Page 25 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE RETREAT

Elizabeth stared out the window of their borrowed carriage, blinking back tears as Netherfield Park and Mr. Darcy’s sickroom disappeared in the distance. Beside her, Jane sat rigid with barely controlled distress, her usual serenity shattered by the magnitude of their disgrace.

Elizabeth’s chest felt as though it had been carved hollow.

Lady Catherine’s accusations echoed in her mind: fortune hunter, harridan, manipulator of fevered men.

Worse still was the memory of Darcy’s desperate face as she was dragged from his bedside—fevered, calling her name, believing her his wife.

His wife. Even now, the phantom pressure of his lips against hers made her tremble. That kiss—tender, desperate, burning with fever and something deeper—had been her first. And perhaps her last, if he did not survive.

“I abandoned him.” The admission pained her.

“You did no such thing,” Jane countered gently. “Mr. Darcy is in capable hands with his family. Your presence had become a point of contention that could only harm his recovery.”

Elizabeth nodded, knowing the truth of Jane’s statement, but her heart ached, and worry overtook her. “What if they bleed him? What if?”

“You must trust Lady Catherine has Darcy’s best interest,” Jane said. “She is his mother’s sister, after all.”

“And she used his mother’s memory to hurt him,” Elizabeth said. “I wanted to…”

Their carriage lurched and slowed to a stop. Elizabeth looked out the window at a line of heavy wagons blocking the road. Men shouted directions as they maneuvered the unwieldy vehicles toward Netherfield’s gates.

“Are those ice wagons?” Elizabeth asked the driver.

“Aye, miss. It seems Mr. Bingley sent for ice from every house in the county. Must be paying a pretty price for it, too.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Ice for Darcy’s fever. Bingley had spared no expense to save his friend’s life.

“Jane, look.” She gestured toward the gathering crowd alongside the road. Villagers from Meryton and tenant farmers had congregated to watch the procession, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright ghoulish fascination.

“Such a commotion,” Jane observed with a frown. “I had not realized Mr. Darcy’s condition would create such a spectacle.”

The carriage inched forward, bringing them closer to the growing crowd.

“Three shillings says he won’t last the week.”

“Lady Catherine herself has come from Kent. Must be dire indeed.”

“Never would’ve thought proud Mr. Darcy would succumb to Wickham’s bullet. Poetic justice, that.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks burned. How quickly private suffering became public entertainment. She pulled the curtain closed with trembling fingers.

“Driver,” she called, “is there another route to Longbourn we might take?”

“Afraid not, miss. We’ll have to wait our turn.”

Jane squeezed her hand. “It will pass, Lizzy. Such gossip always does.”

“Does it?” Elizabeth turned to her sister, unable to mask her distress. “This is no ordinary gossip, Jane. This is a man’s life reduced to a betting sport.”

She waved her hand at the crowd gathered as if in front of the gallows. The private, dignified man would be mortified to learn he had become the central entertainment of Meryton society.

“He would hate this,” Elizabeth said. “To be the subject of such speculation, such vulgar curiosity. For all his pride, there is a genuine reserve to his nature that shrinks from such attention.”

“As would we all,” Jane said quietly, then hesitated. “Lizzy, do you think… that is, do you believe Mr. Bingley will distance himself from our family now? After what has transpired?”

Elizabeth looked at her sister sharply, seeing the fear Jane tried so hard to conceal. “I do not know. Men of honor sometimes find their principles tested when scandal touches those they claim to care for.”

“Charles has always seemed different,” Jane said, but her voice lacked its usual conviction. “More genuine than others of his circle.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied, though privately she wondered if any gentleman would risk his reputation for women who had fallen so far from grace. “But even genuine affection has limits, Jane. Society’s judgment can be harsh.”

The remainder of their journey passed in agonized silence, each lost in private fears. The familiar outline of Longbourn appeared, drawing a poignant twist from Elizabeth’s heart.

Home. But what awaited a woman shamed by scandal? How could she face her parents’ questions when she could barely comprehend the disaster herself?

The house stood unusually quiet as they approached. No younger sisters’ laughter echoed from the windows. Mercifully, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia were spending the summer months with Mrs. Phillips, learning proper deportment far from the shadow of scandal that now engulfed their family.

Mr. Hill took their bags with subdued efficiency, and the entrance hall lacked its usual bustling energy.

