Speechless, page 3
Her hair was different, pinned simply and escaping from its confines in a dozen places. One wisp, hanging by her temple, bounced hypnotically each time she leant over him. Her touch was soporific in its gentleness. Every point at which his distress grew too great, she paused and waited for him to recover himself, her gaze steady and her smile encouraging. He had lied to himself; she was far prettier than his memory had allowed her to be. When she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and inadvertently smeared his blood across her face, he groaned inwardly. This was too gruesome a task for so respectable and genteel a woman. “Why you?”
He had meant to mutter it only to himself, forgetting Elizabeth was poised to read his lips, and he started when she said, heatedly, “There is nobody else! I suppose you would rather avoid the indignity, but the alternative is that I leave you to moulder, perchance to die, and I refuse to believe there is not somebody, somewhere in the world, who would care if you did.”
She had mistaken him, of course, but he was diverted by her feisty retort, so reminiscent of their every exchange at Netherfield. He extended his forefinger to contradict her and gave the silent explanation, “That was not my meaning.” He could easily perceive she had not managed to catch his words, and he tried again. “I am sorry for you.” On a whim, he reached up and wiped the blood from her forehead with his shirt cuff. He pointed at her and mouthed, “Lovely.” Then he pointed at his injury and mouthed, “Not lovely.”
She pulled a sceptical face and pointed at him. “Drunk.”
He could not help but laugh and, hence, gag. He sucked in a slow, rasping breath and held it until the risk of coughing, sniggering, or indeed suffocating passed. When it had, he gestured for her to continue and squeezed his eyes closed in readiness. He began to suspect she might be right when the world began to spin in slow, nauseating revolutions. Still, he supposed that above four-and-twenty hours without food would leave a man susceptible to two or three dozen spoonfuls of cheap alcohol. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The patches of mildew swirled and bloomed into patterns. One was shaped just like a pineapple.
“Mr Darcy? I have finished washing it. Sir? Are you well?”
He rolled his head back to squint at Elizabeth but was unsure how to answer. He was in a vast amount of pain, devilishly confused, prodigiously drunk, and very much enamoured of the woman responsible for most of these misfortunes. He wrinkled his nose in ambivalence.
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched, and her eyes shone in that way they always did when something diverted her. “A little less brandy next time, perhaps.”
“I would prefer less horse.”
It took Elizabeth a moment of studying his lips before she comprehended him. Her delayed burst of laughter surprised and delighted him, though he was rather distracted when she abruptly split in two, and each version of her drifted a foot apart from the other before snapping back to not quite line up. Both of her smiles were sublime.
“Perhaps I ought to give you nothing but brandy if we are to survive this predicament. Inebriation suits you rather better than hubris.” She selected a strip of clean cloth from the table, explaining to him as she did that she would now re-dress his wound.
Darcy held up a hand to forestall her and mouthed, “Mirror?”
She hesitated, evidently unwilling to comply.
Naturally, that begged the question, “Bad?”
She held his gaze and replied gently but without preamble, “Yes, it is quite bad.”
“Show me?”
“Why not wait until it is better healed? There is no advantage in distressing yourself.”
“You are not distressed.”
She frowned over his words, repeating them herself until they were familiar enough to recognise. “I am…not…distre— ’Tis not my throat!”
He had forgotten her obstinacy, though he ought not to have done, for he was well acquainted with it. The dogged manner in which she had harried him at Bingley’s ball for details of his dispute with Wickham, with the evident purpose of exonerating the fiend, had haunted him for many weeks now. Nevertheless, her obduracy was no match for the recalcitrance of a drunkard. He fixed her in his gaze and persisted, mouthing, “I would see.”
Elizabeth sighed and squared her shoulders. “As you wish.” She left his side and returned with a modestly sized table mirror that had a spider’s web of cracks spreading out from one shattered corner. She hefted it onto her forearm for support and obligingly held it above him with both hands.
Never had Darcy beheld such a sobering sight. His heart pounded and his head cleared of fog—and pretty much all else—as he stared in horror at his reflection. A day’s worth at least of beard covered his jaw, but the rest of his face was pallid and drawn. His throat was bruised indigo and swollen to well beneath the collar of his shirt. A peculiarly straight laceration ran from under the right of his chin to the hollow above his collar bone. With his every rasping breath, the whole ruinous mess shifted and wept. He understood now why he could scarcely breathe and no longer wondered at the torment of every trifling movement of his head. He was fortunate to be alive. How long he would remain so with such an injury was not something on which he should like to wager.
“It ought to be stitched, but there is no one to do it. The best I can do is hold it closed with bandages.” The impatience had gone from Elizabeth’s voice; her tone was all compassion, though it scarcely penetrated Darcy’s dismay. “Be reassured, at least, that your collar prevented any dirt from getting into the wound. As long as we keep it clean, and you do not try to overexert yourself again, I see no reason why it should not heal well enough.”
She said nothing about the recovery of his voice, though Darcy supposed it wisest to concern himself with surviving over and above being able to talk about it. Nevertheless, he could not help but stare at the wreckage of his neck and attempt to guess where, exactly, his vocal cords might be located and thereby how badly damaged they might be. The longer he stared, the greater grew his revulsion. It was a relief when Elizabeth lowered the mirror to the floor. He mouthed his thanks.
