Elizabeth stayed in Darcy's tower, staring out the window. The door behind her was barred. The bed was unmade and the wardrobe sat empty. Darcy had a table, a half full trunk, a bookshelf stuffed to the brim,and the most rickety chair still standing. She was in the middle of reading when she caught herself lost in thought and staring out the window.
She was thinking of Captain Darcy, as usual. He was a good man. She was somewhat rather mildly certain that he could be a good man. Even if his better judgment said he shouldn't like her. She sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. What she wouldn't give to speak with Jane now. She knew she was going around in circles.
Her stomach rumbled loudly. The sun was setting. She could sneak out at night.
Perhaps this was a point against Captain Darcy? To leave her without food or water? Her eyebrows came together as she shook her head slightly. That didn't feel like something he would do. No, he was in a great rush and dealing with a hysterical woman. She burned red and put a hand over her eyes. She then leaned back in her chair with a sigh, because starvation definitely was something her step father had done. Perhaps this thought circle was a point in Darcy's favor?
A few minutes later she heard pounding on the door. She launched into the air, while her stomach dropped to the floor. She had to catch the chair from clattering to the ground and shattering.
"Elizabeth," Darcy's voice grunted from behind the door. She flew to the door, removed the plank of wood, and opened it. He shuffled in, carrying a large barrel with a sack tied to his shoulder. He had a scorch of soot across his face and an angry, red gash on his forehead. She spied dried blood on his armor around his shoulder. Her heart thumped so hard she felt her ribs move.
"You're hurt!" She gasped, shutting the door and barring them in. He set the barrel down and she vaguely registered water sloshing within. He rolled his shoulder as he tilted his head to look at her.
"It doesn't matter," he said offhandedly.
"It does though!" She demanded, marching towards him. He quickly backed up a step and she pushed him to sit down in the chair. His eyes went wide and he gripped the seat of the chair with both hands. The bag slid lamely down his arm onto the ground.
She slid her fingers under his shoulder plate to take it off. He acted like he was struck by lightning.
"I can't stay!" He said, standing up quickly. "I have a near mutiny on my hands! The Bishops men–!!"
"I was just going to help with the bleeding!" Elizabeth defended herself. He brought his eyebrows together.
"Bleeding?" He asked, beginning to examine himself. "This is proofed, how could I–" he found the dried blood. His hands stilled and his shoulders slumped in remembrance. "It's not mine," he mumbled quietly.
She couldn't even fathom her step father looking half so mournful. Darcy looked as though the world rested on his shoulders and he felt each individual burden. He raised his glacial eyes– so full of feeling– back to hers. His face was patchy with soot and lined with sweat. She took a step towards him and reached out a hand to comfort him.
"What's in the bag?" She blurted, feeling a jerk in her heart, which jerked her hand away. He is good. He doesn't need these volatile emotions now. He needs his reason, which rejected me.
"Food and books," he said, not breaking eye contact with her. No, he took a step closer! She felt her face burn, but stared him down. She suddenly felt a zing of fear shoot from the tips of her toes and hands and burn behind her eyes. She ducked her head to grab the bag and became intensely interested in its contents. She couldn't see the contents for her racing thoughts.
"Elizabeth," he called softly, dragging her gaze back to him. "I–" he cut himself off, "I hope you don't think less of me."
"Less of you?" She said, her eyebrows shooting up, "why would I?"
"For my words," he said simply, his arms hanging low by his sides. Elizabeth averted her eyes to the open window. The one he'd kicked out for her. He was a confusing man, but still.
"I think you're a good man, Captain Darcy," she said, not looking at him. "A great one even." And yet he rejected me in the same breath as he proposed.
"And yet you can't even look at me," he said, dejected. She turned her eyes to him.
"I go against all your reason and better judgment," she smiled sadly. Now he cast his gaze on his boots.
"I didn't mean it like that," he mumbled, before taking a breath. Then, something switched in him. She watched his shoulders come back up, his face turn stoney and all previous indications of sorrow got wiped away.
"I'm not sure how long the siege will last," he said sternly. "I've brought you enough food for a handful of days and water for two weeks. I hope you'll remain in this room. I'll try to come by with more supplies." With that he bowed and started to leave the room.
"I hope you'll make it back to this room," she said quietly. He turned to look at her, his eyes the only window to his emotions now. They searched her. His ears turned red.
"Indeed," he said, before walking out the door and shutting it behind himself.
Elizabeth sat back down in the chair, her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands. Why was she so awkward?
Eventually, she remembered the bag and pulled out some bread to munch on. She looked through the books, which contained "Tristan and Isolde," but a couple of letters fluttered out from one of the books, landing on the floor.
One from Jane and the other from Captain Darcy.
Darcy's remained on the floor as if it were a venomous serpent. She was too high strung to even look at it. She could hardly stop glancing at it. Her heart beat faster.
She opened Janes first.
Elizabeth,
I must write quickly as your Cpt. Darcy seems to be rushed. We were so worried! Charles and Father have been scouring the city against the curfew rules. Mama and I have been asking all our neighbors.
I'm so relieved to hear you're safe! I love you very much! Promise you will make it back to us! We'll pray for you continually!
Love Jane, Peter, Camilla, David, Uncle, Aunt and Charles
All the names were written in different hands, with the three youngest having outlined their hands on the paper. Elizabeth touched one of her little cousins' finger tips. Yes, she was safe.
Thanks to one man.
Her gaze fell back down to his letter. It sat there, but the energy that surrounded it both frightened and invigorated her. She had to read it. She should leave it on the ground. She reread Jane's letter.
Suddenly, Darcy's letter was in her hands. She was standing out of the chair. She moved to lay on the bed and opened the letter. She stared through it. She curled up on her side.
Elizabeth,
Don't worry. I won't ask you anything beyond reading this letter to the end.
You know I was born to a Comte in the country. You've seen the land. My father trained me for knighthood since I was six or seven. What I didn't tell you was that he died when I was eleven. My mother took my sister and left me here. I've been alone ever since. So, I too am practically an orphan.
My fathers family has a tradition in which each generation is called to perform a deed, or complete a quest. My fathers was in the crusades. It killed him and triggered my mother to leave here, but leave me.
I haven't found my quest yet. I can't, in good conscience, bring others into this family curse. There's a myriad of potential endings for me- us- that I think over. What if I follow my fathers footsteps and leave a widow and young children?
I shouldn't ask you to do that. I shouldn't crush you with responsibilities until you turn as bitter and cold as my mother.
The Bishop is only a little problem because my problem was handed down through five generations to me with this damn sword. I've had almost twenty years to live with this. The Bishop has only lasted eight months or so. He is my shortest lived problem.
Could you escape and evade men like the Bishop with small children? Or would you have to remarry for the sake of the children. And what sort of man would you then be attached to?
It goes against my reason and better judgment to even ask you to consider that type of existence.
If I loved you less than I do, I wouldn't have asked.
As it is, I love you more than reason.
Elizabeth stared at the page, tears running from her eyes, across her nose and into her hair. She flipped to her other side and reread the letter.
The poor man didn't even sign his name.
