Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Elizabeth Bennet

The sound of a page turning filled her ears. The sound was familiar, peaceful and safe. Elizabeth wrapped herself around the soft scratch of parchment against parchment. Listening, just listening. The sense of being warm tenderly curled around her arms and legs, and she breathed out softly. Unwilling to give up the sensation, Elizabeth took some time before slowly opening an eye. The room was bright, almost blindingly so, like the center of a flame. The, quite suddenly, her world blurred and she felt ill. Her eye squeezed shut, escaping the rupturing pain in her head. A moment later, her hand lifted not of her own volition to turn a page. Safety once more surged through her being. She was protected, no harm could come to her when reading a book, could it? To know this, to feel this shelter of safety shroud her entire body, Elizabeth tried again to open her eyes. The piercing light struck her anew, but she fought through, if only to look upon figure at her side. He cradled her fingers with one hand, the other held a book. He sat stiffly, his posture perfect. His broad shoulders were angled toward the bed, his legs were crossed. 

“Mr. Darcy?” she questioned, yet she had no voice. Her throat was achingly dry, and something more, something horrible. It felt swollen, Elizabeth thought. She could hardly swallow, even the idea made her stomach tumble. Fortunately, her sight began to clear. The light no longer burned as brightly. 

The gentleman lifted her hand into the air to turn the page. The corners of her lips turned up, heat spreading through her fingers. Quite abruptly, the gentleman jerked his head toward Elizabeth. An abrupt squeal rose from her chest, the man was not Mr. Darcy, but a stranger of great likeness to Mr. Darcy.

The question ‘Who?’ formed at her lips. The elegant gentleman did not answer at once, being so surprised. 

“Dear Lord! You are awake. Elizabeth, Elizabeth. My God,” he said in a torrent of words. The gentleman threw his book to the floor, pressing his free hand to her forehead. “Your fever, it is…” He shook his head, utterly speechless.

“Who… you?” Elizabeth cried, her voice no more than a hollow rasp. 

“Right, right,” he repeated, pressing her hand with his own trembling fingers. “I apologize, Elizabeth–Miss Bennet. We have yet to be introduced, but I know you so well. Darcy has told me much of you; and of course, I have been with you since…” His eyes of molten leather softened, saddened. 

“Who… you?” she tried once more, her mouth moving without voice, her head afloat with unsteadiness. 

“I am Lord Ashford Claridge, Earl of Matlock,” he answered hastily. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy’s cousin, who shall return in mere moments.” 

Somehow the fear surging through the marrow of her bones subsided. A familiarity cloaked his man, a familiarity she did not understand. It was like they had met in a dream. “Where… I?” 

The Earl of Matlock followed the movement of her mouth closely, carefully discerning every word she spoke. “You are at Darcy House, in Mayfair, London. Do you not recall?” 

Elizabeth closed her eyes as tears sprung from the corners. She did remember, she remembered a great deal. She remembered much more than she ever cared to. A large hand again cradled her cheek, wiping the tears away. “Take your time,” he said. 

When she found the courage to lift her eyes open, he was there staring down on her, waiting for her to speak. Elizabeth raised her swimming head away from the pillow. Lord Claridge attempted to push her back, but Elizabeth refused. “Help me… sit,” she begged of him, her hand gesturing in the stead of her missing voice. 

“No,” he said firmly. “You have been unconscious for more than five days, Elizabeth. You must rest. Stay where you are.” Their hands were still intertwined, so she made to lift herself with her other arm. A quick, crippling pain ripped across her flesh. Bile rose to her swollen throat. Lord Claridge produced a ewer seemingly from the air. Elizabeth vomited into the porcelain jug as more tears rushed to her eyes. 

A deep voice interrupted from the adjoining room. “Claridge, who are you speaking to? I believed Mrs. Cooper to be in the laundry.”

“Darcy,” Lord Claridge spoke, roughness in his tenor, “Mrs. Cooper is in the laundry.”

“Indeed, so I thought. Also, Bingley refused to leave once more. That man thinks he can coax me into telling him why I sent the servants away. I will notsee him if he calls on the morrow.”  

They turned toward the door as Mr. Darcy stepped through. At seeing Elizabeth awake and half sitting, the gentleman stumbled forward, catching the door handled to keep himself upright. Elizabeth’s smiled, her lips spreading from cheek-to-cheek, a painful movement worth every tormenting pang. He ran across the room, pushed his cousin aside and pressed his palm to her forehead. 

