Chapter Forty-three - Progress Afoot

Before many days had passed after Lydia’s performance of David to Wickham’s Goliath, Elizabeth allowed her frustration to finally get the better of her. The weather outside was cool, with sporadic rain, leaving her confined to the house. After a lazy breakfast she had been left to her rest; and so, taking advantage of the solitude, she put down her book, pulled back the covers, and swung her heavy legs over the side of the bed. She allowed herself a moment of self-examination before taking the plunge. She did not feel dizzy. Yes, she felt weak and uncoordinated, but that was only to be expected after so much inactivity. Carefully, she eased herself onto her feet and stood away from the bed, swaying a little but in no danger of collapse. Grinning broadly, she slowly made her way to the window, extremely pleased with herself. With a sigh of satisfaction she leaned right against the casement, shifting the drapes to allow a clear view of the grounds. The light drizzle that fell from the grey skies did not dampen the vibrancy of the green lawns and fields, or weigh down the dynamism of the trees and hedgerows – rather the contrary. A feathery mist obscured the furthest hills, and even from behind the closed window Elizabeth drew a deep, shaky breath, as if the lush, bracing air could reach her lungs by virtue of having been seen. Even an occasional momentary giddiness could not dispel her delight, and when her shallow exhalations began to cloud the cool glass she reached out impatiently to wipe it clean.

It was this movement that attracted the attention of Darcy, who was on the gravel walk below, conversing with his steward. He had noticed the twitching of the drapes several minutes earlier out of the corner of his eye but had not realised its significance; an unconscious shifting of position in the direction of the activity had, however, enabled him to detect more easily that something was moving at his window, where no movement should be. He looked up, frowning, to see a white-clad figure close against the glass. Elizabeth was out of bed. She had obviously seen him, as even from a distance he could see her hand fly to her mouth, but she did not move.

“Will you excuse me, Harris,” he almost growled, making no other excuse as he pulled his hat more tightly over his forehead and strode abruptly towards the entrance of the house, greatcoat unfurling behind him. Harris, somewhat bewildered, shrugged and headed for the stables with an easy gait, used to his master’s mercurial moods and secure in the knowledge that whoever was in trouble, it was not himself.

Discarding his damp overcoat and hat, Darcy took the stairs with enough speed to signify haste, though not so much as to abandon his dignity. His boots echoed loudly in the corridor as his swift stride propelled him onward, the look of gravity and displeasure on his face enough to make any servants duck their heads as he passed. When he reached his bedchambers, he flung open the door and stepped through, without hesitation.

Elizabeth was still at the window, her forehead against the glass, her hands wrapped around the drapes as though for support. Her dark eyes, full of guilt, distress and defiance, immediately met his, but still she did not move. Darcy stepped forward, about to berate her, but all admonishments were bitten back as he took in the paleness of her visage, touched as it was by a slight sheen of sweat; and he realised that there were no chairs near her, and she had not moved because she could not.

The frown that creased his brow was not one of anger. “You are not well,” he declared, standing awkwardly some distance from her. The truth was that her appearance, her vulnerability and her stubbornness moved him profoundly, in every way. He fiercely resisted the urge to rush to her support, to catch her into his arms, though it was one of the most overwhelming compulsions he had ever experienced; he feared the consequences of it too much to let it hold sway, and as Elizabeth looked back at him, he knew she did too.

“No, I am well,” she insisted against the evidence. Her hands, holding tightly to the thick curtains, trembled faintly as he watched them with a sense of frustrated helplessness. Abruptly he started, giving himself a mental kick, and seized a nearby chair, which he carried to her and placed close by.

“Take my arm,” he urged quietly. “You must sit.”

She did not argue, allowing him to support her elbow as she let go of the drapes and gingerly lowered herself into the chair, letting the last moments of her descent turn into a grateful collapse. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she breathed, almost overpowered by the intensity of her physical weakness and the turmoil of her emotions, feeling anew as she did all the reasons why this man held such sway over her heart, while she herself remained so wilful and foolish. She wished he would yell at her, rebuke her as she deserved for doing such a stupid thing.

“Would you like a blanket?”

She could hardly bear to look at him. Her entire body was still trembling with reaction, though at least the room was no longer spinning. “Thank you, yes.”