“Your parents are in the drawing room. They’ve been most anxious for news,” Mrs. Hill said in hushed tones.

“Lizzy! Jane!” Mrs. Bennet leaped from her favorite chair. “You have returned. But so soon—surely Mr. Darcy has not—that is, you cannot have left your post while he yet lives?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but only a choked sound emerged. The memory of Lady Catherine’s fury, the accusations, and the humiliation of being expelled like a common servant overwhelmed her. To her horror, tears began flowing freely down her cheeks.

“Mr. Darcy lives, still,” Jane recovered sufficiently to allay her parents’ fear. “But his aunt, Lady Catherine, arrived and has taken over his medical care.”

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, crossing to Elizabeth and guiding her to a chair. “What has happened, child? I have never seen you so undone.”

Elizabeth shook her head, unable to articulate the shame and heartache that overwhelmed her. How could she explain Lady Catherine’s tirade, the accusations hurled at her character, or worse—Darcy’s fevered delusions that had only compounded their disgrace?

“Lady Catherine felt it was inappropriate for Elizabeth to continue as Mr. Darcy’s nurse,” Jane explained delicately, sparing her sister the indignity of repeating the cruel words. “She was most insistent that we depart immediately.”

“What are we to do?” Mrs. Bennet asked the question hanging over them like a storm cloud.

Mr. Bennet looked older than Elizabeth had ever seen him, his sardonic armor finally cracked beyond repair. “I confess myself at a complete loss, my dear. We have played our final card and lost.”

“Thomas!” Mrs. Bennet scolded, though her voice lacked its usual vigor.

“There is no point in pretense, my dear,” Mr. Bennet replied. “We gambled Elizabeth’s reputation on the notion that nursing Mr. Darcy would lead to an honorable proposal once he recovered. Instead, it appears we have gained nothing but deeper disgrace.”

Elizabeth wiped her tears with trembling fingers. “I am sorry, Papa. I have ruined everything.”

“One question only, Lizzy, before you retire,” Mr. Bennet said gently. “Is there any hope? Any chance that Mr. Darcy might—” he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with such directness, “—might have formed an attachment that could withstand his aunt’s interference?”

The question pierced Elizabeth’s heart. The fevered kiss still burned on her lips, and the way he poured in his feelings, so tender and yet urgent… Elizabeth could barely contain her changed feelings. But what would he believe when he recovered, only to recall the impropriety?

“I cannot say, Papa,” she answered truthfully. “His fever… that is, his condition, made it impossible to know his true feelings. And now, I fear we may never know.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, his expression grave. “I understand. Get some rest, child. Tomorrow we shall face whatever comes.”

As Elizabeth rose to leave, Mrs. Bennet surprised her with a gentle embrace. “You have paid a price too, Lizzy,” she said with unexpected perception. “I see it in your eyes.”

Two days had passed without word from Netherfield—two days that felt like eternity to Elizabeth’s tormented heart.

She had barely slept, starting at every sound outside her window, hoping for some messenger bearing news of Darcy’s condition.

During the endless hours, she paced her chamber, alternating between desperate prayer for his recovery and agonizing fear that he might already be gone.

“There would be news if something dreadful had occurred,” Jane assured her that morning as they sat together in the drawing room, both too restless for any meaningful occupation. “Surely Mr. Bingley would send word.”

“Would he?” Elizabeth asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “After what transpired, perhaps he feels no obligation to inform us of anything.”

Jane’s face tightened with her own barely suppressed worry. “Charles has always been honorable in his dealings with us. I cannot believe he would abandon all connection.”

Mr. Bennet looked up from his book, his expression grave. “I have been considering sending Hill to Netherfield to inquire after Mr. Darcy’s condition. This uncertainty is intolerable.”

“Papa, no,” Jane said quickly, glancing at Elizabeth’s stricken face. “Such a gesture might seem… presumptuous. Given the circumstances of our departure.”

Elizabeth pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. “What if they bled him? He was already weak, and then the infection took hold…”

Her voice broke, unable to complete the terrible thought.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats sent Elizabeth flying to the window. A familiar bay mare was making its way up the drive.

“It’s Mr. Bingley,” she announced, her voice barely steady. Had he come with good news or dire news?

Moments later, Mrs. Hill appeared at the door, announcing Mr. Bingley.