Chapter 16: Darcy
He had never known cold like this before.
Shock. Utter shock, stilling him into ice.
Cold, dark. The world was black-green, and his eyes burned in the freezing river and he floated, stunned, hands outstretched, eyes now closed and unseeing.
Move.
He jerked, shaking his head and opening his mouth. Too many bubbles escaped from his held breath. He couldn't even call her name. Where was she?
Elizabeth, Elizabeth! He shouted in his mind but knew it was for naught. He struck out wildly, fingers opened and trying to feel something, anything.
His body floated upwards, naturally, and that's when he hit his head on the sky—no, the ceiling. The ceiling of ice. Good God, the current had pulled him under the ice. He couldn't breathe, and he began to panic but then—
No.
He could not panic. He would either save her life or—or he would die trying.
He forced himself to open his eyes, but it wasn't sure the pain of the freezing water was worth the view. He could see nothing, or next to nothing. But there—there ahead of him—
A flash of white and then he was on her, and she was still alive, still fighting. Her face was pressed up against the ice, and her fists—though he could not see clearly, he imagined her fists were beating futilely against the ice. He imagined that, because as soon as he touched her, realized he'd found her, he'd got her, she turned and began to beat him.
He must have scared her beyond measure, but then she realized what it was—who it was—and her hands fell. He wanted to pull her to him, kiss her, but no—air. They needed air. His lungs were burning, and his vision was going dark. He wrapped one arm around her waist and pounded on the ice above them.
And pounded. And pounded again. Please God, let Bingley see them.
But no one came. He turned to try and pull them back toward the hole they'd fallen through, but the current was so strong, and he was—he was losing energy and breath and the ability to think. And then her hands were on his face, her palms cradling his cheeks. And then her lips, so cold and still, touched his. A cold, close-mouthed, frozen kiss.
She was saying goodbye.
"No," he said, wasting precious oxygen. He pulled her closer and raised his fist and willed himself to break every bone in his hand, if only it would break through the ice.
And then it did! Wait, no—there were more hands—grabbing him. Pulling him up. And then Darcy was up and onto the ice, in Bingley's arms.
"Elizabeth. Get her, get her!" he managed to gasp.
Bingley wrapped a cord of rope around Darcy's arm, before releasing him and reaching behind him. Bingley's men were shouting, pulling, grabbing Darcy and pulling him to safety. He couldn't move to help them, he was so very cold. But he turned, lying on his back, the sound of his body being dragged backwards on the ice. All he wanted to see was her. Elizabeth.
And there she was, being pulled up and into Bingley's arms. Her face was pale and her mouth was open—
Bingley turned, holding her, his face stricken. He slowly shook his head at the men on the river bank.
"No!" Darcy roared, trying to crawl back to the very place that had almost killed him. "No, no!"
But the men on the riverbank had him, and they pulled him, screaming, up onto land.
"Get ahold of yourself!" an older man shouted, and then, remarkably, Darcy did.
He pulled himself upright, dripping and barely able to breathe. It was an easy habit—a lifetime's habit—to fall into. The cold, frozen face. The haughty glare. The silence. The far-off stare.
A frozen mien to match his frozen heart.
And then Elizabeth was on the riverbank, and the men were surrounding her, shouting that the carriage was coming. Someone put a blanket on his shoulders, but he barely felt it. He watched in horror as Bingley laid Elizabeth flat on her back. Her dress clung to her. Her skin was blue.
"She's not breathing." Darcy heard Bingley say those words, but it took another intake of breath before he really heard them. Before he understood.
No.
He must have said it out loud. And then his body was moving. "No," he said again. He pushed through the crowd and fell to his knees next to her.
No. This would not happen. He would not go back to what he had been, a man of ice. He wanted her fire. He wanted her love. Her needed her to live.
He didn't care that he was making a fool of himself. He didn't care what any of these men—what anyone else—thought. His knees dug into the snow and then mud beneath, and he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up.
"Elizabeth," he said fiercely. "You wake up now. I won't have this. I refuse."
