Page 117 of To Love And To Cherish
Darcy turned to his cousin. “Lady Catherine has just decided to pass the day in her rooms. Send for the housekeeper.”
Together, the two nephews escorted their unresisting aunt to her suite of rooms, ignoring her muttered protestations. Darcy locked the door, handed the key to the housekeeper, and ordered, “Have her meals brought by the largest footman in the house.” Turning to Richard, he said, “Anne is awake; that is a hopeful sign. Since the two maids have everything in hand, I shall return this evening for news of her progress. Is this acceptable to you, cousin?”
Richard looked worried but agreed. “There is nothing more we can do for her beyond what has already been put into place. For now, we must wait and see.”
With that, Darcy departed, rejoining his wife.
The road to the coast unrolled beneath the carriage wheels in a blur of barren fields. The day was cold but fair, a pale autumn sun glinting weakly in the sky.
At Birchington, they paused at a small bakery for hot coffee and spiced buns before walking the short path to the beach. The sea opened before them in a sweep of silver-grey, the light dancing over gentle waves. A keen gust tugged at Elizabeth’s bonnet and carried with it the briny scent of the tide.
They picnicked in the shelter of the cliffs, the sand still faintly warm from the morning sun. Over bread and cold meats, they spoke of nothing urgent, childhood adventures, books they meant to read, places Fitzwilliam had seen. It felt to Elizabeth as though they had stepped beyond the reach of all obligations, into a day belonging only to themselves.
They walked hand in hand across the firm, wet sand, the gulls wheeling overhead with plaintive cries. Elizabeth removed her half-boots and stockings and stepped into the shallows; the cold of the saltwater rushed over her ankles, sharp enough to draw a gasp and a laugh. Darcy, watching her, smiled in that private way he reserved for her alone.
Further along, tide-pools glimmered like glass, and shells were scattered like treasure upon the sand. Elizabeth bent to gather a few, her fingers brushing Darcy’s as he handed her one, the spiral ridges still damp from the sea.
The chalk cliffs rose in the distance, their pale faces stark against the winter sky, and a lone fishing boat bobbed upon the horizon, its sails catching what light the day offered. By afternoon, they had driven to Margate to explore the caves, where the air was cool and faintly damp, and curious patterns were etched into the walls. By the time they turned for home, the sun was lowering towards the horizon. Inside the carriage, Darcy drew a rug over their knees, its woolen folds warm against the creeping chill. He watched Elizabeth, as was his wont, then reached to smooth a curl, his fingertips lingering against her jaw.
“You have color on your cheeks,” he murmured, voice low and indulgent. “The sea becomes you.”
Elizabeth smiled, leaning into the touch. “It has been a perfect day, Fitzwilliam. The best since, well, perhaps since Scotland.”
He took her hand beneath the rug, his thumb tracing slow circles over her gloved palm. “It has been a day of rest and recuperation, darling. I am so glad we came away.
The carriage rocked gently over the rutted road, and the steady rhythm was restful. He drew her closer until her shoulder rested against his, and after a pause, pressed his lips to her temple.
“It was good to hear your laughter today,” he said. “I do not hear it often enough. The preparations to participate in London society and our family have conspired to keep us exceedingly busy. Too busy. We would do well to set aside a day now and then entirely for ourselves.”
Elizabeth felt the warmth of his words settle over her. She looked up, and his gaze held hers, the faint lamplight catching in his eyes. His arm curved around her, holding her securely, and she rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Thus, they travelled the last miles to Bertram House in a comfortable stillness.
Remarkably, they arrived in time to dress for dinner, their cheeks tinged with the wind and their eyes bright, refreshed by the day’s stolen freedom.
Chapter 62: Richard
The morning found Colonel Fitzwilliam seated at the foot of his cousin’s bed, a book in hand and a troubled expression upon his face. Anne lay pale and wan upon her pillows, her hair a dark spill against the linen, her breathing shallow yet even. The sight of her so diminished stirred in him a mixture of pity and guilt, pity that she should suffer so, and guilt that he had never, until now, taken a more active interest in her welfare.
He had known her all his life, yet had thought of her chiefly as an invalid, fragile, and reserved, a little shadow in her mother’s house. But as he sat there, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, the thought struck him forcibly:I have failed her. I should have been her advocate long before now.
By mid-morning, Anne roused herself and, for the first time in days, asked for water. He rose at once, poured it into a porcelain cup, and carried it to her bedside. She reached out her hands, small, feverish, and delicate, and placed them over his as he tipped the cup to her lips. Her fingers lingered there as she drank, and their heads drew close. Her eyes, clear and deep as a forest pool, met his, and for the briefest instant, he felt as though he might lose himself in their depths. He wondered why he had never before noticed the fine curve of her cheekbones or the sweep of her dark lashes.
When she had finished, he set the cup aside and asked, in a voice made unexpectedly gentle, “I have my book with me. Would reading help distract you?”
“If you please,” she murmured.
From the breast pocket of his coat, he withdrew a small, well-worn volume of Shakespeare’s comedies and began to read. She smiled faintly at one jest and even chuckled at another, but when he glanced up a few minutes later, she had fallen asleep.
Later in the day, the maid brought a cup of willow-bark tea to ease her fever. He leaned over her, touched her shoulder, and said softly, “Anne, you must wake and take this; it will help.” She opened her eyes, wincing.
“I hope it will help with this dreadful headache as well,” she whispered.
Supporting her with one arm, he held the cup to her mouth. Her hands again closed over his, guiding the angle, and he found himself absurdly conscious of their shape, slender, graceful, and altogether lovely. The thought followed, unbidden, that her feet must be equally delicate; he checked himself at once and returned his attention to the matter at hand.
By the time the maid returned with a tray for him, a bowl of rich stew, and freshly baked bread, Anne declared she could eat nothing. He persuaded the servant to fetch a cup of chicken broth for her instead, knowing it might tempt her more than heavy fare.
“I will not drink it,” she insisted. “The very thought turns my stomach.”
