Check the author's note at the end
Waking up alone after a year of waking up beside someone else can be quite jarring.
That is what wakes Fitzwilliam Darcy before the sun, the absence of his wife and the chill of his chambers. He lays in bed for a few minutes trying to put everything to rights in his mind. Elizabeth had been in his bed when he fell asleep, she could have left to her own seldomly used rooms at some point in the night, but that was not a common occurrence in their marriage.
More likely that she had been unable to sleep and had journeyed to their library to find something to read. Many late nights and early mornings he had found her surrounded by stacks of books, rubbing her eyes and being completely unaware of the time that had passed.
Though she would never expect him to meet her there are this hour, Darcy finds himself missing her company and unable to fall back asleep. He throws the covers off and reaches for his dressing robe. Before leaving the room, his eyes find the rumpled sheets and knows that if Elizabeth had been here, she would have cajoled him into assisting her with fixing them. Despite her wealth currently and even prior to marriage and the maids that had come with it, Elizabeth was never one to leave something so simple incomplete.
Darcy makes his way down the dark passages of Pemberley, his lamp burning a circle to guide him only a foot or so in front of his nose. It had taken Elizabeth a matter of days before she could navigate these hallways to the same skill that he and Georgiana could after living their entire lives there. Though he would never admit it to her, he knows that her friendliness with the servants had granted her even more thorough access through the secret tunnels and that she could probably outpace him any day.
The library is empty, the books in the same formations that they were in after he had sat reading with Elizabeth the previous evening. Darcy then realizes it would have been more efficient to check her rooms before journeying all the way here, but he had been so certain that she would not have left him for solitude without saying a word. He trudges back up the hallway, debating as to whether he should attempt to knock at her door. Silence in the face of anger has never been Elizabeth's style, but a wordless retreat could suggest displeasure. He sorts through their most recent encounters and finds nothing which could incite such anger, though if marriage had taught him anything it would be the consistent insensitivity that his words could unintentionally carry.
Once he is before her door, he hesitantly raises his hand to knock knowing that now might not be the best time for a verbal altercation, the sun just barely risen with most of the household still asleep. Also knowing, through a year of experience, that leaving his wife to fester could only make the situation worse. He raps three times, certain that even in her anger it was not in her nature to sleep past the rise of the sun.
It is not his wife who answers the door though, rather it is her lady's maid Mary. It is surprising to find her there knowing Elizabeth's aversion to causing any trouble. Mary's employment was typically reserved for preparing for meals or arranging bathwater. A normal morning would not require her presence.
Well, he decides in his head, unless she requested her presence for simple camaraderie. To express her anger with her husband or to lament how mistaken she had been in ever reconsidering and accepting his proposal. Darcy knows that the idea is ridiculous, their first year of marriage has been one of the best of his life and their fights are limited to civil debates in which one of them is typically exposed for being in the wrong. But no one had every called Fitzwilliam Darcy an optimist.
Mary's eyes widen slightly, alerting him to something being amiss. "Mr. Darcy, sir, we were not aware that you had risen. My mistress is currently indisposed and has asked me to guard her privacy in this matter." Despite her average stature, Mary's eyes gleam with a violence that identifies her firmness on the subject. Elizabeth had chosen her for her efficiency but also for her strength of mind and heart.
"Mary, I have no desire to create discord between you and your mistress, but you must know how concerning it was to wake up to her absence this morning. Would she still be available to break our fasts together this morning?"
Mary bites her lip and looks over her shoulder. Darcy knows that this is a question that would not be anticipated from him as a typical wealthy gentleman, he should have a stricter sense of taciturn aloofness. Unfortunately, his marriage with Elizabeth had cured him of this within their first weeks of betrothal. Though his shyness and dislike of balls and assemblies maintains his image of pride and superiority among the gentry, those of this household know him to be completely and embarrassingly smitten with his wife.
Before Mary has a chance to respond, Darcy hears the unmistakable sound of retching coming from deeper within the chambers. The door he stands at goes to a sitting room, with another doorway separating the actual bedroom. There is a dropping feeling in his stomach and his legs feel weak. He is suddenly painstakingly aware of the fact that his wife is beyond that doorway and that she is ill and that she is all alone.
He does not waste more time negotiating his entry with Mary, knowing the specifics of the situation makes his presence all the more urgent. He distantly hears Mary protesting but knows that, as the master of the house, she would and could never hold him back. He bursts into his wife's room and his eyes dart back and forth frantically trying to locate her after finding the bed empty.
It takes less than ten seconds for him to identify the huddled form against one of the walls as his wife. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, her forehead pressed against her knees. A thin blanket is wrapped around her shoulders but is doing little to protect her from the violent chill that is forcing her body to shake. Her skin is paler than he has ever seen it, glistening with perspiration at her temple despite the shivering. Her hair is pulled back into a quick braid, though strands have escaped it to make a messy frame around her head.
