Page 46 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
And now, she must wait.
Chapter Fourteen
Darcyhadnotyetreached the depths of despair, but he was beginning to understand why men in extreme confinement often gave way to it.
For three days, he had been subjected to a regimen of enforced idleness, propped up on pillows when allowed and otherwise left to his own thoughts while his back—and everything else—mended. Lying prone for hours on end was both undignified and maddening, and his disposition had suffered accordingly.
Fitz had been entirely too amused by his suffering, though at least he had proven useful in relaying information. He knew that Elizabeth had not suffered any infection—or at least, none yet—and was healing as well as he was himself.
Darcy could not even look out the window from this position. It was unbearably dull. “Dare I hope there is no gossip about my condition?”
“You are resting,” Fitz informed him, smirking as he sat in the chair Darcy longed to occupy. “That is the consensus of the household.”
Resting.
Whenever he asked, he was told the same about Elizabeth.
No one, it seemed, was willing to provide a more precise account. He buried his face in his pillow and growled.
Just as he was contemplating whether he might drag himself from the bed and down to her chamber by sheer force of will, the door creaked open, and Fitz entered.
“All alone, Darcy?” he asked.
“I can hardly tell,” Darcy grumbled, for he could not see most of the room.
Fitz made a noisy show of closing the door and checking the room.
“What are you about?”
Fitz walked in front of him to check behind the curtains. “Ensuring we are alone, of course.”
Darcy let out an impatient breath. “And why, precisely, does that matter?”
Instead of answering, Fitz wandered over to the door, nudged it open just enough to scan the hallway, then, apparently satisfied, shut it firmly behind him. He turned back and walked into Darcy’s view, his expression positively gleeful. “I have something of interest,” he announced, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his pocket.
Darcy’s attention snapped to it at once. “What is that?”
Fitz held it up to the light, inspecting the fine parchment. “A note,” he mused, as though he had never seen such a thing before. “Quite neatly written. Feminine hand. I wonder—” He turned it over, affecting deep contemplation. “Who could it possibly be from?”
Darcy scowled. “Give it to me.”
Fitz glanced over at him. “How do you know it is for you?”
“Because you would not be creating a performance over it if it was for anyone else. Give it to me.”
“Ah, but should I?” Fitz tapped his chin, as if weighing the decision. “What if it contains scandalous declarations? Or shocking revelations? Perhaps I ought to read it first. Protect your delicate sensibilities.”
Darcy grasped the nearest thing he could lay his hands on. “I will throw this book at your head,” he growled, gripping the volume in warning.
Fitz grinned, clearly enjoying himself, but relented, stepping forward and placing the note just within Darcy’s reach. “Very well. No need to destroy Anne’s book.”
Darcy seized it at once, hardly waiting for his cousin to retreat before his eyes devoured the elegant hand. Elizabeth had written to him. It was a breach in propriety, of course, but their sojourn in the ruins had put paid to any real formality between them.
“Who gave this to you?” he asked, hoping that whoever had handed the missive to Fitz had been careful of Elizabeth’s privacy.
“Anne. Miss Elizabeth’s aunt approached her as the mistress of the house and asked her permission to send it along.”
Darcy stared at the paper, his pulse quickening and his mood lifting. He struggled to turn over, and Fitz stepped in to help.
