Page 47 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“Easy, cousin,” Fitz chided. “I was instructed to see you do not overexert yourself.” He arranged the pillows behind Darcy and gently pushed him back into them.
Darcy shot his cousin a dark look. He unfolded the missive with care, his lips curling up into a smile as he read.
The message was very like her. The quick wit, the sweet teasing, the genuine concern it hid in every word. And, more than that, it was personal. It was not merely an inquiry, but a note written to him in a way that betrayed her expectation of an equally direct response.
She wanted to hear from him—she needed to know that he was well. That alone was enough to improve his mood immeasurably.
When he finished reading it, he felt lighter.
“I need to write back,” he said at once. “Between you, Anne, and Mrs. Gardiner, you can see she receives it without anyone else knowing. Help me sit up properly.”
Fitz let out an exaggerated sigh. “I ought to have known you would not listen to the physician, but this little letter has vastly improved your disposition, and so I will not inform him.”
Darcy ignored his cousin, focusing instead on the agonisingly slow process of moving into a sitting position. It took some manoeuvring, but at last, he was perched on the edge of the bed, his legs draped over the side, breathing slightly harder than he liked to admit.
Fitz had the decency not to comment—though he did shake his head when Darcy gestured for the small writing desk to be brought closer.
“Do you mean to make a habit of this?” Fitz asked as he set the table before him.
“I mean to respond to Miss Elizabeth.”
“I was referring to the flagrant disregard for propriety.”
Darcy reached for the quill that Fitz set before him. “Since when do you care about such things?”
“I do not, but I rather thoughtyoudid.”
“Fitz, need I remind you where you found us?”
His cousin’s teasing expression faltered for a moment.
“We are owed our reassurances.”
Quickly recovering, Fitz chuckled. “I daresay no one shall wrestle that note from your hands in any case.”
Darcy was already setting pen to paper, the words coming with surprising ease.
Miss Elizabeth,
I must confess myself flattered by your selfishness, and it aligns most conveniently with my own. I, too, have been forced to rely upon the meagre assurances of well-meaning attendants, and I find myself wholly unsatisfied with reports that you are “resting.” As you have said, it will not do.
Therefore, I am much relieved to have proof that you are still capable of wielding your pen to both amuse and chastise me. As for my condition, I am well enough if one disregards the necessity of remaining in a position most unbecoming to a man of dignity. I am assured it is for my own good. I remain unconvinced.
My cousin has proven an able steward of my care, and though I am compelled to admit that he is not entirely without usefulness, I will not say so where he might hear of it. Should my handwriting appear unsteady, do not assume I swooned midway through writing, but rather that Fitz has jostled the table whilst laughing at my expense.
You advise me to write even if I can only manage a pencil. Very well—I shall, in turn, advise you against embroidery in your current state, for it might turn dangerous. Instead, if you are inclined to further selfishness, you might consider writing to me again.
Your most devoted correspondent in captivity,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
When the ink had dried, Darcy folded the letter and glanced at the small pile of books on the table beside him. Selecting one at random, he slid the letter between its pages, pressing the cover shut with quiet finality. Then, he held it out to Fitz.
“Give this to Anne,” he instructed, his voice low but firm. “Make certain Mrs. Gardiner agrees before it is delivered.”
Fitz accepted the book with exaggerated gravity, slipping it under his arm. “And if she does not?”
Darcy exhaled sharply. “Then I shall find a way to smuggle it out myself.”
