Elizabeth Bennet had never experienced trouble rising from bed. As full of life, chaos, and silliness as Longbourn was, moments of peace were scarce during waking hours. Though Elizabeth found joy in the activity of the house and, like her father, delighted in the ridiculous, she also appreciated moments of reflection. Unlike her father, however, she did not have the benefit of a study door to retreat behind. And so, every morning, Elizabeth was the first Bennet to rise and would enjoy solitary rambles or an intriguing book for an hour or so before her family woke.
She usually rose early and lightly, refreshed and eager for her morning reverie, and so this pressing weight on her chest, the immense heaviness of her eyelids and sore, stiffness of her body was wholly new to her. She wondered for how long she had been struggling, ineffectually, to open her eyes, or why her very thoughts felt so labored. She felt oddly like she had when she was eight years old and Thomas Lucas had said girls could not swim. Naturally, she had dived fully clothed to the bottom of a nearby lake to prove him wrong. As it happened, Elizabeth could not swim and found herself weighed down by her heavy skirts, confused about which way was up, kicking desperately against the pressure of the water to try and stop the burning in her lungs. Just as then, she fought her way to the surface and when she finally broke through, gasped as if she had never tasted air before.
Her throat felt scratchy and raw as her breath surged through it. She had an unfamiliar tasting salve on her lips. Her eyes, while open, saw nothing but darkness. She felt as if the rest of her body was still being dragged downwards below the surface of whatever nightmarish state she had been in. She had no notion of where she was or how she had gotten there and she found her usually bright memory too addled to be of assistance. She willed herself to move her toes and they complied, her legs and fingers following behind. Gingerly, she tried to raise herself up, but the moment she pressed weight onto her wrists and lifted her head she was startled by a sharp pain and collapsed.
Frightened, she lifted her hands to inspect them and felt bandaging around one wrist, hidden under a too-long night dress sleeve. She did not remember injuring herself at all, and desperately felt around her body for other sources of pain. Her chest was very sore and felt bruised in certain spots, and even more strangely, it was . . . smaller? Could it be her imagination or were her ribs more pronounced? Her further inspection revealed a bandage around her upper arm, another on her knee, and several layers of bandages wrapped around the base of her skull. Pressing on it produced a dull pain. With trepidation, Elizabeth slipped one finger under the cloth and felt for the wound. It was painful to touch, but was not wet, and did not seem deep. How strange that it already had the thin crust of a scab.
Satisfied that her injuries, though troublesome, did not seem incapacitating, Elizabeth tried again to raise herself to a sitting position, this time using only her strong arm. Immediately her head swam, and dizzy nausea rolled through her. She gripped the bed for stability and breathed deeply. As she sat there, her eyes adjusting to the dark, she noticed a small glow of light from what appeared to be the bottom of a door. Too quickly, she threw off the bed clothes, swung her legs around, and made to rise, eager to find the source of the light and, hopefully, an answer to her many questions.
She nearly collapsed upon standing but found the handle of a chair back for balance. Her head still swam, and her faithful legs, which easily carried her over three miles in the mud, felt for some reason as if they weren't meant to support a human.
Exceedingly frustrated and confused, she released a mild oath and sigh of exasperation and was then startled by the strange rasp of her voice. What had happened to her? Where was she? How had she come here? She would not find her answers leaning on a chair in a foreign, dark room and so she stumbled along, clutching at chair backs and dressers for support until she reached the wall with the light and felt for the cool metal of a door knob.
Fitzwilliam Darcy rarely experienced trouble rising from bed, but he also rarely took sleeping draughts. As it was, he was roused into an almost waking state by the sounds of furniture scraping on wood and some strange mumbling. It took him a moment to remember where he was, the draught made his thoughts hazy and body heavy. As he fought through the fog to understand his surroundings, his hand made contact with a piece of paper, a letter, the letter, and consciousness dawned. It was the middle of night and he was sleeping on the floor across from Miss Elizabeth Bennet's room with a half-burned candle and a scandalous letter, and someone was coming. Before he could even scramble to his feet or collect the sheets of paper, he heard the turn of a knob, and the door across from him opened to reveal Elizabeth Bennet herself.
