Page 46 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“It will go by express,” he promised, and the simple support in his words warmed her.
“That gives me more time. Thank you.”
She accepted his outstretched hand as they walked along the stream that cut through the woods, their horses secured to posts nearby.
“This is the stream I fell into as a boy,” Darcy admitted, his voice softening with memory. “The bridge is just a little way down that direction.”
“Did you come here often?”
“As a child, yes. It was before my parents died, when the world seemed safer. Everything changed soon after, though I didn’t know it then.”
Something in his tone made Elizabeth want to reach towards him, to offer comfort through touch. Her hand moved of its own accord, then faltered as she remembered the boundaries they originally established. What was she thinking?
Darcy noticed her aborted gesture and turned towards her. “Elizabeth?”
He stepped closer, and their bodies nearly touched. Elizabeth took a startled step backwards, her foot slipping on the moss-covered bank. Her arms flailed for balance, but momentum carried her down. She threw out her hand to break her fall, and a sharp pain shot through her wrist.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy lunged forward, catching her before she could tumble completely into the stream, but the damage was done. Her wrist bent at an unnatural angle, pain radiating up her arm.
“My wrist,” she gasped, cradling the injured limb against her chest.
“We must return immediately.” Concern etched deep lines around his mouth as he lifted her onto his horse, mounting behind her so she wouldn’t fall.
The journey back passed in a blur of pain and confused sensation. Elizabeth registered Darcy’s chest solid against her back, his voice murmuring reassurances, his arm secure around her waist.
***
Back at Pemberley, Dr Linfield examined her wrist with practiced hands and pronounced it severely sprained.
“You must keep it immobilised for at least a fortnight, Mrs Darcy,” he instructed, wrapping the wrist in linen bandages. “No writing, no needlework, no exertion whatsoever with this hand.”
“A fortnight?” Dismay sharpened Elizabeth’s voice. “But I have writing to complete.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, unless you wish to risk permanent damage to the joint.” The doctor’s tone brooked no argument.
After he departed, Elizabeth sat in frustrated silence, the full weight of his pronouncement settling upon her. Darcy, who had remained nearby throughout the examination, approached her chair.
“Your manuscript,” he said, understanding immediately the source of her distress.
“If I miss their deadline, Nocturne Publishing may withdraw their interest entirely.” Elizabeth couldn’t mask her disappointment. “Such opportunities rarely come to unknown female authors.”
Darcy stood silent, his brow furrowed in thought. “There may be a solution,” he said finally. “I could serve as your amanuensis.”
Elizabeth stared at him, startled by the offer. “You would do that?”
“Of course. How many pages remain to be re-written?”
“Perhaps thirty or forty,” she estimated. “But it would consume hours of your time.”
“Nothing could be more important than securing your opportunity for publication.” The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. “We’ll begin this evening, if you feel able.”
Words failed her momentarily. “Thank you,” she managed at last.
“I find I’m curious to discover the nature of your tale,” he admitted. “You’ve never shared your writing with me.”
***
That night, Darcy escorted Elizabeth to the library where he had arranged a settee near his desk, positioned so she could recline with her injured arm properly supported. The thoughtfulness touched her—not merely the practical considerations, but the attention to her comfort and needs.