“It is well, sir. It is not as though I am going anywhere. Besides, I spoke true when I said I was concerned for those who care for you. I could not bear the thought of Miss Darcy losing her brother on account of his trying to help me.”
Darcy frowned in puzzlement; the fog was returning. “Help you?”
“Why, yes.” She leant over him with a clean linen with which to bind his neck. He tried in earnest to listen to what she said, but her voice was so dulcet and his mind so hazy that her words all ran into one another. His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and not even the pain of having his wound pulled closed with bandages could prevent him slipping into the encroaching torpor.
When next he awoke, Darcy recalled much more much sooner. Regrettably, all the unpleasant recollections—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear, the pounding legacy of too much cheap brandy—loomed large, and the only one of his remembrances he wished were there was not. He called to her but was still unable to make a sound, and the attempt pained him severely. He clawed at the bedsheets as though he could draw her nearer by gathering the room towards him. Elizabeth did not come.
Though it was tempting to give in to alarm, Darcy retained grasp enough on his reason to recognise it would achieve naught. Besides, had she not remarked that she was going nowhere? He indulged in the heartening assurance that she must be nearby and allowed himself a deep, albeit careful, sigh of relief. He followed it immediately with a sneer of disdain. But a few days ago, he had been assured of a complete triumph over his errant feelings for Elizabeth Bennet. All but banished from his thoughts, she had been relegated to a troublesome memory. Would he now succumb to panic at the mere prospect of her absence? The very idea was absurd. Anybody’s assistance at the present time would be equally valuable, and it mattered not whether it were Elizabeth, a total stranger, or the Queen-of-blasted-Sheba.
He resolutely ignored the little jolt in his chest when the door opened and neither the Queen of Sheba nor a total stranger entered the room.
“You are awake,” Elizabeth remarked. She looked tired—an observation that stirred all manner of concern in Darcy’s mind, though he knew not what he could do about it. “I have brought you some broth,” she told him, setting a steaming tankard and spoon on the table. “You will not begin to improve until you regain some strength.”
At the mention and then the smell of food, Darcy’s stomach spasmed violently in revenge for having been so long neglected. He mouthed his thanks and attempted to haul himself into a more upright position in readiness. He had expected it to hurt; he had not expected to be unable to do it. The flesh of his neck twisted sickeningly, and his arms trembled and gave way before he had pulled himself more than a few inches up the bed.
“I rest my case,” Elizabeth said with a satirical glance. “But Heaven forfend you should listen to me.”
“I meant not to disregard you,” Darcy mouthed, glad of his muteness for the first time, for had he spoken, his voice might have betrayed the extent of his alarm. “I thought I could sit up. I managed it this morning.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I have no idea what you just said, but I shall save us both the trouble of your repeating it and assume it was ill-tempered.”
He had not the energy to smile at her teasing. Indeed, he scarcely had the energy to be surprised when she lifted one knee onto the edge of the bed and knelt over him with her hands out.
“Give me your arms, Mr Darcy.”
He stared at her, wondering whether he had fallen asleep again—or was, perhaps, still drunk.
“Pray, help me, if you would. I cannot lift you on my own. If you allow me to pull you forward, then I can prop you up with another pillow, so you can eat.”
He did as she bid, clenching his jaw against the pain as she tugged him forward. He saw the moment she realised he was hurting. Her eyes widened, and she winced as though she felt it herself. To his astonishment, she let go of one of his arms and slid her hand behind his head to support it as she pulled him forward. He flinched when her fingers found something else that hurt—an excessively sore spot at the side of his head—but he forgot it when Elizabeth reached around him to place the extra pillow before gently laying him back down.
“Is that comfortable?” she enquired.
Darcy had never been less comfortable in his life, but his proximity to Elizabeth, her arms around him and her fingers in his hair, had driven most rational thought from his mind. He dazedly made the gesture for yes and mouthed a silent thank you.
“Hold on to your thanks for now,” she replied with a half-hearted smile. “You have not yet tasted this broth.” She withdrew to fetch it, and while she was turned away, Darcy explored the back of his head with his fingers. There was a lump behind his ear, which, though not nearly as painful as his neck, was nevertheless disconcerting in size and tenderness.
“You have a lump there,” Elizabeth said, returning with the broth.
“So it would seem.”
“I think you hit your head when you were knocked backwards.”
Darcy lowered his hand and resolved not to examine any other parts of himself lest he discover any further injuries, for he had more than sufficient already.
With a sympathetic smile, Elizabeth arranged herself on the edge of the bed with the tankard and spoon, dipped one into the other and held it out for Darcy to sup. He gently wrapped his hand around hers and guided her to empty the spoon back into the tankard, which he then took from her grasp. The ignominy of being observed by Elizabeth in so indecent and feeble a state was outside of enough without adding to it by consenting to be fed like an infant.
He pointed at himself and mouthed, “I shall do it.”
