Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mr. Darcy

If only things could be easier, simpler. Elizabeth awoke, and upon first seeing him, she smiled as though meeting the daylight for the first time. Darcy could have wept, but he did not, he would not–for her. He must be strong–for her. Then he lost her, again. Elizabeth tumbled into a deep and unsympathetic unconsciousness. She was tortured by fever and restless dreams for more than a day. Darcy refused to leave her side, praying and pleading for her eyes to open once more. When they did, Elizabeth’s previous joy left her entirely. She was cold, unspeaking and angry. This was an anger he had never seen in her before, one of emptiness and indifference. He ached for the horrors she battled, and he knew it was the ones of the mind which now warped her most of all. 

Mrs. Cooper worried past the waiting men, her expression tired, sad. She was such a small lady, yet forceful. Being the housekeeper of Darcy House since before his birth, Mrs. Cooper was nearing, if not more than, sixty-years-old. She did not seem to be such an age until these last days while nursing Elizabeth. 

“What is it, Mrs. Cooper?” Darcy demanded. He barred her from scurrying out of the room once again without a report, only to return with a towel or some other such trifle.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy, I have nothing new to report. I am certain Mr. Farr will speak with you shortly.” She turned her head to the side, intending for her master to step away. He did not. 

“Tell us at once, Mrs. Cooper!” Darcy crossed his arms, unmoving. Lord Claridge and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined their cousin. The old woman would not defy Mr. Darcy, particularly one she revered as though a son. 

“Oh, but Mr. Darcy, I do not… I am certain it is… Do you wish to remove Miss Bennet from your care soon?”

“Certainly not,” Darcy returned furiously. Three days had passed since Elizabeth woke the second time. Three days and she refused to look on Darcy if at all possible. Three days and she would speak to no one but Berkes. Three days, and she healed physically, but nothing more. Only as she slept, and the dreams crept in, did she show any hint of the woman he knew to be hiding within her. Elizabeth held his hand as though a torrential wave might carry her away deep underwater, not to return. Darcy would never allow her to go so far into the watery depths; though he knew not how to rescue her either. “Tell us what concerns you so, Mrs. Cooper.”  

“I cannot be sure, of course,” she hemmed. “But, it is just that…” Mr. Darcy drew in a sharp breath, his patience retreating like a drop of rain on a red-hot coal. “Miss Bennet has taken to dismissing me when her wounds need mending. She watches Mr. Farr with such precise vision, I cannot help but think she is learning the procedures. Whenever Mr. Burkes adjusts her sling, she follows directly behind him, mirroring his administrations as best she can–under the circumstances,” said Mrs. Cooper in a rush of words. 

“What are you suggesting?” Darcy asked, growing frantic. 

Mrs. Cooper dropped her eyes to the floor. “Miss Bennet acts as though she must know these measures so she can perform them on her own–as though she will soon be on her own. Miss Bennet asks, repeatedly, to leave her bed. She wishes to walk, yet she does not have the strength as yet. I fear she will attempt to walk on her own. If Miss Bennet falls–”

Mr. Darcy waved his hand, dismissing the housekeeper. Unease kindled dangerously beneath his flesh. Directing his troubled gaze toward the bed chambers, he clenched and unclenched his fists. 

“Claridge,” he said quietly, “What we spoke of the other day, I am afraid we have reached such a point.”

“Indeed,” he agreed at once. “My wife and sister are most willing.” 

“I will accompany him,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

“I thank you, both of you.” Darcy bowed his head, taking another deep, sharp breath. “We will speak tonight when you return.” Without another word, he made his way into the bedchambers, sent Mr. Farr and his apprentice away and closed the doors behind him. They were alone. 

Elizabeth struggled to conceal the skin exposed to his view, failing miserably with her hand shaking and unable to grasp at the folds of fabric. 

“Please, allow me to help you,” Darcy offered, doing all he could to disguise his frustrations. He sat beside her in the chair he occupied every night and day as he anxiously watched over Elizabeth. “I am exceedingly familiar with changing your bandages.” 

Burning brightly, Elizabeth pulled her lips into a tight line and turned her head away as Darcy gently worked to set the dressings and shift to right. 

