32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

E lizabeth watched in frustration as her horse, seemingly done with her struggles, yanked its head free of her grasp and wandered off, flicking its tail with a clear lack of concern. "Off with you then! Run off and get lost!" she fumed. "See if I care when you are turned into glue!"

She leaned heavily against a nearby tree, the bark rough against her palm, her ankle throbbing with each pulse of her heartbeat. The wetness from the mud clung to her gown, the cold seeping through the fabric and into her bones. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in sheer frustration. She had not come this far just to be stranded outside, muddy and helpless.

Elizabeth surveyed the area around the house, desperately trying to think of what to do next. The workmen who had been speaking with Mr Wickham were nowhere to be seen, and the house itself seemed quiet—too quiet for her to count on some other distraction. She needed to find a way inside, but she could not very well limp up to the front door in this state. What would she say? How could she even hope to find Mr Darcy without causing a scandal?

As she leaned against the tree, contemplating her increasingly dire situation, she caught sight of a young servant boy—no more than thirteen—making his way from the kitchen to the woodshed. It was a risky move, but Elizabeth saw no other option.

"Help!" she called out, her voice a hoarse yelp in the quiet of the morning. The boy stopped abruptly, dropping the wood in surprise as his eyes darted around in search of the source of the cry.

He hesitated, squinting into the trees, before cautiously stepping closer. As he approached, his eyes widened in recognition of her muddied gown and dishevelled appearance. "Miss? Are you... are you hurt? "

Elizabeth mustered a weary smile, grateful that he had come to her aid. "I need your help," she said, leaning more heavily on the tree. "I cannot walk on my own. Can you assist me to the house?"

The boy nodded, still wide-eyed, and quickly moved to her side. "Shall I fetch the master?"

"No!" Elizabeth's response was sharper than she intended, but she could not risk Mr Wickham discovering her. She softened her tone. "Please, no. Could you take me to Mrs Nicholls instead? I remember her to be a very clever woman, and she will know how to help me."

The boy looked uncertain but then nodded again, more firmly this time. "Of course, Miss. I can do that. Lean on me, and I'll get you inside."

Elizabeth gratefully accepted his offer, draping her arm around his shoulders as he carefully supported her weight. Together, they made their slow, painful way towards the house. Each step was a jarring reminder of how foolish her plan had been, but she clung to the hope that once inside, she might yet find a way to speak with Mr Darcy—if she could only avoid Wickham.

The boy led her through the servant's entrance, his brow furrowed with concentration as he carefully navigated the narrow passageways. Elizabeth focused on putting one foot in front of the other, her breath coming in short, laboured gasps as they neared the housekeeper's quarters.

When they finally reached the door to Mrs Nicholls' domain, the boy gently knocked, his voice still trembling slightly as he called out, "Mrs Nicholls, it's Tommy. There's a lady here who needs your help."

E lizabeth limped into the warmth of the kitchen. Her ankle throbbed with each step, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but she bit back any sound of discomfort. The last thing she needed was to collapse into a heap before even setting eyes on Mr Darcy. And heaven help her, she was going to see him—somehow, some way—if it was the last thing she did today.

As soon as Mrs Nicholls appeared, her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Elizabeth—muddy, dishevelled, and clearly in pain. Without a word, the housekeeper hurried forward, her hands gently but firmly guiding Elizabeth to a nearby chair. "Oh, Miss Bennet, you're hurt!" Mrs Nicholls quickly knelt beside Elizabeth, gently lifting her injured foot and propping it up on a nearby stool.

Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment, struggling to focus on anything other than the throbbing pain in her ankle and the dishevelled state of her appearance. The mud-caked hem of her gown, the sodden fabric clinging to her skin—everything about her screamed impropriety. "I am sorry, Mrs Nicholls," she rasped. "I am tracking mud all over your clean kitchen."

The housekeeper clucked her tongue, her sharp eyes taking in the full extent of Elizabeth's bedraggled state. "Never mind the floor, Miss," she said briskly, her gaze lingering on the front of Elizabeth's gown, where the snowy mud had created an embarrassing slush that made the garment cling to her like her own skin. "I'll send for an upstairs maid to see to your clothing, though I fear we have nothing suitable for a lady of your station. We shall have to wrap you in blankets until we can send for fresh clothing from Longbourn."

Elizabeth's face burned with a mix of discomfort and urgency. "I appreciate your care, Mrs Nicholls, truly, but..." She hesitated, glancing around the room to ensure they were alone. "I desperately need to speak with Mr Darcy before he departs."

