He observed her closely and set the basin down. “You are still unwell, Miss Elizabeth,” he told her anxiously. “Here,”—he moved to aid her—"lie back against the pillows.”
She had an answer to her question. Clearly, he had seen her in a dreadful state. She lifted her fingers to her hair. How wild she must appear! Her fingers trailed along the bodice of her dress. Except it was not her walking dress, but a nightgown. Had he changed her into it? She wished to pull the blanket up over her face and disappear.
He dipped the white cloth into the basin, squeezing out any excess water and placing it on her forehead. It felt cool and soothing. She allowed herself to calm.
“I admit that I have never taken on nursing anyone quite so intimately before,” he told her, sounding abashed. “Even when my sister has been ill, she has her maids to attend her. My efforts usually amount to making a nuisance of myself by bothering the staff for news and reading to her when she is feeling better. I must apologize for my inept attempts at comfort.”
She plucked at the nightgown. “Did you . . .?”
He drew in a deep breath and shot her a rueful look. “It was either me or my cousin.” He hastened to add, “I did not remove your chemise.”
That was hardly a comfort. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and she shivered. Mr. Darcy must have believed her cold, for he removed the cloth, then reached down to the foot of the bed and drew a heavier quilt over her.
She could not look at him. “You could not have asked Mrs. Spencer?” she asked mournfully.
Mr. Darcy sighed. “We did not wish to alert anyone to your presence, madam. Had I known Mrs. Spencer would discover us anyway, I would have left it to her, of course.” Elizabeth peeked up at him in time to see him run a hand through his hair distractedly. “If it is of any consolation, it was dark, and I was concentrating on getting through the experience as quickly as possible.”
Caught between a hysterical laugh and a sob, Elizabeth turned her face towards the wall. She was so very confused. Bad enough that both men were willing to curse with her not ten feet away, but Mr. Darcy had seen her . . .
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said sympathetically. “Please, do not hide your face. You have done nothing wrong.” When she reluctantly met his gaze, he pursed his lips. “It was my fault entirely, but I was far more anxious for your health than propriety. I beg your pardon for the insult to your sensibilities, but you were so ill.” He had to catch his breath. “I could not trust anyone else to . . .” His words trailed off, and he rubbed a hand over his eyes.
The poor man was exhausted. Mr. Darcy had cared for her as her sister Jane might have, and without any help. Elizabeth’s heart softened, and she determined she must forget her own embarrassment. What else could she do? “Mr. Darcy,” she said slowly.
“Yes?” he whispered.
“I am well. Truly. You, however, look entirely done in. You should rest.”
“You are not well, not yet . . .” He stopped to sit in the chair next to her. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am. It is my fault that you have been caught up in some sort of intrigue against me. In consequence, you have been hurt and fallen ill. You would never have had to suffer the indignity if not for . . .”
Elizabeth shook her head. It was not right he felt himself to blame. She was not a bird with a broken wing. A pain in her arm reminded her that it was, in fact, a rather apt comparison. “Mr. Darcy, it is not your fault I threw myself out of a moving carriage.”
He blinked at her. “Pardon?”
She blinked back. “I jumped to get away. I dreamt it, but . . .” She paused. “I dreamt it, but it was not a dream—it was a memory.”
Mr. Darcy leaned forward, abandoning their former conversation. “You could not have thrown yourself out of my carriage. Slipworth, my valet, was riding inside, and he does not match the description of either abductor.”
“But how did I appear in the boot of your carriage?”
Mr. Darcy stroked his chin. “I cannot explain that.”
“I always hid in trunks and cabinets when we played hide-and-go-seek,” Elizabeth said fondly. “I was smaller than my sisters and took delight in fitting into spaces they could not.” Mr. Darcy’s gentle smile encouraged her to continue. “There was one in the attic that held some of my father’s old clothes. They still smelled like him.” She looked away. “It always felt safe to me.”
“Are you certain it was not just a dream?” He sat down and his pensive expression suddenly cleared. “No, not a dream—this explains the bonnet.”
“The bonnet?”
“Fitz sent a man to track your route. While you were ill, he told me that there was talk in Meryton about a rather fine bonnet being found along the carriage road just south of Meryton. Someone thought it might be yours.” His eyes were grave. “It was located on the bank of the river, along the road to London. At the bottom of a twenty-foot drop.”
She shook her head. “I recall leaping and sliding very close to the edge, but not how I lost my bonnet. Did I arrive without one?”
Mr. Darcy’s face had paled, and she wondered whether he had contracted the same illness she suffered. He nodded. “You did.”
She gasped. “My family! Do they believe I fell into the river?”
“I believe the gossip included that possibility, but your father has put the rumor to rest very neatly,” Mr. Darcy assured her. “According to him, you were called to London to assist your aunt, and your youngest sister wished to go instead. In a fit of jealousy, she stole one of your favorite bonnets and threw it in the river. It must have washed up onto the bank a few miles away, he said.” He paused before saying carefully, “Perhaps not everyone believes the story, but enough people know your sister to make it plausible. The more she denies it, the more they condemn her behavior.”
Elizabeth did not feel sorry for Lydia. Papa had not prevaricated—her youngest sister had done that very thing last year, and Mama had taken Lydia’s side.