34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

T he carriage rumbled along the uneven road toward Longbourn, each jolt sending a visible shock of pain through Darcy's already tortured body. Elizabeth sat across from him, her heart heavy with worry as she watched him suffer. Bingley was seated beside him and looked equally distraught, his hands wringing in his lap as he glanced between Darcy and Elizabeth, helpless to do anything more than offer his silent support. Darcy's head was clutched tightly in his hands, his face contorted in agony, the usually composed and formidable man now reduced to a broken figure hunched over in pain, trying desperately to endure the ride.

As the carriage hit another bump, Darcy let out a low, anguished moan. Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat, and she reached out instinctively, her hand hovering uncertainly over the space between them. She could see Bingley's gaze flicker to her, his own worry mirrored in her eyes. If only there was something, anything, she could do to ease Darcy's torment!

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she leaned forward and called out to the driver to stop. Darcy's valet was riding on top of the coach. What was the man's name? Darcy had called him…

Elizabeth put her head out the door. "Giles! Is there nothing you can give him? Some medicine, anything to help?"

Giles leaned around the edge of the coach. "There is some laudanum, Miss Bennet, but—"

"No," Darcy growled through gritted teeth, his voice strained and hoarse. He roused himself just enough to look up at her, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. "No more. I will take no more of that cursed stuff." His hand shot out, grabbing her arm as if to anchor himself against the pain. "Just… just keep going. Get me to Longbourn. Please. "

Elizabeth's heart twisted at the desperation in his voice. She looked back at Giles, who gave a helpless shrug, then nodded reluctantly. "Very well. But you must tell me if the pain becomes unbearable."

Darcy managed a faint, tight-lipped smile that was more of a grimace. "It already is, Miss Bennet."

The carriage lurched again, and Darcy let out another agonised groan, his body doubling over as if trying to shield himself from the relentless torment. Elizabeth bit her lip, her mind racing for a solution. Then, with sudden determination, she turned to Mr Bingley, whose face was ashen with worry.

"Mr Bingley, please… exchange places with me."

Bingley blinked in surprise but quickly complied. He helped Elizabeth switch seats, and as soon as she was beside Darcy, she gently pulled his trembling form toward her, guiding his head onto her lap.

"Shh," she whispered as she tenderly covered his eyes with her fingers, hoping to block out the light and ease at least a fraction of his suffering. With her other hand, she began to rub his temples in slow, soothing circles, her touch as gentle as she could make it.

Darcy sighed, a sound that was part relief, part exhaustion, as he relaxed just a little against her. Though his body remained tense, every muscle coiled with pain, the steady motion of her hand on his head seemed to bring him some small comfort.

The carriage rocked and swayed as it continued down the road, but Elizabeth hardly noticed. Her entire focus was on the man in her lap, on the way his breath hitched with each pulse of pain, on the way his fists clenched and unclenched as he fought to keep control. She wanted to tell him that everything would be well, that they were almost there, but such words would be meaningless in the face of his agony.

Instead, she simply held him, her fingers stroking his brow, her touch as calming as she could manage. Darcy's breathing gradually slowed, the tension in his body easing just a little under her care. Though the pain was still there, sharp and unyielding, he seemed to draw strength from her presence, from the soft, rhythmic motion of her hand.

" N ow, just repeat that for me—clarify this story. What exactly are you telling me?" Mr Bennet leaned forward, propping his hands on his desk and squinting at Darcy. His hair was still mussed, he still wore his banyan, and he kept darting curious looks at Elizabeth.

"Forgive me, sir…" Darcy held up a hand, a breath hissing between his teeth as his eyes slammed closed. "A moment, pray."

Mr Bennet sighed and looked at Elizabeth. "Lizzy, what is your part in this? How did you find yourself at Netherfield with an injured ankle before the rest of us even broke our fast? Wearing a maid's uniform? And where the devil is my horse?"

Elizabeth blinked and cleared her throat. Bingley was frozen beside her, his face pale and stricken, as if the very ground had been pulled out from under him. Darcy sat slumped in the chair opposite her father, his eyes squeezed shut in pain, his knuckles white as they gripped the arms of the chair. He looked like he was barely holding on.

"Ah, that…" she began. "Yes, there is a simple explanation. Only…" She grimaced, tugging at one finger as she winced. "Perhaps it is not that simple. After what you said last night, I knew I needed to speak to Mr Darcy, and…"

Her father's deadpan look and raised brow stopped her. "I cannot think why you found it necessary to dabble in politics, child. Running off to speak with a gentleman, accost that man as he was about to step into his carriage?"

"Because it was personal, Papa. I…"

Darcy raised his hand, shaking his head. "I ought to explain. Mr Bennet, you and your daughter have been used, and your entire community set up like so many chess pawns."

Mr Bennet frowned. "The specifics, if you please, sir."

"The specifics…" Darcy thinned his lips in thought. "Perhaps I will first advise you that I am the nephew of Lord Matlock. I understand you are familiar with that name."

"I am." Mr Bennet crossed his arms and levelled a stern look at Darcy. "As is anyone who has ever met my cousin Collins, I imagine. I was aware of your connection to both Lord Matlock and Lady Catherine de Bourgh." He followed this with a significant glare and a flick of his gaze at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's heart pounded a frantic beat that echoed in her ears. Papa had heard too many half-truths and assumptions, and Darcy had no credit in his eyes yet. She had to be the one to speak. Besides, Darcy was hardly in any condition to do so. Her voice trembled, but she forced it out, the words tumbling over one another in her rush to explain. "Never mind that now. Papa, we overheard them this morning—Wickham and Sir Anthony. Wickham's job was to win the community's favour so that he could sway the vote for Sir Anthony. He was given money to do it. He has been manipulating everyone, playing us for fools."

