Page 31 of The Power of Refusal

T he light—or at least not torrential—rain, had not deterred Elizabeth from taking a morning walk. The day was cool and foggy, the mist clinging to her skin and dotting her hair with crystals of water. A few miles around the perimeter of Lockwood might help her settle her tumultuous thoughts. She scolded herself for thinking so often of Mr Darcy. Had she not tamped down that obsession years ago? No, it would appear she had not. Here she was again, her head circling back to consider his warm farewell. His heartfelt, tender, delightful expression filled her with a delicious tension. Were it not for the trickle of cold wet seeping in through the crack in her half boots, her daydream would entirely take her away.

Elizabeth considered her finances as she walked, the soggy ground squelching beneath her feet. With each step, water seeped through, soaking her stockings. She grimaced, lifting her foot to examine the damage.

Jane had not noticed the decrepit state of her boots, else she would have insisted on replacing them before they left London. Elizabeth chafed at being a charity case. She also was well aware of the limits of her purse. As generous as her uncle was in paying for her drawings, she could stretch her funds only so far. She could not recall the last time she received any funds from Longbourn. Her father now matched his very infrequent correspondence with scarce and erratic provision of pin money. No doubt Lydia had absorbed Elizabeth’s share without the inconvenience of a detour through Elizabeth’s purse.

In any case, lining her boots with old paper had not prevented leakage. She could only hope her stockings were not ruined. Those were in short supply as well. Elizabeth considered the curtailment of her walks until the weather cleared. If she did not walk out, she might not contain and disguise her anxious thoughts of Mr Darcy. Her head was down to watch for deeper puddles as she approached the stables. The stable came into view, and Elizabeth paused, turning to Robert. “Thank you for accompanying me. I can make my way back to the house from here.”

Robert hesitated. “Are you certain, miss? The weather—”

“I will be well,” Elizabeth interrupted, forcing a smile. “Please, get out of the damp.”

As Robert retreated, Elizabeth glanced down at her sodden boots. She stooped, shuffling her feet in a tuft of grass to wipe away the worst of the mud.

Without the benefit of looking where she was going, she collided with a large male form.

By the filth and horsey smell, she thought immediately she had walked into Gerson, the head groom. No, Gerson was not so tall, and neither was his horsey air accompanied by a scent of starched linen, cedarwood, and something delectably male.

Elizabeth knew from the oath she heard she had not run into a servant. She heard an apology and then her given name. Her eyes raked up spattered hessians, the buckskin breeches with smears of mud, a wilted once starched cravat above a sodden greatcoat. Then, a longed-for face, damp, reddened with exercise or perhaps embarrassment, stubbled with a day’s growth of beard.

“Mr Darcy!” flew from her mouth without a thought. He had come. She drank in his face, closer now than it had been in many years. His face, chiselled in all the right ways, bore some slight lines about his eyes and forehead. His dark hair bore no sign of grey, although it was wet with rain and tousled most adorably. She stared at him with a most unseemly, direct gaze. She must collect herself.

∞∞∞

“Oh, bloody hell!” Darcy said as he made contact with a solid object. He looked up instantly, taking in a female form listing heavily to the side as she recovered from the collision.

“My apologies, madam,” Darcy began. He caught himself, then reached out to steady the lady with a firm grip on her arms. Her balance restored, the lady lifted her face.

“Elizabeth!” Darcy blurted. A violent heat rose over his face. Of all the meetings he had dreamt of over the past many years, never had he imagined colliding with the lady at the stable door and daubing her generously with a coating of Cambridgeshire mud.

Miss Bennet’s expression of shock softened to one of something softer. Wonder? “Mr Darcy,” she said, dipping a quick curtsey.

Remembering his manners, Darcy stepped back and bowed. “Miss Bennet,” he said, recalling he had just made free with her Christian name. Embarrassment prickled his spine. His head swam, then cleared. He looked around to find his bearings.

“Welcome to Lockwood,” Miss Bennet said, a teasing smile beginning on her lips. “Thank you. Might I escort you to the house?” he asked, extending his arm.

Miss Bennet reached her pristinely gloved hand toward his arm, then paused. She looked up at him as he took in the filthy sleeve he had offered her. Could he be more inept? A decade’s disappointment rose in his middle. Of all the stupid, thoughtless…

The sound of a soft chuckle interrupted his thoughts.

“Perhaps your other arm, sir. It seemed to have been spared the worst of the dirt,” Miss Bennet said, a brilliant smile beaming directly into his heart.

Then, a loosening of tension he had held for longer than he could remember. He sighed with a sort of relief as he shifted his position to offer the cleaner appendage.

“Well met, Miss Bennet,” he said. Her small hand rested in the crook of his elbow, and all was right with the world. They turned together to walk along the pathway to the house, the scent of fresh rain lingering in the air.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth commanded herself to breathe. Walking the twenty yards to the house would take but a moment, yet her heart raced at the prospect of spending those precious seconds in Mr Darcy’s company. She searched her mind for something to say, but only the most banal remarks occurred to her. She certainly could not leap into an interrogation. “Are you still in mourning?” “Would you think to marry again?” “Could you possibly forgive me?” “Do you still care for me?” Elizabeth dismissed each possibility, one more absurd than the others.