Mrs Nicholls' eyes widened in surprise, and Elizabeth hastened to explain. "It is not... that is, I am not seeking an improper meeting. This is about the election of the new MP. I believe Mr Darcy may have information that could help my father, but my father did not have the chance to speak with him privately. I believe… that is, I think Mr Darcy might be willing to speak with me, but only if I can catch him without…" she cleared her throat. "I would rather not alert Mr Wickham of my presence… not yet."

The housekeeper's expression softened, but she shook her head. "Miss Bennet, Mr Darcy is not in a position to speak with you."

"Even if I make haste?" She tried to rise out of the chair. "I can make it to… oh, to the library if someone will help me. Surely, he is not already standing at the door, and—"

Mrs Nicholls shook her head. "I mean, Miss, Mr Darcy is in no condition to leave immediately. He... he is somewhat incapacitated."

A jolt of alarm shot through her. Mr Darcy incapacitated? "What do you mean? "

Mrs Nicholls' frown deepened as she deliberated on her response. Finally, she spoke, her tone cautious. "Mr Darcy is resting in my workroom, Miss Bennet. He is in some distress."

Without thinking, Elizabeth pushed herself upright, ignoring the sharp pain in her ankle. "Take me to him at once."

Mrs Nicholls raised her hand, shaking her head vehemently. "Miss Bennet, it's not proper. He asked for privacy. It is not for a lady's eyes."

Elizabeth hopped on her good foot, wobbling precariously. "Mr Darcy has been unwell for some time now. If he is in distress, I might be the only person in Hertfordshire he would accept help from. Please, Mrs Nicholls, take me to him—now."

The housekeeper hesitated for only a moment before nodding. She helped Elizabeth across the kitchen, down a narrow hallway, and to the door of her own quarters. Two footmen stood guard outside, their faces taut with worry and helplessness.

Elizabeth limped forward, bracing herself against the doorframe, and pushed into the room. What she saw made her heart lurch.

Mr Darcy lay on a makeshift pallet on the floor, his body convulsing in a terrifying rhythm. His eyes were rolled back, only the whites visible, and his limbs jerked uncontrollably. The room had been carefully arranged to keep the furniture out of his reach, and padding had been placed around his head to prevent further injury, but it was clear no one knew how to help him.

Without hesitation, Elizabeth moved to his side, grabbing hold of the nearest stable surface to support her weight. She dropped to her knees beside him, the pain in her ankle forgot in her urgency. She cradled his head in her hands, her fingers brushing against his clammy skin.

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat as she watched the violent spasms wrack Darcy's body, her heart pounding with a fear she had never known before. Her hands trembled as she reached out, not knowing what to do, but unable to stand by without trying. "Mr Darcy," she whispered, her voice thick with panic as she cradled his head in her lap, gently brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. "Please, stay with me. Please."

The convulsions showed no sign of stopping, and Elizabeth's desperation grew. She had no idea how to help, but she couldn't bear to see him suffer like this—couldn't bear the thought of losing him without ever understanding what it was that had drawn her to him so powerfully. "You cannot leave me now," she pleaded, her fingers tracing the lines of his face with a tenderness that surprised even her. "You must fight this, Mr Darcy. You must!"

As the seconds dragged on, each one feeling like a lifetime, Darcy's body finally began to still. Elizabeth held her breath, her hands hovering uncertainly over his chest, desperate to sense any sign of life. When he went limp, her heart seized with a terror so profound it nearly stole her own breath away. "No, no, no," she murmured, pressing her ear to his chest, her tears mingling with the sweat on his skin. She strained to hear, to feel, to find any indication that he was still with her.

And then, faint but undeniable, she caught the soft, fragile thump of his heartbeat. Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, her tears spilling freely now as she clung to him, the realisation crashing over her like a wave. She could not lose him—not now, not ever. The truth of her feelings, so long buried beneath layers of misunderstanding, surged to the surface, leaving her raw and exposed.

"Stay with me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I cannot lose you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Please... I cannot lose you." She held him tightly, refusing to let go, even as her own body trembled from the strain, from the enormity of what she had just discovered within herself.

D arcy's return to consciousness was slow and muddled, like swimming through thick fog. His mind struggled to grasp reality, his body sluggish and uncooperative. The first thing he became aware of was a dull ache radiating through his entire body, accompanied by a strange weight pressing down on him. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts fragmented and disjointed.

Voices swirled around him, distant and tinny, as though muffled by layers of cotton. He could not make out the words, but the tone was gentle, concerned. He tried to focus, to pull himself out of the darkness, but his body refused to respond. The fog in his mind was suffocating, pressing down on him, making it nearly impossible to think clearly .

