Page 24 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

D arcy had become very comfortable at Longbourn. He had been courting Miss Bennet every day for a fortnight and was treated nearly as one of the family. Mrs. Bennet set an excellent table, and after weeks of no appetite, it was a relief to find that he was rather hungry. He had even convinced Miss Bennet to at last play a game of chess with him and was not surprised to find her a formidable opponent, though he had ultimately prevailed.

He was sitting across from where she and Georgiana were working on clothes for the tenants’ children, half listening to the lively chatter of the Bennet sisters and half replaying each of the moves he had been required to counter. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and the light from the flames cast a golden glow over the room. Fitzwilliam was seated near Mrs. Bennet, an amused smile tugging at his lips as Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia bickered over the merits of fashion and colour. They were always on about the same four or five topics—it would have driven him mad to listen to it all, but Fitzwilliam, who had seen so much darkness in the army, did not mind at all. He even claimed that while the subjects were the same, the conversation never was.

“And yellow looks far better on me,” Miss Lydia declared with an air of finality.

The youngest Bennet thought every item of clothing in every shade looked best on her. Darcy swallowed and winced. His throat hurt, and his chest was beginning to feel a bit heavy as well.

He had begun feeling a cold coming upon him after they arrived at Longbourn earlier in the day, and now it was becoming obvious that it would not be disappearing on its own. It was most unfair, for he was finally eating and sleeping well again. Now he would have to remain away for a few days just when things were going so well.

“Tea, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bennet asked quietly from next to him. He had not seen her leave her sewing. She held out a cup. “It might soothe your throat.”

He took the delicate china from her hands and smiled his thanks. Of course she would notice.

“Papa is still sneezing,” she informed him. “I hope he has not given you his cold.” She returned the smile and then poured a cup for her father before returning to the table and beginning to pour for everyone else, beginning with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.

All the while, the two youngest Bennet girls were arguing.

“You are just saying that because yellow is your favourite colour,” Miss Kitty said with exasperation.

“Well, of course!” Miss Lydia replied with a haughty shrug. “It suits me so well.”

Miss Mary, seated in the corner with her ever-present book, glanced up with a faint snort. “No, Lydia, it is your favourite because it was the colour of the baby blanket you carried around until you were eight years old. It was in pieces before Mrs. Hill managed to toss it in the fire.”

“Really, Mary!” Miss Lydia cried, her cheeks flushing with indignation. “It is no such thing. I am no longer a child!”

Miss Kitty muttered in an undertone, “I beg to differ.”

Miss Mary ignored them both. “I wonder if the colour of one’s baby blanket determines one’s preferences later in life. Could a childish presence linger so long as to influence one’s likes and dislikes when we are grown?”

“Or perhaps our preferences are already formed when we are children and that is why we refuse to give away our favourites,” Georgiana replied, pulling her needle through the cloth.

Miss Bennet smiled silently as Miss Kitty turned to Mr. Bennet, who was for once out of his book room. The eldest Bennet sat at the far end of the room and an air of studied detachment, a book in his right hand and turning pages with his left.

“What about you, Papa? What is your favourite colour?”

Miss Bennet shook her head. “It will not do to ask Papa, Kitty. His baby blanket had four colours: blue with yellow, green, and silver embroidery. I am afraid it will neither prove nor disprove Miss Darcy’s theory.”

A faint ringing sound filled Darcy’s ears, drowning out the noise around him. Four colours. Blue. Yellow. Green. Silver. His mind raced back to a winter’s evening just after his majority, when his father had shown him a small, carefully preserved blanket. His head began to throb.

“Your grandmother embroidered this,” his father had said, running his hand gently over the fragile fabric. “It is an exact copy of the one she made for my elder brother, when she believed she was giving birth to only one babe.” The embroidery had been intricate, the edges trimmed in three distinct colours of thread.

The original blanket had disappeared with the first twin.

Darcy’s breath quickened as Miss Bennet’s words echoed in his mind.

He stood and moved to the window, his hands clenched behind his back, his fingers digging into his palms as he fought to steady his breathing. Could it be possible? Could Mr. Bennet—no, it was unthinkable. Mr. Compton had confirmed it.

