Page 26 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

T he pounding from downstairs jolted Elizabeth from her troubled sleep. She sat upright, heart racing, as muffled voices filtered up from below. Moments later, a knock came at her door.

“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Hill called urgently. “A messenger from Netherfield has come. He says it is urgent.”

Elizabeth was already out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown as she opened the door. “What is it?”

“Mr. Darcy, miss. He is very ill and calling for you.”

Her breath caught, but she recovered quickly. “Mr. Hill, please send someone in the cart to Meryton. Wake Old Mrs. Simmons and say that they have need of her skills at Netherfield. She can act as my chaperone.” Mrs. Annesley might be willing, but Elizabeth did not wish to presume.

“Yes, Miss Bennet.”

While Mr. Hill hurried off, Elizabeth dressed and pinned up her hair in a simple knot. She would not allow herself to think of Mr. Darcy succumbing to his illness. He would be well, and when he was, then she could account for her impropriety.

Mamma was waiting for her when she exited her chamber. “Elizabeth, have Mrs. Hill travel over with you and send her home when Mrs. Simmons arrives. I have told her we will allow her to have the day tomorrow in recompense.”

“Thank you, Mamma,” Elizabeth replied, anxious to be on her way.

For once, her mother did not launch into a long set of instructions. Instead, she took Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “If they lack for anything, send word. I will pray for him, Lizzy.”

“He will be well, Mamma,” Elizabeth said, hating how pinched her voice sounded. “Papa is recovering. So will Mr. Darcy.” Even as she said the words, she understood that sometimes young men died while older men lived.

Within twenty minutes of Mrs. Hills’s summons, Elizabeth was in Mr. Darcy’s carriage, trundling down the drive.

When they arrived at Netherfield, Elizabeth flew up the stone steps and was met by the butler whose expression betrayed no small degree of relief at her presence. He led her swiftly to Mr. Darcy’s chamber, his silence emphasizing the urgency of the situation.

The chamber was lit with a dozen candles and the fire. Mr. Darcy lay motionless on the grand four-poster bed, his complexion nearly white other than the flush of fever, his pallor stark against his dark, damp curls. His breathing was shallow and laboured, each rasp a painful sound that cut through the tense quiet of the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward to usher her inside, his usually amiable countenance deeply lined with fatigue. Mr. Harris hovered near the bedside, wringing a wet cloth as he gave instructions to a maid who was filling a bowl with chunks of ice.

Elizabeth took it all in, though her eyes were drawn inexorably back to the man in the bed. “Mr. Harris,” she said firmly, “what is being done?”

The valet started, then gestured to the bowl. “We have been trying to bring his fever down, Miss Bennet, but it is stubborn. He has taken nothing all day, and Mr. Jones’s last visit offered little hope beyond continuing what we are already doing.”

If he had taken nothing all day, either his stomach or his throat was at fault. Perhaps both. “Is his throat inflamed?”

“Yes, Miss Bennet.”

“Where is the tincture of myrrh?”

Mr. Harris looked confused. “The what?”

The colonel shook his head and gestured to a table cluttered with powders and tonics. Elizabeth picked up a candle and examined what was there. “It came in the basket. I mentioned it to you . . .”

“I beg your pardon, then,” the colonel said. “I had never heard of it, so Mrs. Nicholls must still have it.”

“Please send a maid for it, if you would,” she said. “It will treat the infection in his throat.”

The colonel hastened to call for a maid, and Elizabeth turned to study her patient. Mr. Darcy looked so unlike the man who had teased her when he won their chess game, who had seemed to be regaining his full health from whatever had plagued him.

A low, guttural sound came from his lips. “Elizabeth.”

Her heart clenched. His voice, weak though it was, reached her soul in a way that no grand declaration ever could.

“I am here, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, moving to the bedside. She knelt, ignoring the discomfort of the hard floor, and took one of his fevered hands in hers. “I am here.”

“Apologise. I should have said . . .” He groaned and sank back into the pillows.

Colonel Fitzwilliam returned “He has been asking for you, though he will surely be furious with me when he recovers.”

Elizabeth turned to him, frowning. “Why should he be angry?”