“I am not leaving, Elizabeth,” he said, finishing, “not until we speak. I know you are angry. I know you are in terrible pain. Elizabeth, I know you are scared. Nevertheless, we must speak.”

“Leave me be,” she rasped, her chest raising in a sob. 

“No, Elizabeth. I am not leaving you, nor are you alone… never again,” he added quietly. She peeked at him over her shoulder, but said nothing. 

And so they sat for a long time–silent. Elizabeth did all she could not to move, but every breath tugged at her wounds. Darcy stared as she shifted in every direction to seek any minute measure of comfort. He listened as she silently yelped and voicelessly wept at the pain. His jaw clenched, his fists curled, his nose flared, but every time he made to help, she pushed him away. Finally, Elizabeth fell into a restive slumber, her hand reaching out for his moments before her eyes closed. Darcy watched her sleep, running his fingers through her hair or stroked her cheek whenever she whimpered in pain. 

He so desperately wished there was something to offer her for the discomfort, but Elizabeth refused the laudanum prescribed by Mr. Farr after only two doses. Darcy, Claridge and Mrs. Cooper begged her to take the dram; she cared nothing for their opinions. Berkes, to Darcy’s utter indignation, sided with Elizabeth. She told the mercenary that the laudanum gave her bad dreams. Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitantly remained neutral. 

During the time they sat alone, the sun slid below the horizon, the wind sang against the window panes, the fire crackled and waned with each subsequent log Darcy tossed into the hearth. Yet, Elizabeth would not open her mouth to speak, even after she woke. Eight chimes of the wall clock, and at last she gave in, saying, “Fine, what do you… wish of me?” Her whispering voice rasped deep from within her swollen throat. The words were faint and heavy with discomfort. Elizabeth cried out as she twisted her body in his direction. Darcy reached out for her, doing what he could to ease her movements. 

Panting, sweat drenching her face, Elizabeth rested her head against the pillows propped behind her back. “If you wish me to leave, then you must…” Elizabeth swallowed whatever words stuck in her throat, then spoke slowly. Every word an effort. “I will need some–I have… nothing, everything I had was… was stolen from me. I m-must write to my father, though I cannot know… if he will help me.” 

“How will you write the letter?” Darcy prodded. “You can hardly keep your fingers from trembling.” 

Elizabeth frowned, “Berkes will… write for me.” 

Darcy reflected her frown. A swift bond formed between Elizabeth and the hardened man who served his cousin in constant loyalty. Still, whenever Darcy moved about her room, Elizabeth’s eyes surreptitiously followed him. This, he took comfort in and made certain never to be away for more than a few minutes at a time. 

“And if your father refuses, Elizabeth, what shall you do? Indeed, in your letter to me, I was informed that Mr. Bennet would no longer provide for you.” 

Closing her eyes, though unable to hide the welling tears, Elizabeth took a deep breath. A terrible mistake, for she let free a wracking screech. Darcy was out of his chair at once, pressing his hands to her wounds. A steady, firm pressure appeared to lessen the pain, a trick of Mr. Farr’s, of course. When she could breathe evenly once more, he slowly released his hands. He averted his eyes to the trickle of blood oozing through the white cloth–a concern for after their conversation.  

Darcy resumed his chair, as well as their conversation. “Who could you possibly go to?”

“M-My uncle?” 

“Why would he help you, Elizabeth?”

“He wouldn’t,” she murmured, falling into her defense of looking toward the window. 

“You were going to leave the country. Where to?”

“France,” she answered, lost in whatever laid beyond the glass pane. 

“Why France?” Darcy’s voice quivered on the edge of anger. 

“Mr. Ian McKay… lives in Le Havre. He has always been… so kind to me. A liberal man. I thought he… might help me procure a l-living… of sorts.” 

“Ian McKay,” repeated Darcy, “do I know of this Mr. McKay?”

Elizabeth dipped her chin, shaking her head. “I told you of him on the night… w-we spent together.” 

“Is he the man who kissed you in the garden? You were going to him?”

She nodded, keeping her chin down.