He gently tucked the soft blanket around her, then stepped back. He could see she was close to tears, and very weak. At least, he reflected with no small degree of self-abnegation, the blanket served as a barrier between them, allowing him to relax to some extent.
With a sigh, he moved another of the bedside chairs into a better position, and perched himself upon it. “Elizabeth,” he began, his tone none too smooth, “I can see very well how much you regret what just occurred. And if I am to be honest, then I cannot condemn you for it, for it is nothing more than I would have done myself were I in your position. So I shall say nothing more on the matter - however sorely I am tempted,” he added slyly. A quick glance at the mortified Elizabeth revealed a minute lightening of her expression, so he continued, manfully crushing down all his unreasonable arguments and allowing only the more rational thoughts to be voiced. “Were you able to walk to the window without too much difficulty?”

She gave him a small nod, still not trusting herself enough to speak.

“But you stayed there too long?”

Again, a nod.

“Did you become dizzy? Were you fatigued?”

The concern in his voice gave her the strength she needed to admit the truth. She sighed, then spoke: “It was both. At first I felt tired, and only a little dizzy now and then. I was enjoying the view so much…but when I thought I’d had enough, and tried to leave the window – I was leaning on it, as you saw – I became very dizzy and weak. I think if you had not come in when you did, I could not have kept my feet.” She struggled to retain her composure. Her dark eyes met his, and he saw fear there. “William – what if this dizziness does not go away? What if I have to stay like this?”

“You will not!” he assured her earnestly, sitting forward and reaching for her hand. “Lizzy, you are overwrought and you’ve given yourself a bad fright. This is the first time you’ve stood on your own feet in almost a month. All you need is a little more time. If you try again this evening, or tomorrow, there will already be improvement.”

He returned her steadfast regard, and when she could no longer prevent the tears from escaping her eyes, he knelt beside her and folded her in his arms while she wept.

Darcy had never been so happy to be proven right as he was the next day, when Elizabeth (properly wrapped up in a dressing gown) walked to the window again, experiencing none of the debilitating dizziness of the previous morning, only small discomforts and fatigue. Her mother scolded her thoroughly, but her father would offer no opinion on the subject, energetic though his wife was in her demands for one. The others were full of enthusiasm at this new evidence of her recovery, and when Elizabeth turned from the window and smiled at him, Darcy felt his heart fill. She returned to the bed before long, having learned her lesson well, there to spend time in happy conversation with her sisters and Georgiana while her mother harangued Dr. Maxwell, receiving no satisfactory results. Everyone else was well satisfied with his pronouncements, however.

The week that followed saw many arrangements made. The idea of a double wedding ceremony met with unanimous approval and one or two cases of exultation. Darcy and Bingley needed to travel to London, ostensibly on business, though Mrs. Bennet had her own ideas about their motivations for such a trip at such a time, and made no secret of her suspicions.

“Mr. Darcy has his own town house, you know, girls,” she instructed her younger daughters. “Everything must be prepared for the wedding! For that is where he will take Lizzy after they marry from Longbourn. And they must both arrange for licences and rings and so on. Oh, how lucky your sisters are! And you shall be just as lucky, my darling girls!”

As for the Bennet family, Lydia (with Kitty’s willing assistance) had no difficulty convincing her mother that they must return home as soon as possible, to begin preparations for the wedding themselves; though her real motivation in doing so was an urgent desire to boast of her exploits to all her friends. A trip to London was definitely needed, the girls told their mother cajolingly - so much to be bought and ordered! Who to invite? What sort of menu?

What was the best date?

“Before any decision is made concerning dates, Mrs. Bennet,” remarked Mr. Bennet dryly, “Let us not forget that one of the participants in this stellar event of the social calendar remains indisposed and is currently unable to travel. You will make sure to check with her as to her state of health before deciding on such things, I trust.”

“Oh! Mr. Bennet!” said his wife, vexed. “Of course I am not setting a date before Lizzy is better! But you know how it is with weddings, so much to organise. Preparations should begin at once, then once the time comes, it will all be easy! Only think: two daughters to be married!” And she began to express her joy at the prospects before her, leaving her husband quite unable to either contradict or interrupt the flow of his wife’s ecstasy.