"Mr. Darcy I-"
He spins around and sees Mary in the doorway, "Call Dr. Franklin immediately."
"But the mistress-"
"Can you not see how ill she is? I will not allow her pride to prevent her from receiving the medical attention she clearly needs. Now go." The forcefulness of his tone causes Mary to jump and he feels a brief twinge of regret for his harshness. It disappears as he turns around to see the status of his wife again.
"You should not have done that," Elizabeth says, her voice muffled slightly from still being hidden in the skirts of her nightgown. She raises her face to meet his eyes and he sees the illness even more clearly. The dark rings below her eyes, the pallor, and the shaking which he sees her trying to control.
"And why," he bites out, "would I not call a doctor for my ailing wife who neglected to inform me of the graveness of her maladies?"
She snorts, "Graveness? Fitzwilliam, do not tell me that the wealth of your childhood prevented you from ever coming down with a simple flu?"
"My mistake, along with your illness it seems as though you also neglected to inform me about your ascendance to the medical profession. How, Mrs. Darcy, did you come to diagnose yourself so succinctly and without the need for secondary opinions?"
The side of her mouth quirks up slightly and he finds himself distantly thankful that he has a wife that he can find humor with in such a situation. "I visited the Smith family earlier this week and four of their little ones had come down with a similar affliction. As of yesterday, they were all right as rain and thus I know I have-"
She cuts off quickly, reaching for the chamber pot before her feet to retch once again. His heart contracts as he stands by, helplessly waiting for her to stop. He has had little training in illness of any sort having relied on his staff for the sicknesses of his and Georgiana's lifetimes. Once she finishes he hands her a handkerchief and allows her to compose herself.
"Why are you on the floor?"
She looks startled by the question, "Did you not just see the evidence of my sickness?" And despite her pallor, her cheeks heat with embarrassment.
"Surely you are not concerned for the linens? By now you must know that we can afford such trivial replacements."
Elizabeth frowns, "I would prefer not to force anyone to wait upon me like a child."
"Heaven forbid you have your waitstaff wait upon you," he deadpans, "Come now, one morning can only hold so much ridiculousness."
He gestures for her to stand up, but she puts her face back against her knees instead and mumbles something into her skirts. "What was that?"
"I do not have confidence in my own facilities right now."
Darcy knows that he should not laugh but seeing the glower of anger in his confident and self-assured wife at her own inadequacy was such a rare and unprecedented sight. This morning had featured such dramatic turns and frankly he was still feeling a profound lack of composure.
"Do you find this funny Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth says wryly, "Because I assure you that when this disease transfers to you due to your hesitation for the sake of amusement you will no longer be laughing."
"Regardless of whether you choose the floor or your bed, you know that I will not be abandoning you today."
Her mouth drops open slightly, "You wish to be a continued witness to my suffering? Shall you leave me nothing of my pride?
"My dear, I thought we had agreed to disregard our pride long ago."
"No, we agreed that I would forgive you for being an obnoxious gentleman with a despicable overabundance of pride, not that you could utilize that as an excuse to bear witness to my weakness."
Darcy laughs once again, "Come now Elizabeth, you neglect details with that depiction. You know that regardless of your sickness I could never see you as weak. Allow me to assist you to your bed."
She scowls but he knows she does not have it in her to protest much longer. Her eyes are drooping, and her speech has adopted the voice which he had associated with the point at which her fatigue could no longer be ignored. She makes a move to rise, but he stops her by placing his arm underneath her legs and behind her shoulders. He slowly stands up, attempting to disrupt her as little as possible though the exercise requires twice as much strength on his part. He places her down atop the covers on one side and pulls the blanket up on the other side. She rolls underneath it and he tucks it around her.
"Now you must rest, as you seem to have taken such an avid interest in nursing tenant children you know that this is the greatest cure."
"Will you stay?" She asks blearily.
He nearly laughs again at her shift but was too honored by the sentiment of her trust. "You know by now darling, that there is nothing that could prevent me from being by your side."
She scowls halfheartedly and he can tell that she is fading fast. He grabs a book off her nightstand and reclines in her reading chair in the corner of the room, hoping her fatigue will carry her through the worst of the illness.
AN: It's been quite a few years since I've written fanfiction but I've been pretty bored. This will probably be a three or four part story depending on how it goes. I don't have a beta so it is what it is. This will be the least angsty of all the chapters so you should probably stop reading now if you're not a fan of a little bit of tragedy. Let me know what you think in the reviews but don't be too brutal as I'm very far from a professional.