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Darcy noticed her aborted gesture and turned towards her. “Elizabeth?”

He stepped closer, and their bodies nearly touched. Elizabeth took a startled step backwards, her foot slipping on the moss-covered bank. Her arms flailed for balance, but momentum carried her down. She threw out her hand to break her fall, and a sharp pain shot through her wrist.

“Elizabeth!” Darcy lunged forward, catching her before she could tumble completely into the stream, but the damage was done. Her wrist bent at an unnatural angle, pain radiating up her arm.

“My wrist,” she gasped, cradling the injured limb against her chest.

“We must return immediately.” Concern etched deep lines around his mouth as he lifted her onto his horse, mounting behind her so she wouldn’t fall.

The journey back passed in a blur of pain and confused sensation. Elizabeth registered Darcy’s chest solid against her back, his voice murmuring reassurances, his arm secure around her waist.

***

Back at Pemberley, Dr Linfield examined her wrist with practiced hands and pronounced it severely sprained.

“You must keep it immobilised for at least a fortnight, Mrs Darcy,” he instructed, wrapping the wrist in linen bandages. “No writing, no needlework, no exertion whatsoever with this hand.”

“A fortnight?” Dismay sharpened Elizabeth’s voice. “But I have writing to complete.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, unless you wish to risk permanent damage to the joint.” The doctor’s tone brooked no argument.

After he departed, Elizabeth sat in frustrated silence, the full weight of his pronouncement settling upon her. Darcy, who had remained nearby throughout the examination, approached her chair.

“Your manuscript,” he said, understanding immediately the source of her distress.

“If I miss their deadline, Nocturne Publishing may withdraw their interest entirely.” Elizabeth couldn’t mask her disappointment. “Such opportunities rarely come to unknown female authors.”

Darcy stood silent, his brow furrowed in thought. “There may be a solution,” he said finally. “I could serve as your amanuensis.”

Elizabeth stared at him, startled by the offer. “You would do that?”

“Of course. How many pages remain to be re-written?”

“Perhaps thirty or forty,” she estimated. “But it would consume hours of your time.”

“Nothing could be more important than securing your opportunity for publication.” The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. “We’ll begin this evening, if you feel able.”

Words failed her momentarily. “Thank you,” she managed at last.

“I find I’m curious to discover the nature of your tale,” he admitted. “You’ve never shared your writing with me.”

***

That night, Darcy escorted Elizabeth to the library where he had arranged a settee near his desk, positioned so she could recline with her injured arm properly supported. The thoughtfulness touched her—not merely the practical considerations, but the attention to her comfort and needs.

“I should read what you’ve written thus far,” Darcy suggested, “to understand the narrative before making a fair copy.”

Elizabeth hesitated. Sharing her writing felt oddly intimate, more revealing than their most personal conversations. Her stories contained fragments of her soul, pieces of her inner life woven into the characters and situations she created.

For nearly an hour, she watched Darcy read, cataloguing every minute change in his expression—the slight lift of his brow at phrases that pleased him, the curve of his mouth at moments of wit, the thoughtful narrowing of his eyes at deeper passages.

Each reaction kindled anticipation in her chest. Would he find her work trivial?

Would he see too much of herself exposed on the page?

Her gaze lingered on his hands as he turned each page. What would those fingers feel like against her cheek, threading through her hair, tracing the line of her collarbone—

Elizabeth cut off the dangerous thought. Such fancies had no place in their world.

“This is excellent,” Darcy said when he finished, and the unfeigned admiration in his voice sent pleasure coursing through her veins. “Your heroine has genuine spirit and depth. The setting reminds me of Pemberley, though with more secret passages than I’ve discovered.”

Elizabeth smiled, relief and pride mingling within her. “The house inspired me, though I took some liberties.”

Darcy prepared fresh paper and dipped his quill. “Shall we begin?”

Elizabeth opened her notebook with its cramped shorthand, suddenly aware of the vulnerability in sharing not just her finished work but the raw material of her creativity.

Darcy’s quill moved across the paper, transforming her hasty notes into flowing script. She watched the steady movement of his hand, the concentration in his posture as he applied himself to her work with the same seriousness he gave to estate matters or correspondence with his solicitor.

As she translated her shorthand into full sentences, discomfort settled in her stomach like a stone.

The parallels were unmistakable now—how the hero of her tale, proud and reserved with hidden depths of feeling, had grown to resemble Darcy in countless small ways.

The heroine, with her quick judgements and lively spirit, mirrored Elizabeth herself.

Had she been so transparent? Did he recognise himself in her fictional creation?

They worked until midnight, the atmosphere between them charged with unspoken emotion.

Darcy set down his quill at last. “We’ve made progress,” he said, his voice husky with fatigue. “Shall we continue tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, that single syllable carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t say aloud. “Thank you for your help.”

As he helped her rise, his hand lingered on hers, and the warmth of his skin seemed to burn through the barrier of propriety that had kept them safely distant since their wedding. Then, he bade her goodnight.

She watched him walk away, his tall figure disappearing down the passage.

Only when his footsteps faded did she acknowledge what Jane had seen in her letters: her feelings for Darcy had transcended all she thought possible.

She had entered their marriage seeking escape from an intolerable situation; she now yearned for something she had never anticipated—a true connection.

Elizabeth touched her uninjured hand to her chest, where an unfamiliar ache had taken residence. The pain in her wrist seemed trivial by comparison. For this new wound—this hope that might never be fulfilled—Dr Linfield had no cure.