She reverted to a distant yet sincere concern, her voice steady despite the trembling of her hands. “Is your sister in health? She is married these three or four years, is she not?” Elizabeth remembered spying on the grand ceremony from across the way. Her heart had ached with a bittersweet mixture of joy and regret as she watched Georgiana, a beautiful, radiant bride, who might have been her own sister.

“She is indeed,” Darcy said, his voice slightly hoarse. His gentle smile softened the effect, sending a flutter of warmth through Elizabeth’s chest. “Viscountess Grethem has recently welcomed the future Lord Halliday, although he is not yet in looks for the position,” Darcy remarked, his tone light and teasing.

“How wonderful! You sound a very proud uncle,” Elizabeth said. Her own smile widened at the thought of Mr Darcy doting on a tiny nephew. His sometimes stern features were softened by love and affection.

As they walked, Elizabeth stole glances at Mr Darcy from the corner of her eye, marvelling at the way the damp fabric of his coat clung to his broad shoulders, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Warmth rose to her cheeks at the impropriety of her thoughts, but she could not seem to tear her gaze away. She wondered what was going through his mind. What emotions were churning beneath the surface of his stoic exterior? Was he as affected by their proximity as she was?

But as they crossed the threshold into the grand foyer, a sudden change in Mr Darcy’s demeanour interrupted Elizabeth’s musings. His steps faltered. His weight was suddenly heavy against her side. She looked up at him in alarm. His complexion was pale, almost ashen, with spots of red on his cheeks, his eyes glossy and bloodshot. Had she not been certain it was impossible, she might have thought he was in his cups. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Mr Darcy?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern. “Are you quite well?”

He mumbled something unintelligible, his words garbled. He swayed as he attempted to bow. Elizabeth exchanged a worried glance with Jane, who had come to greet them at the door. Her sister’s angelic face creased with concern. Her blue eyes asked a silent question.

Elizabeth shook her head, her heart pounding with a growing sense of unease. Something was wrong, very wrong. Mr Darcy was not himself, his usual grace and poise replaced by a stumbling, disoriented shell of a man.

“He is ill!” Jane whispered.

“He is wet through and has been riding who knows how long in this weather. How can we manage him?” Elizabeth’s panic rose.

“Is your valet with you, sir?” Jane asked, peering into Mr Darcy’s flushed face.

“No, no. Tomorrow.” Mr Darcy swayed again at the exertion of stringing the words together.

Robert came from his post at Jane’s nod and beckoned another footman, Ralph, to assist him. The two took hold of Mr Darcy’s arms and walked him forward, then, with great effort, mounted the steps with the nearly insensible Mr Darcy between them. Their strong arms supported his weight as they guided him up the grand staircase. Elizabeth followed close behind, her skirts rustling against the polished wood. Her mind raced with a thousand questions and fears.

They deposited Mr Darcy in the dressing room of the guest suite, the one she had so carefully prepared for his arrival. The room was warm and inviting, the fire crackling merrily in the grate, the soft glow of the lamps casting a gentle light over the elegant furnishings.

But Elizabeth had no care for the surroundings. Her attention she focused solely on the man now slumped in the chair before her. The footmen placed a dressing screen and then worked quickly, stripping away his sodden clothing with practiced efficiency. Elizabeth averted her gaze, urging them silently to treat Mr Darcy with care. Jane appeared at the door with the housekeeper, some night clothes of Charles’s in hand.

When the footmen had finished, they bundled the helpless man into the bed. His tall frame extended well beyond the nightshirt. He was buried in the mound of blankets and pillows. Elizabeth crouched beside him, her hand resting gently on his forehead. The heat of his skin warmed her palm.

He was burning with fever, his body wracked with chills and shivers. Elizabeth’s heart clenched with fear. He had been out in the rain too long and caught a chill on his journey. She bathed his muddied face with warm cloths. Mrs Cobb and Jane pretended not to notice the impropriety.

The apothecary was sent for. Elizabeth watched as the housekeeper spooned a bitter tonic between his lips. Mr Darcy grimaced at the taste, his eyes fluttering open for a moment before sliding shut once more.

Elizabeth remained at his side, her hand clasped tightly in his, her thoughts a jumble of worry and regret. She had waited so long for this moment. She had dreamt of their reunion a thousand times in a thousand different ways. But never had she imagined him lying helpless and fevered before they had even spoken more than greetings.

She closed her eyes, a silent prayer rising to her lips. Please, might we have the chance to make things right? Please, never take him from me now, not when we have come so close to finding each other again.

Jane charged Robert with sitting at the bedside, then whispered to Elizabeth. “You cannot remain, Lizzy. You know you cannot. Mr Highler will be here shortly. Robert will see to Mr Darcy until then.” Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand, pulling her away.

Elizabeth took a last look at the terribly ill man resting fitfully in the guest bed. She followed Jane to her sitting room for some restorative tea. As the hours passed, and the candles burnt low, Elizabeth kept silent vigil, her heart full of hope and fear.