“Call for Farr,” Mr. Darcy breathlessly ordered of Lord Claridge. His hands were suddenly frantic, pressing at her shoulder, sliding his fingertips across her waist, feeling for the heartbeat beneath the flesh of her wrist. Elizabeth grabbled for one of his distracted hands as tears streamed down her cheeks. 

“Shhh,” he implored, his own voice trembling. “All will be well, Elizabeth, I promise. I know you are in a great deal of pain, please hold on for just a short while longer.” Elizabeth furiously shook her head, not knowing how she might possibly say what she must. The streaming tears turned to rasping sobs in her throat, a most uncontrollable thing. “No, Elizabeth, no. Do not cry. You are safe, you will be well. Things will be sorted.” Again, she anxiously shook her head. Mr. Darcy pressed his palm to her cheek in worry. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth, calm down. You might hurt yourself.” 

Elizabeth lifted his hand to push it to her heart. “Mr. Darcy,” she cried, her voice no more than a husk of emotion. 

“I cannot–I cannot understand,” he said in panic. “Oh God, what is it?” Mr. Darcy sat before her and placed his ear to her chest. “I hear nothing amiss. Claridge, has she been in great pain? Has she been breathing evenly? Why did you not call for me at once?” he shouted. 

“Darcy, I do believe it is you who must calm down. Elizabeth is awake. Take a moment to accept this to be happening.” Reaching around his cousin, Lord Claridge dabbed at Elizabeth’s eyes with a handkerchief, entirely disregarding the agitated man between them. “Elizabeth, take a deep breath and try speaking again. I will watch your lips closely.” 

“Mr. Darcy,” she mouthed slowly, looking directly at the gentleman, unable to say more. It was enough.

“Elizabeth” he whimpered, his eyes glassy pools. Then drawing in a wracking lungful of air to compose himself, he smiled and said, “I have been most eager to welcome you awake, milady. I am sorry to have been absent.” 

The two remained staring at each other for some time, only when a small elderly woman entered the room with a squeal did they look away. Lord Claridge handed the woman the ewer, and she scurried away to dispose of the foul-smelling sick. Mr. Darcy’s cousin moved to the other side of the bed, taking a plush chair and again crossed his legs.

“What happened?” Darcy questioned of his cousin, nodding at door where the elderly lady fled.

“But a small accident,” Lord Claridge returned, offering Elizabeth a compassionate frown. “I am afraid the lady here inadvertently shifted onto her injured arm. The movement was most painful and made her ill.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, I am sorry.” Mr. Darcy pressed his forehead to hers, soon pulling back with his nose wrinkling. He reached for washcloth submerged in basin, ringing the excess water away. With a practiced hand, he slid his hand under her neck and wiped her face clean. He acted as though he had performed the task a hundred times over. Elizabeth grimaced, wondering if indeed he had done this a hundred times over.  

“Elizabeth, do you recall how your arm was harmed?” asked the earl, mistaking her grimace. She nodded. “My man, his name is Berkes, he reset your shoulder some days past now. You mustn’t move it.” 

Despite his warning, she wished to sit up and turned to Mr. Darcy to help her.

“No, Elizabeth, you must remain laying down. There are–” he slipped a quick glance to his cousin. “Your injuries are exceedingly delicate,” finished Mr. Darcy, returning his gaze to her. 

The memory of that moment in the alley flashed like crimson lightening in Elizabeth’s head and ruptured against her flesh. She squirmed, almost as if she could escape the recollection. Instead, it sent a scourge of fire through her body, stealing her breath. 

“I must,” she silently begged, twisting her lips to keep from crying out in again. “See… wound.” Elizabeth pointed at her side when the gentlemen scowled in confusion. 

“No,” Mr. Darcy said vehemently.

Elizabeth moaned raspingly, the best noise she could manage and reached to take his hand. Mr. Darcy gently released her neck in order to twine their fingers together.

“You are most stubborn.” 

“Yes,” she mouthed. Using their folded hands to point to the wound, Elizabeth once more urged him to help her sit. 

“You remember being… being stabbed?” he asked in hushed murmurs. She looked away and nodded. “I do not believe looking upon it would be of any use.” Elizabeth tugged at their hands. She would not be denied. “No!” he said.

