A/N: Happy New Year everyone! Here's to a better 2021 than 2020. My family actually had lots of good things happen this year, but I fear much of the rest of the world did not.
We are starting to close in on the end of Green. I'm thinking 4-6 more chapters just for reference sake, but you know I'm notorious for scope creep so anything short of 20 is possible. I also was looking for some of my own backstory and ended up rereading the whole thing from about the first meeting with Bartlet. Some reviewers think the finish to Red was a bit rushed, and I tend to agree so I might add a chapter or two on that thread before it's all done. The main reason I may not is the story is already my longest story to date, 210,000 words at the moment, so about double canon. I have some fear of beating the thing to death. I've noticed I seem to be getting wordier over time – have any of you noticed that, and if so, is it a feature or a bug?
I'd like to recommend "No, Mr. Darcy" by sysa22. It starts very similar to this story but takes a completely different turn at the wedding. Recommended!
Wade
GREEN
In the end, it was pure good luck that allowed it to happen, and Mrs. Darcy very much appreciated it. She was occasionally confused about whether November and December had been entirely bad luck which made it good luck's turn, or if in retrospect she would consider that entire period to be good luck in disguise.
Either way, she was very happy to be sitting beside her husband's bedside on the fifteenth of March when his eyes popped open, and he simply said, "Hello."
That lone word triggered a bout of coughing, so she manhandled him into an upright position, and stuffed some pillows behind his back. When her husband was dead weight, she had to leave such exertions to Longman or Bates; or get Mrs. Weston to help her. This time, with the gentleman being willing to help just a little (which was all he had), it was enough to get him upright, and feed him half a glass of water, which seemed to settle his cough.
As he was drinking, she said, "You have been very ill, so do not try to speak or do too much. Take the water and let us see how you are doing after that. Listen more than you talk, and I will try to inform you of your situation."
"I thank you," he said, but then started another bout of coughing. Elizabeth patted his back enough to help bring up any phlegm that might be in his lungs, but not hard enough to damage him. Doctor Warren had warned her that in his condition he would be easy to bruise.
He managed to drink the water, but it seemed to just about exhaust him.
She said, "I would like you to take some broth if you can, and hopefully, even some pap. We have been using an invalid feeder on you, but Dr. Warren says it will be much better if you could take a bit yourself."
He nodded, so she ran over to the fire, brought back a bit of broth that had been kept warm, poured it on her wrist to make sure it was not too hot or cold, and then proceeded to feed him half a cup, and a bit more water.
During that process, he was silent, looking around the room in some confusion, but not trying to talk any more. As he was eating, she kept a running commentary.
"You are likely to be very confused, so let me set your mind at ease. You are Fitzwilliam Darcy. You have Typhus, which will leave your thinking fuzzy and confused. That is normal. You may also be missing some memories, although most of them will usually return eventually. You are in the nursery of Darcy House in London because it is easier to care for you here than in your suite."
She had to pause for a bit more coughing, and then offered more broth, saying, "It is important you eat all you can."
He nodded, so she continued feeding him, along with her monologue.
"Your sister, Georgiana, is well but we do not allow her to visit you while there is any chance of the disease spreading. You have been out of your head with fever for nearly six weeks. It is the fifteenth of March. Your fever spiked on the first of February. You came out of your fever after about three weeks for a few days, but then descended back into it. "
As she talked, she had continued spooning broth, and wanted to try something slightly more solid if he stayed awake.
When he had as much as he thought he could take, he shook his head, so Elizabeth put the cup aside. "I will try to make you more comfortable."
He nodded, so she pulled him forward, took away one pillow, and allowed him to lay back, but not entirely flat, and he let out a great sigh.
"I expect you to be confused, and your voice will be lucky to work at all. I can assure you that you are safe, loved and well cared for, and all is well with your estate. We had some warning on your illness, and all is as it should be aside from your health. You need worry about nothing save your own recovery."
He nodded slightly, still looking quite groggy and very confused, but did not seem inclined to tempt the gods by speaking again.
Elizabeth asked, "Do you remember Mr. Longman, Mr. Bates or Mrs. Weston?"
Darcy looked frightfully confused for quite some time, his head furrowed in concentration, and finally he said, "Longman."
Fearing the worst but unwilling to show it to her patient, she said, "He has been helping with your care. He is asleep now – it is about half-four – but he would be very happy for me to wake him."
He shook his head, but whether that was because he did not want to trouble Longman, he did not want to be seen in his weakened state, or some other reason, Elizabeth had no idea and no particular need to pry.
"Are you comfortable?"
He nodded, and looked towards the water glass, so Elizabeth helped him with another sip, but cautioned him not to drink too much.
With a sigh, he settled back down, looked at her carefully, and finally asked, "Who are you?"
The question thoroughly disconcerted her, even though it was one of the contingencies they had planned for. Dr. Warren said that memory loss was common. Sometimes it was temporary and sometimes permanent. Sometimes it was short-term and sometimes long-term memory. It was nothing to be overly concerned about, but it was still disturbing.
She took a breath, looked him straight in the eyes. "I am your wife, Elizabeth Darcy. We have been married three months."
She felt like she was holding her breath waiting for a response, while he looked at her with complete confusion written across his face. She saw what looked like a herculean effort to recall, so she said, "Do not be distressed if you do not remember, Fitzwilliam. Dr. Warren said it might happen. We prepared for this."
He seemed to let out a breath, but the effort seemed to have exhausted him, as she could see his eyes start to close as his head fell further back into the pillow.
Just as she was certain he would fall asleep without saying anything, he roused himself. "I always hoped for a beautiful wife. It seems I got lucky," and then immediately closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Elizabeth felt a great flood of what could only be described as some sort of tender feelings for her husband. She knew that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, there were more important things than beauty, and every other rational thought she could apply to the situation; but in the end, none of that really mattered. Whether it would survive or not, when he was knocked back to his most basic state, it did seem that she was entirely handsome enough to tempt him, and she was somewhat surprised how happy it made her.
