Page 19 of Penned By Mr Darcy
I have longed for her good opinion, and to have it at last…
I cannot think like this. I cannot act on this. Not while her sister lies ill, not while Bingley hovers in indecision, not while she herself must still see me as no more than a man of strained civility.
But I write this in the hope that it will quiet my mind. I must master this storm.
And yet, I wonder…if her sister recovers…if time and circumstance allowed…
He set down his pen. It was impossible; marriage to such a woman would be met with disdain by his family. Her family were to be considered, of course, for they were quite without distinction and behaved in such a way as to be detrimental to the Darcy name. Save for Miss Bennet, who, from what he could tell, was perfectly refined. Elizabeth – Miss Elizabeth, he corrected himself – herself was spirited and bold, enjoying nothing more than the chance to challenge him.
What sort of wife would a woman such as that make?
A passionate one, his mind whispered. A woman who would desire more than pin money – a woman who would have your mind, who would challenge your wit to even come close to her own. A woman who would be as fierce a wife and mother as society had ever known.
It was too much to think of – and so, he would simply not think of her at all.
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth
Elizabeth did not leave Jane’s side for the remainder of the day, nor the day after that. She wrote a brief letter to her mother—measured and careful in tone, though it concealed her growing fear—and then returned to Jane’s bedside. There she stayed, curled beside her sister, listening with silent dread to each strained breath that passed her lips.
“You…do not…need to…” Jane whispered hoarsely as the sun dipped low on the second evening, only to be silenced by another bout of coughing that shook her frail frame.
“Hush,” Elizabeth murmured, stroking a strand of pale hair from Jane’s damp brow. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
A faint smile lifted the corners of Jane’s lips, and Elizabeth held onto it like a promise. Better days would come. They had to. Jane would be well again, and she would never again find herself her sister’s nursemaid. It was too much, this feeling of helplessness, all power given up to fate.
Hours passed, marked only by the flicker of a single candle and the rhythmic rise and fall of Jane’s chest. When her sister finally drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep after hours of tossingand turning as her fever burned, Elizabeth allowed herself to exhale. Her limbs ached from disuse, her eyes burned from sleeplessness, but for the first time in days, she let herself move.
She stood slowly, stretching her back and rolling her shoulders. Her stomach growled—loud and sudden in the hush of the room. She had scarcely eaten, her concern for Jane overriding any personal care. But now, with her sister at peace, she found herself ravenous.
She cast a final glance toward the bed, then slipped from the room and padded silently through the dim corridor. The house was still. A grandfather clock somewhere in the parlour struck once -one o’clock?She blinked. Had it really grown so late?
Navigating Netherfield in the dark was no easy task. Every doorway looked alike. She opened one door, then another, all unfamiliar drawing rooms and darkened studies. Just as she reached for the next handle…
“Miss Elizabeth?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin, whirling toward the voice.
“Mr Darcy,” she gasped, placing a hand over her racing heart. “You frightened me.”
“My apologies,” he said, his tone stiff but low. “I heard doors opening. I thought—” He broke off. “Are you well?”
“I am.” She tried to smile, though she felt far from composed. “I was looking for the kitchens, if you must know. I haven’t eaten much in the past two days, and I thought I might steal some bread and cheese.”
His brow lifted faintly.
“Steal?”
“Well,” she allowed, “perhapsborrowwithout permission.”
“I see.”
She looked at him properly then, noticing that he, too, was dressed not for company, but for comfort. His hair was slightly tousled, his coat unbuttoned, and she suspected—oddly—that he had been reading. Always reading.
“And you?” she asked. “Why are you awake?”
“I was in the library,” he replied. “I heard someone moving about.”
