Page 22 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TO BLEED OR NOT

By mid-morning, the surgeon had not yet arrived. Elizabeth bathed Mr. Darcy’s chest and arms with water, desperate to bring down his fever. His skin burned beneath her touch, and his breathing came in shallow, rapid pants.

But it was the moans that ripped her heart in two.

He tried to open his eyes, tracking her movements as if she might vanish. “I dreamed you had gone. That they took you away.”

“I won’t leave you again,” she promised, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “No one will take me.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Always so resolute, my Elizabeth. Even in the face of death.”

My Elizabeth. The possessive endearment sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. This was delirium speaking, nothing more. Yet something treacherous in her heart responded to the intimate claim.

“You are not dying, Mr. Darcy. It is only a fever, and it will break soon.”

“Fitzwilliam,” he corrected, his gaze wandering. “You called me Fitzwilliam. With the red roses.”

There had been no red roses, and she’d never used his given name. She took the purple hyacinth from her pocket and placed it in his palm. “No rose, Mr. Darcy. A rose has thorns. The hyacinth is softer.”

“You forgive me?” His question held such childlike innocence that her heart squeezed in on itself.

She had spent months treasuring up every single one of Darcy’s slights, every proud word, and every dismissal. How could it all be swept away by fluffy purple petals?

“Lizzy…” The pleading in his voice undid her completely.

“Yes,” she whispered, stroking the stubble on his face before she realized the impropriety of the gesture. “Yes, I forgive you.”

“You call me dear Fitzwilliam.”

“Of course,” she said softly, deciding it was kinder to play along with his fever dream than to confuse him with reality. “Forgive me, dear Fitzwilliam.”

His name felt strange on her tongue—intimate in a way that made her cheeks warm despite the gravity of the situation. She had never spoken it aloud before, had never thought she would have cause to.

“The roses at Pemberley,” he continued, his voice drifting as if lost in memory, “my mother planted them. She told me they’re for you. Red roses.”

Elizabeth doubted his mother even knew she existed, but she nodded. “Your mother was a gracious woman.”

“And she said you’ll like the lake… at sunset, the way the light catches… You must come with me.”

The wistful longing in his voice caught her off guard. She dipped a cloth in cool water, wiping his brow with gentle strokes. “Yes, I would like it.”

“The swans … I want you to see them. So peaceful.”

“They are beautiful, gliding on the water.”

“One named Lizzy.” His good hand reached for her face, fingertips tracing her cheek as if she were already his wife.

Elizabeth felt herself melting, telling herself she was playing along, giving him a reason to live. But she couldn’t help but close her eyes and let him caress her. This was so unseemly, but…

“The male is named Fitzy,” Darcy said, his voice stronger in its delusion. “They swim together from dawn to dusk.”

Despite everything, a smile tugged at her lips. Even in fever, he was creating a world where they belonged together.

His fingers tightened around hers suddenly, his gaze sharpening with an intensity that belied his fevered state. “You will come back to Pemberley, won’t you? After all this is over?”

The desperate hope in his voice made her heart race.

“Yes,” she promised, the lie feeling strangely like truth on her lips. “I will come back.”

His expression relaxed at her words, his eyes drifting closed once more.

A knock at the door announced Jane’s return. She entered bearing a tray with fresh bandages, spirits of wine, and a steaming cup that Elizabeth presumed to be the willow bark tea.

“How is he?” Jane asked, setting the tray on the bedside table.

“Delirious,” Elizabeth replied, gently disentangling her hand from Darcy’s. “He seems to believe we are at Pemberley.”

Jane’s brow creased with concern. “Mr. Johnson has been summoned. This fever is most alarming.”

Elizabeth checked the notes in the leather-bound journal. “He’s delirious, but it could also be from the laudanum. Charles gave him several drops.”

“At least he’s not in pain then.” Jane looked at the bandages. “Perhaps we should change them now when he’s not thrashing about.”

The wound beneath the bandage was angry and inflamed, the flesh around it an alarming shade of red. Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath at the sight, her heart sinking. This was worse than she had anticipated.

“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane whispered, clearly sharing her dismay.

“We must clean it thoroughly,” Elizabeth said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And pray the infection does not spread further.”

Working together, the sisters cleaned the wound with spirits of wine, applied fresh salve, and rebandaged Darcy’s shoulder. Throughout the procedure, he drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally murmuring Elizabeth’s name or fragments of sentences that made little sense.

“Can’t let Wickham…” he gasped. “Not Georgiana.”