“Right, I see,” he returned in full agitation. “And Berkes tells me you do not recall making your way from Whitechapel to Berkeley Square.” Elizabeth lifted her midnight eyes, that endless stare searching him. “If that might be true, then answer me this: do you recall what you told me just before… before falling unconscious?” 

“No, I–” she lifted her hand, looking to her fingertips. The nails were broken and jagged, small cuts and bruises dotted her palm and forearm. “I have only passing glimpses… of anything after being… I can taste the blood and the… the feel of dirt beneath my fingers. And you,” she whispered, turning her head toward him. “You holding me. Then… nothing. What did I say?”

Darcy hastily swiped at the tear running down his cheek and dipped his eyes to his lap. “What were you going to tell me at Finsbury Square?” Keeping her eyes trained on him, she stuttered and stopped. “I know, Elizabeth. I know about James.”

“How… I…” Tears came fast to her eyes at this, her voice wracked in dry, heaving whimpers. “I never… knew how to tell you. How could I ever… He was never meant to be. James–” Elizabeth could not continue. Darcy pushed himself atop the bed, pressing her face to his shoulder. He held her, letting the tears wash through his clothing. Then her sobs ceased, replaced by weak, faint snivels. She curled into him, her hand clutching at his waistcoat. Brushing locks of hair away from her forehead, Elizabeth’s flesh seared against his fingertips. 

“Bloody hell!” Darcy dashed toward the water basin. The water was cool, thankfully. He doused a cloth in the water, wrapping it around Elizabeth throat and face. She neared unconsciousness. He pled with her stay awake–to stay with him. Darcy held her, keeping her cooled and conscious. The fever did not abate, but Elizabeth, at the least, calmed. 

After a while, Elizabeth rested her head on his chest as he cradled her in his arms, his back against the headboard. Believing she again succumbed to sleep, Darcy startled when she began to speak. “When we returned to… London from Derbyshire, my aunt and uncle summoned my parents to Gracechurch Street. They told them of the storm–of our night together.” Her rasping words barely carried above a whisper. Darcy tilted his head closer to her mouth to hear. “Mr. Bennet brought… brought me back to Longbourn, unspeaking to me the whole of the trip. Mrs. Bennet spoke enough for them both… I suppose. She was not kind.” Darcy cradled her tighter. “Three months later, we privately acknowledged… m-my condition.

“Mrs. Bennet conceived a plan: she announced… herself to be with child. Moreover, she and I would travel to… to London for the remainder of her confinement. No one questioned her–London has… superior midwives. I could tell no one the truth, not even… Jane. 

“Mrs. Bennet put on a magnificent performance. I understood so little… so little… about what has happening to me, though.” Elizabeth paused to peek at him, then turned away. “They told me nothing other than what I overheard.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a moment. Darcy stayed silent, giving her whatever space to speak she needed. “If I bore a boy,” she continued, “Mrs. Bennet intended on claiming him as her own… the dearly desired Longbourn heir. Should I fail her … bear a girl… the child would be sent away… to a boarding house in Ireland to be raised; my sisters would be told she died in childbirth. I had no place… in either scheme, other than carrying the child. 

“When my increasing became evident, I could no longer remain at Gracechurch Street. My mother’s plan would collapse. I was taken to an attic apartment… overlooking my uncle’s warehouse. An elderly servant of Mrs. Gardiner’s late mother accompanied me. Do you recall how my mother accused me of… of murder?”

Darcy choked out “yes.”

“Less than a fortnight after moving into the attic, I awoke to find… Mrs. Dalton unmoving. Her body was… was stiff on the pallet, her eyes open and… lips blue.” Elizabeth shivered. Darcy moved not at all, his previous ‘yes’ still choking him. “Mamma jested that I sucked… the life right out from Mrs. Dalton.” Twisting her flushed face, Elizabeth again looked up to Darcy, her piercing, unfathomable midnight eyes demanding his attention. “I never…” 

“I know, Elizabeth,” he returned with great effort, stroking her hair. 

“For the final five weeks of my confinement, I spent alone… in the attic with our son as my only company. Neither Mrs. Bennet nor Mrs. Gardiner visited… my mother’s scheme would not allow for it. Mr. Gardiner visited most mornings, and once a week… a midwife accompanied him. My uncle always locked the door behind him when he left… my safety he said. I know they worried… I would run away. They were correct… but Jamie arrived before our flight. 