Mr Bennet's eyes widened, a look of disbelief crossing his features before settling into something more weary, more resigned. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he was silent for some ten seconds as a battery of thoughts played over his face. "Well, that could explain it. I thought that weir looked like it had been intentionally damaged," he muttered, almost to himself. "I never imagined..."

Elizabeth's gaze snapped to Darcy, who was staring at the floor, his face ashen and drawn. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she watched him. He looked so small, so broken, and the urge to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and shield him from the world, was overwhelming. But she couldn't move, couldn't think beyond the terror that gripped her at seeing him like this.

Her father's voice cut through the haze again, sharper this time, more demanding. "Mr Darcy, what is the matter with you?"

Darcy's eyes flicked up, meeting hers for just a heartbeat before turning to her father. The pain in his gaze was almost unbearable to witness. "I... have been diagnosed with a brain tumour, Mr Bennet," he rasped out, each word seeming to cost him a great effort. "It is likely I have only a short while to live. I had hoped..." His voice cracked, and Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat, a sob threatening to break free.

Bingley gasped. "No, it cannot be true," he stammered, shaking his head in denial. "You cannot be ill! I would have noticed… I—"

Darcy's voice, strained but steady, cut through Bingley's frantic protest. "You did see it, Bingley, though perhaps not for what it was. All those times I disappeared into my room, the moments I was out of sorts, the megrims—did you think nothing of them? "

Bingley's face crumpled. "All those times… when you left the dinner table early, or took long walks alone, or seemed distant… How could I have missed it?" His voice wavered, thick with self-reproach. "How could I have been so blind?"

Elizabeth's chest felt as if it might cave in, and she was staring, gap-mouthed at Darcy. She had known something was the matter, but that it could be this! He could not be dying! Just when she had come to feel she could not exist without him… but everything made sense now. Some of the odd things he had said, his worsening symptoms, and that horrifying episode in the Netherfield servant's quarters…

Darcy met her gaze, and his eyes looked as though they might brim with tears. But then he blinked swiftly, and his attention drifted to Mr Bingley, who looked stricken anew. His complexion was mottled, and he was raking his hair with a shaking hand, his entire body trembling. "How could I have missed it?" he kept mumbling.

Elizabeth smiled gently at the mournful gentleman, trying to offer some comfort even as her own world crumbled around her. "Mr Darcy is… quite skilled at hiding his private troubles, Mr Bingley."

Darcy let out a bitter laugh, the sound raw and jagged. "Not skilled enough, it seems. She saw." His gaze found hers again, and this time, it lingered, filled with a mixture of pain and something deeper, something that made her chest tighten with emotion.

Then, Darcy suddenly drew himself up, a spark of clarity igniting in his eyes as if seized by a moment of inspiration. He let his hand fall from his temple and, with a steady breath, turned to face Mr Bennet. "Sir, I ask for your permission to marry your daughter."

The world tilted on its axis, and for a moment, Elizabeth couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Had she heard him correctly? He wanted… to marry her? Now? A fierce surge of hope welled up inside her, and she knew, even before her father glanced at her, what her answer would be.

Mr Bennet, however, did not appear surprised in the least. He looked at Elizabeth with a warm smirk, then shook his head with a chuckle. "I had been wondering what took you so long, Mr Darcy."

Elizabeth's heart pounded in her chest as Darcy turned to her, his expression softened by a vulnerability that she had never seen in him before. "I would have spoken sooner," he admitted, his voice low and thick with emotion. "But I thought I had little to offer you. Who would want a dying husband? But now... now I want to spend what time I have left with you… if you will have me. I promise, Elizabeth, you will be a rich widow when I am gone. "

Widow . The word echoed in her mind, a dark shadow that threatened to snuff out the light that had sparked at his proposal. No! She would not accept that. She could not. Not after everything.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "Widow? How could you think I would be satisfied with that?"

He blew out his breath and tried to force a smile. "Well… I suppose I cannot be blamed for asking, after…" His smile broke, and then he lifted his shoulders, swallowed, and tried the smile again. "But perhaps I ought not… you deserve better than—"

"That is not what I meant." She slid forward and reached for his hand, caring not a bit that Mr Bingley was staring in pale astonishment or that her father was pouring himself a glass of brandy and watching with detached interest.

"No, I want nothing more than to belong to you." The words were a vow, a promise that came from the deepest part of her soul, and as she spoke them, she felt a strange calm settle over her, a certainty that this was right, that this was what she was meant to do.

Darcy's hand closed around hers, and she could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his grip tightened as if he was afraid to let go. His eyes closed briefly, a shuddering breath escaping him as he murmured, "Thank you."

Elizabeth shook her head again, more firmly this time, her heart aching with a love so fierce it frightened her. "You had better not leave me, Fitzwilliam Darcy. I do not want your thanks—I want you . There must be something to be done, some doctor who can help…"

Darcy's face crumpled slightly, and he looked away, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "There is a surgeon in Cambridge, a Doctor Pembroke, I was on my way to see, but I do not hold much hope. All I want is to know for sure… how much time I have left and if there is any relief for this pain. But…" He shook his head and attempted that fake smile again. "With everything here, and… well, I do not know if I can even endure the journey."

Elizabeth couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They slipped down her cheeks unchecked as she wiped his face, her fingers trembling with the fear of losing him. She didn't care that her father and Bingley were watching, didn't care that she was breaking down in front of them. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was him.

"We will go with you to Cambridge," Elizabeth's voice trembled, her heart hammering as she gripped his hand tighter. "We will find a way, Fitzwilliam. We will."