A fervent nod defied him. In return, a mean glare stared down on her. “Now,” Elizabeth pressed soundlessly, squeezing his hand. She needed to see it, to know it was real. 

Mr. Darcy and Lord Claridge shared a dark look across the bed, before the former finally said, “Fine, but only if you agree to drink some wine first. It is specially prepared to help with your healing.”

This was a deal Elizabeth could agree to and smiled in submission. Mr. Darcy very carefully pulled the bedclothes back. He wound his arm under her shoulders, shifting her ever so slowly upright. Elizabeth could not stop the mute shriek of agony. He paused, but she nudged for him to continue. Each inch of her body throbbed, nothing remained of her previous healthful self. All which belonged to Elizabeth now were foreign limbs of stiff, striking torture. After a few minutes, Mr. Darcy had her propped up against the headboard with the help of Lord Claridge. Several pillows surrounded her back and hips. She was much too stiff to possibly be contented, still this would do for the present. 

“The wine,” Mr. Darcy reminded, dabbing at the sweat gathered on his noble brow. Elizabeth raised her chin in assent. Before he presented her the cup, he used the same cloth to wipe her brow and neck, for she too was covered in a sheen of moisture. Elizabeth shut her eyes to his administrations, unconsciousness echoing through the corridors of her mind. She pushed the darkness aside. Completing the mopping of her fiery flesh, Elizabeth opened her eyes to find the gentleman pouring a thick, nearly black wine into a tall silver cup. Mr. Darcy placed it to her lips. Elizabeth managed a mouthful before choking and coughing on the vile liquid. 

“It is revolting, I know,” Lord Claridge said, smiling secretly. “I could manage no more than a sip myself.” To be sure, it tasted of sugared gutter sludge, but the true difficulty came in the swallowing itself. Elizabeth raised her hand to her flaming throat. With the slightest graze of her fingertips, the bruises pulsed as though horse hooves stomping against her neck. “Were you choked?” he questioned quietly. 

“Yes,” she returned, too many memories now assaulting her thoughts. Instinctively, Elizabeth retrieved Mr. Darcy’s hand, grasping for whatever security his encompassing grip delivered. They each sat silently until Elizabeth recalled her task. Looking down, and to her utter horror, she found a large slit in the shift she wore, exposing her middle. Beneath the flaps of fabric, a thick white cloth encircled her waist. A burning, heart-pounding heat instantly overtook her cheeks, a heat apart from the fever. 

“Your surgeon, Mr. Farr, requires quick access to the wounds,” Mr. Darcy explained. “You have bled a great deal, necessitating several changes of–of bandages, as well as attire. However, for the last day the bleeding ceased. Perhaps this is why you have woken?”

Glancing between him, Lord Claridge and her naked skin, the blush only spread. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth made to lift the bandage away. 

“No,” he swiftly forbid, folding his hand over hers. Elizabeth shook her head, she must see what happened, she must separate the nightmares from the reality. She beseeched him with her eyes. “Fine, but Iwill show you.” Moving her hand away, she permitted him access to the bandage. Mr. Darcy expertly untied the knot near her bellybutton then cautiously pulled the white linen binding aside. For all of the raging agony tugging at her consciousness, Elizabeth thought it would be larger. “The other wound on your back, where the dagger went in, is–” He hesitated, she waited. “There is a great deal of bruising, it is wider, it is worse. However, the surgeon appears unconcerned for the differing conditions.”

“See it?” she asked, yawning. Elizabeth then repeated herself, for they did not understand her. 

“You must sleep, Elizabeth,” Lord Claridge insisted. 

“Mirror?” 

“Not at this time,” Mr. Darcy said sadly. “You should try more wine before you rest.” 

Elizabeth nodded and agreed to wait. To see one of the wounds would be enough for the present–the nightmare and the reality had melded into one. “What… happened?” she said, leaning her head back as Mr. Darcy assisted with the wine. The sludge trickled uneasily down into her stomach. 

“A story for another day, my dearest.” Mr. Darcy recovered the wound. 

Tilting her neck, she gave him a withering look. 

“No,” he said in finality. A favorite word of his. 

Giving in, and perhaps conceding he might be correct, Elizabeth mouthed, “Thank you… you saved me.” Drowsiness crawled beneath her eyelids, but she did not want to sleep yet. 

The gentleman begged her to repeat herself, unable to grasp the silent, mumbled words. 

