Page 17 of Penned By Mr Darcy
The stream gurgled over the rocks, indifferent to his presence, carrying on without pause—just as the world seemed to do, no matter his turmoil. Darcy crouched, his gloved fingers brushing a smooth stone at the water’s edge, grounding himself in the moment, in something tangible.
He had not anticipated how thoroughly Miss Elizabeth would unsettle him. Her wit, her candour—so unlike the women of his usual acquaintance—had pierced through his defences with alarming ease. She had a way of seeing him, truly seeing him, and it unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
And yet, it was more than that. There was a steadiness in her, a fire tempered by compassion, that had taken root in his thoughts. He had come to believe it a danger—not to himself, but to Bingley. Jane Bennet's composure, so serene it bordered on unreadable, had left Darcy uncertain of her feelings. He had spoken as he thought best, out of loyalty, out of care. But even now, a whisper of doubt lingered.
The breeze stirred the trees overhead. He stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat, the silence around him deepening. It was done. Bingley would return to town, and Miss Bennet would be left behind. It was the right course.
Wasn’t it?
Darcy turned from the stream, the question still echoing as he rode back to the house.
When Darcy entered the house after seeing to his horse, he removed his riding gloves with slow, deliberate movements, stretching his stiff fingers as he crossed the threshold. The doctor was just making his departure, his expression sombre. At the sight of his grave face, a flicker of regret stirred in Darcy. Regret for what he had said to Bingley about Miss Bennet, and for having questioned the severity of her condition.
“How does Miss Bennet fare?” Darcy asked, his voice low.
“It is as I feared. Winter fever, with particular sickness in the lungs,” the doctor replied with a sigh.
“I see.”
“I’ve told Mr Bingley I shall return first thing in the morning. If she shows no improvement, I will apply leeches. Poor girl. I was present when she was born, and for the births of all her sisters. It’s difficult, seeing her like this.”
Darcy gave a quiet nod. The words brought to mind the physician from Lambton, the man who had delivered both him and Georgiana. Would that doctor speak of him with such familiarity, such feeling? Was it possible to hold affection for a life one had merely observed at its edges?
“Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
Darcy turned away, ascending the stairs without pause. He had no appetite for conversation. The argument with Bingley echoed endlessly in his thoughts, each repetition chipping away at his certainty, leaving behind an uneasy hollowness.
“Mr Darcy.”
He paused. The voice was unmistakable.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She stood at the top of the landing, eyes red, her composure visibly frayed.
“Forgive me,” she said softly. “I didn’t expect anyone to pass through here.”
“You’ve been crying.”
“Yes,” she said with a heavy sniff, her hands rising and rubbing at her pink cheeks. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
“Why?”
“My sister’s condition worsens, Mr Darcy. And I can do nothing. I sit beside her and try to comfort her, but I am helpless. Forgiveme. No doubt a more accomplished woman would bear it with grace and restraint. I fear I am not that sort.”
“I do not think less of you for it. What has changed in her condition?”
“Her lungs are causing her increased discomfort. Her breathing is laboured, her fever relentless. I hold her hand, and it feels as though she burns from within. I do not know how to help her. I always know what to do! I always know how to help her!”
“I am sorry,” he said, quietly.
“Thank you.”
She sniffled, her shoulders trembling. Without thinking, he reached into his coat and withdrew a clean handkerchief, offering it to her without a word. She looked at it for a moment, then raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes, though brimming with tears, held a kind of clarity, a searching awareness.
She hesitated, just long enough for him to sense the weight of her deliberation. And then she reached out.
