The Secrets of Darcy and Elizabeth: A Pride and Prejudice Variation (12 page)

Darcy woke with a start. He had fallen asleep sitting in the chair, but with his head resting on the bed by Elizabeth’s side. He heard noises, but it took a moment to pinpoint the source: Elizabeth was thrashing violently in the bed covers and calling out.

“Oh…oh…the French…the soldiers! Papa, we must run! Help! Papa, please hurry! Where are Lydia and Jane? Papa!” Her tone was frantic and her face was creased with worry.

Darcy realized she was in the throes of a feverish nightmare. He laid his hand gently on her arm, hoping to shake her out of her delirium. “Miss Bennet, it is a dream. You are perfectly safe.” She did not react to his touch or the sound of his voice, but continued to thrash and moan. Hoping his soothing words would penetrate the fever, Darcy continued to talk in soothing tones.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright in the bed, startling him. “William! William! Where are you? They cannot capture you. I need you!” She screamed the last word so loudly he feared she would awaken others in the household. He tried to shush her gently, wondering – somewhat jealously – who this “William” was. Suddenly the realization penetrated his sleep-fogged brain: she meant him! Few people in his life called him by his given name and most called him Fitzwilliam. He had never heard Elizabeth call him anything other than “Mr. Darcy,” but perhaps she thought of him as “William” in the privacy of her own thoughts. Despite the seriousness of the situation he smiled to himself, thinking that maybe she did harbor some positive opinions regarding him.

She cried out again and Darcy grabbed her shoulders, staring into her flushed face and unfocused eyes. “Elizabeth, it is just a bad dream! It is only a dream!” But she gave no indication that she heard him. He released her shoulders and she sank back on the pillows, continuing to toss and turn and mutter, although the words were barely coherent.

The maid had brought a basin of water earlier, so Darcy took a rag and bathed Elizabeth’s forehead in water. “So hot!” she murmured. He could sense the skin through the thin cloth of her nightgown; she was burning up. Pulling down the covers, he pushed up the sleeves of her nightgown to cool off her arms. He bathed her hands and throat in cool water, wishing that propriety allowed him to access other parts of her skin. Perhaps he should get the maid….

With the cooling water on her skin, Elizabeth quieted somewhat. She no longer thrashed, though she moved restlessly and rolled her head from side to side. With the sheets no longer covering her, Darcy could not help admiring her beautiful figure. He envisioned her in his great bed at Pemberley – her dark, curly hair spread on the pillows – just as it was now…her eyes shining with love for him. Welcoming him….

Shaking out of his reverie, he chastised himself for thinking such thoughts about an ill woman. There were many reasons why such a vision might never come to fruition. He should not torture himself with it.

Darcy was awakened again by a shaft of early morning sunlight shining in his eyes. He glanced quickly at Elizabeth, noticing that her hands were moving restlessly as she plucked ineffectually at the coverlet. Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes did not open. He took her wrist and felt her pulse, which was still weak. Instead of replacing her hand, he held it in his own. Perhaps in her current state, she would be comforted to feel her hand in his – or she might be appalled at the liberties he was taking.

Her dark tresses spilled out across the pillow. How often had he longed to touch her hair to discern if it was as soft as it appeared? Almost of its own volition, his hand reached out and stroked one of the curls. How he wished he could do this when she was awake!

Her eyelids fluttered open and he jerked his hand away guiltily. She gave no indication she had noticed his actions, but looked rather dazed. Her eyes flitted around the room until they rested on him. “Will – Mr. Darcy!” He wished he could ask her to address him by his Christian name, but this was not the time. “Where—?” The words came out weak and breathy, totally unlike her usual energetic and pert tone.

“We are staying at the home of my friend, Thomas Whitmore. Near Montdidier.”

“We must get to England!” Her voice was only a hoarse whisper and she appeared to be fighting to keep her eyes open. Violent shivers wracked her body and he pulled the covers further up around her neck to keep her warm.

“We are perfectly safe,” he said reassuringly. “Mr. Whitmore has offered his protection. And, no one will seek us here.”

“But, we must – “

“You are ill. We must remain here until you recover.”

