39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T he carriage rattled over the uneven road as Elizabeth tried to wedge her shoulder up under Darcy's to steady him. Her mind was still reeling from the chaos at Netherfield, the thick smoke, the shouts of the servants, and the heat of the fire. But above all, it was the sight of Darcy—his face half-paralyzed, his movements sluggish—that tore at her heart. His hand trembled slightly in hers, and his eyes had grown unfocused.

She watched him with mounting terror. Was it already too late for this doctor in Cambridge to help him? Would he even survive the journey? Certainly, stress and fatigue worsened his symptoms, but how much worse could they get before he collapsed irrevocably?

The carriage lurched to a sudden halt, nearly throwing Darcy, and Elizabeth with him, forward. She glanced out the window and saw a familiar sight—Sir William Lucas's carriage barreling toward them, the horses frothing at the mouth from exertion.

Her father was turning in the rear-facing seat to peer out of the window. "Stay calm, Lizzy," he murmured, his voice low. "We must not appear panicked."

Sir William's carriage drew up alongside theirs, and he leaned out the window, waving frantically to catch their attention. "Mr Darcy!" he called, his voice tinged with alarm. "Do you need assistance? What is happening at Netherfield? I saw the smoke and came as quickly as I could!"

His gaze darted anxiously toward the rising smoke in the distance, then back to the figure slumped in the opposite carriage. It took a moment for reality to sink in—Darcy was there, but he was not alone, nor was he in any position to speak.

Elizabeth tensed, her eyes fixed on Darcy. His lips moved, but no sound came out, and the right side of his face twitched uncontrollably. Her heart twisted painfully at the sight. He was struggling, desperately trying to form words, but the seizure or whatever was gripping him made it impossible .

Sir William's eyes widened further as he took in the scene, shock spreading across his features. "Mr Bennet?" he stammered, finally noticing the older man seated beside Elizabeth. "What on earth—?"

Mr Bennet cut him off with a brisk wave of his hand. "There is no time for explanations, Sir William. Darcy is unwell, and we have been caught in a rather nasty business with Wickham and Sir Anthony. I suggest you turn back at once and raise the alarm. Get the whole of Meryton involved if you must."

Sir William blinked, struggling to comprehend the gravity of what he was hearing. "Wickham, you say? And Sir Anthony? But… the fire—"

Elizabeth glanced up from Darcy, her eyes sharp with urgency. "I assure you, Sir William, the housekeeper has her people well managed. Everyone is quite safe, but they could use help putting out the flames."

"I should say so! Look, let me call for others. I shall drive out to Purvis, and might you—"

"Not now, Sir William," Mr Bennet cut him off. "We need to reach Cambridge as quickly as possible. Please, go back and warn the neighbourhood. Wickham and Sir Anthony are not to be trusted by any measure, and by no means should any responsible man give them his vote."

"But, sir! You speak vague accusations against a good and generous man, who—"

"A corrupt man who has been paid to engineer this entire by-election to place another corrupt man in the House!" Mr Bennet retorted. "I can offer you proofs if you like, but just now, we have a more pressing crisis at hand."

Sir William's gaze flickered back to Darcy, who seemed barely able to hold himself upright. "Yes, it appears so. Mr Darcy, sir, are you… are you quite all right?" he asked, his tone softening with genuine concern. "Do you need anything?"

Mr Bennet leaned forward again, his voice commanding. "Sir William, I assure you, Darcy is in no state to converse. He needs medical attention. Go back to Meryton and do as I have asked. Now."

Sir William hesitated, clearly torn between the instinct to help and the urgency in Mr Bennet's voice. Finally, he nodded. "Very well, Bennet. I shall see to it at once." His eyes flicked briefly back to Elizabeth, noticing the way she clung to Darcy, and he added, almost as an afterthought, "And… congratulations, I suppose, on your daughter's future engagement. "

Elizabeth flushed, glancing quickly at her father, who merely raised an eyebrow. The coachman, sensing the exchange had gone on long enough, cracked the reins, and their carriage jolted forward, leaving Sir William staring after them.

As their carriage jolted back into motion, Elizabeth shifted her weight to support Darcy better, but he was too heavy and too limp for her efforts to have much effect. His head lolled to one side, resting awkwardly against her shoulder, and she could feel the uneven rise and fall of his chest, his breath laboured and shallow. Her stomach knotted with every bump and sway of the carriage, each jolt sending a new wave of worry through her. She wanted to do something—anything—to ease his suffering, but she felt utterly helpless.

Her father, noticing her struggle, said nothing at first. He simply unfastened his greatcoat, balled it up, and leaned across the carriage to gently place it under Darcy's head. The improvised pillow provided some measure of comfort, and she saw Darcy's tense features relax slightly as his head settled more comfortably.