And yet, the pieces began to align in a pattern he did not wish to see.

Miss Bennet’s voice broke through his reverie. “Mr. Darcy, are you quite well?”

He started, realising that the room had grown quiet. All eyes were on him, including Miss Bennet’s.

“I say, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said in a low voice as he sidled over, “you are very pale. Are you unwell?”

He forced himself to nod, though he could feel how stiffly he moved. “Forgive me. Perhaps I ought to return to Netherfield.”

Fitzwilliam looked at him sharply but said nothing. Darcy’s throat was dry, and his stomach was now roiling. He had to remove himself from the drawing room with haste for fear of shaming himself.

Outside, the night air was crisp and biting, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of Longbourn. Darcy saw that his carriage was just being brought around and was grateful for the fortuitous timing. The instant the steps were lowered, he nearly pitched himself headlong into it.

He leaned back against the squabs with his head tipped up towards the ceiling, his breath visible in the cold and his hands trembling. The memories swirled too vividly to ignore: his father’s sombre recounting of the embroidered blanket, the words spoken so casually in the Longbourn drawing room.

It could not be true. It must not be true.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the gravel broke through his misery. The carriage door opened, and Fitzwilliam climbed in, his brows knit with concern.

“Darcy,” Fitzwilliam began, his voice low but firm. “This is not like you. What has happened?”

Before he could respond, Georgiana appeared at the door, pale and wide-eyed. “Brother, are you unwell?” she asked softly. Without waiting for his answer, she awkwardly took Fitzwilliam’s hand from inside the carriage, clambering in and settling beside Darcy, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.

Darcy closed his eyes. He could not burden them with this. Not again. They had suffered enough uncertainty before Mr. Compton’s assurance that Reverend Bennet’s son had lived. He would not force them to endure this again until he was entirely sure.

“I am quite well,” Darcy said at last, though his voice was badly strained. “The heat of the drawing room, combined with an excess of conversation, has left me fatigued. That is all.”

Fitzwilliam scoffed. “You are not the fainting type, cousin, and I cannot recall the last time you excused yourself so abruptly. Shall I send for a physician?”

“No,” Darcy said quickly, his tone harsher than he intended. He softened it immediately. “No, there is no need. It is only a cold. A night’s rest will suffice.”

Georgiana exchanged a glance with Fitzwilliam, her worry plain. “Shall I have Mrs. Nicholls prepare a tonic for you upon our return?”

Darcy forced a small smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “That will not be necessary, Georgiana. Truly, I am well.”

The carriage began to move, its wheels crunching against the frosty ground. Darcy could sense their concern, and guilt burned hot in his chest. How could he now confess that their security, so recently confirmed, was again at risk?

He could not. Would not.

The remainder of the journey passed in strained silence. He righted himself but focused on breathing carefully the entire way to Netherfield. Fitzwilliam stole glances at him, clearly unconvinced by Darcy’s protestations, while Georgiana sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, her worry palpable.

Fitzwilliam exited the carriage first and handed Georgiana down. He did not, thank goodness, offer to perform the same office for Darcy, but it was clear he was observing Darcy’s every step on the chance his assistance might be required. When they reached the entry, Darcy allowed himself to be divested of his coat, hat, and gloves before turning to his sister and cousin and offering a small bow.

“Good night,” he said. “I shall see you both in the morning.”

Before he could make his escape, Georgiana’s fingers tightened briefly on his arm before she withdrew her hand. “Brother,” she said quietly, her voice almost pleading, “you are not well. If this is more than a cold . . . You have always been so strong for me, for us. If there is something amiss, please, do not attempt to bear it alone.”

Her words cut through him like a blade. If only he could unburden himself, share the turmoil raging within. But until he knew the truth—the full truth, this time—he would remain silent.

“I will be much improved in the morning, Georgiana,” he told her. “Do not fret.”

His room was dark and still when he entered, the fire having burned low in his absence as the servants no doubt had not been expecting their return for another few hours. He did not bother to summon anyone, not even Harris. Instead, he removed his coat, stirred the fire himself, and then sat heavily on the settee by the hearth. His thoughts returned, unbidden, to the blanket. Blue with yellow, green, and silver embroidery.