With Mrs. Bennet’s departure firmly fixed, Mr. Bennet decided to stay at Pemberley until Darcy should return from London; and given previous circumstances, it was not surprising that no opposition to this plan was vouchsafed by any of his family. Elizabeth, though mending well, was not yet able to bear the joltings of a journey by coach, and Jane insisted on remaining with her, frustrating all her mother’s entreaties concerning fittings for a gown. It was anticipated that at least a week, possibly a fortnight after her mother’s departure would be needed before Elizabeth could return home. Georgiana was not displeased with the notion of more time alone with her two favourite sisters-to-be, though she assured the three younger Bennet sisters that they would all be greatly missed, and that she depended on them all to visit her at Pemberley after their families were united.

On the evening before their departure, Darcy was tolerably sociable all through dinner (which is to say he spoke little and offended no one) but found he could not sustain the effort indefinitely. Pleading a slight headache, he absented himself as soon as was proper, making for the upstairs library and the prospect of peace and quiet in order to prepare himself for coming trials; for he had, in gentlemanly fashion, offered Mrs. Bennet the use of his coach-and-four, and would be accompanying them to London. Upon opening the door the soft candlelight illuminating one of the large wing chairs afforded him no small annoyance, until it dawned on him who the invader of his sanctum must be. With a nonchalant step he rounded the massive chair, startling the reader, who was curled cosily within its roomy confines and had not heard his entrance.

“Fitzwilliam!” she accused him, recovering her breath. “One does not sneak up on ladies, especially when they are ill.”

“Your pardon, madam,” said he, giving her a short bow and utterly failing to hide his pleasure at seeing her.

“I thought you were all at dinner,” Elizabeth ventured, not displeased herself at his unexpected appearance, but unwilling to show her partiality as openly as he, for vanity was the last thing she wanted to encourage in a future husband.

“I am at leisure; I have a headache.”

This brought a knowing smile from the lady, her eyes dancing merrily in the candlelight. “Let me not disturb you then, sir. I should probably not be in here anyway.” Marking her place, she closed her book, and made to rise. A large hand on her shoulder prevented this ambition, and the owner of it declared with amusement,

“I will not ask how you came to be so far from your bed, if you will extend me the same courtesy regarding this headache, which suddenly seems to have grown markedly less painful. In fact, I am sure it will be gone in a moment.”

Elizabeth could not restrain a wide smile, and mischief sparked in her eyes as she relaxed back into her chair. “Mr. Darcy - I recall once being told, by a most reliable source, that you never exaggerate and always tell the absolute truth.”

Darcy cleared his throat, colouring slightly, his lips quirking in a delightfully cheeky expression that Elizabeth found excessively attractive. Without volition, she leaned a little closer to him as he answered,

“I am sure you have heard, Miss Bennet, of the exception that proves the rule.”

“An unassailable reply, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, raising her eyebrows. “And now, perhaps, you would be so good as to tell me whether the door is closed.”

Closing the door was the work of only a moment, and it seemed to Elizabeth that she had scarcely had time to draw breath before Darcy was settling on the arm of her chair and leaning in quite deliberately, slowing as he drew closer, tantalising them both. When his lips were so close to her own that each inhalation was warm with the other’s breath, she placed a gentle hand on his chest, halting him.

“Tell me, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, tantalising him as he had her, “Do you like Shakespeare?”

Nonplussed, he sat up slightly; but seeing the teasing glint in her eyes, he relaxed. “You know that I do.”

“And do you have any Shakespeare in this vast library of yours?”

“You know that also, Miss Bennet. Why do you ask?”

“Because I would dearly love to hear you reciting his poetry. You have such a…lyrical voice.”

Darcy was finding her own voice, low and gentle, to be fairly enticing as well; but the meaning of her sentence finally reached him, and he frowned. “Now?”

“No,” she smiled roguishly, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “A little later, perhaps.”

For some minutes thereafter, the soft sounds of kisses and sighs mingled with the relaxing patter of the rain upon the shutters; and when Bingley happened upon them a little later, he halted in the doorway and said nothing. Darcy was at one end of a sofa, long legs stretched in front of him, boots propped on a footstool and coat undone, reading aloud from a book of poetry. His free hand stroked Elizabeth’s hair as she draped against him, eyes closed. With a smile of approval, Bingley left them to it.

to be continued...