Elizabeth offered her father a grateful smile, whispering, "Thank you." Mr Bennet nodded curtly, his expression softening just a little in response. He watched Darcy for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought.

"Papa," Elizabeth began quietly, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the carriage wheels, "do you truly think we can make it to Cambridge before nightfall?"

Her father's gaze shifted from Darcy to the road outside, calculating the distance in his mind. "We have little choice," he replied, his tone pragmatic. "We had a late start, and we have already been delayed some two hours from that point. On good roads, it might take eight hours to reach Cambridge, including a stop to change horses. That is a long day of travel even if we had started out at a decent time. But still, I would rather press on if the driver is confident in navigating after dark. Those are well-traveled roads, and there seems a better chance of getting help for Mr Darcy there than taking whatever lodgings we might find along the way and delaying our arrival further."

Elizabeth nodded, though her heart remained heavy with doubt. She glanced back at Darcy, his face pale and drawn, and she squeezed the large, powerful hand that lay nestled in hers.

He tried to smile back at her, but only half his face complied.

D arcy woke with a start, the dim light filtering through the curtains, unfamiliar and disorienting. His body felt heavy, his limbs sluggish, as if he were submerged in water. The room around him swam in a haze, and a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the fog in his mind only seemed to thicken. Where was he? Panic gripped him as the thought struck: Elizabeth!

He sat up abruptly, too quickly. A sharp pain shot through his head, and the room tilted violently. He gasped, pressing a hand to his temple to steady himself. The last thing he remembered was being at Netherfield, Wickham's sneering face, the smoke… "Elizabeth!" Where was she? He needed to find her.

"Sir, please—lie back," a familiar voice urged gently, and Darcy turned his head to see Giles standing by the bedside, his expression one of calm concern. "You are safe, sir, and so is Miss Elizabeth. She is just down the hall, on the same floor."

Darcy blinked, trying to process the words, but his mind felt sluggish, as though it were moving through treacle. "Elizabeth… down the hall?" he repeated, his voice rough and hoarse. His heart still pounded, the fear for her safety lingering. "Is she… is she safe?"

"Yes, sir, she is quite safe," Giles reassured him, stepping closer. "She was here not ten minutes ago, asking after you."

The tension in Darcy's chest loosened slightly at Giles's words, a faint sense of relief creeping in. If Elizabeth was well enough to visit, then she must be secure… safe. He took a shaky breath, his body beginning to relax, the pain in his head easing just a little. "Where… where am I?" he managed, his voice still thick with confusion.

"You are in Cambridge, sir, at an inn," Giles explained. "Doctor Pembroke has been sent for and is expected to arrive sometime this morning."

"Pembroke?" Darcy muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. His mind was still clouded, his thoughts slow to form. "How… how did we get here?"

"Mr Bennet helped, sir," Giles replied. "He was instrumental in ensuring we made it to Cambridge. "

Darcy frowned, trying to recall the events of the previous day, but his memory was a blur. "Bennet?" he repeated, incredulous. The image of Mr Bennet he remembered was that of a reclusive cynic, a man more inclined to mock than assist. "Bennet helped?"

"Yes, sir," Giles confirmed with a small nod. "He was quite determined to get you to Cambridge, even insisted that we continue through the night rather than stopping."

Darcy blinked again, the fog in his mind slowly beginning to lift. The pieces of the previous day's chaos started to come together, though they still felt distant, as if seen through a thick mist. He struggled to connect his thoughts; his mind was still sluggish from whatever substance had been given to him. "Laudanum?" he guessed, his voice a little clearer now.

Giles nodded again. "A small dose, sir, to help you rest during the journey. You were in considerable pain."

Darcy's hand tightened into a fist against the sheets, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He hated feeling so disconnected from his own body, his own thoughts. "And Elizabeth," he asked again, more insistent this time. "You are sure she is just down the hall?"

"Quite sure, sir," Giles reassured him, his tone steady. "She is eager to see you once you are up and dressed."

Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, willing the remnants of the laudanum to dissipate. He needed to clear his head, to think straight. But more than that, he needed to see Elizabeth. The thought of her waiting for him stirred a sense of urgency, a need to be near her, to reassure himself that she was truly safe.

"Help me up," he said, his voice firm despite the lingering grogginess. "Dress me quickly, Giles. I want to see her."

Giles moved swiftly, his hands deft as he helped Darcy to his feet. The room swayed slightly, but Darcy gritted his teeth, pushing through the dizziness. He could not afford to be weak now—not when Elizabeth needed him. And perhaps, he thought with a faint, determined smile, he needed her even more.

E lizabeth paced the length of her small room, her footsteps echoing softly against the floorboards. She could not still the anxious tremble in her limbs nor quiet the frantic beating of her heart. She yearned to go to him, to rush down the hall to his side, but she had no right to do so. Not yet. Not as if she were already his wife.

