Beautiful friendship, p.99
Beautiful Friendship, page 99
"Yes," he agreed solemnly.
"And it's her birthday," she continued. "Her fourteenth birthday."
"I noticed."
"Did you?" she pressed.
"Elizabeth, I know you might think that counting past ten is a challenge for me," he teased, holding up both hands as his powerful fingers flashed a ten,
"but trust me, I can manage it."
"Don't be cute," she said. She sat up, grabbing hold of the hands in question with her own pale fingers.
"You know, Elizabeth--" he examined their intertwined fingers. "If we're throwing that word around..."
"You might as well offer her coffee and the London Times. Georgiana will want something special while she's still young enough to think that birthdays are special," she carried on lightly. And now he was gently pulling her onto his lap, "Give her dinner and dessert at any restaurant in London, and---and you might as well offer coffee and a nightcap. Like you would your Aunty
Catherine. If you need help planning something, Will, you know I'm more than happy to--"
"Elizabeth?"
"Hmm?" Elizabeth thumbed his lapel. Goodness, how had she ended up on his lap like this?
"Dinner and dessert will be at Pemberley," Will's voice dipped to a meaningful baritone. She felt him smoothe out an errant, wild lock of her hair. "And I was hoping you'd join us."
The surprise in her eyes quickly softened to genuine sentiment. "Really?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "It would mean a lot to me."
"Me too," she admitted. "Will your aunt be there?"
"No. Although," he continued, "I'd enjoy hearing you call her Aunty Catherine to her face while offering that coffee and a nightcap."
"Irish cream, of course," she quipped, a giggle escaping her for the first time all day. The hours alone had dragged on, lonely and uncomfortable but now that
he was back? It felt like sunrise at supper. She was tired and aching, but she was also wide awake. She studied him, easy in his arms. "Pemberley, Will. You knew all along that's what you wanted to do."
"Yes."
"And why did you wind me up like that?"
"Because I like the blush it brings to your cheeks," Will declared with a rakish grin. Heartstopping. Even she could admit it, and it instantly made her wish she looked less like her pajama clad self and more like that girl she'd seen in that sparkling pink dress.
And the phone was ringing. Had it been ringing all this time? Will, too, had finally noticed this. He reached for the phone.
"Darcy," Will spoke his greeting. It was always how he answered a phone, his work phone, his mobile, his luxury suite. And neither of them thought a thing about it until he realized it was Finola Bennet's voice on the other line.
"Who is this?" her mother huffed. "This is Elizabeth Bennet's phone number, as surely as the day is long. I know it is. Where's my daughter?!"
"Oh no--" Elizabeth sprung to life, grabbing the phone from him.
"Eilis?"
"Yes, Mum," Elizabeth nodded. Or winced, depending on the viewpoint. Will had answered the phone. Of course he had, because he lived there. Only her
family didn't know that, and even with their separate bedrooms, one word
about living together with some man they'd never met and it would be Will
Darcy on the chopping block when he finally did arrive. "I'm here. Everything's fine."
"Who in heaven's name just answered your phone, Eilis? That low English voice, like some lord of a manor home! Surely you shouldn't be having
strangers visit you in your condition?"
"He's not a stranger, Mum," Elizabeth shifted against him. "He's a friend. I've known him for months."
"Have you, now?" her mother's voice peaked. "Is he having supper with you?"
"He's eating here, yes." That round about half truth technically wasn't a lie. It also didn't include the fact that he wouldn't be leaving once the meal
concluded. "Will Darcy is his name, and he's..."
His calm, comforting hand slid down her back, massaging her tired muscles.
After that night in the bathroom, and all the nights that followed, they'd grown so comfortable with each other, so quickly. Her green eyes studied the man in question. He lifted a brow as if to say, go on. Finish the sentence. He's what?
