Page 7 of To India with Mr. Darcy

J ane Bennet yawned loudly, and Darcy looked over at her in surprise.

“Why don’t you go and get some sleep, dear Jane?” Elizabeth said, looking over at her sister with pity.

“But our uncle has already retired for the evening. And what of you? You also need to rest.”

“I’m not in the slightest bit tired, and you have been sick yourself,” Elizabeth said. “You get some rest, and then later, you and Mr Gardiner can sit with her whilst I rest.” She glanced across the bed at him. “And Mr Darcy, of course. We’ll be all right here, won’t we?”

Darcy cleared his throat, straightening now that there were eyes upon him. “Oh, yes, of course. I’m happy to stay as long as is necessary.”

That was how he came to be quite alone with Elizabeth, but for the sleeping woman between them. As the night drew on, the air became heavy, thick with the scent of salt and warm bodies. Outside, the ship moved steadily forward, the waves lapping rhythmically against the hull, an endless and steady lull. Darcy sat in silence, the only sound in the room the uneven rise and fall of Mrs Gardiner’s breath.

Elizabeth sat opposite him, arms crossed, gaze fixed on her aunt’s face. She had not moved much since their earlier exchange, though her fingers occasionally tightened around the fabric of her gown, betraying her tension.

They had spoken little in the past half-hour, each lost in their own thoughts.

Darcy was not accustomed to sitting in quiet companionship with a woman, and certainly not Elizabeth Bennet. She was so often filled with lightness, with sharp retorts and teasing smiles, that seeing her like this—guarded, still, uncertain—was strange.

But then, he supposed he was behaving unlike himself as well. He had never intended to involve himself in this matter, and yet here he sat, tending to a woman he barely knew, keeping watch with a woman he could not quite understand.

Mrs Gardiner shifted in her sleep, mumbling something too low to be discernible. Elizabeth leaned forward, adjusting the cloth on her forehead with careful fingers.

“She is restless,” she murmured.

“It is to be expected,” Darcy replied. “The fever must run its course.”

She sighed, sitting back again, rubbing at her temple. She looked exhausted, but there was a stubborn tightness to her posture that told him she would not rest—not until she was forced to.

Darcy hesitated, then spoke. “You ought to sleep, Miss Bennet.”

She let out a quiet laugh, though there was no amusement in it. “So you keep saying.”

“And yet you do not listen.”

“I am afraid I am rather infamous for that.”

Darcy exhaled through his nose, unwilling to encourage her levity. “You will be of no use to her if you exhaust yourself.”

Elizabeth turned her head towards him, studying him with an expression he could not decipher. “You speak from experience, I take it.”

Darcy hesitated. He should not answer. He should not share more than was necessary. But something in her voice—something knowing, something careful—unravelled his usual restraint.

“My mother was often unwell,” he admitted after a long pause. “My father rarely left her side, and I... I was told to rest, to remain in my rooms. But I did not wish to.”

Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened, though he could see the intrigue in her eyes. “You wished to help?”

He nodded. “But I was a child. There was nothing I could do.”

Silence fell between them, thick and charged.

Darcy rarely spoke of his mother, not even with Bingley, not even with Georgiana. The memories were not painful, exactly, but they carried a weight he had long since grown accustomed to bearing alone. Speaking of her with Elizabeth came as a surprise even to him.

She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “That must have been difficult.”

Darcy looked away, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. “It was not pleasant.”

She considered him for a moment before sighing, her own posture easing, even if only a little. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate, then. My mother is never truly unwell.”

He arched a brow, glancing at her. “Never?”

“Oh, she believes herself to be unwell, often enough,” she said dryly. “But that is an entirely different matter.”

Darcy smirked before he could stop himself. “You give the impression that she is rather dramatic.”

Elizabeth let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “Just a little.”

The tension in the air softened, and Darcy found himself watching her more closely than he ought to. She was an intriguing creature, to be sure.

Her lips twitched, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. “You and I do not often agree, Mr Darcy,” she mused, tilting her head. “But I see we have at least one thing in common.”

“And what is that?”

She gave him a look that was far too knowing. “We both have families that exasperate us.”

Darcy let out a short breath, shaking his head. “I did not say that.”

“You did not need to.”

He said nothing, but he did not refute it, either.

Elizabeth stretched her legs out slightly, leaning her head back against the wooden wall behind her. She looked weary but not defeated, and he found that rather admirable.

“Tell me, Mr Darcy,” she said, “do you always take charge in times of crisis?”

He glanced at her, brow furrowing. “I do what is necessary.”

“And is it always you who decides what is necessary?”

He hesitated. Yes , he wanted to say. Of course . But the words did not come. He suspected they were not the words she wished to hear.

Elizabeth arched a brow in that way she had. “Ah. You do know how to doubt yourself. I was beginning to wonder.”

Darcy exhaled sharply. “You find amusement in the strangest things, Miss Bennet.”

She smiled, but it faded quickly. “I do not like feeling helpless,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “It is not something I have had much practice in.”

Darcy considered this. Yes. He knew that feeling. He had lived in it for years.

“There is little choice in the matter,” he said at last. “We all feel helpless, at some point or another.”

She studied him for a long moment. He had never been looked at quite like that before, and he did not know what it meant. He cleared his throat, looking away, though he could still feel her eyes on his face.

“It is maddening,” she said after a moment.

Darcy did not disagree.

Silence stretched between them again. The candle flickered lower.

Mrs Gardiner let out a quiet sigh in her sleep, turning slightly onto her side. Elizabeth immediately sat up, her breath catching, but her aunt settled once more.

“She will recover,” Darcy said, before he had even fully considered the words.