“The midwife assured my uncle the babe… would not come for another three weeks. She was quite mistaken. I gave birth alone two nights later…” Elizabeth never broke her stare with him. It was though the depths of her eyes might allow him to slide into the past as well. “I loved Jamie… more than anything. At the dawn when he fell asleep at my breast… I finally slept as well. When I woke… he was gone. I never knew a greater emptiness. James went to Longbourn with Mrs. Bennet… I remained in London to recover. I did not see him again for four months.”

Smiling, she said, “He looks… just like you.” 

“I know,” Darcy replied, leaning his face closer to hers. 

“How? When?” Elizabeth eagerly rasped.

“Finish your story first.” 

Nodding, she went on. “There is not a great deal more to say… Two times I fled with James… returning before the morning broke. I acted rashly, escaping into the night without… proper provisions. I was sent… to my aunt and uncle as punishment. The third occasion… a fleeting thought written in my journal. My mother secretly read the entry… wished to send me to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner… my father thought otherwise. The fourth… you were the fourth. You became so close with Jane, a-and … how might you ever accept her if you had a son with her sister? 

“Oh Mr. Darcy… I am so sorry. When I saw you at the assembly… I-I tumbled into utter madness. I wished to reveal all to you… how? It had been so long… so much had happened!” Elizabeth began to violently cough, Darcy pressed the wet cloth to her mouth. 

“When I disappeared from the ball… my father thought I made to flee again,” Elizabeth implored between coughs. “The following day he banished me from his home, his life and James.”

“Why did you not come to me at once? That very night!” Darcy begged, pushing Elizabeth back to look on her face. She cried out in pain, he pulled her back to his hammering chest. “Why did you say those awful things to me during our dance?”

“I–I… Mr. Wickham, he told me. He told me of your other…”

“My what?” Darcy questioned. 

“The scullery maid here in London… the child you have on her – and the v-village girl in Derbyshire. Perhaps I was… jealous… b-but I told myself I was protecting Jamie. You would see him as… as no more than an ill-fated consequence of… of a meaningless tryst. I see more clearly now, Mr. Darcy,” she said in quiet concession. “The other women are… none of my concern.” 

Darcy placed a finger under Elizabeth’s chin, forcing her to meet his crazed stare. “Firstly, Elizabeth, you speak wrongly. I have no baseborn issues with anyone! Neither with a scullery maid in London nor with a village girl in Derbyshire. Mr. Wickham spoke of his own by-blows, of this I assure you–witnesses and ledgers can prove me true.”

“I-I don’t understand–” Her fever burned brightly at her cheeks. 

Darcy paused, his anger ebbing. He cooled face with the cloth. “This man tricked and deceived my father from the moment he stepped into our household as an infant. His own father was Mr. Darcy’s steward, you see. The elder Mr. Wickham was a good man, an honest man–most contrary to his damnable son. George Wickham was wild, immoral and decadent in his desires at school, of which my father provided for him. He continued this depraved behavior well into adulthood. At Mr. Darcy’s death, he left Wickham the next presentation of the best living in his gift. The church, however, did not suit Mr. Wickham, and thought to study law. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, accepting three thousand pounds in return. I thought at last to be done with the man.” 

Elizabeth shook her head confused. “This last summer, he followed my sister to Ramsgate in order to seduce her into an elopement. My sister was then but fifteen-years-old! Wickham wanted her fortune, he wanted vengeance against me. Georgiana was devastated; she has yet to recover.”

“I-I didn’t know,” Elizabeth implored, her silent voice utterly painful to listen to. “Your journal… this is why…” 

“Yes, this is why stopped writing. Wickham is a bane on my existence. He is a poison to everything he touches. How could you believe him?” 

“M-My mind was… not my own. I know you must h-hate me.” 

“I do not hate you! I never have.”  

Elizabeth dipped her face into his hand, pushing into his chest. “I lost… your journal,” she sobbed. 

“I will write you a new one,” Darcy promised. “I will write you ten journals.” 