Understanding dawned. Whatever Wickham had done involved Darcy’s beloved sister. No wonder he couldn’t trust the man.

“Georgiana is safe with your cousin,” Elizabeth assured him. “Colonel Forster has been notified.”

“But Lizzy, you must beware. He hates to be thwarted.”

“I won’t let him get to me or your sister,” she assured him, smoothing his brow with her fingers. “Mr. Darcy, you must fight this fever. Your sister is arriving, and she will expect to find you recovering.”

Bingley peeked into the sickroom. “Miss Elizabeth, how does he fare?”

“Not well, I’m afraid,” she replied, drawing him aside. “His fever has risen significantly, and the wound shows signs of infection.”

Bingley’s face fell. “I had hoped… that is, he seemed so much improved yesterday.”

“He’s worried about Wickham.” Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances. “Have you heard anything from Colonel Forster?”

“I’m afraid not,” Bingley replied. “Although express letters were sent to Lady Catherine to inform her of the duel and Charlotte’s warning. I hardly believe the scoundrel would dare show his face in all of Hertfordshire.”

“Never underestimate a dishonorable man,” Elizabeth warned. “Have you warned the entire neighborhood?”

“News traveled far and wide that Wickham cheated. Shot before the handkerchief touched the ground.” Bingley looked back into the sickroom where Jane sat with a teacup held to Darcy’s lips.

“Lizzy…” Darcy groaned, moving his head with restlessness. His left hand gripped the sheets tightly.

“He only wants you,” Jane said, handing the teacup to Elizabeth. “He’s afraid of you being taken away.”

Elizabeth hurried to the bedside, taking his flexing hand. “Mr. Johnson is on his way. Your friend, Bingley, is here.”

His fingers closed around hers with surprising strength. “You must not leave again. Time grows short.”

“You are not dying, Mr. Darcy. It is only a fever, and it will pass.”

“Fitzwilliam,” he corrected again, his gaze never leaving her face. “If I am to die, I would hear my name from your lips one more time.”

“You are not dying,” Elizabeth repeated firmly, though fear clutched at her heart. “But if it pleases you… Fitzwilliam.”

His smile was brief but startlingly tender. “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Jane and Bingley looked at each other, alarm clearly etched on their faces.

“We must cool him down,” Jane said. “Charles, do you have an ice house here?”

Bingley ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “I did not leave instructions to fill it last winter, believing I would not return to Netherfield.”

“How about the Gouldings of Haye Park?” Elizabeth asked. “They have a prominent estate. Or send to Meryton to purchase ice. He can’t last much longer.”

“Lizzy,” Darcy moaned, his voice shuddering and weak. “We have ice. Pemberley’s north-facing hillock, where we watched the stars together. So dark, like diamonds on velvet. Remember?”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened at the beauty of the image—and the impossibility of it. “Yes,” she said softly. “I remember.”

“You promised we would return,” he continued, his voice more agitated. “After London. After the wedding. You promised we would watch the stars together at Pemberley.”

“And we shall,” Elizabeth assured him, playing along with his delusion in hopes of calming him. “When you are well again.”

“No,” Darcy insisted, his grip on her hand tightening. “We must go now. Tonight. Before it’s too late.”

“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said gently, “you are not well enough to travel. We must wait until your fever breaks.”

His expression grew distressed, his breathing more labored. “There isn’t time. They’re coming. They’ll separate us again.”

“No one will separate us,” Elizabeth promised, though she had no idea who “they” might be in his fevered imagination. “I am here, and I will remain here.”

Again, Bingley and Jane exchanged significant glances.

“I will search for ice,” Charles said, backing out of the sickroom. “Mr. Johnson should be arriving shortly.”

“And I shall return with clean cloths,” Jane said, picking up the soiled towels and napkins.

They escaped the sickroom as if it were on fire, clearly embarrassed by the lack of propriety exhibited by a delirious Darcy.

“Lizzy… don’t go,” Darcy pleaded. His voice was small and uncertain, so unlike the confident, sometimes arrogant man she had known. “Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay.” She smoothed his anxious brow, fighting the urge to kiss his forehead. “I won’t leave you… Fitzwilliam, dear.”

A slight smile relaxed his face as his eyes drifted closed. Elizabeth continued smoothing his hair, calming him until his breathing evened. She glanced at the window, hearing the sound of an arriving carriage on the gravel drive.

She was about to go to the window when Darcy spoke again, his voice so low she had to lean closer to hear.

“I love you. I have loved you for so long.”