Page 41 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
How peculiar that the man she had so recently considered the proudest, most disagreeable gentleman of her acquaintance should now occupy her thoughts with such persistence. But then, perhaps it was not so strange at all. She had been reconsidering his character nearly since his appearance in Kent. In fact, she felt as though she had been given a great gift, if she could call it that. She had been able to see Mr. Darcy with all formality and pretence stripped away. She had been given a long look at his true nature.
He was still the man who had separated Mr. Bingley from Jane. But he had said he would confess to his friend. Would he?
She believed that he would.
Elizabeth liked the man she had met. Might even love him. Was that possible? She closed her eyes and shivered as she recalled the ground collapsing all about them. Being rescued and hurried down the hill without knowing whether Mr. Darcy was behind her. Waiting, her hands over her mouth as he and his cousin fled toward the road and the ground disappeared behind them.
If anything had happened to him . . . Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, and she purposefully moved her thoughts to what he had said to her in the cart. Had he meant it? Would he even remember having said it?
Because even if Elizabeth lived to be ninety, she would never, ever forget.
Darcy awoke to warm light flooding in through the windows. He stirred and groaned. Everything hurt.
As he squeezed his eyes shut again to take stock, he decided it felt as though he had been trampled by a horse. He opened his eyes, but for a long moment he lay in silence, struggling to summon the strength to rise.
Two hands rested lightly on his shoulders. “Stay where you are, Darcy.”
Darcy did not want to remain where he was. It was uncomfortable to be positioned on his stomach. He wanted to sit up. “I need to—”
“You need to remain still. You have more stitches in you than one of your fancy embroidered handkerchiefs.”
“Fitz,” he grunted. “I need to use the—”
His cousin cleared his throat. “Ah. Wait until I can find someone to help me. We will balance you between us.”
After that humiliating exercise had been completed, Darcy had been helped back to bed and allowed to recline against a mountain of pillows while Fitz rang for a meal. Darcy was still disoriented and, in the absence of his watch, had to glance out the window and judge the time of day from the position of the sunlight. Just as he had when . . . He shook the thought away and returned his gaze to the sunlight. It was past midday, he thought.
Fitz was staring at him.
“What is it?” he inquired.
His cousin shook his head. “I am simply grateful that you are alive and whole. That wound in your back was but an inch from your spine. The surgeon examined you this morning while you were asleep, and there does not seem to be any sign of infection.”
“You clearly made a good job of cleaning it out.”
Fitz shrugged. “Soldiering is good for something, I suppose.”
Darcy managed a wry smile despite the pain behind his eyes, though his thoughts swiftly turned to matters he did not wish to revisit. The memory of the collapse, of the path beneath Elizabeth’s feet giving way—it was a dreadful spectre that he had little desire to contemplate further.
“How fares Miss Bennet?” he inquired, hoping Fitz would not hear the apprehension in his voice.
“She is well,” his cousin reassured him. “Lady Catherine threatened to send her back to the parsonage, but her heart was not really in it. She gave way to Anne readily enough.”
“Anne?” Darcy asked with some surprise.
“Anne,” Fitz confirmed with a small smile. “She has claimed her position as mistress of Rosings. She told her mother that as she did not wish to marry you, it did not bother her at all if you wished to marry Miss Bennet instead.”
“It would not be ‘instead,’” Darcy complained. “Anne and I never—”
“Yes, I know,” Fitz said with a chuckle. “In any case, Miss Bennet is resting as comfortably as possible just down the hall.”
“Has a letter been sent—”
“To her family? Yes. Mrs. Collins expects her aunt and sister to come.”
His food arrived and had to be sent back to the kitchen, for he would not eat gruel like a child or an invalid. His injuries had not affected his appetite.
While they waited, Fitz asked how everything had happened. Darcy actually found it of aid to tell the story, as though sending the words out into the room kept them from festering inside him. By the time he had finished, the food had arrived, and he ate hungrily.