Of all the things Elizabeth might have expected to find on the other side of the door, a man slumped against the wall was not among them. That the man should be Mr. Darcy was altogether too much. She was dizzy again and leaned heavily on the doorway for support. He locked eyes with her and memories of an awful proposal and a heartbroken Jane came flooding back, alongside feelings of frustration, anger, humiliation, and overwhelming dislike. Why was he here? Where was here? What was happening? They were both paralyzed for a moment, staring at each other uncomprehendingly, and then Mr. Darcy was on his feet.
"Elizabeth. You are alive . . . and awake." He whispered this as if it was a prayer, as if he could not believe it, and with such a look of hope and relief on his face that Elizabeth wondered if this could really be Mr. Darcy. He walked towards her in a trance-like state with his hand outstretched as if to touch her, and she found her courage. Though her head was swimming dangerously, she let go of her grip on the door frame and raised herself to her full height with the aim of being as in control of herself as possible.
"Mr. Darcy, I have no comprehension of what is going on, least of all why you think it appropriate to address me so informally." Though she kept her voice to a whisper, she invoked as much power as she could into this little speech, which only wore her out and did not at all have the desired effect. Instead of being discouraged, Mr. Darcy smiled and bowed.
"Pardon me, Miss Bennet. But you are alive and awake." He kept a respectable distance away and had dropped his hand, but was close enough that Elizabeth could see a wash of joy over his features.
If a smiling Mr. Darcy was not disconcerting enough, his repeated words served to make Elizabeth troubled. The room was now spinning and she struggled to keep her balance without allowing Mr. Darcy to see her weakness.
"Mr. Darcy, I am clearly both alive and awake. Why is this surprising?" Whether it was the question itself or the note of fear in her voice, something snapped Darcy into action.
"Of course, Miss Bennet, this will all be confusing for you, and my presence must be adding to your disturbance. Please allow me to leave and you can return to your room to ring the bell. Someone will check in on your health and explain everything." He bowed his departure and made to pick up his candle and three pieces of letter paper.
"The letter." She moved forward too quickly towards the paper, head heavy and light at the same time, while flashes of memory surged in. "I remember . . . that letter and then . . ." and then her world went black.
When Elizabeth next opened her eyes she was lying on her back. Her feet were propped up on something soft and her forehead was cool and damp. She felt nauseous and excessively confused. Where was she? What had happened?
"You are awake."
Right. Mr. Darcy was here, wherever here was, kneeling by her head. Based on how difficult it had been to stand, she surmised that she had fainted.
"Yes, I believe we have determined that. I am also alive, in case you were interested." Elizabeth's usual light teasing took a more caustic tone given the frustrating circumstances, but Mr. Darcy seemed to take no notice.
"I am greatly interested, I thank you." He was too genuine, too attentive, and that smile again! It was so warm and un-Darcy-like, tinged now with real concern. "How do you feel?" Elizabeth thought it best to lighten the situation.
"I feel disenchanted, Mr. Darcy."
"How so?"
"A Mr. Walpole and a Mrs. Radcliffe have led me to believe that fainting is a highly romantic thing to do, and now I am to discover that it is only rather nauseating. So you see, all hopes of gothic adventuring are irrevocably ruined for me."
"How unfortunate that you should miss the chance of being kidnapped and imprisoned in some castle."
"Oh, I would much rather be abducted and dragged across Naples, the scenery would be far superior."
"Would you not grow tired of all the monks with similar sounding names? Schedoni and Spalatro and the like?"
"Perhaps, but I am sure the lovely churches and countryside would more than make up for the confusion." Darcy smiled at this repartee and Elizabeth was forced to look away. How had her attempt at levity left her feeling more vulnerable? And how did Mr. Darcy know characters from The Italian? For what seemed like the hundredth time tonight she asked herself what was happening? Mr. Darcy, seeming to sense her discomfort, pulled himself to the present.
"You said you felt nauseated, if you move the cloth on your head to your neck it should offer some relief."
She did, and to her surprise the cool wetness did alleviate her discomfort. At this discovery, she let out a small, desperate, laugh and covered her face in her hands.
"Is something amusing to you, Miss Bennet?"