She certainly couldn't admit he was her flatmate. Too problematic. It would
cause a host of follow up questions and probably end with Liam and Seamus
showing up on the doorstep to her flat with cricket bats in hand. And, well, Killian's wedding was in a matter of weeks. She was going to have to tell them this eventually. Or, as her brother Liam had warned, leave Mum and Da
gobsmacked when she showed up unannounced with the Prince of England by
her side.
And of course, the prince part was an exaggeration. One glance at his designer suit and priceless cufflinks was followed by the amendment: sort of.
"He's who I'd like to bring to the wedding." Elizabeth continued into the phone.
"I was thinking he could stay at the farmhouse with us for a few days? I'd meant to tell you earlier, Mum, I swear to you. He's helped me loads these last few months. Especially since I've been sick, and---and I'd like you to meet
him...."
Silence stretched on the other end of line. And then, like some teapot
simmering before the grand eruption--
"A man! You're bringing a man to the wedding?" Finola crowed. "Tighe, your daughter's bringing a lad with her when she comes to visit!"
"Mum," Elizabeth winced at the volume, glancing at Will. Steady in his purpose, he didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. Instead, dark eyes trained on her with a good deal of interest.
"Eilis. Listen to me, darling," Finola carried on, "Why haven't you told me a word about this? On I went, babbling about Dougal McKenna and Brogan
Connelly when you've done just fine finding a nice boy to bring home with
you! And to the wedding, Eilis! With all the family gathered round. He's of a nice sort, isn't he?"
"Yes," she said softly. "He's a good man."
"And surely, he can stay at the farmhouse. He could even sleep in Liam's room.
But no, Declan and Eithne will be staying there. And of course, you know that I told wee Mary and Rois that they could spend a few odd nights at Granny and
Grandda's, so the children will be staying over. It will grant Seamus and Niahm some alone time, and you know they won't get any of that once the new baby's born. And we'll be hosting your Aunt Moira and Uncle Ronan, as well, and
Liam and Magnus and Killian will be here. But we'll find a spot for your lad, even if it is the couch. Surely he's not used to fancy hotels or some such, is he?"
"Um..."
"Tell me, Eilis, is he handsome?"
How much of this conversation was he actually hearing? All of it, at least that was what she gathered from the look on his face. And now the heat on her skin was pooling in her cheeks as she shifted on his lap. "I'd say so."
"Darcy. Will Darcy. Well, that's an English name if I ever heard of one, but never mind that. It's fine, dearie, so long as he's a good lad, and cares for you.
That's what matters. We'll take him in and welcome. Tell me, is he fond of
black pudding?"
"Whatever you're after making is fine, Mum," she confirmed, thumbing the tie tack on his tie. "He's well brought up. I'm sure he'll be grateful for it."
A few more innocuous remarks and she concluded her conversation, returning
the phone to its cradle.
"Well brought up," he repeated the remark with a hint of amusement, before carefully sliding her from his lap and depositing her on the couch. Clearly not the only one aware of the heat tonight, she watched him shrug off his suit
jacket.
"Yes. I think your father was a gentleman and your mother was a lady," she confirmed, dragging her attention from his body back up to his face. "You take after them."
"I'm glad you think so," he declared, standing from the sofa. "I'll show you their portrait at Pemberley."
He spoke of his parents so rarely, even the passing mention of them made her sit up. "Which one of them gave you your eyes? Was it your father?"
"Yes." There was a large window behind it, and she watched him brace this with both hands.
"There's a heat in them sometimes, like a fever," she admitted quietly. Certainly half the women in London must have been affected by them, just as thoroughly as she was. "Did your father possess that same skill?"
"I don't know. You would have had to ask my mother," Will answered calmly.
If his father had possessed such a look, it was saved for his wife alone. As for the window she'd struggled and failed to open that afternoon, it was opened
with a single push.
Worried that the mention of his father had struck a painful nerve, she bit her lower lip. "Where are you going?"
"To take a shower." One step away from the window and he was tugging his tie loose, sliding it from his starched collar. He needed to be more careful with her, tempering the need to have her close with the reality of what it did to him.