Elizabeth laughed a little, the first he had heard of such a glorious sound in weeks. “Tell me how… you met Jamie. Please.”   

Darcy hugged her closer, wrapping Elizabeth carefully in his embrace, allowing his fears to seep away. “I knew him at once,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. He proceeded to tell her of their brief encounter, speaking nothing of her family or what brought him to Longbourn. 

Elizabeth did not respond, she had fallen asleep. Darcy closed his own eyes, settling himself against the pillows as Elizabeth’s story continued to crush him. So much remained to be said, and they had the time to do so. He once more kissed the top of her head, counting the beats of her heart until he reached one hundred. The doors opened before Darcy could tumble into his own sleep. 

Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Claridge entered, a similar grimace upon their dissimilar faces. As always, Claridge’s eyes rested with Elizabeth, roving over her exposed figure, studying her every feature. “Why is she bleeding?” he demanded, moving to examine the splotches of blood beneath the bandage. “And her fever! Where is Farr?”

A gentle whimper wrestled out of Elizabeth’s throat. Darcy placed a palm over her ear so she would not be disturbed by the conversation. “Be quiet, Ash. She needs to rest.” 

“What happened, Darce?” Fitzwilliam questioned tiredly. He yawned to punctuate his point. 

“She spoke to me,” he said, smiling a little. “Elizabeth was honest with me. She told me of our son.” Yet, for whatever relief he felt at hearing the truth, the tale continued to rip at him.

“At last,” the colonel smiled in return. “Coincidentally, we met James not six hours previous. The child is most certainly yours.” Fitzwilliam once more yawned and threw his booted feet atop the bed. Claridge knocked them away, sidling beside Darcy and Elizabeth to peek beneath the bandaging. 

“And?” Darcy said, his brows rising in curiosity. 

“The boy,” Claridge answered, “he is undoubtedly your son. Though, I must confess, Mr. Bennet likely believes the child to be mine. Elizabeth’s father is quite the weak, insignificant little man. He claimed he was lately in London searching for his daughter; she was never actually meant to leave, you see. Bennet intended for Elizabeth to quickly realize what she would be leaving behind if she were depart from Longbourn, and return to his home at once. He misjudged.” 

“The fool!” Darcy spat, his voice involuntarily rising. 

“My solicitor drew up the agreement this morning and accompanied Richard and myself to Longbourn this afternoon. Elizabeth does not turn one and twenty for some months still, until that time, I am her legal guardian. She will come live at Abbington Park as soon as she is able. All is set.”

Though he knew this was coming, Darcy’s breath still caught in his chest. Elizabeth shifted in her sleep, his grip moved to support her injured arm. “Thank you,” he managed at last. 

“This is for the best, Darce,” Fitzwilliam reassured. 

“I know,” Darcy whispered, though his lips fell into a hard line.

“There was no other choice.” Claridge raised his eyes to meet Darcy’s, his expression set. 

“I still do not like it,” Darcy returned, looking down on the woman who meant more to him than his own life. He reached for a cloth to tend to her wound, but could not do so without waking Elizabeth. Claridge took up the task. 

Fitzwilliam rubbed his face with his palms, groaning. “Our minds are muddied by fatigue and agitation. Not one of us have slept more than four hours straight in nearly a fortnight. This was the best choice for everyone.” 

Claridge lightly dabbed at the blood seeping from Elizabeth’s wound. “Hand me the liniment, Richard.”

Fitzwilliam placed the green vial in his brother’s hand, continuing, “You are an unmarried man, she is an unmarried girl. You have callers coming every day bidding to learn why you have dismissed your servants. This arrangement,” he motioned to Elizabeth’s legs tangled with Darcy’s, “cannot remain secret much longer. What of Georgianna? What of her reputation?” 

To this, Darcy nodded. He stared down on Elizabeth, pulled the cover over them both, his chest constricting. 

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Thanks for reading! Elizabeth is on the mend, and she is not alone. The road ahead is bumpy, but I feel like Darcy will be there for her. 

I should have the next chapter up before long. 

~ Jenna 

Just as a reminder, you can always email me at chessiejenna@aol.com or jennapatten85@gmail.com if you have any questions, concerns or comments. I know some people have had issues commenting on blogger.