Page 43 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“Do you intend to speak with her?” Fitz asked quietly.
“I do,” Darcy replied, resolution steadying his voice. “When I am able to stand without assistance, I shall call upon her properly.”
Fitz nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. “Excellent. Though I recommend you practise your proposal beforehand. I suspect you shall need to be rather more eloquent than is your custom.”
Darcy could only lean back into the pillows and expel a wheezy laugh.
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabethhadalwayspridedherself on bearing discomfort well. She did not weep over trifles, nor did she indulge in untoward distress.
Yet as she lay abed at Rosings Park, still stiff and sore from her injuries, she found herself uncommonly frustrated with the pace of her recovery.
Elizabeth had asked Charlotte not to explain the severity of the event to her relatives lest it worry them unnecessarily. Her father had evidently been so reassured that he had simply asked Jane and Aunt Gardiner to write to him should he be needed. The ladies, on the other hand, had arrived at Rosings yesterday, two days after the accident, and had been met with great civility by Miss de Bourgh. They had been ushered upstairs and assigned the bedchambers nearest Elizabeth.
Now that Elizabeth’s family were with her, Charlotte returned to the parsonage to spend time with her sister. She promised to return to visit.
Elizabeth woke each morning expecting significant improvement, only to find her bruises deepening in colour, her aches and stiffness fading by mere degrees. The surgeon assured her that she was healing well thus far, and she certainly wanted for nothing material. But she was confined to her chambers and sitting room while the spring returned in a blaze of sunshine and warmth. An open window was simply not enough.
Even more disconcerting was the fact thathehad not yet stepped outside his chambers.
She knew little of Mr. Darcy’s condition beyond the one note Colonel Fitzwilliam had relayed through the housekeeper—a polite reassurance that the patient was still abed but improving, that he required rest, that he would recover in time. But the vague nature of such a report only unsettled her further.
Was Mr. Darcy truly recuperating? Was he in pain? Was he suffering from being indoors as much as she? Was he restless, uncertain?
She wished to ask after him directly—had nearly done so any number of times—but the presence of her sister and her aunt had held her back. They would not understand her desire to breach etiquette. So she did nothing but express her best wishes for Mr. Darcy’s recovery and wait placidly for further information. Her relations could not know—no one could—how much of themselves she and Mr. Darcy had revealed to one another in the hours after the collapse. She had told Jane and Aunt Gardiner how gallant Mr. Darcy had been, how he had protected and cared for her, but there were no words to express the anxiety she still felt for his well-being.
Instead, she was left with her thoughts. And her relatives.
Jane had expressed alarm at Elizabeth’s bruised face and the sling that bound her arm but, upon being assured that the injuries were not severe, had settled into her usual manner of quiet attentiveness. She did not press Elizabeth for details, nor did she make any undue fuss, but her eyes held a quiet concern that Elizabeth could not allay.
It was Aunt Gardiner who watched her with a sharper scrutiny.
“I cannot help but feel that there is more upon your mind than mere impatience to be well, Lizzy,” she observed as she unfolded a blanket to lay it over Elizabeth’s lap before sitting down beside her.
Elizabeth shrugged, keeping her gaze fixed on the blanket. “I have not much to say.”
Her aunt hummed. “That would be the first time in your life.”
Elizabeth huffed laughingly. “I suppose even I must have a moment’s rest now and then.”
“And yet your thoughts do not appear restful.”
Elizabeth plucked at the blanket’s fringe. “Perhaps not. I—” She exhaled and confessed. “I admit that I think a great deal about Mr. Darcy.”
She had not meant to say it so plainly. But the words hung in the air between them, unmistakable, irrevocable.
Jane, seated at the writing desk, glanced up.
Aunt Gardiner was unperturbed. “I see.”
Elizabeth shifted, unsettled by her own admission, but unable to keep her worries inside any longer. “I think of his welfare, naturally. He was injured far worse than I, and yet I hear so little of his progress.”
Jane set her letter aside and moved to sit on the bed beside her, taking Elizabeth’s good hand in hers. “You are anxious for him.”
Elizabeth looked down at their clasped hands. “Yes.”
“It is only natural to be grateful,” Jane assured her, but Elizabeth knew better.
