Page 24 of Ashes and Understanding
No, that was impossible; her behavior had been well within the bounds of appropriate conduct, especially in light of the situation. She had been firm, yes, but she also had been civil in her discourse with the soldier.
Had he only helped her out of pity? Had he looked upon her then as a mere curiosity—some half-wild woman commanding order in a disaster—and now regretted lowering himself to acknowledge her? Had he thought her worthy of respect when she was covered in ash and desperation but found her lacking when placed in a ballroom?
Or perhaps he did not believe awomanshould be the one to interfere.
Yes, that must be it. Perhaps he believed her to have overstepped her place. Perhaps he thought her too bold, too unfeminine.
Elizabeth’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Howdarehe?
The more she turned the matter over in her mind, the more her mortification transformed into anger. If he had taken issue with her actions that day, he should have said so then, not pretended she did not exist now, like some arrogant, spoiled aristocrat.
How dare he judge me when he does not even know me?
She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She would not allow this insult to go unanswered. If he wished to snub her, then he could at least have the decency to explainwhy.
Her feet carried her swiftly across the room to the beverage table, her irritation fueling every step. She barely registered the music, the chatter, the laughter around her. Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and slipped out the doors into the hall.
The cool night air blowing in from an open balcony met her skin, a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the assembly hall. Scanning the dimly lit corridor, she caught sight of him only a few feet away, leaning heavily against a column.
He was coughing—violently, uncontrollably. His entire frame shuddered with the force of it, his shoulders hunched forward as he braced himself against the stone pillar. His face was flushed, his cravat slightly loosened as if he had tried to ease his constricted breathing. But it was not enough.
Her righteous fury vanished in an instant, replaced by something far more powerful: compassion.
His lips were parted in a desperate attempt to draw in air, yet the illusory vice around his chest would not allow it. His complexion was turning from red to something far more alarming—purple. One gloved hand clutched the wooden paneling beside him as though the force of the attack might bring him to his knees. His head was bowed, his shoulders shaking with each rasping, agonizing breath.
Elizabeth had never heard such terrible coughing before—deep, ragged, and unrelenting. It clawed at his throat, stole his breath, and rattled his entire frame. He was drowning in it, barely able to stand upright.
Was this why he had left so suddenly? Not because of her—but because he could not breathe? This was no mild ailment. This was something deeper, something painful, something that stole the air from his lungs and left him drowning on dry land.
Is he dying?
Panic jolted through her. Was anyone coming to assist him? Had no one noticed him slipping out? She realized neither Bingley nor his sisters had followed him; and now, standing here, watching him, she realized how alone he was.
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She had been ready to confront him with righteous indignation, to demand an explanation for his coldness—but now, all she could think was he needs help.
She took a step forward, then another, her feet moving before her mind had caught up.
“Mr. Darcy—”
He did not seem to hear her. His head was bowed, his body still wracked by the attack.
Without thinking, she ran.
Chapter 6
There was no time to waste. Elizabeth barely registered her movements as she turned on her heel, her skirts brushing against the doorframe as she slipped back into the assembly hall.
Her heart was still racing, but this time it was from panic. The bright, lively noise of the ballroom hit her like a wall. The laughter, the chatter of the guests, the musicians tuning their instruments for the next dance—how could everything be so normal when only a few steps away, someone was struggling for breath?
The drink table had been set up just to left of the doorway and was laden with glasses of weak punch and lemonade. Most of the guests were far too absorbed in changing partners or speaking with friends to notice her movements. She ducked her head, thankful for the distraction provided by the lively reel that hadjust begun, and crept towards the table as inconspicuously as possible.
Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for a glass of lemonade, her attention divided between the task at hand and the thought of Mr. Darcy waiting outside. Grasping it tightly, she quickly—but carefully—made her way back outside.
Darcy was still leaning against the column, but his coughing fit had seemed to ease somewhat. His chest still heaved with uneven breaths, and a faint sheen of perspiration beaded on his forehead, but at least his face had resumed a more usual color.
“Here,” she murmured, pressing the cool glass into his gloved hands.