Her head shook weakly. “It is not safe. I cannot – You cannot risk yourself for me – “

“I will not risk your health. Nor is there any reason to believe we are in danger now that we have left Paris. Mr. Whitmore has heard nothing of soldiers seeking out Englishmen in the countryside.” She said nothing, but glanced down to where his hand was still grasping hers. Darcy colored at the liberty he had taken, but she did not appear dismayed. Nor did she pull her hand away. Darcy returned his eyes to her face. “You must put your energy into recovery. How do you feel?”

“I am...good….” The weakness of her voice belied her words.

Darcy was noticing the alarming pallor of her skin. “Please tell me the truth.”

She smiled wanly. “I can see from your face that I must seem very ill indeed.”

“I have seen you looking better,” he allowed.

“You are all politeness,” her voice was a little stronger and her smile a trifle broader. “I will admit to being somewhat tired and weak.” Another shiver shook her body.

Darcy persuaded her to drink some water, but she would not eat. Soon she fell into a shallow sleep. He took the opportunity to awaken the maid, who sat with Elizabeth while he visited his room to change his clothes.

Time crawled by slowly in the sick room. Darcy had perceived Elizabeth’s early morning coherence as a hopeful sign, but she grew steadily worse throughout the day. Darcy took breakfast in her room and did not leave her bedside. Rationally he knew there was little he could do for her, but he could not bear to be away for any amount of time. By dinnertime her skin seemed, if possible, even hotter, although she no longer thrashed while she slept. Instead she lay very still and pale in a way that Darcy found extremely disturbing. Her breathing had become more labored and he could hear every breath she took. The doctor came twice during the day and left medicine, but he observed little improvement in her condition.

Late in the afternoon Whitmore visited the sick room. He found Darcy pacing back and forth before Elizabeth’s bed. He stared distractedly at Whitmore. “If only there were something I could do! But there is nothing.” He ran his fingers through hair that was already disheveled. “I hate this – this – helplessness!” He flung himself into the chair. “I shall go mad!”

Whitmore regarded him sympathetically. “You have been confined too long. Your mind needs distraction. Come down to dinner. I will have the maid watch over Miss Bennet.”

“No, I cannot leave her. What if she needs me?”

“My friend,” Whitmore said softly, “there is nothing that you can provide that the maid cannot. Driving yourself into exhaustion will do her no good. For Miss Bennet’s sake, please take some sustenance.”

Darcy thrust himself out of the chair and paced the length of the room until he was standing by the window, peering out into the gathering twilight. “Very well. But, please tell the maid to summon me if there is any alteration.”

Darcy joined his hosts for dinner, but was unable to provide much conversation and had little appetite. Perfectly comprehending his mood, Marie and Whitmore carried the burden of the conversation, telling him about their life in France. They lived a quiet country existence away from the glamour of the capital city. In response to Darcy’s question, Whitmore admitted that he sometimes encountered hostility against Englishmen, but the prominence of Marie’s family among the local notables protected him and he had never felt threatened.

They socialized with a few other families who numbered expatriate English men and women among their members. Whitmore was sometimes called upon, in his capacity as an ordained minister of the Anglican Church, to perform weddings and baptisms for English citizens who resided in this predominately Catholic country. Darcy tried not to think about the possibility that Elizabeth might need Whitmore to perform last rites.
No,
he told himself,
she was strong and healthy before this fever took hold. There is no reason to think it will strike her down.

After dinner Whitmore and Darcy arrived at Elizabeth’s room to find Monsieur Flouret examining the patient. When he was finished, he met the men out in the hall. He asked Whitmore to translate as he talked to Darcy, a request that made Darcy apprehensive; before they had struggled along with Darcy’s imperfect, but acceptable, command of French.

“He says the infection is in her lungs and she struggles to breathe,” Whitmore explained, his face full of concern. “Her pulse is very weak.” Whitmore paused and listened to the doctor’s torrent of French. “I am sorry, Darcy. You must prepare yourself for the worst. He does not believe there is much hope she will survive.”