Elizabeth waited for Mr. Darcy to lift his head and look closely on her lips. “You saved me,” she mouthed slowly. 

“I savedyou?” he echoed, his brows pulling together. Sleep and worry had previously drained the color from his handsome face. But with these words, fury shadowed his wearied face. Mr. Darcy jerked away and began to pace beside the hearth. “I did not save you, I brought this uponyou, Elizabeth. I was the one to thrust that knife into your flesh. I am the one who drove you to death’s door and knocked. I bear this responsibility as I might a manacle to my ankle.”

Elizabeth’s body clenched at his exclamation, a terrible bolt of anguish sliced down her spine, she could not breathe as the pain rocked to the very core of her being. Elizabeth fell back, rolling onto her bound arm. It was too much; the darkness enfolded her every sense, stealing her into unconsciousness. The last she heard was Mr. Darcy shouting her name. 

When Elizabeth awoke, night darkened the room. Several figures were about; she could make out no more than silhouettes, excepting one. Mr. Darcy sat on the bed holding her hand, his thumb slowly stroking her fingers. He spoke with someone in hushed tones. 

“It looks as though we have a spy listening in on our conversation.” Elizabeth turned her eyes toward the foot of the bed. A man in a red coat leaned against the bedpost smiling back at her. 

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said quickly, turning to face her. He brushed his palm against her forehead. “You’ve awoken,” he whispered. 

Elizabeth did no more than stare back at him. 

“How do you feel?” Mr. Darcy asked, his palm drifting from her face to her neck. Elizabeth flinched away, ripping her hand from his. “Your throat, does it hurt dreadfully?”

Another man approached, Elizabeth shifted her attention to him. In the dim lighting, she could see little more than the white of his small eyes. He appeared to pull at thin whiskers on his upper lip, as though to make a fine impression on her. Elizabeth spun her head in the opposite direction. She found a window looking out to a cloudless night and two tall men before it, their vague figures obstructing the view. The moon peeked behind the head of shorter of the two, Elizabeth focused her attention on the harmless object of the heavens.

“Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy spoke softly, his voice disquieted. “I would like you to meet Sir Walter Whitely and Mr. Farr, they are your doctors. Sir Walter was the physician of King George. Mr. Farr…” he faltered. 

 “He spared your life, my dear,” said a man with an aged voice. His words were warm and smooth and yet breathy all at once. She did not acknowledge him; indeed, Elizabeth allowed every sentence which followed to lift into the air as though smoke, dissipating into nothingness. 

One of the tall men stepped forward after minute or two, his handsome, familiar face blocking the view of the moon entirely. “Elizabeth,” he said firmly, “Darcy was not the one to stab you.” Elizabeth nodded. Of this, she was fully aware. 

The other man approached as well. Twisting her neck, she reached her eyes to the moon, but she simply could not lift her head far enough to do so. Her limbs were made of liquid sand, her flesh clung angrily to her bones, she felt her body melting into the soft bed as it slowly consumed her. With little choice, she glared at the unknown man beside Lord Claridge. He was striking of sorts; something enigmatic and dangerous exuded from his heavy, dark features. Elizabeth stared him down until he was forced to shift his vision to her lips. 

“Miss Bennet, the man who stabbed you is dead. He died in a fire soon after your own… assault,” he said quietly.  

Again, Elizabeth shook her head just vaguely enough to make her point. Lifting her chin, she glowered at Lord Claridge. “Quill,” she demanded. Lord Claridge snapped his fingers to someone Elizabeth could not make out. In moments, a quill, ink and parchment were before her. Unable to use her dominant left hand due to the sling around that arm, she crudely scribbled the name ‘Mrs. Fitzpatrick’ with her shaking, wearied and stiff right fingers. It was all she could manage. The men looked at each other in complete bewilderment. With a huff, Elizabeth first pointed to the name and then to the wound on her waist. After a moment of consideration, understanding came to them. The unknown man departed at once, nearly running into the adjoining room. Fortunately, the moon came back into view. 

“Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy tried again, speaking warily, “Mr. Farr would like to look you over. Furthermore, he feels as though you must try to drink some broth. It will help you to regain strength.” 

With one last glance at the moon, Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to return. 

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Thanks for reading! I know I'm way late (again), but I'm finally done with this school term and I will have a lot more time. Plus, I found myself somewhat wrapped up in edits on the previous chapters. 

~Jenna