Elizabeth's conversation was lively, but her body was fragile and weak. And
listening to her explain his place in her life, massaging her back while she shifted against him...it made a host of thoughts and impulses drift through his mind. Not one of which he could permit himself to act on in the midst of this hot summer night.
"Shower?"
He watched her frown, could practically see her worried eyes searching for
some hint of offense she had given him. As if she had done something wrong.
Amazing, he thought. Even with that sharp tongue and four grown brothers, his country girl could be as innocent as that rosy blush on her cheeks. And while it was one trait he loved about her, it also forced him to suffer in silence.
"Yeah." Will tossed his keys on the table. "It was hot on the tube ride over."
And that was all the explanation he could offer her. He was, after all, a
gentleman.
For all the unpredictability in illness, there was a steady, silent routine to recovery. The ritual began with post-dinner medication. The corticosteriod
came first, and then as she playfully termed it---the horse pill. Her nose would scrunch, rebellious instincts barely curbed as she swallowed the first pill, and then the second.
As the medication took effect, rebellion drained from her, supplanted with
quiet resignation and fatigue. And the prospect of starting the regiment again the following day. If she could make it through the night unscathed.
It was a large 'if.' As the medication seeped into her blood stream, it toyed her.
Tonight, for example. In bed by eight, she still woke at midnight, covered in sweat, and shaking like some post-rehab heroine addict.
A low groan of complaint, and she sat up. Tremors. Another unpleasant side
effect. Her hands twisted sticky hair off her neck. She'd never get back to sleep now.
Crawling from bed, she allowed herself a quick glance at the clock. The time flashed, an angry, insistant red. Midnight. It was Monday morning. The start of week three in her drug course.
Only a few more days of this, she told herself. You can do it. Act three of the ballet. That's the hardest part. But you can't let it beat you before you take your finishing bows. Otherwise what's it all for?
If the sky held even a ghost of a moon tonight, it was hidden by a blanket of clouds. A rainstorm had rolled into London after sunset. She could hear it
playing a quiet pattern on the windowpane. She hoped it would help some of
this heat wave abate. The horrors of a dreary Monday were bad enough.
Certain that Will was sound asleep, just as he should be, her bare feet carried her to the door and then quietly down the hall. Her mouth was dry, her skin was sticky, and her hands were shaking. Toxicity was a byproduct of drug, and
hadn't the nurse recommended a liter of water per day? She needed water.
Desperately.
One silent trip to the kitchen, and she had her glass of water. It was only when she drifted into the living room intent on reclaiming her book that she wasn't the only one awake. There was Will, sitting on the couch, surrounded by
paperwork. Half a dozen files were scattered on the coffee table, and he seemed to be skimming through two hefty law tomes simultaneously. Keenly focused
on the task at hand, a laptop glowed on his lap, illuminating dark, tired eyes.
"Can't sleep?"
A single glance comment, and his focus was shattered. She watched him from
afar. No doubt an effect of the rain, her remarkable emerald eyes suddenly
looked more gray then green. Her dark hair was mussed, drawn into a messy
ponytail in a moment of overheated frustration. And she was trembling, like
some violent chill had taken hold while the rest of her was sweltering. Even viewing her from a distance, his mouth tightened with concern. "Elizabeth, you're shaking."
"Yes." Embarrassment lingered in her shrug. "It's nothing you can fix. It's just the medicine."
The medicine. That was the answer to a variety of complaints: the nausea and the vomiting, the headaches and the fatigue. He'd never been so frustrated with a single word in all his life. Medicine was supposed to help people; it was
supposed to sooth and to heal. This wasn't medicine at all; it was poison. Every day it weakened her. Every night it put her at risk. Her immune system
decimated, this medicine could kill her nearly as easily as it could save her life.
And no amount of bartering on his end could stop it.