A sensation of warmth—comforting and familiar—stroked his face, the touch soft and soothing. His cheek rested against something warm, something that shifted slightly as though breathing beneath him. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming, the thought drifting in and out of his filmy consciousness.

"Mr Darcy… please, try to drink this." The voice was clear but distant, as if it were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. There was something familiar about it, something that made his heart leap, but the haze in his mind clouded his recognition.

Another voice, louder and more insistent. "Sit him up a bit, Miss. Are you certain we shan't send for Mr Jones? The gentleman looks nigh spent."

"No," the second voice countered, softer but firm. "Mr Darcy would prefer discretion, I am certain of it." There was an edge of protectiveness in the tone that sent a shiver of warmth through him.

The words were muffled, echoing in his head, but there was something in the way they were spoken—a gentleness, a familiarity—that tugged at the edges of his awareness. As he tried to make sense of the world around him, he became distantly aware of hands still stroking his face, a tender, rhythmic motion that soothed him even as it confused him.

His senses gradually sharpened, and he could feel the softness of a shawl draped over him, the scratch of wool against his skin. The fog in his mind began to lift, revealing the outlines of the room around him. He blinked, his vision clearing in fits and starts, until the world came into focus.

Elizabeth.

She was here. It really was Elizabeth Bennet, her face pale with worry, her eyes filled with something that looked dangerously close to tears. He felt the warmth of her legs beneath his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of her breath as she cradled his head. The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning, sending a surge of mixed emotions through him—relief, confusion, and a deep, searing sense of embarrassment.

He tried to move, to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs jerked awkwardly, and he could feel the tremor in his hands as he attempted to push himself up. "Miss Bennet…" he tried to say, but the words came out as an unintelligible mumble, thick and slurred. The humiliation burned through him, a flush of heat rising in his cheeks as he realised how helpless he must appear.

Elizabeth's eyes widened, her hands moving quickly to steady him, to offer comfort. "Shh… All is well, Mr Darcy," she murmured, her voice soothing. "You are safe. Just rest. "

But there was no rest to be found in the humiliation that wrapped around him like a blanket. He had prided himself on control, on strength, and now he was reduced to this—a man who could not even speak without stumbling over his words. The feeling of helplessness threatened to overwhelm him, his mind reeling as he fought to regain some semblance of composure.

Darcy blinked hard, willing his vision to steady as he tried to focus on Elizabeth's face. The world around him still swam in and out of clarity, but gradually, he could make out the details—the muddied hem of her gown, the way the fabric clung to her form, and the shawl draped hastily over her shoulders. It did little to hide the state of her dress, and he could not help but notice how vulnerable she appeared, even as she tried to keep her composure.

Their eyes locked, and for a fleeting moment, the room seemed to stop spinning. His breathing steadied, and he managed to find his voice, though it was strained and tinged with an attempt at levity. "It seems, Miss Bennet… we are fated… to meet… when you are covered in mud."

Elizabeth's eyes widened, a hint of relief mingling with her concern. She looked helplessly at Mrs Nicholls, who hovered nearby, and then cleared her throat. "You do have a talent for stating the obvious, Mr Darcy," she replied softly, her tone caught between humour and worry.

Gently, she shifted her hands beneath his head, her touch careful and steady, as she nodded to the footman to place a pillow beneath him. As soon as the cushion was in place, Elizabeth began to rise, but Darcy shook his head, a stubborn resolve flickering in his eyes.

"No… I will not… lie here any longer," he muttered, the words coming with more force than before. He struggled to sit up, his pride pushing him to action even as his body resisted. The footman started to protest, his hand hovering uncertainly over Darcy's shoulder.

"Please, sir," the footman urged, "you must rest—"

"Enough!" Darcy's voice was low but firm, brooking no argument. "Give me your hand. I will not… remain here like a helpless invalid."

Reluctantly, the footman complied, offering his hand and helping Darcy to his feet. The room tilted alarmingly as Darcy swayed, the effort of standing far greater than he had anticipated. He clenched his jaw, determined not to show weakness, but before he could steady himself, Elizabeth was there—swift and sure, sweeping up under his arm on the opposite side, her small frame providing unexpected support .

"Easy now," she murmured, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos of his thoughts. Her presence—strong yet gentle—was both a balm to his pride and a reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet he could do nothing but lean into her, grateful for the strength she offered even as his heart ached at the thought of her seeing him like this.

