Page 104 of Ashes and Understanding
“I only worry that the longer it takes, the more desperate Le Corbeau will become.”
“Then we need to draw him out,” she replied, her voice steady.
“But how?” Darcy asked, punctuating his question with a cough.
The three fell silent for a time, then Elizabeth said at last, “Let us think on it tonight. If you will call tomorrow, perhaps we will have come up with an idea.”
“Very well. We will attempt to have Bingley call with us, but we may not be able to do so. His sister has been quite overset with preparations for the ball, and as tomorrow will be the day before, he may not have the liberty to leave.”
“Poor Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth murmured.
“PoorMisterBingley,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “He has my full sympathy. I would sooner face a French firing line than cross a woman in the throes of party planning.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then I pray the French do not attack before the Netherfield ball—else we may all be undone.”
The colonel chuckled, but Darcy’s gaze lingered on her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let us hope for a quiet night.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth lay staring at the canopy above her bed, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the ceiling. Sleep remained elusive. Her thoughts chased each other like foxes—swift, tangled, andrelentless. Somewhere across the room, Kitty snored softly, the wheeze of it punctuated by a catch in her breath that had returned with the first frost. She always coughed more in winter.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, willing herself to calm, to quiet her mind as the clock in the hall chimed two o’clock in the morning.
It was no use. She could not sleep.How can we draw out Le Corbeau?
The question haunted her, but no answer came.
The only ideas she had come up with all involved using Benjamin as some sort of bait, but she refused to even contemplate the notion. Intentionally puttinganychild in danger was nothing short of reprehensible to her.
But she could think of nothing else.
She rolled onto her side and tried to focus on something else.
Mr. Darcy’s face came to mind—drawn, weary, pale beneath the early winter sunlight. He had tried to hide it, but she had seen the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the way he rubbed at his chest when he thought no one noticed.
He had coughed again that afternoon, twice during their conversation, and each time she had bitten her tongue to keep from suggesting they move indoors or offering him a warmer coat. She wanted to scold him for pushing himself, to press a hand to his brow and insist he rest.
But it was not her place.
If only it could be.
She wanted it to be.
The thought made her still. Slowly, it settled over her like a hush in a church. She did not merely admire him. It was not gratitudefor his kindness, nor sympathy for his burdens, nor the thrill of his admiration that made her chest ache when he looked at her.
It was love.
Quiet, fierce, unshakable. The kind that crept in when she was not watching, that wove itself into her thoughts until she could not imagine a day without them.
I am in love with Mr. Darcy.
With that certainty came a longing so deep and burning so brightly, she had to close her eyes against it. She longed for the right to worry over him, to care for him without restraint, to share in his struggles and ease his burdens—not as a friend, not even as a confidante, but as his partner. His equal. His wife.
If she were his wife, then that afternoon she could have sent him to the fireside and demanded he stay there until his lungs were soothed and his color returned. She could have fretted over him without worrying about being too forward or unladylike.
But instead, she was left with silence and shadow and all the proper distance society required.
She sighed and pulled the covers higher, trying to settle herself.