How much easier it would have been if she were! If only she could hold him, comfort him, reassure herself that he was still breathing, still fighting. But they would have to wait a few weeks for that... a few weeks that Darcy might not have, if his condition on the road were any indication. Her legs felt watery at the very thought, and she gripped the back of a chair to steady herself.

She cared nothing for his wealth, his estate, or his connections. None of it mattered if he was destined to die. If there was truly nothing that Doctor Pembroke could do to save him, then she wanted—no, she needed —the right to call him her husband before she lost him. Her chest tightened with the weight of her fear, and she cupped a hand over her mouth, realising with a start that she was weeping uncontrollably. She wiped her cheeks hastily, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She could not afford to lose control now, not when the doctor might arrive at any moment to either confirm their fears or give miraculous hope.

Desperate for something—anything—she could control, Elizabeth moved to the small writing desk near the window and sat down. She would write a letter to Charlotte. Jane would have already spoken with her, surely, advising her about Mr Wickham and Sir Anthony, as well as their engagements with Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy. But Elizabeth wanted to tell Charlotte the whole story herself, to provide her own account of everything that had transpired. She also wanted to comfort her friend, knowing how close Charlotte had come to losing her heart to Wickham. Elizabeth feared that Charlotte would be devastated all over again, that she would lapse back into her dark self-pity and the belief that no one truly valued her .

She picked up her pen, her hand trembling slightly, and began to write. She poured her heart onto the page, her words flowing in a torrent of emotion. She wrote of Darcy's bravery, his strength in the face of adversity, and the desperate hope that still flickered in her heart. She prayed that when this nightmare with Mr Darcy's strange condition was resolved—one way or another—she would do whatever she could to see Charlotte happy, to ensure that her friend found the love and respect she so richly deserved.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she nearly dropped her pen in surprise. She heard Darcy's voice outside, low and familiar, and her heart soared in her chest. She pushed back from the desk, her chair scraping against the floor, and ran to open the door. She flung it wide, her eyes searching for him, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of his tall, familiar figure standing there.

D arcy had barely knocked before the door swung open, revealing Elizabeth on the other side, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something more intense. She paused for only a fraction of a second before sweeping into his arms, pulling him close with a force that made him forget everything except the warmth of her body pressed against his. He knew very well that he ought not to enter her private room, that propriety dictated he kept his distance, but as she drew him inside, his resolve melted away. The door closed behind them with a quiet click, sealing them in a world of their own making.

Elizabeth's hands were on his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, the contours of his cheeks, as if checking to see if he was really there, if he was truly well. Her lips found his with an urgency that matched his own, and he kissed her eagerly, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her even closer. She tasted of salt and sweetness, her breath mingling with his in a way that made his heart pound with something other than the exertion of the illness that plagued him .

"How are you feeling today?" she asked between kisses, her voice a soft murmur against his lips.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. "Honestly, I feel dreadful," he said with a wry smile, "but I thought I might spare you the details and instead make a poor attempt at charming you with my wit. It seems the tables have turned, Miss Bennet. It was not long ago that every time we met, you were the one flustered and out of sorts."

She laughed, a bright sound that made his chest ache with affection. "Oh, do not be so sure of yourself, Mr Darcy. My ankle is still black and blue from the other day, and it is terribly tender. I daresay it is ready to revolt at any moment, given a proper excuse."

He chuckled softly, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. "Then I shall simply have to carry you everywhere from now on, to prevent any further mishaps."

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with a playful glint as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I think I could grow accustomed to that. You are far more reliable than my father's miserable horse, at any rate."

"You trust me that much, do you?"

Elizabeth pulled back just enough to cup his chin in her hand and gaze into his eyes. "Trust? I trust you to the moon and beyond. You are the one person I would believe when all the rest of the world whispered the same lie—I would trust you with my life."

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, savouring the feel of her lips against his. "I have already done that, Elizabeth," he whispered, his voice low and earnest, the words a promise and a plea all at once. "With the full measure of all that I am, I am a lost man without you."

She responded with a soft sigh, her fingers threading through his hair, and for a moment, there was nothing in the world but the two of them, their bodies pressed close, their breaths mingling as one. But then, a quiet knock at the door shattered the stillness, and they broke apart, both of them breathing hard, their hearts racing.

"Mr Darcy," came Giles's voice from the other side, his tone carefully neutral. "Doctor Pembroke has arrived and is ready to examine you."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he looked back at Elizabeth. She smiled softly, her hand brushing against his cheek. "Go," she whispered, her voice gentle but firm. "Let him help you."

He nodded, pressing a final kiss to her forehead before stepping back. "I will return as soon as I can," he promised, his eyes lingering on hers. "And then we shall speak of many things, Elizabeth. Many things. "

With that, he turned and opened the door, his heart heavy with the weight of what was to come but lightened by the feel of her touch still lingering on his skin.