“You believe so?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, as though his confidence meant something to her.

“Then I shall believe it, too.”

“But I also believe you ought to get some rest. I shall stay with her.”

Miss Bennet looked at him uncertainly, but eventually she said, “And you will wake me the moment anything changes?”

Darcy couldn’t help but feel a little flash of victory. “Of course.”

“Not Jane or my uncle? I fear her sea sickness is getting worse, and poor Mr Gardiner is positively exhausted.”

Darcy pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing at her reaction.

“Not your sister, nor your uncle. You,” he replied firmly.

“The very moment?”

“The very moment, Miss Bennet,” he replied with an exasperated huff. “Get some rest.”

***

It was almost an hour later that Darcy sat in the chair beside Mrs Gardiner’s bed, his body stiff, his mind restless. He had told Elizabeth to sleep. She had trusted him to watch over her aunt—quite reluctantly, too. And he had done so, attentively, ensuring the fever did not rise further, refreshing the damp cloths as needed, watching for any change.

But now, something was different.

Mrs Gardiner stirred more than before, her breath shallow, her brow furrowed. A faint moan escaped her lips, and she shifted uneasily beneath the covers, her face twisting in discomfort.

Darcy straightened, frowning. He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. Warmer than before. Not dangerously so—not yet—but enough for unease to settle in his chest.

He glanced towards the door. Elizabeth.

Should he wake her? She needed sleep. That much was obvious. She had spent hours fretting, hovering over her aunt, helpless and anxious, unwilling to rest even when it served no purpose. He had insisted she leave, assured her that he would wake her if necessary.

And yet, he hesitated. Could he not manage on his own? He had handled fevers before. He had seen worse than this. Surely it would pass. Perhaps he ought to wake Mr Gardiner instead. But no. He didn’t want Elizabeth to think he had gone against her express wishes.

He wet a cloth again, pressing it to Mrs Gardiner’s forehead. He counted the seconds, waiting for some sign of improvement.

Nothing. Another restless stir. Darcy clenched his jaw.

Damn it.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping softly against the wooden floor, and strode into the hall. He raised his hand to knock, paused, then rapped his knuckles against the door, firm but quiet.

There came a long beat of silence before he heard the movement.

“Yes?” came her voice, thick with sleep.

Darcy exhaled, unprepared for the sound of her half-dreaming voice. The door creaked open a moment later, and there she was, standing in the dim lanternlight, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her gown crumpled from sleep. For a fleeting second, Darcy forgot what he had come to say.

She blinked up at him, confused, then sharpened instantly, her spine straightening. She knew immediately that something was wrong.

“What is it?” she asked, already moving.

“She is restless,” Darcy said carefully. “The fever has not broken. I thought it best—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “It may be nothing. But I thought you should know.”

Elizabeth did not hesitate. She brushed past him, already awake, already focused, already moving towards her aunt’s cabin. Darcy followed.

When they got there, Mrs Gardiner stirred restlessly, her face pale despite the flush of fever, her head shifting against the pillow.

Elizabeth was beside her in an instant. “Oh, Aunt.” She turned swiftly to Darcy, her gaze sharp. “Has she had water?”

“I tried,” he said, “but she was barely responsive.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, thinking quickly. “She must drink. Help me sit her up.”

Darcy obeyed without question, moving instinctively to support Mrs Gardiner’s shoulders. Together, they lifted her carefully, Elizabeth propping her against her chest as Darcy steadied her weight.

Mrs Gardiner’s eyes fluttered open, glassy but aware. “Lizzie?”

Relief softened Elizabeth’s expression. “Yes, Aunt, I’m here.”

She took the cup he had already fetched and pressed it to her aunt’s lips, tilting it gently.

Darcy watched as Mrs Gardiner swallowed. Slowly, weakly—but she swallowed.

Elizabeth exhaled, her fingers trembling for just a second before steadiness returned.

Darcy reached for the cloth again, dampening it, wringing it out with practiced ease before pressing it against the woman’s forehead.

“She will be well,” he murmured, though his voice was softer than before. “We still need to watch over her, it is not the end. But she will be well.”

Elizabeth nodded. She believed him. The silence stretched between them as they continued their quiet work, adjusting blankets, cooling Mrs Gardiner’s skin, ensuring she drank enough.

Finally, Mrs Gardiner settled into a steadier sleep, her breath evening out.

Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her temple. “That was unpleasant.”

“But not unexpected,” Darcy replied. “Such things often get worse before they get better.”

She glanced at him, studying him for a moment before saying, “I suppose I should thank you. Again.”

Darcy looked away, suddenly feeling embarrassed by the vulnerability of the situation. “There is really no need.”

“There is,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I was so flustered earlier. I am not accustomed to feeling that way.”

Darcy considered her, then spoke before he could stop himself. “That is natural.”

Elizabeth blinked, but it was not meant as a reassurance or a platitude. It was simply the truth as he understood it.

She tilted her head. “Even you are flustered at times?” she asked lightly, half teasing—but half curious.

Darcy hesitated, but then to his own surprise, he answered. “Yes. Occasionally.”

Darcy saw her understanding then. She had thought him detached. Controlled and impervious. And perhaps, for the most part, he was. But he had faltered. He had doubted. He had worried.

“Perhaps it is your turn to rest now, Mr Darcy,” she replied softly. “I shall stay with her until morning, but please know how endlessly grateful I am to you for all you have done.”

Darcy nodded, realising he was being dismissed and finding himself oddly disappointed. He had rather liked playing the saviour, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

“Very well,” he replied simply. “Goodnight, Miss Bennet.”