"Her condition has not changed."
It had been two days since the incident, yet this felt like an eternity for Darcy. He had fallen into a deeply troubled, hazy state, as if in a nightmare from which he could not escape. Dr. Horton's visits were the most stable part of this sleepless dream and provided some semblance of normalcy. Each day the doctor came in the morning and evening to examine Elizabeth, during which time treacherous whisperings of hope would infect Darcy's heart and mind. Surely this time, something had changed, surely this time she showed some small sign of recovery. Yet Elizabeth remained the same, and his hollowed hopes left him feeling emptier still.
After the first examination, Dr. Horton had explained the condition to Darcy to the best of his abilities. Elizabeth was unconscious but was breathing and had a steady heartbeat. Her head injury was not deep, but the impact likely caused a concussion. Her other injuries, including extensive bruising, some minor cuts, and a sprained wrist, were not sources of concern. There was no way to tell if or when she would wake, but if she did not do so after three days, she likely would not at all.
"Three days." Darcy had repeated the words numbly.
"Yes. It is not an absolute rule, you understand, but I have not heard of any others who have awoken after that point. She will not take food or water and her energy will deplete over time.
"How likely is it—" There was that note of desperation again. In his years of experience, the good doctor had found that this line of questioning was more suited for the card table than his profession.
"There is no way to say, Mr. Darcy. She is a healthy young woman, and the human spirit is no small factor in this equation. There is still hope yet."
"Can anything be done to assist her?" The doctor now remembered Mr. Darcy as the diligent young man who read his sister stories while her ankle was set, who begged to know how he might make the young girl more comfortable. Horton's response was the same over a decade later.
"I will advise Mrs. Worthington in her care, but there is not much to do besides wait."
Just as before, the younger man took this advice poorly. Waiting was not something with which Darcy was accustomed. He could be patient when a task required focus; he was not flighty, nor eager for the next amusement like so many of his peers, but he loathed inaction. In times of stress especially, Darcy was the first in motion and found comfort in being of service. Being told to wait, to be powerless, while Elizabeth Bennet's life hung in a balance was excruciating.
Hoping to offer the man something to do, Dr. Horton asked if the family had yet been contacted.
"They reside in Hertfordshire. Her sister is in London. I will ask Mrs. Collins to send word by express immediately. I waited before only to send your assessment"
"Ah, yes. I am sorry I have nothing more to offer."
There seemed to be nothing more to say, but Dr. Horton did not yet leave. Darcy indulged in his habit of staring out the window, only to find the kind of day which drove poets to wax eloquent on the merits of sunshine and spring blossoms. The world, it seemed, was perfectly indifferent to his troubles. As he contemplated the vexing cheerfulness of birdsong, Dr. Horton approached.
"How fortunate that the day is at least fine."
Darcy, with no attempt to cover his scowl, rather thought he would have preferred a tumultuous storm to better reflect his feelings.
"It is easier for patients to recover, I think, when there is pleasant weather."
Darcy at first dismissed this as a foolish, empty sentiment and turned himself farther away from the doctor, whose company he no longer desired. He meant to stay in this position until the other man left, but thought then of Elizabeth and his earlier resolution. Had he not decided he would try to improve himself? He had promised himself to act as if under her just scrutiny; to attempt to be more the man she would have him be. What would she think of this brooding, scowling man who turned away from a kindly older doctor?
He relaxed his jaw and tried to look at the scene before him as she might. He remembered how on one of their walks, just before he alerted her to his presence—an unpleasant surprise, he now realized—he watched her reach out to tickle low hanging branches with an impish grin, as if reveling in the confidence of the trees. He thought she would be refreshed by the current gentle sway of fresh green leaves and delight in the antics of small woodland creatures chasing each other. Perhaps Elizabeth, who rejoiced in brightness, would indeed be inspired to waking by the pull of a lovely day. As silly as it had seemed just a moment ago, Darcy found he rather appreciated this idea, and found himself passing the doctor a genuine, if thin, smile in return.
"Mr. Darcy, forgive me if it is impertinent to say so, but I would advise you to tend to your own health as well. It can be difficult, I know, to care for oneself when those one cares about are injured or sick, but you could not do the lady any good if you were to fall ill yourself."
The doctor then promised to return that evening, gave a good-natured nod, and dismissed himself to seek Mrs. Worthington. Darcy was startled at this. If he had made any small gains in one resolution, he must be failing miserably in his other—that of appearing indifferent to Miss Elizabeth and thus preserving her reputation. If Dr. Horton, a near stranger, had recognized his regard enough to make such a well-meaning, casual remark, he must be more transparent with his feelings than he had allowed himself to believe.
After that first meeting, Darcy resolved more strongly to act the part of a gentleman who happened upon an acquaintance in distress, nothing more. If anyone suspected that Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were romantically involved, if whispers of impropriety surfaced between a lower gentlewoman and himself, she would certainly be the worse for it. Though any inappropriate conduct, including that horrible letter, meeting her alone in her home without permission, courting her without her father's (or her) consent, not to mention the small matter of a declaration of love, had all been entirely enacted by himself, Miss Bennet would be the one to face the scandal. Her lower ranking and sex conspired against her to produce a significantly more delicate reputation, one for which Mr. Darcy could not help but claim responsibility. She had been treated abominably by his own person, had suffered his advances, and was, at least in Darcy's view, in her present state because of his own selfishness. He could not continue to worsen her life by allowing his unguarded feelings to call her reputation into question.