Were those the colours? His head swam as he tried to recall the design. So many things had happened since he had last laid eyes on it.

It had been the promise that Pemberley was still his that had given him the courage to dream of a future with Elizabeth Bennet. He would never have allowed his heart the freedom to love her so openly, to raise her expectations, if he had believed for one moment that he would not be able to support her and a family.

A family. He had begun to dream of children who looked like Elizabeth, with her liveliness and wit. It might possibly kill him to give up even the dream of them. Of her.

Darcy leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “What am I to do?” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible.

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

A deep, unrelenting ache spread through his body, settling in his joints and refusing to ease, no matter how he shifted. His throat burned, raw and swollen, each breath scraping painfully against it, and his head throbbed in a punishing rhythm.

He was given precisely one hour of solitude, barely enough to prepare himself for bed, before Fitzwilliam entered without knocking. He stared at Darcy, who tried not to look as though he was about to pitch forward onto the floor.

“Cousin,” he said, “if there is something troubling you, you know you can confide in me. Whatever it is, we shall face it together, as we always have.”

He nodded stiffly, unable to meet his cousin’s gaze. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to discuss. I have a cold. It will pass.”

“Then you should have no complaint if I summon the nearest physician.”

“There is only an apothecary nearby. Mr. Jones.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth settled into a grim line. “Then I will send for him. In truth, Darcy, you look very ill.”

Darcy raised a hand, his voice calm but firm. “Leave it until the morning, Fitzwilliam. If I am not improved by then, you may summon Mr. Jones. There is no need to trouble the man tonight.”

Fitzwilliam hesitated, clearly torn. His eyes scanned Darcy’s face, and he knew his cousin would not miss the sheen of perspiration he could feel dampening his brow.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But if there is even the slightest change for the worse, I will not wait for your permission.”

Darcy inclined his head. “That is acceptable.”

His cousin muttered something to himself, but left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Darcy waited until the sound faded before rising and moving to the desk. Harris appeared discreetly at the door, having waited just outside for Fitzwilliam’s departure.

“You summoned me, sir?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes. I need you to deliver two letters at first light. They must go immediately and on the most direct post.”

Harris bowed. “Of course, sir. Shall I wait while you write them?”

“Yes,” he said, and grimaced. It hurt to speak, but nodding his head would be worse. The first letter was to Mrs. Holden, his housekeeper in London, asking that she send him his grandfather’s journal. The second letter, addressed to Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley, was shorter but even more pressing. It directed her to locate the blanket George Darcy’s mother had made for her infant and send it back with the messenger.

Once finished, Darcy sanded and sealed the letters before handing them to Harris. “Send Anders to Pemberley and Johnson to London.”

“Anders will be distressed not to be driving, sir,” Harris said.

Darcy could barely hold his head up. “I am aware, but the post will get him there and back more quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The letters are to be delivered directly to their recipients, and upon the messengers’ return, they must come directly to me. Say nothing of this to anyone, and give Anders and Johnson the same instructions.”

Harris accepted the sealed letters with a nod, his expression solemn. “I understand, sir. I shall ensure it is done.”

“Thank you, Harris.” Darcy dismissed the valet.

As the door clicked shut, Darcy rested his head on his arms, his eyes closing against the sickly wave of exhaustion that engulfed him. The room was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire, but his mind was anything but still. His fears bore down on him, twisting his thoughts into a tangle of duty, honour, and love.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and moved carefully to bed, pulling the covers over himself. When he had read his grandfather’s journal all those weeks ago, he had not been overcome, but the agony of thinking himself safe only to have it all ripped away—it was oversetting him in a way he could not be proud of.

Elizabeth was worth more to him than Pemberley. He would know the truth. He must.

As weary as he was, sleep eluded him. Each time he closed his eyes, images of Pemberley filled his mind: the rolling hills and tranquil lake, the grand halls that echoed with generations of his family’s footsteps, and the faces of the tenants and servants who depended on him for their livelihoods. He saw the pride in his father’s eyes as he spoke of their shared legacy, recalled the countless hours he himself had poured into maintaining and improving the estate.