He shifted her even higher, her head against his shoulder, her body in his arms. He touched her cheek, like she had done to him. Then he shook her, just a little. Then…harder.
"Wake up, Elizabeth Bennet. You're still in there. I know you are." He glanced up to see a ring of men, their faces full of pity, and the sky bone-white above them.
He ignored them. He ignored everything, except the woman in his arms.
"I know you are," he whispered. "I know you are." He put his face closer and kissed her cold, cold lips. He whispered fiercely against her cold skin, "You are too full of life and too full of fire, for even a frozen river to douse. Wake up, my love, wake up."
Then he pulled back and looked at her, but she did not move—she did not breathe.
"I cannot be," he said. He was so cold he was shaking, but he shrugged off a man who tried to pull him to his feet. "No! No, it cannot be."
And then the great Fitzwilliam Darcy wept.
He put his forehead against hers, and he tried to memorize the feeling of that. Please wake up, please wake up, you have a fire inside you, he found himself saying. And, I love you, I love you, I should have told you ages ago. Please God, wake her up and I will do anything. Anything in the world.
"Elizabeth, my love, my love."
But she did not stir.
Darcy grabbed her and pulled her to him, as if she were still alive, as if she could return his embrace. He pulled her to him, in a lifeless embrace, standing as her cold, wet skirts covered his legs. He held her tight, then tighter, her head leaning on his shoulder. He buried his face in her neck, the water from her wet hair mingling with his tears, and he squeezed her tightly, as if he could will her back to life. As if he could absorb her into himself.
His entire body was shaking with sobs. And that is why it took him a moment—and another great inhalation—before he realized she was shaking, too.
"Miss Elizabeth!" Bingley shouted, and suddenly she was convulsing in his arms.
Darcy shouted as well, turning her and laying her back on the ground. Water spewed from her mouth, and Darcy turned her onto her side. The vile water left her, in the midst of great, wracking coughs. Some of the men began to praise God and say it was a miracle.
"Miracle or not," Darcy barked, "get that carriage here now. And the physician—apothecary—whomever! Get anyone and everyone you can here now and heal my future wife."
Upon his orders, the men began to scatter. Some shouted in the distance, hailing the carriage. Some footmen ran back to the house, while others brought blankets to the small, slight, shivering woman in front of him.
Darcy ignored them all. They all faded away, and all he could see was her. Her.
"You're all right," he found himself saying. He had never known how to comfort anyone—Georgiana, his friends, himself. But now his hand touched her back, and when she finally could breathe again, he gently turned her face to him and said, over and over, "All will be well."
And then the carriage was here, with two sturdy horses and the men shouting. Darcy would let no one else touch her—he couldn't. There was no part of him that could release her. He lifted Elizabeth up into his arms, and when they were settled on the small sled, he covered her in blankets. She was so cold. Too cold.
"Faster," he barked to the driver. They raced the wind to reach Netherfield, but he did not look up. He did not look away from her beautiful face.
And then Elizabeth Bennet opened her eyes, staring for one moment up at the snow-filled sky…and then she turned her gaze to him.
"Hello there," he whispered. He could not stop the wide smile from spreading across his face, or the tears from filling his eyes.
"Hello there," she whispered back.
"Are you well?" he gasped. "Can you—can you move your hands? We'll get you in dry clothes and in front of the fire. How could you leave without telling anyone? God, Elizabeth."
He lowered his head and could not stop the tears from falling. Then he felt her hand, still terribly cold, on his cheek. He looked up into those eyes that he so desperately adored.
"I'm fine," she whispered. "Rather, I'm a fool for having gone for a walk onto a river. But other than that, I will be fine. Soon."
He shook his head and then she smiled. "Your problem is, Mr. Darcy, that you are entirely too high and mighty for your own good. Your future wife, did I hear you say? We shall see about that."
Then she closed her eyes and pressed her face against his wildly beating heart, and he nodded and whispered, "You are correct, Miss Bennet. We shall see about that."