Elizabeth graciously inclined her head and removed from the bed to sit in a nearby chair. Darcy wished she would not watch him, for though he could get the spoon to his mouth, he was unable to hold his head at an angle sufficient to prevent rivulets of broth running from it into his new beard—but such vanity was soon forgotten. He managed the first few mouthfuls without event but gagged on the third and suffered such a virulent fit of agonising paroxysms as drew Elizabeth from her chair in alarm.
“Oh my goodness! Calm yourself, or you will choke!” She took the tankard from him and set it aside then returned to sitting on the edge of the bed. Darcy had his hands to his throat, desperate for some way to allay the spasms, and she took hold of them, pulled them away from his neck, and held them. “Try to relax, sir. You are very rigid. I can see it is making it worse.”
It was, but he knew not what he could do about it. Each time he attempted to stifle a convulsion, another rose up to strangle him, until he coughed suddenly and violently, and blood spattered both their hands. The rasp of him frantically filling his lungs was loud, but still did not completely mask Elizabeth’s horrified gasp. He shared her dismay and stared aghast at the peppering of bright red across the bed, wondering very seriously whether he would die in this room.
“Oh.”
The interjection was almost inaudible, but the tremble in Elizabeth’s voice as she uttered it was unmistakable. Darcy looked up. He had never seen her frightened. She looked less assured, more innocent than ever she had before. It roused him from his own misery and directed his concern in the proper direction. After a few steadying, if cacophonous, breaths, he used the corner of the blanket to wipe the blood from her hands. “Forgive me.”
She shook her head lightly. “No, no—there is no need to apologise. Can you breathe now? Are you well?”
“I am.” Though he was certain she had understood his few words, she did not appear much reassured, and he felt obliged to substantiate them with actions. Thus, though it was the very last thing he wished to do, Darcy reached for the tankard and brought another spoonful of broth to his lips. Swallowing hurt like the devil, and it took all his strength of will not to gag on this, or the next several mouthfuls. When he could stomach no more, he returned the broth to the nightstand and sought Elizabeth’s gaze. “Better going in than coming out.”
Why he had thought such a crude remark would reassure her he knew not, and he cringed inwardly until Elizabeth deduced what he had mouthed, gave him a look of astonished incredulity, and burst out laughing. Then he could have forgiven himself a hundred obscenities for the simple pleasure of seeing the fear driven from her eyes.
“I am glad you approve,” she said, “for that is the best for which you can hope at the present time. There is little else available. Not that you would be able to swallow at any rate.”
And so on to serious matters. “Will you tell me where we are?” Darcy enquired mutely. “And what has happened?”
She watched his lips but shook her head apologetically. “I do not—”
“Pen?” Darcy mimed the act of writing as he asked.
“Oh, a pen! Of course! One moment.” Elizabeth stood up from the bed with haste, and Darcy flinched at the pain of being jostled against the pillows. She left the room via a door he had not previously noticed—an adjoining bedchamber, he presumed, when she returned from it with a pen, a pot of ink, and a handful of papers.
“Mrs Ormerod was good enough to lend me these. Here.” She handed him the whole stack of paper. “If you take it all, it ought to be a sturdy enough surface.”
Darcy had no idea who Mrs Ormerod might be, but he let it pass. He had only one pen and limited strength and would have to settle for a single question at a time. He dipped the pen in the ink Elizabeth held out for the purpose and wrote as best he could in his present attitude,
Where are we?
He held it up for her to read.
She frowned. “You do not recall any of what I told you this morning?” More urgently, she added, “Use your hands to answer!”
Darcy smiled gratefully for the timely reminder and extended his forefinger rather than shake his head.
Elizabeth pulled a wry face. “I did wonder if you had heard me.”
He scribbled another quick note.
Forgive me. I have been excessively fatigued.
He held it up again.
“’Tis well, sir,” she assured him after reading it. “You have been very seriously injured. It is not surprising you have been muddled. We are at an inn called The Dancing Bear, near Spencer’s Cross. Do you know it?”
Darcy shook his head and cursed silently, no less from the pain than exasperation at having done so yet again.
“My apologies,” Elizabeth said. “Asking questions is a difficult habit to unlearn. Spencer’s Cross is a small village a short distance south of here. Beech Hill, I understand, is a little farther, and to the east.” She stopped and seemed to be waiting for him to respond. He indicated that he required more ink, then wrote,
Why are we here?
This time, before he could hold it up for her to read, she shuffled her chair closer to the bed and leant forward to read it where it was in his lap. Darcy smirked at her impatience at first, then sobered as her closeness threatened to affect him in ways he prodigiously wished it would not.
“I cannot say what you were doing in this part of the world,” she said, straightening to look at him again. She put the ink pot on the nightstand and clasped her hands together on the edge of the bed. “I was travelling to London to see my sister Jane. She has been staying there with my aunt and uncle since Christmas.”
Two things happened while Elizabeth said this: her expression grew disconcertingly steely, and Darcy’s stomach clenched with something disagreeably like guilt. Could Elizabeth be aware he had concealed her sister’s presence in Town from Bingley? Surely not—and what ought it to matter if she were? He kept his expression neutral and waited for her to continue.