Amid these visions, so familiar to him now, a new image arose—Elizabeth Bennet, her light, pleasing figure and excellent mind, the sweet impertinence of her clever quips, the kindness under all her teasing. His hopes for a future with her, so vivid and close only hours ago, now threatened by the truth that had begun to reveal itself at last. Would he still be the man she admired if Pemberley was no longer his to offer? If he had nothing to offer at all? Would she think he had pursued her only to maintain some sort of hold on Pemberley? He had never allowed himself to hope so boldly before, and now, his dearest wish was slipping from his grasp.

The hours dragged on, and the fire in the hearth dwindled again to faint embers. Darcy’s breathing grew shallow as the burden of it all refused to release him. By the time dawn began to light the edges of the horizon, he was feverish, his skin was clammy, and his chest was painfully tight.

He coughed, then winced.

A hard knock at the door jarred him from his restless haze, but he lay still, unable to find the strength to rise.

Fitzwilliam’s voice called through the heavy wood. “Darcy, I am coming in.”

Darcy summoned what little remained of his composure. He heard the door open, followed by footsteps and Fitzwilliam’s sharp intake of breath.

“You are worse,” Fitzwilliam said grimly, and Darcy felt his cousin place a hand on his forehead. “You cannot deny it.”

He sighed weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Send for Mr. Jones.”

Fitzwilliam turned without hesitation, calling for Harris and issuing orders in a commanding tone. Darcy closed his eyes again, hating his weakness and the cloud of recriminations plaguing his mind. He could not quiet his racing thoughts. Pemberley. Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet.

At least finding the apothecary would give Harris an easy excuse to leave the house and arrange to send the letters.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Fitzwilliam had returned. “You should have let me call for him last night,” he said harshly.

Darcy forced a faint smile. “I believed myself stronger than this, but it seems my body is unwilling to cooperate.” He was chilled, damp with perspiration and riddled with shivers that crept along his spine. When he tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness crashed over him, but he managed to prop himself up on several pillows so that his breaths were easier.

“You are no good to anyone if you are ill,” Fitzwilliam muttered, pulling the blankets roughly up around Darcy’s shoulders. “Rest until Mr. Jones arrives.”

Fitzwilliam retreated to the far side of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and his shrewd eyes fixed on Darcy as if daring him to falter further. It was a comfort and an annoyance, not unlike Fitzwilliam himself.

The door creaked open, and Georgiana slipped in, her face pale and drawn. “I heard the servants,” she whispered, her hands twisting nervously in the fabric of her gown.

Darcy forced his lips into a reassuring curve, though it felt more like a grimace. “It is nothing, Georgiana. It is only a cold, but please, you must not be here lest you also fall ill.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she took a hesitant step closer. “You are never unwell, Fitzwilliam. Not like this.”

Fitzwilliam crossed the room, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “He will be well,” he said firmly. “Mr. Jones is on his way. Darcy is too stubborn to let this keep him down for long. Your brother is correct, however, that it will be easier to deal with one patient than two.”

“What of you, then?” she asked with a trace of defiance.

“I am too contrary to fall sick.”

Georgiana’s gaze remained fixed on Darcy. She approached the bedside and gently placed her hand over his. “Promise me you will rest.”

Darcy gave her hand a faint squeeze. He had no choice but to rest. “I promise. But you must not fret.”

She lingered for a moment longer before Fitzwilliam guided her toward the door. “Come, Georgiana. Let him recover in peace.”

With a final, worried glance, she left the room. Fitzwilliam paused in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “Darcy, whatever storm is brewing in your mind, let it wait until you are well. We need you whole.”

His eyelids resisted every effort to remain open. He could not sleep, but it eased the pounding in his head to shut out the light. Unable to face the man who knew him so damned well, he did not attempt to raise them. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone once more as he awaited the arrival of Mr. Jones.

He was sick and he was embarrassed. While no one was immune to illness, Fitzwilliam Darcy was always in control of his emotions. He would banish the thoughts of Mr. Bennet’s blanket until he could act on them. Then he would face the truth, whatever it was—he would have to do so. But not today. Not yet.