“Because I sent for you,” the colonel admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “He did not want anyone to see him in this state. Especially you.” He hesitated, then added, “He was adamant that neither you nor Georgie be exposed to his illness.”

Elizabeth shook her head, her grip on Darcy’s hand tightening. “It does not matter. If he has asked for me, I will not leave him.”

The colonel smiled faintly. “I thought as much.”

Elizabeth glanced toward the door. “Is Miss Darcy being kept informed of her brother’s state?”

“Yes, but he made it clear before his fever worsened that Georgiana was to be kept away. He did not want . . .” His eyelids pinched shut for a moment before he took a deep breath and continued. “He did not want this to be her final memory of him.”

In spite of the pain this caused her, Elizabeth was grateful the colonel had trusted her with the truth. She leaned closer to Mr. Darcy, brushing damp curls away from his forehead. “No more of that,” she whispered in his ear. “Rest, swallow the medicines, and let us take care of you.”

Mr. Darcy stirred slightly, his lips moving as though trying to form words. He moaned her name.

She leaned over to speak in his ear softly. “I am here, Mr. Darcy.”

Soon a maid appeared with the tincture Elizabeth had requested, and she managed to coax Mr. Darcy into taking a dose. “There now,” she whispered to him. “This will help, but you should eat something with it.” Mr. Harris hurried to the fire and brought back a small bowl of broth. The men helped Mr. Darcy into a more upright position, and he was able to swallow three spoonfuls.

Elizabeth set the bowl aside and turned to the colonel, noting the dark crescents under his eyes, the wrinkled clothing, and the whiskers he had not bothered to shave. “Colonel, you too must rest. You will be of no use to him if you fall ill yourself.”

“I cannot leave him,” Fitzwilliam protested.

“You cannot leave him uncared for,” she corrected him. “But I am here, and Mrs. Simmons will arrive any moment, so you will go. Sleep for a few hours. I will send for you immediately if there is any change.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Fitzwilliam nodded. “Very well. I see the sense of what you say. But if he takes a turn, do not wait to summon me. Not even a moment.”

“I will do as you say,” Elizabeth assured him.

Colonel Fitzwilliam put his hand on the doorframe and glanced back over his shoulder before stepping out into the hall.

A knock at the still open door less than half an hour later announced the arrival of Old Mrs. Simmons, little Davey Simmons’s grandmother. The elderly woman stepped in, her presence immediately giving Elizabeth hope as she set about assessing the situation with practiced efficiency.

Elizabeth stood and addressed Mr. Harris. “You should rest as well. Mrs. Simmons and I will tend to Mr. Darcy for now.”

Mr. Harris hesitated, then relented. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. If you require my assistance, simply ring for me. I will return later.”

Once they were alone, Elizabeth and Mrs. Simmons worked in quiet harmony. Old Mrs. Simmons outlined a regimen of cool compresses and medicines, dipping a clean cloth into the willow bark tea and showing Elizabeth how to trickle the liquid into Mr. Darcy’s mouth drop by drop. Elizabeth set to work without hesitation, alternating between encouraging Mr. Darcy to take both the nourishment of broth to strengthen him and the medicine that would help lower the fever.

“Wherever did you find the myrrh?” Mrs. Simmons inquired when it was time for another dose.

“My Uncle Gardiner imports it for the apothecaries in town,” Elizabeth answered, her eyes never leaving Mr. Darcy’s face. At least he seemed to be sleeping more comfortably.

As the hours passed, Elizabeth remained by his side, speaking softly to him whenever he stirred. “You must continue to fight this, Mr. Darcy,” she murmured, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. “You have so much yet to do. We all need you.”

Mr. Darcy’s lips moved again, his voice a little stronger this time. “But the blanket.”

The blanket. She knew that something about their discussion that night had upset him, but why the blanket? She exchanged a puzzled glance with Mrs. Simmons, but the older woman merely shrugged. “He’s fevered, my dear. Often, they speak of nonsense in such states.”

Yet Elizabeth could not shake the feeling that it meant something, that even in the throes of such an illness, Mr. Darcy’s mind was hard at work. It mattered not, for she must first help ensure his recovery.

