She took her wet garments into her old bedroom, suspecting correctly that there would be a fire in the hearth in front of which she could hang them to dry. Upon discovering that little Jenny was sitting on the floor beside her bed, her broken leg extended in front of her and her face scrunched with pain, Elizabeth dropped the clothes heedlessly and hurried to the girl’s side.
“What happened? Did you fall out of bed?” She brushed back a lock of the girl’s hair, exposing a tear-stained cheek.
“No, miss,” Jenny whispered. “I needed the chamberpot, and I didn’t know it would hurt so much.”
“There was supposed to be someone here with you.”
“She had to leave. There’s so much work to do now, and she couldn’t just sit with me all day.”
Elizabeth decided she would be having words with the woman who had left Jenny alone and helpless. Better yet, she would let Mr. Darcy do it. “Come, let me help you into bed.”
It took the better part of an hour before Jenny was settled in a clean shift with some degree of comfort. Elizabeth felt exhausted by the day’s exertions, but the girl was restless, though each movement caused her pain.
Elizabeth said, “You must be bored after sitting there in bed all day. Would you like me to draw a picture of you?”
Jenny’s eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Darcy! No one has ever drawn me.”
Wincing at the appellation, Elizabeth said, “Then this shall be the first.” Fetching the box of drawing supplies she had seen in Charlotte’s room, she laid out a piece of paper. She had no great talent for drawing, one more of the many ways in which she would never meet Mr. Darcy’s definition of a truly accomplished lady, but could usually manage a recognizable likeness. If it kept Jenny entertained, that was all she could ask.
***
Darcy struggled with the straps of the saddlebags. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, and his wet gloves made little headway on the tight buckles. With an angry hiss, he pulled off his right glove and stuffed it in his pocket, then returned to the slippery straps.
His horse whinnied impatiently. Darcy said through his teeth, “I am in total agreement with you.” He would rather have been almost anywhere else, but the only refuge that beckoned was more dangerous to him that floods or thunderstorms. If he went into the parsonage now, he would not be answerable for his actions, not after holding Elizabeth’s sweet shape so intimately against his body for the last half hour. He gave a furious yank at the strap, and the buckle gave at last, pinching his forefinger hard enough to make him grit his teeth.
At least she seemed to believe him about Wickham, and he had manfully pretended to be unaware of her silent shaking that betokened muffled sobs. He had not taken the least advantage of his position, even when she had finally rested back against him. And still, when they arrived, she would not meet his eyes and could not leave his company quickly enough. What more did she want from him?
Thank God he had insisted on purchasing that cloak for her. It had not kept her dry, but from the quick glimpse of her wet dress when she removed the cloak, it was probably all that had preserved his sanity. If he had held her across his saddle in nothing but a clinging, near transparent dress that hid little of what was beneath it, he doubted he could have been held accountable for his actions. Even imagining it made his blood run hot.
Fortunately for his throbbing finger, the second strap did not prove as stubborn as the first. With an effort, he hefted the heavy set of saddlebags over his shoulder. Had the shopkeeper put lead bricks in with the barley? His boots sank deep in the mud as he carried it to the parsonage, shoving the kitchen door open with his free shoulder. His muddy boots squelched on the stone floor.
The cook, a stout woman of middle years with a permanent frown etched on her face, turned on him. “Track mud into my kitchen, will you, then?”
Darcy ignored her and dropped the dripping saddlebags on the broad work table with a loud thump. “Barley, dried peas, flour, parsnips,” he said curtly.
“No doubt ruined,” she muttered. “Useless.”
Under normal circumstances, Darcy would have leveled a disdainful stare at such insolence and then given orders for the offender to be dismissed without a character. Disrespect was not tolerated among the staff at Pemberley toward anyone, much less the master, and it was beneath his dignity to argue with servants. It was the cook’s ill fortune that on this particular day at this particular moment Darcy was more than ready to take out his anger on any available target.
“You will keep a civil tongue in my presence,” he snapped. “If the food I have been served in this house is representative of your skill, then it is remarkable that you have been kept on at all, and you may be certain Mr. Collins will be hearing from me about it.”
“He likes my cooking well enough.”
“While the paucity of dishes laid out at supper last night might have been excused given the unusual circumstances, the food itself was indefensible - the roast burnt, the ragout watery, the cakes lumpy, and the pudding indigestible. The tea barely deserved the name. It is astonishing if no one has yet broken a tooth on one of your rolls. I would expect better of a scullery maid.”
“I’ll have you know that Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself recommended me!”
“Then I will make a point to tell my aunt, Lady Catherine, of my opinion as well. And if I am forced to eat one more tasteless dish in this house, you will be relieved of your position, and that woman -” he pointed in the direction of a village woman turning a haunch of meat by the hearth “- will take your place and your wages. And I am certain she would have no difficulty producing palatable food from what I have brought.”