"Yes indeed. In fact, I cannot decide which is more amusing: that the great Master of Pemberley reads Gothic novels or that he is currently acting as my nursemaid. Perhaps you can offer your opinion."
Though her tone was less than gracious towards the aforesaid Master of Pemberley, he replied kindly.
"I am wholly unqualified to judge your amusements, Miss Bennet. But I may offer some explanation. I have read novels by Mrs. Radcliffe because my sister desired to read them and I wanted to ensure their appropriateness."
"And your assessment? Were the Mysteries of Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest deemed suitable reading for an accomplished young lady like Miss Darcy?"
"Certainly not. But as they were engaging and seemed harmless, I could hardly refuse Georgiana the entertainment. Perhaps I should have been more cautious of the influence of silly romantic stories." He seemed to trail off in a dark thought for a moment before he continued. "You once remarked that we could never have read the same books, nor have the same opinions on them if we had, were you correct in your assessment?"
To say that Elizabeth was by this point uncomfortable would be a severe understatement. Did she not dislike this man above all others? How were they still pretending that the proposal had not happened? Had he not humiliated her pride and had she not insulted him in an abominable manner? And yet she was lying on the floor of a hallway, injured, confused, and they were having a conversation about novels as if it were a completely normal thing to do. And stranger still, they did seem to agree. She often teased that Lydia and Kitty be barred from reading Mrs. Radcliffe because they took the books too much to heart, and while she herself had found them excessively diverting, she did not think Mr. Darcy's characterization of "silly romantic stories" was very far from the truth. This was all too bizarre and Elizabeth felt more exposed, as well as weak, but her courage would not fail her.
"I am afraid I do not yet have enough evidence to place judgment on my previous observation. I can say for certain, however, that you are deflecting from the original question. Please enlighten me as to where you learned your skills of nursing."
"My late mother was sickly in her final years of life. Before she was permanently confined to her rooms, she had to be escorted everywhere in case she fell faint. I was often her escort. The doctor taught my father and I that when she did lose consciousness we were to elevate her feet, place damp cloth on her head and neck, and not move her until she was ready to stand."
Somehow Elizabeth had never considered that Mr. Darcy could be any younger than he currently was, and envisioning him as a man-child caring for his mother made her feel an uncomfortable mixture of sadness, empathy, and guilt. It was so much harder to take comfort in one's dislike of a person if said person had a younger, attentive self who nursed his dying mother.
Breaking both of them out of their reveries, Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and continued. "So you see, my medical knowledge is very limited and only happened to apply in this situation."
Elizabeth had the dismay of realizing then that Mr. Darcy must have placed the cloth to begin with, that he caught her when she fainted, had lifted her feet onto a pillow, and had brought her to her present state of laying on her back, in a nightdress, on what she assumed was the padded floor of this unknown hallway. If, as she teased, she was a swooning gothic heroine, then Mr. Darcy had been the hero. The thought repelled and mortified her. Instinctively, she made to rise as a means to escape from this embarrassing situation, but did not get far before she was reminded of her injured wrist by a sharp, searing pain.
Mr. Darcy, all concern, only added to her humiliation by gently easing her back to the ground and asking if she was hurt.
"It is only my wrist." And head, and chest, and legs, and pride.
"Yes, Dr. Horton said that it was sprained on impact but should heal well." Darcy looked rather concerned. "He said you had bruises and cuts as well but that your head was the only worrisome injury."
"Mr. Darcy, as you seem to know more about my condition than I do perhaps you can tell me what has happened?" It vexed Elizabeth that she was beholden to Mr. Darcy for information about herself, that he should be the one to take care of her now, that he should thwart her efforts to dislike him with his memories, and that she should feel so powerless. Her voice reflected her extreme frustration.
Mr. Darcy's visage changed immediately from concern to acute pain and Elizabeth instantly regretted her tone. She pushed herself up on her left arm and his hands were there to help her to a sitting position. He offered the pillow from her feet for her back and in a moment Elizabeth was almost comfortably positioned against the wall. Feeling far more equal to conversation from her present position, she tried again in a more civil tone.
