted.

“The best of us rarely are, when it comes to matters of the heart. But I will say this: I have observed Miss Elizabeth these past days, as she has tended to you. Whatever happened between you at Hunsford, whatever scandal Wickham attempted, she has shown a dedication that goes beyond duty.”

The observation settled in Darcy’s chest before Jane returned with a blue ribbon and a crystal vase.