It was two agonizing days before he really woke up enough to say anything again. Dr. Warren was not precisely concerned, but he was not unconcerned either. He thought that on the whole, it was closer to bad news than good, but so long as his fever stayed down, and they managed to get a bit of water and food down his throat each day; it was a not too terrible sign. He seemed to be resting easier, and the fever seemed to be less, so the signs were moderately propitious.
They were feeding him a mixture of beef and chicken broth, as well as pap made from bread, milk and honey made from genuine Pemberley bees. Pemberley had plenty of cows as well, but they were not using that for obvious reasons. Elizabeth knew one bee was much like another, but she also liked to superstitiously believe that the honey coming straight from his estate was superior to what could be obtained in town.
By some sort of luck, whose provenance was yet to be determined, she was with him the next time he fully awoke, and this time he seemed to have gained some strength because his eyes snapped open fully, as if were suddenly startled awake by a loud noise, and he snapped, "Who are you and what are you doing in my room?"
Dr. Warren had warned her that his mind might produce anything from a child with Mr. Bingley's usual countenance (the one he used when he was not being informed that his sister had basically become a spy and left for France without asking); to a raving lunatic. If Elizabeth had not been on the receiving end of her husband's ire in the past, she would have been frightened, but she knew full well he was a gentle man who would never hurt a fly, so she was concerned, not worried.
All the same, she used a bell pull that would summon Mr. Longman who had taken to sleeping in the governess' quarters next to the nursery.
While she was engaged in ringing the bell, her husband became even more agitated, and his arm shot across the bed surprisingly fast to grab her wrist that was pulling the cord. She was briefly reminded of that night four months earlier when he had raised a bruise on that wrist when her mother started screaming like a banshee at the Netherfield ball. She was not worried, precisely, but having another bruise was not really something she had planned for that night.
Fortunately, or not as the case may be, the man who she had once thought strong enough to bruise her and bend horseshoes with his bare hands, barely managed to wrap his fingers around her wrist. She could quite easily have shaken it off but – well, she really did not want to shake it off. It was their only real contact aside from manhandling him around to care for him, and the men mostly did that. She found that she did not much care for the stridency of his tone, but she did not mind the hand on her wrist as much as she probably ought to.
In the same strident tone, he repeated. "Who are you and what are you doing in my –"
Then he looked around in confusion. "Where am I?"
As gently as she could, she said, "Be easy, Fitzwilliam –"
He snapped, "I have not given you leave to use my given name, madam. I insist you desist immediately. I ask again – who are you and where am I."
"I am trying to answer, if you will just calm down."
He quite surprised her with a somewhat loud bellow. She was not surprised that he had the inclination to yell, but that he had the strength, when he shouted, "Who are you?"
She reached around to wrap her hand around the one that still gripped her wrist, but he batted it away and snatched his hand back with a growl that sounded more like a bear than an invalid. Elizabeth thought it was good that he had some strength back, but she could probably do without his attitude.
With surprising vehemence, Darcy said, "I have no idea what scheme this is, but I will not be coerced. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I do not allow strange women in my room. You and your ilk have been hounding me for years. If you think you will force me to –"
Elizabeth was spared from whatever vile thing her husband's fever-addled brain was going to spit out, (which had all the signs of being quite unpleasant), by another strong voice that was not overly loud but carried iron-bound, not to be ignored, authority.
"Steady on, Darcy. Calm yourself, boy."
Darcy looked over and said, "Longman, thank God you are here. This woman is –"
"Darcy - Stop Talking," Longman nearly shouted, his face now a couple of feet in front of Darcy's.
"But I – I – I – What are you doing here, Longman?"
"I am trying to remind you that you are a gentleman and you should try acting like one."
"But this woman – this –"
Elizabeth was surprised when Longman's hand shot across in front of her to clamp itself on Darcy's mouth preventing whatever he was about to say.
Longman said with a bit of a growl. "I suggest you swallow whatever you were about to say. This woman is your wife, young master. She is the very best woman you know, and you will hold your tongue until it can be more civil."
Elizabeth was horrified. "Mr. Longman, perhaps I should leave –"
"No, ma'am. He will relent soon enough."
Elizabeth said, "I am causing him distress."
"No, ma'am – Typhus is causing him distress. You are giving him what he needs."
Longman took off his hand again, and Darcy started saying things that would make a drunken sailor blush, while Longman spent all his time trying to calm him down.
After five minutes of that, Longman said, "Enough," then he took the bottle of laudanum from the bedside table, and measured it into a small, cold cup of tea. Much to Elizabeth's horror, the stable master then took her husband by the chin, forced his mouth open. "Drink this!"
Some more cussing ensued, followed by, "I will not!"
Longman was twice as strong as Darcy in his full form, and he had spent many years wrangling misplaced foals out of mares when things went sideways. He was not to be crossed by an invalid, so he simply plugged Darcy's nose, and when he had to take a breath, he poured the tea down his throat and then held his mouth until the Master of Pemberley fell asleep a few minutes later.
Once Darcy was sound asleep, he turned to Elizabeth and said, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Darcy. I should have taken your advice and sent you away. You need not have witnessed that."
Elizabeth laughed. "You do realize women send men away from the birthing rooms because we know you do not have the strength for it. It will take more than that to intimidate me."
Longman laughed. "It is a shame you are not an orphan girl, Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Longman and I would have adopted you without a second thought."
Elizabeth laughed. "It may come to that if my husband wakes up like that next time, Mr. Longman," but the laugh was just the tiniest bit forced.
