Page 26 of Ashes and Understanding
Darcy nodded wordlessly and extended the glass to her. She took it, hesitating. “If you find the herbs are helpful, have Mrs. Nicholls—she’s the Netherfield housekeeper— send a note to Mrs. Hill at Longbourn.”
He looked at her questioningly, and she hastened to assure him. “They are both very discreet, and I can easily have more herbs sent to you through them if you would like.”
“Do not want… use all,” he rasped.
“Oh! Please do not worry about that. We grow them in our still room now, so we have plenty. I can easily send over what we have stored and dry more if Kitty needs.”
He gave her a small bow. “Thank you.” His voice was still hoarse.
“My pleasure,” she replied. “I will be sure to include a list of their names and properties as well.”
Darcy bowed again, and Elizabeth gave him a small smile before turning around and slipping back into the assembly room to watch the final dance of the evening. Her heart and face were both warm from their privatetête-à-tête, a conversation unlike any she had ever shared with a gentleman before.
She had expected coldness from him, perhaps even further rudeness or even disdain. Instead, she had found a man struggling not with arrogance, but with something far more human—pain, vulnerability, and an affliction he clearly tried to keep hidden. And yet, despite his silence, he had listened to her, trusted her.
As she wove through the crowd, the lively strains of the musicians filled the air, yet the world felt strangely distant, as though she were caught between two realities: the bright, bustling warmth of the assembly and the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit corridor where she had just stood with Mr. Darcy. Even now, she could feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her back, as if he were still watching, still trying to puzzle her out.
Shaking herself, Elizabeth shook off the strange spell of the moment and smoothed the folds of her gown. It was foolish to dwell on it. In the morning, everything would return to normal. And yet, as she found her mother at the edge of the dance floor, she could not quite shake the feeling that something had shifted—something she did not yet have the words to name.
∞∞∞
Darcy stared at the retreating figure of Elizabeth Bennet—MissElizabeth! He could scarcely believe his good fortune. Of all the women in all the places in all the country, she was here, and she was unmarried.
The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air long after she had left, a quiet reminder of her presence. His hands dangled at his sides, fists clenching and then opening again in disquiet, the warmth of her kindness settling deep into his chest.
When he first realized she had followed him, he braced himself for at best, embarrassment at being caught in such a state, or, at worse, a tongue-lashing for having walked away her before being introduced. He had resigned himself to either the wide-eyed horror or simpering concern that women often displayed upon witnessing his coughing fits.
Yet none of that had occurred.
No recoiling, no nervous fidgeting, no forced reassurances that made him feel all the more like an invalid. Instead, she had been calm and practical—just as capable in an emergency as she had been that morning in Hyde Park.
He had not been treated thusly since…Since Wickham.
Brushing the thought of his long-lost friend aside, Darcy considered Elizabeth’s unique response to him. Other women often turned pale or even had a fit of the vapors at his struggles. Even his aunt, Lady Matlock—who was often spoken of as a woman with considerable fortitude—had pressed a perfumedhandkerchief to her nose and fled the room the last time she witnessed a particularly bad fit overtake him.
Do not forget Lady Catherine. He shuddered at the memory of the last time he had been in her presence during an attack. She had lambasted him the way his father often did, decrying him to be a weak, worthless man. The only good thing to come from the experience was that she had declared him to be an unfit husband for her daughter.
But Elizabeth Bennet had done no such thing. She movedtowardhim, not away.
When she first fled, he had resigned himself to having made a fool of himself in her eyes. He could scarce believe it when she actually returned to his side with a cup of lemonade, offering comfort and aide instead of derision and scorn. She had spoken gently to him, understood that he need not force words out, and had produced—from her own purse, no less—a possible treatment.
And it seems to be working!
To Darcy’s great astonishment, his breath was coming easier. The tightness in his chest, the raw constriction that had been his constant companion since the fire, was noticeably lighter. He had not even realized just how crushing it had been until now.
For the first time in months, he could almost draw a full breath without it catching painfully in his lungs and sparking a round of coughing.
Could it really be the herbs? The foul taste lingered in his mouth, a mix of dirt and lemons, and he laughingly thought that he would never taste lemonade the same way again.
He tried countless treatments since his lungs were damaged in childhood—poultices, tinctures, and even blood-letting—but none had offered more than temporary relief, if that.
But after trying these are herbs, hefeltbetter.
He exhaled slowly, his mind turning over this revelation, when Bingley strode through the doors from the assembly hall, followed by his sisters and Hurst. “There you are, Darcy!”
Darcy straightened as his friend approached with his usual easy smile. “We have been looking for you, old chap. I was beginning to think you had entirely abandoned us.”
“You never returned to the ballroom, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Bingley with an exaggerated pout. “You left me feeling quite bereft.”