He stormed out, uncaring of the incessant rain. What was wrong with him? He had never spoken to a servant in that manner in his life. But the answer was clear enough. Elizabeth Bennet was what was wrong with him, Elizabeth and this impossible situation in which they found themselves. He should have sent her straight to London on the stage from Tunbridge Wells no matter how scandalous it would have been for her to travel on her own. He would have done so if it were not for the dangers she might encounter arriving unexpectedly. If only he could have squared it with his conscience to abandon the destitute villagers, he could have taken her there himself, but responsibility for his tenants – and by extension, his aunt’s tenants – had been bred into him since he was a boy.
No, there was no way out… for either of them.
***
Elizabeth had finally tiptoed out of the bedroom after Jenny fell into an exhausted sleep. If she had remained, she might have joined the girl in slumber, even in the uncomfortable hard-backed chair. Instead, she went downstairs to the sitting room. Sally, discovering her there, put another log on the fire and timidly asked if the young miss if she should set the table for dinner.
Elizabeth was in fact quite hungry, but the prospect of a meal sitting across the table from Mr. Darcy was discomfiting. “Where is Mr. Darcy?”
“I don’t know, Miss. He went out somewhere on his horse.”
Perhaps she was in luck. “In that case, it would be lovely if you could bring me something warm to eat in here. Mr. Darcy will no doubt wish for something on his return.”
Sally bobbed a curtsey and left. Elizabeth moved her chair closer to the hearth where the flames were now engulfing the new log, filling the room with a welcome warmth. She unplaited her still-wet hair and spread it out to dry. It had been an exhausting day in more ways than one, between embarrassing herself with her clumsy riding, the surprisingly civil time in town with Mr. Darcy, then being drenched and forced to ride so close to Mr. Darcy that she could feel the warmth of his body pressed against her own. Her stomach clenched at the thought. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, recalling his words about Mr. Wickham. How could she have misjudged so badly? She wished she could go to sleep and not wake up until Charlotte and Mr. Collins returned, whenever that might be.
The maid returned carrying a tray which she set on the small t
able by Elizabeth. “Soup, miss, and some hot tea.”
“Perfect,” said Elizabeth. “Tell me, has there been any word about whether the river has started to go down?”
Sally gave her a slightly peculiar look. “They thought it had, but then with the storm this afternoon, it’s worse than it was before. It’ll be days before it settles, Cook says.”
Elizabeth dismissed her, then turned her attention to the soup. For once, she was looking forward to it, though the food at the parsonage was always of indifferent quality except when Charlotte prepared a dish with her own hands. Her lips twitched at the irony. The one thing she had regretted about missing dinner at Rosings yesterday was the chance to enjoy a decent meal.
She decided that hunger must indeed make the best sauce, since the soup seemed so tasty that she finished the entire bowl and wished she had more. The bread for once was tender and crusty rather than rock hard. Even the tea tasted like, well, tea, but that was a major improvement over the flavor of tar that usually accompanied tea at the parsonage. She smiled contentedly, running her fingers through her hair to separate the locks that still clung together.
***
Darcy made a point of exhausting himself before returning to the parsonage. He found the straying mare, then checked on the villagers staying in the barn, talking to each one about the state of their particular cottage. By the time he decided that there was no more to do, he doubted that even Miss Elizabeth Bennet could draw a reaction from him.
Doubtless she was already abed. He entered quietly, but Sally was there to take his coat and hat. He accepted a candle from her to light his way to Mr. Collins’s room where he had the luxury to strip off his clammy clothes in favor of a housecoat that barely reached his wrists. Still, it was dry, and that was all he could ask at the moment. A glass of brandy would not come amiss, either. The bottle he had found the day before in Mr. Collins’s study barely deserved the name, but it was better than nothing.
He was almost to the study when he noticed a light in the sitting room. Was Elizabeth still awake after all? Could she possibly have been waiting for him? He paused a moment before presenting himself at the open door. The sight before him took his breath away.
She was fast asleep in the wingback chair by the fire, legs tucked beneath her and her dark curls loose. Her slippers were neatly lined up under the chair. The dying firelight flickered across her features and lent luster to her hair.
How could she look so innocent and yet so seductive at the same time? He drank in the sight of her. It was the first time all day he had felt able just to look at her, which had long been one of his greatest delights. She stirred in her slumber, half-smiling as if at something in a dream. If only he had the right to wake this sleeping princess with a kiss – but he did not, at least not yet.
He was sorely tempted to sit in the chair across from her and simply watch her sleep, letting his imagination go where his lips did not dare, but it was not right to take advantage of her vulnerability for his own pleasure. But he also could not leave her there where anyone could walk in and find her unable to defend herself. He would have to wake her so that she could go up to bed.
“Miss Bennet,” he said softly, and then repeated her name a little louder. There was no response, so he drew closer to her chair. It would always be her chair in his mind now, somehow imbued with her essence. “I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth, but you cannot remain here. You must go upstairs to bed.” In his mind, he added, preferably with me. Just being in her presence had restored his sense of humor – and a few other senses as well.
