Page 32 of The Power of Refusal

H e woke to intense heat wracking his body, leaving him shaking, shivering, and utterly miserable. Aches and pains radiated from every joint. The sheets beneath him were damp with sweat, clinging to his feverish skin. He tossed and turned, seeking relief from the unrelenting discomfort, but none came. In fleeting moments of lucidity, he was aware of the gentle ministrations of Mrs Reynolds, but she spoke with a strange accent. Unknown footmen appeared at his bedside, assisting with his personal needs with quiet efficiency. Then, as if by some miracle, his valet, Arthur, materialised to take over their duties. A wave of relief washed over him, grateful for the familiar face in the midst of his illness-induced haze.

Through the fog of fever and pain, Darcy glimpsed Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes, regarding him with deep concern. His mind was so muddled, so clouded, he was uncertain whether her visits were real or merely figments of his fevered imagination.

Hours, or perhaps days later, the fever finally broke and the worst of his symptoms began to subside. He studied the elegant furnishings and the soft glow of the sunlight filtering through the curtains. He racked his mind to recall where he was. With a start, he realised he was at Lockwood, the very place he had journeyed to hoping to woo Miss Elizabeth.

Arthur, ever attentive to his master’s needs, fixed Darcy with a long-suffering look as he voiced his desire to leave the bed. “Mr Darcy,” he said evenly, “you have been seriously ill. I fear your strength may be more depleted than you expect.”

Darcy raised a brow in indignation, his pride bristling at the implied weakness.

Determined to prove his valet wrong, he attempted to lift himself to a sitting position, only to find his arms trembling with the effort. The room swam before his eyes, and he fell back against the pillows, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The very slightest quirk at the corner of Arthur’s lips betrayed his victorious smile.

“Very well,” he conceded, his voice rough with disuse. “Might I at least be clean and shaved?” He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the unfamiliar scratch of a lengthy beard. A jolt of alarm ran through his already weakened body. This was no evening’s growth—by the condition of his face, he had been abed a week or more. No wonder his legs felt as if they were made of jelly.

As Arthur set about preparing the implements for his toilette, Darcy’s thoughts returned to Elizabeth. How much of his illness had she witnessed? The idea of her seeing him in such a state of weakness made him cringe. His pride warred with the deep longing for her presence.

With a sigh, Darcy closed his eyes, willing his battered body to heal. After so long, he would not let a mere illness stand in the way of his happiness. But despite his intentions, the passive process of being washed and shaved left Darcy utterly exhausted.

After a rest to recover from the ordeal of basic hygiene, Darcy turned his attention to the books on the bedside table. The familiar spines of old favourites greeted him, their well-worn covers a testament to the hours of enjoyment they had provided to someone. It seemed unlikely these tomes were from Bingley’s meagre collection. He reached for one, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering on the cover before opening it to the first page.

There, in delicate script, he found the imprinted bookplate bearing the name ‘fElizabeth Rose Bennet.’ The sight of her name, so intimately connected to the book in his hands, sent a thrill through his weakened body. He ran his fingertips over the words, savouring the tangible connection. Elizabeth.

Darcy set about examining the remaining volumes in the stack. These books had been carefully curated from Miss Bennet’s personal collection. He would explore her interests, perhaps gaining insight into her mind and heart through the words she had read.

As he flipped through the pages, Darcy was rewarded with the discovery of small drawings in the margins and notes written in her unmistakable feminine hand. He could almost hear her voice and picture the expressions that crossed her face as she engaged with the text.

A sheet of paper, tucked between the back pages of one volume, fluttered to the bed as he closed the book. Curiosity piqued, Darcy unfolded the page. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the image before him.

His own likeness stared back at him, rendered in exquisite detail. The artist had captured his features with remarkable accuracy, from the strong line of his jaw to the intensity of his gaze. He estimated the drawing reflected his appearance from a few years prior, the absence of more recent lines and creases a testament to the passage of time.

What struck him most, however, was the expression in the eyes. He always endeavoured to present a stoic expression, his lips set in a line of indifference, his eyes cold. The eyes in the drawing held a hint of tenderness, the lips a wisp of a smile. She had captured the hidden warmth that belied his outward demeanour.

At the lower corner of the page, Darcy noted the signature: “Bennet Ellis.” The name, so similar to Elizabeth’s own, yet subtly different, intrigued him. Could it be a pseudonym she had adopted for her artistic endeavours? It would make sense for her to disguise her talents, to keep this part of herself hidden from the world.

With a sigh, Darcy carefully refolded the drawing, tucking it back between the pages of the book. Here was hope that Elizabeth, his beloved Elizabeth, had held him in her thoughts and her heart, even in the years they had been apart.