Misunderstanding the reason for the suddenly thunderous look in his eyes,
Elizabeth drew her arms close. "I'm interrupting your work. I know you're busy, but I---I just wanted to get my book. After that I'll go---"
"Sit down." His laptop was snapped shut in an instant. "You'll want to rest in here. I'll leave."
"I won't be resting."
"Elizabeth--"
"I won't." She settled down on the couch beside him, drawing her knees up.
"Even with the rainfall outside, it's too hot. My head aches. I'm jittery. I won't
be able to sleep, not for awhile. Besides, every good cramming session needs a study buddy."
"Study buddy?"
"All these papers," she took a small, quiet sip of her water. "You look like a student cramming before the final exam."
"Last minute prep." Will exhaled, flipping a file shut and dropping it at the top of a towering stack. "A hearing scheduled for three weeks from now was
moved up to the end of the week."
Elizabeth allowed herself a casual glance at one folder. "May I?"
"If you want. It's a sure cure for insomnia..." Grimacing at the word choice, he continued, "I'm sorry, I---"
"Shouldn't walk around eggshells with the sick girl?" she informed him with a teasing smile. "I'm not offended. Sleeping is a bit hard when you're shaking."
Rather than pick up one paper with trembling fingers, she skimmed it with her eyes. "You're involved in prosecuting the Fiello case?"
"Yes."
"I've read about this in the papers...Fiello's the arms trader that sold weaponry to terrorists, mafia families, guerrilla combatants."
"As well as providing military grade weaponry to half a dozen countries," Will admitted with a frown. The case was a quagmire. He'd be lucky if they ever
made it to trial.
"Right. I had no idea you were involved." Awed by the prospect of what his daily job entailed, her eyes sharpened on him. "You're worried about the case, though?"
"Armand Fiello is a powerful man. Despite the evience against him, his reach extends much further than Great Britain, and he has friends in high places. It's a hard case to prosecute." Will acknowledged, rubbing tension from his neck.
"Yeah. I guess you could say I'm worried."
He had such a strong sense of justice in the community, and this responsibility weighed on him. She could see tension in his mouth, in his eyes, in his back.
And yet it was more than mere compassion that made her reach for his hand.
"Will," she said quietly, "whatever happens, you said yourself that there are a dozen other elements at work. You can only control your share of it. You never give anything less than a hundred percent to anything. I'm proud of you no
matter what the outcome."
I'm proud of you. He'd never realized what a powerful phrase that was until
Elizabeth Bennet was the one whispering it to him in the darkness. Feeling his throat knot, he nearly told her so himself, though she spoke first.
"You're making a difference every day," she said softly, relaxing against the sofa pillow behind her. "I love ballet and I've always thought of it as my calling...I'd be devastated if I couldn't dance. I'm not ready to give it up. But..."
"But what?"
"It won't last forever. I know that. Even if my health does improve, I'll be facing the same questions ten, fifteen, twenty years from now..." she shrugged, a small, subtle gesture that looked graceful even in the darkness, "I wonder sometimes what else I would do."
"Any ideas?"
"I'll always want to be involved in the theatre. Even if I couldn't be on stage I'd like to coach other dancers, and to choreograph. And some day, what I'd really like to do is---well," she halted, backtracking, "...it's just a daydream. The cost alone would be absurd..."
"But if money were no object," he urged her, sliding his thumb across her palm.
She bit her lip, suddenly nervous about sharing a secret she'd never divulged to anyone. "I'd want to found a program teaching children ballet. Not just any kids, though. Children with handicaps, and chronic illnesses. The structure and aim of the program would be different from a typical ballet course, of course.
The way you teach would have to be altered, and it would require a lot of one on one sessions."
And he wasn't laughing at this idea, or deriding it as ridiculous. Not that she truly thought he would, but it was such a private dream that it felt like a risk saying it aloud. Instead, he was listening with as much solemn attentiveness as if they were co-prosecutors consulting on an opening argument. Heartened by
