Page 19 of The Briar Bargain
"He is well," Jane assured her quickly. "Thanks to you."
Elizabeth hummed, still remembering. Strong arms lifting her from the river, a deep voice murmuring reassurance.
Other memories flickered at the edges of her consciousness, hazy and uncertain. Had there been . . . fabric? White linen, perhaps? She had a most peculiar recollection of clutching something soft, something that had smelled of bergamot and leather and river water. The memory seemed remarkably vivid for something that surely must have been delirium. But why would she dream of such a thing?
Unless . . .
A horrifying possibility seized her heart. What if it had not been delirium at all? What if she truly had been clinging to someone's shirt? The very idea made her stomach lurch in the most mortifying way. Surely not. Surely she had conjured such an inappropriate scenario.
And yet, the memory felt disturbingly real. There had been a shirt . . . and then there had not.
No. She absolutely refused to pursue that thought any further.
"Mr. Darcy," she whispered before she could stop herself, her cheeks warming at the name.
Jane nodded, her expression softening. "Yes. He went into the water after you. I am told he reached you just as the rushing water had pulled you under." She stopped, her lips pressing together as if holding back a sob. "You were very nearly lost, Lizzy."
Heat flooded Elizabeth's face as she imagined the scene.Of courseit would be Mr. Darcy who had seen her sputtering and bedraggled, likely clutching at him like . . . She tried to think of something horrible, and it came to her.
Like Miss Bingley.
Jane was still speaking in her soothing voice, apparently unaware of the humiliation Elizabeth was enduring. “He would not allow anyone else to carry you here. He was very solicitous of your welfare.”
Worse and worse. Elizabeth could only imagine what the servants were saying. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the headstrong daughter of Longbourn, being carried from the river and into Netherfield like some ridiculous Gothic heroine in one of Lydia's novels. The next market day would be a severe trial indeed.
But what truly gnawed at her was the persistent, treacherous memory of white fabric and the terrible suspicion that she might have seen . . . that Mr. Darcy might have been . . .
Her face grew impossibly warm.
She tried to summon her usual wit, but it came out weary and thin. "He must be thoroughly regretting his gallantry by now."
"Do not speak so, Lizzy." Jane squeezed her hand. "You owe him your life. I shall never be able to thank him enough."
Elizabeth sighed, turning her head slightly to stare at the canopy overhead. "I suppose I must begin a list of the things I owe Mr. Darcy, beginning with ‘eternal gratitude.’” She closed her eyes. “How tiresome."
Jane shook her head with gentle reproach. "He asked after you more than once while you slept."
Elizabeth's eyes flew open before she could school her expression. "Did he?"
"Yes. He has been very concerned."
Another flash of memory surfaced. Or had it been a dream? It was so frustrating not to know for certain. She thought she recalled warmth against her back, the steady rhythm of breathing that was not her own, and the distinct sensation of being sheltered. Protected. There had been murmured words too, though she could not make out their meaning.
And then that peculiar business with the white linen.
She shifted uncomfortably under the blankets. Surely her addled mind had conjured such mortifying nonsense. After all, why would she have such vivid recollections of masculine shoulders and the texture of skin and the scent of bergamot? The very idea was beyond improper. And yet, the memory felt disturbingly real, as though her traitorous mind had recorded every scandalous detail even whilst insensible.
"How long have I been abed?" she asked, desperately needing to think of anything other than the disturbing possibilities her imagination was suggesting.
"It has been nearly a full day. You were deeply chilled, Lizzy. Mrs. Johnson and I changed your clothes, tended your scratches, and kept you wrapped in blankets. Mrs. Nicholls replenished the stillroom when the house was let, and she knows a good deal about healing."
Elizabeth glanced down, noticing for the first time the faint stinging across her arms. Beneath the blankets, her skin felt tender and tight in places. "I must look a fright."
"You look alive, dearest. That is all that matters."
"And I am grateful, but I suspect I appear to have lost an argument with a particularly determined badger."
Her attempt at humour was rewarded by Jane's gentle laugh.