Mr. Darcy donned the mask of the perfect, disinterested gentleman. It was fortunate that the mask was a well-worn favorite, otherwise he might not have been able to countenance the deceit in such a state of agitation. He wore it when he called at the parsonage. He shared the doctor's assessment, offered to pay for an express, and encouraged Mrs. Collins to come visit her friend as often as she wished, but would not stay for tea and was careful to show no particular distress or affection when relaying Elizabeth's condition. Though he need not hide from Mrs. Collins, her insufferable husband was another matter entirely. The parson, at least, agreed to wait three days before attempting any more ceremonies. Neither did Darcy trust the distraught, terrified looking Miss Maria Lucas to refrain from romanticizing the situation. He needed to show to both families, and perhaps more importantly, the servants, that he was perfectly in control of himself and not at all attached or overly interested in the affairs of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
For no lesser motivation than the perceived need to protect Elizabeth could he have attended tea with his Aunt and cousins with such a degree of equanimity. Remembering that Lady Catherine would debase Miss Elizabeth publicly if she suspected any partiality from him, he excused his earlier outburst on the shock and excitement of the first morning's events. His apology considerably lessened the tension, but that woman seemed to put all her substantial powers of meddling to work in observing Darcy. She dropped a few masked insults towards the Bennet family in an effort to assess Darcy's reaction. Darcy had to remind himself again and again of his promises. Though he was sure Miss Elizabeth would use her charming wit to parry his Aunt's attacks, this was out of the question for him. He endeavored to be civil, and very nearly succeeded. He ensured that Mrs. Collins could visit her friend often, implied to his aunt that the parson and his wife might be invited over for dinner to better care for their charge, and disinterestedly claimed he was quite tired of speaking of the affair. He even went so far as to attempt to engage Anne in conversation, which, for two people who detested the effort of small talk, was as stilted and disagreeable as could be imagined.
He spent the following days and nights similarly engaged. He ate little, slept less, and spent his time in a constant state of agony. Any time he found his mind drifting towards worry over Elizabeth whilst in company, he would focus on the task of schooling his features. At first, Richard tried to cajole him into speaking honestly or engage in some sport, but eventually thought it best to leave Darcy to his contemplation. He knew when he was out of his own depths, and applied to his mother and dear Georgie for their counsel on how to help his cousin.
Darcy did have some relief when Mrs. Collins called on Elizabeth. She would inform Darcy of her friend's condition and offer comfort in the form of a knowing look. During the second day, a distraught Jane Bennet joined Mrs. Collins in her visits, and Mr. Darcy had the comfort of knowing that there were more people in the world who could show Elizabeth the affection she deserved.
When alone, Darcy's careful façade, as well as any semblance of normalcy, fell. When his mind was not more morbidly engaged, it focused on a critical review of every interaction he ever had with Elizabeth Bennet.
From the very beginning, before they had even been introduced, she must have felt the sting of his ungentlemanly remark. Had he not behaved like a brute during their first meeting? And had not Miss Elizabeth, even after being spurned by himself, behaved with perfect decorum?
Darcy traced through every moment of their acquaintance, lingering on his proposal and rereading his abhorrent letter when he especially felt like torturing himself. These moments were deeply painful, but from them much was learned. On the second day, after the elder Miss Bennett's arrival, and after reflecting on how arrogant Elizabeth must have found the first few passages in his letter, he decided to confess his involvement in Charles' separation from Jane Bennet by way of an express letter. He would not write of the lady's affection, which still he had never observed, but rather that he regretted his objections to the Bennet family and revealed his knowledge that Miss Bennet had been in London for months. Miss Bennett's care for her sister and kindness towards himself substantially diminished any injury caused by her family. This wrong, at least, he could amend. Elizabeth's state, as the doctor told him, was not so easily fixed.
"It has not yet been three full days. There is hope then yet."
"Mr. Darcy, we will wait and hope, but if she does not rise by tomorrow morning, she likely will not. You should prepare yourself for that reality." The doctor looked as though he was about to leave, thought better of it, and produced a vial from his bag. "A sleeping draught. Take half the vial tonight. Whatever happens tomorrow, you will need rest to prepare for it." With that the doctor left and Darcy was quite alone.
Though Darcy retired early, he knew there would be no chance of sleep, with or without the draught and dismissed it. He alternated between begging to or cursing God and feverishly paced the floor of his room, deep in thought, until it was well past midnight. At some point, while reading the vile letter for the umpteenth time, he realized that his room was too confining for his restless muscles, and he needed to leave it. He lit a new candle, donned his dressing gown, and, just as he was about to depart, took a swig of the draught to calm his nerves.
Darcy wandered first to the library, where he remembered "Eliza the great lover of books" as Miss Bingley had called her during her stay at Netherfield. He then contemplated taking a walk outside and made his way to the grand entrance of the house, but before he reached the door he realized he could not face the paths in which she used to delight. He could not face these reminders, but he desperately needed to be near her.
She was the only occupant in that wing of the house, and it felt strange entering the hallway where she was. Certainly, if he was caught then all his careful deception would have been for naught, but he rationalized that the people of the house were fast asleep in other, far away rooms. If someone did awake, surely, he would hear them and leave before he was discovered there, and, though he pushed the thought away as soon as it entered his mind, if she did not awake, he could not care where he was found nor what happened to him.
He paced in front of her door for a while, quietly begging her to stay, pleading with God to keep her here under any conditions. When he found his legs exhausted, he sat against the wall facing her door and pulled out the letter again. Somewhere during the enumeration of the "cases of repugnance" in the Bennet family, he fell into a fitful sleep.