She was obviously sound asleep. If she was half as tired as he, it was no surprise. He placed his hand on her shoulder, careful to touch only where the fabric of her sleeve covered it, despite the tempting expanse of warm skin just an inch away. He gave her arm a little shake, but though the corner of her mouth twitched, she did not open her eyes.
What now? He could not leave her and he could not stay. He could, of course, fetch Sally to stay with her, but he wanted to keep this moment private. No, what he wanted to do was to carry her up to her bed so that he could hold her sleeping form close to him for those few minutes. That, of course, was a good reason why he should not do so.
His gaze began to travel slowly down her body illuminated in the flickering firelight, from light to shadow, from draped fabric to tender skin, from her slender neck, past her gently rounded shoulders to the curves that he longed to cradle in his hands… no, this would not do. He had somehow managed to act the part of a gentleman with her all day despite extreme provocation. It would not be the end of the world for him to carry her upstairs, and it just might save him from worse, especially if his imagination kept going as it was.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he returned upstairs to place the candle in her room and turn down the covers of her bed, firmly not thinking of how she would sleep between those very sheets. No, he was not going to think of that, not at all. It was merely a bed like any other, a piece of furniture covered with a mattress and a few linens, not a shrine to the goddess he could not help worshipping. But those fortunate sheets were allowed to touch her all night long; how could he not be just a little envious, when he would give almost anything just to have her sleep in his arms? Not that it would stop with sleeping, but….Angrily he shook his head. He must stop this nonsensical thinking.
He returned to the sitting room, half fearing that she might have awakened while he was gone, but she had not moved. He drew near, then paused. Good God, was he actually savoring the moment of anticipation? He was further gone than he had thought. But savoring the moment could hardly injure her, and it was certainly giving him a great deal of pleasure.
He bent down, close enough to hear her even breathing, and slid one arm behind her shoulders. It was trickier finding a route for his other hand with her legs folded in the chair, and he kept a close eye on her face, ready to stop in an instant if she awoke. It also kept him from thinking about where his hand was, at least mostly. After all, he was supposed to be helping her, not enjoying her body. It was just that it was such an enjoyable body that it was hard not to notice it.
She made a little sound as he straightened, but settled into his arms like a dream. She fit there like a dream, too. Her natural warmth was augmented by her time in front of the fire. His arm was ensconced between her shoulders and the curtain of her hair which shifted with every step he took, showering him with the scent of honeysuckle and roses. Her chest moved with each sighing breath, and her head was a pleasurable weight on his shoulder. She was his Elizabeth, and that was all there was to it. Why could she not see it?
He started up the stairs, taking each step slowly to avoid jostling his precious burden, not that she seemed in any danger of waking. It was worse than that – she was shifting in her sleep, nestling ever closer to him, just as he had dreamed of her doing. His eyes widened slightly as he realized exactly which portions of her anatomy she was pressing against him as she nuzzled into his shoulder. What in heaven’s name had made him decide to wear a thick housecoat rather than just his shirtsleeves? He would be able to glory in her every movement then, but no, he had decided to be proper. Sometimes propriety was distinctly overrated.
Propriety was also distinctly hard to recall when his every instinct was telling him to explore her face with his lips, committing the feeling of it to memory before moving on to meet her own. He could barely think why that was such a bad idea, but he was quite sure he had been resolved on it. It was torture to do no more than to hold her in his arms, and yet he hoped it would never end.
All too soon he reached her room, dimly lit by the one candle. Good Lord, he was alone with Elizabeth in her bedroom, and she was nestled close to him – and he was supposed to put her down and walk away. He was going to be a candidate for sainthood by the time this was over. Crossing to the side of the bed, he lowered her gently until her back rested on the sheet, then slowly and reluctantly began to pull his arms out from beneath her.
br /> He was almost free – what a terrible word that was, free, when applied to something so distasteful as separating himself from Elizabeth – when she stirred. Holding his breath, he watched as her eyes fluttered open for the merest second, then closed again. She shifted onto her side, facing toward him, and clasped his hand so that it was trapped between her cheek and the pillow. With a sound of contentment, she rubbed her face against his hand as she drifted back into a deep sleep.
Only his arm that had supported her legs was now free. What in God’s name was he supposed to do now? Did gentlemanly behavior really demand that he pull his hand from her grasp by force when the incredible silkiness of her cheek rested warmly against it? He had not sought out the position; she had definitely taken his hand, albeit without knowing to whom it belonged. Or perhaps on some level she did know, in some part of her that had never believed in George Wickham’s lies, that knew she belonged with him.
But he could not stand there bending over her forever, so he lowered himself until he sat on the floor beside her bed, his hand still in hers. God help him, but he did not have the strength to pull himself free, not when it felt so unutterably right. He should not be watching her, though – she would not have given him permission to do that – so he closed his eyes against the temptation, resting his head against the side of the mattress, his entire being concentrated into that small part of him she held so close.