When the sun was high in the sky and exhaustion began to claim her, Mrs. Simmons intervened gently. “Go and rest, Miss Bennet. Call for Mrs. Nicholls. I shall advise her, and then I shall rest for a time as well.”

Elizabeth hesitated but finally nodded and rang for the housekeeper.

Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared in his shirtsleeves, rubbing one eye. “How is he?”

“He is cooler, though that is common enough in the early part of the day,” Mrs. Simmons replied.

“I must apologise,” he said. “I should have thought to have rooms prepared for you.”

Mrs. Nicholls stepped into the chamber; she must already have been on her way upstairs. “Miss Darcy anticipated as much and made the arrangements early this morning.”

Elizabeth murmured her thanks and retreated to a nearby room where sleep quickly overtook her. She awoke some hours later to the sound of voices in the hall. Dressing swiftly, she ventured to her door, drawn toward the familiar cadence of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice.

“And what happens if Darcy dies?” the colonel demanded, frustration evident. “What will you do with your secret orders then?”

Elizabeth stilled, her pulse quickening as she listened. She pressed her ear to the slight space between the door and the jamb.

A reply came from a voice she did not know, measured and unyielding. “Mr. Darcy would have explained in his will who would be handling his affairs. He leaves nothing to chance.”

Fitzwilliam sighed heavily. “I need to know, Anders, so I can reassure him.”

The other man did sound regretful. “I am sorry, sir, but my orders were very clear.”

Elizabeth’s mind raced. Reassure him. That was what Mr. Darcy needed. She did not know what secrets the men spoke of, but she could at least confess her feelings. He had been very clear with his own, and she could do the same for him, now that she knew what they were. Indeed, it might be her only chance—no. It would not. But still, she wished him to know. She opened the door and hurried past the colonel and two surprised men to cross to Mr. Darcy’s room.

Old Mrs. Simmons was already there, wringing out a cold cloth. “Miss Bennet, you have not been abed long enough.”

“Is he any better?” Elizabeth inquired as she again took Mr. Darcy’s hand in hers.

“He is no worse” was the reply.

Elizabeth reached for his other hand, and when both were safe in her own, she leaned over him. “Mr. Darcy,” she murmured in his ear, pouring everything she felt for him into the words. “You must hear me. Whatever troubles you, whatever burdens your heart, you are not alone. I will stand by you through everything. I love you, Mr. Darcy, and I will never leave you.”

His fingers tightened around hers, his grip surprisingly strong. Tears stung her eyes, but she held firm.

There was no question of her returning to her bed. For hours, she stayed at his side as the servants and the colonel moved about her. She coaxed him to swallow tea and broth and his tinctures, she laid cool cloths on his forehead, she kissed his hands, and always, always, she spoke soft words of comfort and reassurance. As the sunlight lengthened and then faded, disappearing into twilight, the fever that had gripped Mr. Darcy for days began to wane. Elizabeth sagged with relief, her heart swelling with gratitude.

Colonel Fitzwilliam had just called for the candles to be lit when Mr. Darcy stirred, his lips moving as if to speak. She leaned closer, catching the faintest whisper: “Is it the same?”

Her brow furrowed, confusion mingling with hope. The mystery could wait—for now, Mr. Darcy’s recovery was all that mattered.

The faint sounds of raised voices roused Darcy from the haze of his long, strange dreams. His body ached and his mind, though sluggish, began to clear as he strained to make sense of the words drifting into his awareness.

“I will not leave,” said a voice he knew as well as his own.

But how had she come to be here?

“Elizabeth, you must,” his cousin insisted. “It would not do for Darcy to wake and find you here. He would be mortified to learn that I not only allowed you to tend to him but encouraged it.”

Of course Fitzwilliam had tossed his instructions to the wind. But as it was clear she had not been taken ill, he found he could not care. He was glad, very glad, that she was here. She had said something of great importance to him.

“I care not for propriety, Colonel,” Miss Bennet shot back, her words pointed but not unkind. “I shall not leave until I see with my own eyes that he is awake and recovering.” She paused. “I have earned that much.”

