Page 39 of The Power of Refusal

D arcy was conscious of two conflicting thoughts. He had Elizabeth in his arms, comforting her, as he had long wished to be privileged to do. And Mr Couper was below, angry, irrational, and likely fearful. Defying him, being alone with Elizabeth in his house, would offer Couper more fuel for his ire. He could not continue to embrace Elizabeth where the master of the house might see them.

Too soon, Elizabeth straightened, fumbling for a handkerchief. He took his and placed it in her hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes were luminous, not only with tears, but with an expression of gratitude and, dare he hope, love? Despite the dark circles under her sleepless eyes and a trembling chin, she remained unfathomably beautiful.

Elizabeth spoke his thoughts. “Mr Couper is below. I wonder he has not yet come up to berate Mr Cranston.”

“Mr Couper may yet surprise us. He said nothing when we arrived, only sent us up with a pointing finger. Despite his protestations, I saw concern in his expression.”

Elizabeth raised her brows in doubt. “I hope you are correct. My poor sister,” she trailed off, sobs threatening again to overtake her.

Mrs Danvers opened the door then, asking for the housemaid. “The doctor wants tepid water sent up,” she said.

“I will see to it,” Elizabeth replied. She turned to descend the stairs, then halted. “Mr Darcy, we lack a footman. I hate to ask you—”

“I am at your service, madam,” he said with a proper footman’s bow.

Darcy was not of great use in a kitchen, but he certainly could lift heavy objects. He kept out of the way as Elizabeth joined young Rachel in pumping and heating vast pots of water.

Once they had reached the temperature the two women declared “tepid,” he hauled the containers up the back stairs. The experience forced him to reconsider the innumerable gallons of hot water provided to him over his privileged life. He would never disregard the effort it required again. Perhaps he should add a piping system to the upper floors at Pemberley.

Thoughts of plumbing did not long distract Darcy. On his last return to the kitchen, Elizabeth had set a small table with tea and toast and invited him to join her. Rachel served as chaperon, taking her own tea across the room.

“I think it is breakfast time,” Elizabeth said with a slight smile.

Darcy extracted his timepiece. “Four o’clock nearly.”

“Will you permit me to thank you, sir?”

Darcy shook his head. If he were at last to have a moment almost alone with Miss Elizabeth, it would not be spent in hearing himself praised for doing what little he could to aid her. “Please, I do not wish for gratitude. Your comfort, your safety, are all that matter to me.”

His heart sped up. It was time. These were far from the circumstances he would have wanted. They were seated at a deal table in the small, cluttered kitchen of the parsonage, sipping tea from servants’ cups in the middle of the night. All the while poor Mrs Couper struggled above. Elizabeth was all the more beautiful to him when she removed the accursed cap covering her lustrous hair.

Darcy thought back to his “lesson” from Richard. Neither had envisioned such a setting, but his lessons could be applied. He would take the opportunity he had.

Kneeling was not to be accomplished in their cramped quarters. He adjusted his seat to face Elizabeth fully, nearly at her eye level. He waited until she looked at him. As if knowing the significance of his expression, Elizabeth blushed and glanced away.

In a low, gentle voice, he began. “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth…”