Page 118 of To Love And To Cherish
He merely raised an eyebrow and began to eat his own meal at the small table by the window. When the maid entered with the broth, he carried it to her and said with quiet resolve, “Cousin, you must try. I shall help you.”
Her eyes met his, reading the determination there, and she sighed. “Very well, but stand ready to leap aside, for I feel I may be sick.”
He grinned. “I shall take my chances.”
In the end, she drank the whole cup and looked faintly astonished not to have suffered for it. He returned to his reading, and she fell asleep again, this time sleeping until evening. When she woke, her fever had broken.
“How do you feel?” he asked at once.
“As though I have turned a corner,” she said. “The headache is less, my joints do not ache so miserably, and I can breathe without that dreadful weight on my chest.”
“And you are no longer conversing with the dead?” he teased.
Her eyes widened. “That truly happened? I thought it was only a dream. I saw my father, and my uncle Henry, and then I saw you, riding away on my mare, Bitsy. Do you remember her?”
“Bitsy?” He frowned in thought. “Describe her.”
“She was chestnut, with a black mane and tail, an Arabian, small but spirited.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. A fine creature. What became of her?”
“She lived to the age of eight-and-twenty, but colic took her at last. The farrier was obliged to put her down.”
“Do you ride another?”
“No. My mother allows me the phaeton, since Fitzwilliam approves, but otherwise I remain indoors.”
Something in her tone stirred Darcy’s warning in his mind, and he said slowly, “Anne… have you ever feared that your mother sought to make you ill?”
She turned sharply toward him. “My mother? You think she might wish me harm?”
“I do not know what to think,” he replied. “But the grey powder you have been taking contains mercury, which can kill. The milk thistle tincture may help your body expel the poison, and warm milk might also aid you. Did your mother know the powder was dangerous?”
Anne considered. “If she did, she never showed it. I think it was only a mistake; the peddler claimed it was a strengthening tonic.”
“Let us say it was,” Richard allowed. “But tell me, has she ever given you anything that made you ill?”
Anne’s gaze drifted to the window. “I have been ill for as long as I can remember.”
“Has she always had you take medicines?”
“Yes. Always.”
“And was there ever a time when you took nothing?”
She was silent a long moment. “Only once. When I stayed at Pemberley the summer Mother was expecting. She sent me away to Matlock House so as not to be troubled by me, and Uncle George took me on to Pemberley to meet you and Fitzwilliam. She had packed the medicines, but I never even opened the trunk. I told the maid to leave it as it was.”
Richard smiled faintly. “I remember. You were healthy then. You rode, you swam, you ate heartily. You laughed.”
Her answering smile was wistful. “It was the best summer of my life. I never felt so well.” She grew pensive. “Perhaps I have been ill all these years because of those tonics. Richard… I am surprised I am not dead.”
He reached for her hand, enclosing it firmly in his. “You were very nearly dead,” he said softly.
But as he looked at her, really looked at Anne, Richard understood something had changed. The affection he had always felt for her, cousinly and unexamined, had grown in the space of a single day into something more profound, and the pity had given way to fierce protectiveness.
Later that evening, Richard sat alone in the dimly lit library, the fire burned low and steady, its glow casting long shadows upon the paneled walls. He leaned forward in the armchair, hands loosely clasped, and let his thoughts turn to Anne.
All day she had been in his care, frail, pale, yet with a spark in her that had caught him unawares. He had always considered her a gentle cousin to be pitied, but now… now he saw her as something more. Her eyes, warm and intelligent despite her illness, had met his with a trust that stirred a deep chord in him. He had felt it when her small hands had closed over his as he held the cup, and again when her laughter, soft and genuine, had surprised him.