Darcy’s heart twisted at her words. Her care, the devotion—they felt too precious to be real, and for a moment, he feared he was still caught in the throes of some delusion.

Summoning what little strength he could muster, Darcy forced his heavy eyelids open. The dim light of early morning greeted him, and as he turned his head, his gaze fell on the two figures near the doorway. Elizabeth, cheeks flushed, stood with her arms crossed, staring up at Fitzwilliam, who looked both exhausted and exasperated.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy croaked, his voice weak but clear enough to cut through their argument. He had more right to use her Christian name than his cousin did.

Both heads turned sharply toward him. Elizabeth’s face softened instantly, relief flooding her expression. Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, looked as though he had been caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen.

“Cousin,” Darcy said hoarsely, his voice gaining a modicum of strength. “You are in very deep trouble.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to respond, but Darcy ignored him, turning his attention to Elizabeth. Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand and extended it toward her.

She moved swiftly to his side, her small hand slipping into his. It was warm, strong, and real.

“You are awake,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly as she spoke. “You gave us all quite a fright, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy swallowed. “I do apologise. It seems I have caused no small amount of work for everyone.” He glared at Fitzwilliam, who tossed up his hands in mock surrender.

“You are welcome,” his cousin said dryly. “Though it appears my efforts are not appreciated.”

Elizabeth bestowed a quick smile upon him. “Thank you, Colonel,” she said, then turned her attention back to Darcy.

“I shall return, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam yawned before he left the room, leaving them alone with an older woman who sat near the corner with a knowing smile and two busy knitting needles.

Darcy shifted slightly, his fingers tightening around Elizabeth’s hand. “Did I dream it?” he asked quietly, his dark eyes searching hers. “I think . . . I believed I heard you say you loved me. Was it real, or nothing more than something my addled mind conjured?”

Her lips turned up into a soft smile, her bright eyes—were those tears gathering? “It was very real, Mr. Darcy, and entirely true.”

His breath caught as he studied her face. “I would offer for you this instant,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion, “but I cannot even stand to ask you properly.”

Elizabeth’s laugh was a soft, musical sound, and full of affection. “Nothing about this has been particularly proper,” she teased, her gaze warm. “Though I did have a married woman with me at all times while I was in the sickroom.”

“That is true,” he said thoughtfully. “You are entirely compromised. I am afraid there is nothing for it now.”

She was so surprised by the jest that the laugh she attempted to suppress came out sounding like the snort of a horse. Her cheeks flushed as she clapped her hands over her mouth. “Forgive me.” She shook her head at him.

“But you will marry me?”

“If you ask me nicely.”

It was his turn to chuckle, but he felt his eyes growing heavier. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“You need only thank me by listening to Mrs. Simmons and getting well,” Elizabeth replied softly. “Now that you are back with us, I will have to return to Longbourn.”

He nodded, fighting to remain awake until then.

“Sleep,” she urged, her voice a soothing balm. “It is the best thing for you. And your reward for obeying Mrs. Simmons will be that I shall call on your sister in the drawing room here at Netherfield that much sooner. With my mother, of course.”

“My sister?”

“And if you happen to be in the room, you of course may remain.”

Darcy smiled and nodded, holding her gaze for a moment longer before finally letting his eyes drift closed. Perhaps it would not be so bad, living at Pemberley with the Bennets, so long as Elizabeth was by his side.

When she left the room, Fitzwilliam reappeared almost immediately, his expression carefully neutral. “I take it I am forgiven, then?” he asked lightly.

He opened one eye just enough to meet his cousin’s gaze. “No.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “I will be. You cannot stay angry with me for long.”

“I believe I can.”

“Rest well, cousin.”

Darcy grunted. “I shall, as soon as you stop barging in and out of my chamber.”

“More irritability from you! I must tell Georgie that you are on the mend at last.”

“Do not allow her in here,” Darcy warned, his voice faltering.

His cousin folded his arms over his chest. “Do all that Mrs. Simmons says, then, and I shall not.”

Mrs. Simmons hummed something soothing, and before he could say anything else to Fitzwilliam, Darcy fell into a restful sleep.