Chapter 6

Darcy felt as though a deep hole had opened suddenly under his feet, dragging him down into the earth. There was darkness around the edges of his vision and he heard the doctor’s voice as if at the bottom of a deep hole. His mind struggled to understand what he was hearing.

“No—” The word came out like a moan.

Whitmore put his hand on Darcy’s shoulder in sympathy. “I am so sorry.”

“NO!” Darcy tore away savagely from Whitmore and rushed into Elizabeth’s room.

A few minutes later he was staring at the too-still form on the bed. Sitting in the bedside chair, he gripped the smooth linens of Elizabeth’s bed like a lifeline. Whitmore had dismissed the doctor and entered the room, hovering near the door. “What else I can do for you? I want to help.”

“Find another doctor for her. I do not care about the expense. Summon someone from Paris if necessary!” Darcy’s voice crescendoed from a harsh whisper to a shout.

Whitmore nodded. “Certainly, there is another doctor over in Noyon. We shall send for him immediately.” He turned to depart, but paused and glanced back at Darcy. “Perhaps you should write to Miss Bennet’s family?”

Darcy shook his head slowly. “I considered it, but I fear members of her family might attempt to come to France and place themselves in danger. Besides, they would probably arrive too late.” He gazed longingly at Elizabeth’s pale face. “It is a shame. She would certainly find comfort in her sister’s presence.” He had sent letters to Georgiana and the Gardiners when they had arrived at Whitmore’s house to let them know where they were and that they were safe. “Safe!” he muttered, thinking that the word now mocked him. If she were to die, the Gardiners and Bennets would be completely unprepared for such ill tidings.

“I understand.” Whitmore nodded and left the room. Darcy continued to stare at Elizabeth’s face, trying to absorb the possibility – the reality of her death. He had not shed a tear since his father’s death nearly seven years before, but now he felt wetness in his eyes. How could he continue to live? How could he inhabit a world with no Elizabeth? Far better to see her wed another man! If she were to die, he did not know how he could survive a single day.

The evening dragged on. The other doctor, a short, stout man, arrived. After examining Elizabeth, he provided her with additional medicine, but could not render a more optimistic conclusion than Flouret’s. Darcy had not believed it was possible for his spirits to sink even lower, but they did. He alternated between frantic pacing back and forth in front of the bed and sitting as he stared in despair at the bed’s inhabitant. Whitmore visited him around 11 o’clock before retiring for bed, but Darcy was not disposed to conversation.

Around midnight, Elizabeth’s fever rose higher and she began again to thrash and moan. Darcy bathed her face and arms in cool water. Peeling away the sheets drenched with sweat, he pulled the damp nightgown away from her calves so cooler air could circulate. He even untied the top of her nightgown and bathed her neck and shoulders with water. Bitterly he remembered how he had fantasized about viewing and touching these parts of her body. Now those dreams seemed to mock him.

What will I do without her?
He imagined how empty his life would be. It would be even worse than after the disastrous Hunsford proposal when he was sure she would never be his. How could she be taken from him now – when he believed he had achieved some small progress in improving her opinion of him? Envisioning the prospect of living another 30 years without Elizabeth in the world, he dropped his head to the edge of the bed and sobbed.

When he awoke, his head was resting on the bed and his neck was very stiff. The weight of Elizabeth’s hand pressed on his hair. It felt so pleasant and natural, but then her hand drifted away again. He straightened up, thinking Elizabeth might be awake and aware of his presence, but her eyes were closed. She seemed much the same as before, although her breathing was more labored and he heard a rasping in her lungs he had not noticed before. A fresh wave of despair washed over him as he realized was little to pin his hopes on.

It was still night. Moonlight streamed in through the window, creating eerie shadows in the room. Darcy stood, but his muscles were so cramped, he almost toppled over. Hours spent sleeping in the chair had wreaked havoc on his body, which seemed to ache all over. He gazed at Elizabeth. It was a large bed and she occupied only a small part. Her skin had cooled some, so he pulled the coverlet over her once more. The bed was very inviting – the pillow would be very soft under his head. He could lie down next to her. He could hold Elizabeth to him, just once.