“No!” Darcy realized right away that his exclamation had come out more fiercely than he intended and he moderated his tone. “Thank you, Thomas. I – I could never rest easy if I could not see her myself and know how she was faring. And when she awakens she will not know where she is. You can have the maid stay as well if you wish.”
“Even with a chaperone, Darcy, you cannot stay in her room,” Whitmore said gently. “She is not your sister or your wife.”
“I would never take advantage of a sick woman!” Darcy hissed.
“I know that, but she is under my protection. I am concerned about her reputation,” Whitmore’s voice was soothing, but Darcy was in no mood to be calmed.
“And I am thinking of her life!” Darcy spat out. He stood abruptly and strode to the window. The moon was rising, casting shadows on the surrounding grounds. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his disordered nerves. Once he was in better control of his emotions, he continued in a more conciliatory tone. “No one need know of it save you, Marie, and your staff.” Whitmore was still shaking his head and Darcy swore. “Unless you summon your footmen to remove me bodily from this room, I am staying!” Darcy swung around and regarded Whitmore challengingly.
Whitmore returned his gaze steadily for a moment and then sighed. “Very well. I do trust you Darcy – and I suppose what occurs here is unlikely to affect her reputation in England. I will have a maid wait in the hallway. Let her know of anything you need.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said gratefully, watching as Whitmore left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Darcy settled himself into the brocaded chair near Elizabeth’s bedside. It would be a long night.
Darcy woke with a start. He had fallen asleep sitting in the
chair, but with his head resting on the bed by Elizabeth’s side. He heard noises, but it took a moment to pinpoint the source: Elizabeth was thrashing violently in the bed covers and calling out.
“Oh…oh…the French…the soldiers! Papa, we must run! Help! Papa, please hurry! Where are Lydia and Jane? Papa!” Her tone was frantic and her face was creased with worry.
Darcy realized she was in the throes of a feverish nightmare. He laid his hand gently on her arm, hoping to shake her out of her delirium. “Miss Bennet, it is a dream. You are perfectly safe.” She did not react to his touch or the sound of his voice, but continued to thrash and moan. Hoping his soothing words would penetrate the fever, Darcy continued to talk in soothing tones.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright in the bed, startling him. “William! William! Where are you? They cannot capture you. I need you!” She screamed the last word so loudly he feared she would awaken others in the household. He tried to shush her gently, wondering – somewhat jealously – who this “William” was. Suddenly the realization penetrated his sleep-fogged brain: she meant him! Few people in his life called him by his given name and most called him Fitzwilliam. He had never heard Elizabeth call him anything other than “Mr. Darcy,” but perhaps she thought of him as “William” in the privacy of her own thoughts. Despite the seriousness of the situation he smiled to himself, thinking that maybe she did harbor some positive opinions regarding him.
She cried out again and Darcy grabbed her shoulders, staring into her flushed face and unfocused eyes. “Elizabeth, it is just a bad dream! It is only a dream!” But she gave no indication that she heard him. He released her shoulders and she sank back on the pillows, continuing to toss and turn and mutter, although the words were barely coherent.
The maid had brought a basin of water earlier, so Darcy took a rag and bathed Elizabeth’s forehead in water. “So hot!” she murmured. He could sense the skin through the thin cloth of her nightgown; she was burning up. Pulling down the covers, he pushed up the sleeves of her nightgown to cool off her arms. He bathed her hands and throat in cool water, wishing that propriety allowed him to access other parts of her skin. Perhaps he should get the maid….
With the cooling water on her skin, Elizabeth quieted somewhat. She no longer thrashed, though she moved restlessly and rolled her head from side to side. With the sheets no longer covering her, Darcy could not help admiring her beautiful figure. He envisioned her in his great bed at Pemberley – her dark, curly hair spread on the pillows – just as it was now…her eyes shining with love for him. Welcoming him….
Shaking out of his reverie, he chastised himself for thinking such thoughts about an ill woman. There were many reasons why such a vision might never come to fruition. He should not torture himself with it.
Darcy was awakened again by a shaft of early morning sunlight shining in his eyes. He glanced quickly at Elizabeth, noticing that her hands were moving restlessly as she plucked ineffectually at the coverlet. Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes did not open. He took her wrist and felt her pulse, which was still weak. Instead of replacing her hand, he held it in his own. Perhaps in her current state, she would be comforted to feel her hand in his – or she might be appalled at the liberties he was taking.
Her dark tresses spilled out across the pillow. How often had he longed to touch her hair to discern if it was as soft as it appeared? Almost of its own volition, his hand reached out and stroked one of the curls. How he wished he could do this when she was awake!
Her eyelids fluttered open and he jerked his hand away guiltily. She gave no indication she had noticed his actions, but looked rather dazed. Her eyes flitted around the room until they rested on him. “Will – Mr. Darcy!” He wished he could ask her to address him by his Christian name, but this was not the time. “Where—?” The words came out weak and breathy, totally unlike her usual energetic and pert tone.
“We are staying at the home of my friend, Thomas Whitmore. Near Montdidier.”
“We must get to England!” Her voice was only a hoarse whisper and she appeared to be fighting to keep her eyes open. Violent shivers wracked her body and he pulled the covers further up around her neck to keep her warm.
“We are perfectly safe,” he said reassuringly. “Mr. Whitmore has offered his protection. And, no one will seek us here.”
“But, we must – “
“You are ill. We must remain here until you recover.”
Her head shook weakly. “It is not safe. I cannot – You cannot risk yourself for me – “
“I will not risk your health. Nor is there any reason to believe we are in danger now that we have left Paris. Mr. Whitmore has heard nothing of soldiers seeking out Englishmen in the countryside.” She said nothing, but glanced down to where his hand was still grasping hers. Darcy colored at the liberty he had taken, but she did not appear dismayed. Nor did she pull her hand away. Darcy returned his eyes to her face. “You must put your energy into recovery. How do you feel?”
“I am...good….” The weakness of her voice belied her words.
Darcy was noticing the alarming pallor of her skin. “Please tell me the truth.”
She smiled wanly. “I can see from your face that I must seem very ill indeed.”
“I have seen you looking better,” he allowed.