Darcy took a tentative step forward, his legs trembling beneath him as if they might give way at any moment. Elizabeth, pressed close to his side, felt like both a lifeline and a fragile support. But as they took another step, Elizabeth's foot caught awkwardly beneath her, and she stumbled, hopping on her left foot to avoid putting weight on her injured ankle. She tumbled into his chest, and for a terrifying moment, Darcy feared they might both go down before anyone else could reach them.

But somehow, between the two of them, they struggled to stay upright, their breaths coming in uneven gasps as they leaned heavily on each other.

Darcy's pulse quickened, a jolt of fear snapping through his haze as he saw Elizabeth stumble. "Miss Elizabeth, you are hurt," he rasped, his voice taut with alarm. "You should sit… please."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her determination cutting through the pain that must be searing up her leg. "No, Mr Darcy," she insisted. "I must speak with you. I came all the way from Longbourn this morning on that wretched horse because it was too important to wait."

Her words hit him with an unexpected force, a warmth spreading through the cold dread that had gripped him all morning. Even through the fog clouding his mind, he grasped the weight of her determination, her loyalty, and the desperation that had driven her here. She had suffered to reach him.

"I know… how much you hate that horse," he managed. "I am honoured… truly honoured."

But Darcy knew he could not keep this up—his thoughts were slipping, his vision still a blur, and each word felt like it was dragged out of him. His gaze dropped, catching sight of her gown again—mud-streaked, clinging to her body, entirely too revealing. The sight sent a flush of embarrassment through him, mingling with his disorientation. "Miss Bennet…" he began, his voice strained, the words barely holding together. "Your… attire… it is not… suitable for… a proper conversation."

Elizabeth's cheeks flamed as she realised the truth of his words. She looked around, tugging the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, but it did little to cover her properly. Just then, Darcy's valet, Giles, hurried into the room, his face pale with worry .

"Sir, I only just heard that you needed me," Giles stammered, quickly moving to Darcy's side. "I came as quickly as possible."

Darcy was reluctant to be pulled away from Elizabeth, but he was in no state to hold this conversation here and now. The best course of action was to try to continue with his departure as planned, though he doubted he looked strong enough to take his leave without arousing Wickham's suspicion. Wickham would certainly expect to see him off.

Elizabeth leaned closer to Mrs Nicholls, her voice dropping to a whisper that Darcy could not quite catch. He watched as the housekeeper's expression shifted from concern to outright shock.

Mrs Nicholls straightened, clearly flustered, and responded in a tone that was just loud enough for Darcy to hear. "But Miss, as I've said, we've nothing here. Perhaps I could send to Longbourn for—"

Elizabeth quickly interrupted her with another hushed whisper, her eyes intense and pleading. Darcy strained to catch even a word, but Elizabeth was speaking too quickly, too low.

Mrs Nicholls looked deeply uncomfortable, her face etched with hesitation, but after a moment of consideration, she nodded slowly. "Very well, Miss Bennet," she said quietly, her reluctance evident in every word. "I will do as you ask."

Darcy wearily turned to Giles. "Help me… make myself more presentable. I need to… recover somewhat."

He turned back to Mrs Nicholls, who was still standing nearby, her expression conflicted. "Mrs Nicholls… I apologise for… the trouble I have caused. Thank you for your discretion in… keeping this from Mr Wickham. I would not ordinarily ask you to keep something from your master."

Mrs Nicholls gave Darcy a searching look, then sent the maids and the other footmen away, leaving only Giles in the room as Elizabeth hobbled out with a maid's assistance. Once they were alone, she spoke quietly. "Mr Darcy, I must confess… I would be very happy if Mr Wickham quit the region altogether. He is not an honest master."

Darcy's spirits plummeted as the reality of her words hit him with full force. Wickham had deceived everyone, not just in society, but within his own household, manipulating those who served him with the same calculating charm. The idea of abandoning these people to Wickham's mercies seared his conscience. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving them to suffer under such a man's control, not when he had the power—however limited—to make a difference .

"I will do something," he vowed, the words escaping before he had fully formed a plan. The promise hung in the air between them, a commitment he felt compelled to make, despite the uncertainty of how he might keep it.

Mrs Nicholls straightened her apron with a sniff, her eyes softening. "Thank you, sir, but, but you must first see yourself somewhere safe. And please, help Miss Elizabeth with whatever she is asking for. She is a good and honest girl, and I fear…" She hesitated, as if weighing her words, then continued in a low tone, "I feared that she might fall prey to my master's schemes."

Darcy smiled wryly, though the effort was exhausting. "There is probably little I can do in that regard… but I will try."