"I remember meeting you and receiving your letter." Now anger flashed across his features. So he had not forgotten about the proposal and was still bitter with her! She had a moment of small satisfaction. Too many of Mr. Darcy's emotions tonight had confused and incapacitated her, but she could address his anger with confidence. Emboldened, she continued.
"I remember reading about your hand in the affairs of my sister and Mr. Bingley." She challenged him, and to her relief the anger seemed more apparent on his features. How peculiar that she felt more at ease with such an emotion, but in a night when everything was strange, that anger offered her the comfort of a familiar adversary. "I was prevented from reading about your other justifications for interference, but I do not remember the cause of interruption. Perhaps you can enlighten me." To Elizabeth's disappointment, the anger she had counted on was overcome by pain again on his features, and something else, some emotion she could not identify.
"You seemed to have strayed from the main path-"
"Yes, I believe I was captivated by your writing." She tried to steer him back to anger but there was that other emotion again, stronger now, could that be shame on Mr. Darcy?
"I expect you were disturbed enough by that letter that you did notice where you were going." It was shame! And anger, and frustration and-who could have guessed that the stoic Mr. Darcy had the capacity for so many warring feelings? But then his pain was back, and it was oppressive enough that it ended Elizabeth's exploration of the man's sentiments.
"You fell off of a rocky ledge, hit your head on the bottom, and fell unconscious. You were brought here to Rosings and have remained, unmoving, for nearly three days. I did not- that is, no one knew if you would ever wake up."
"Three days." This information was sufficiently disturbing to Elizabeth.
"Nearly three days. Dr. Horton said that you likely could not survive beyond that point without food and water."
Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth seemed to have the realization about the latter's needs at the same time. Until this point, Elizabeth had felt the impact of dehydration but had been so confused and eager to understand that she had not identified her incredible thirst.
"You must be famished." Mr. Darcy rose and looked as if he would leave, and Elizabeth was struck by the realization that they were alone, in a hallway in Rosings, in what must be the middle of the night. It would be compromising to say the least if they were found there.
"Mr. Darcy, please do not wake the house. I am sure I can manage until the morning."
He shot her a quizzical look and went into the room she had quitted not an hour ago. He returned with a candle and a blanket, which he handed her. She had not realized before that she was cold and was grateful for both the layer of modesty and warmth.
"Miss Bennet, I have been travelling to Rosings since my youth, I know where the kitchens are." He lit the extra candle, which he left with her and made to depart. As he stepped away, Elizabeth's gaze fell on the pieces of paper on the ground.
"Mr. Darcy!" He turned.
"Miss Bennet?"
"Is that the letter you gave me?"
"Unfortunately, yes." The warring emotions returned, and Mr. Darcy looked much more like the man she could detest in comfort.
"May I have it back?" If it was not for the particular way he clenched his jaw Elizabeth might have thought he had not heard her.
"Mr. Darcy? It was given to me, was it not?"
"Yes. It is yours." He bent to retrieve the pages but did not pass them over. "It is only that when I wrote this letter I believed myself perfectly calm and cool; but I have since been convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. I heartily regret writing it and the harm it has caused you." Suddenly, all of Mr. Darcy's troublesome emotions and strange actions became more clear. He was not suddenly more kind, merely transformed by misplaced guilt.
"I hardly think your letter can be blamed for my lack of caution."
"Miss Bennet, if I had not written that letter you would never-you could have-I thought you were-" He was breathing heavily now, clearly distressed, and Elizabeth noticed for the first time how haggard he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face was more gaunt, his hair more tousled, and he contrasted so sharply with his usually meticulous person that they may well have been different people. The latter she could blame for anything, but the former she could not help but pity.
"Mr. Darcy, regardless of my opinions of the contents of that letter, neither it nor yourself are in any way responsible for my injury. I implore you to excuse yourself of any blame on that account, I fell entirely because of my own carelessness." He did not seem to agree and looked intent on berating himself.
"In any case, I am grateful that I did survive the fall. I am sure my curiosity about the letter's contents would have made me a very ill-tempered spirit." With that, Elizabeth expectantly held out her hand as Mr. Darcy balked and retreated further into self-torment. Apparently teasing about her own death was not an effective tactic on this man. He stiffly passed over the pages and departed, leaving Elizabeth alone with the letter.