Elizabeth reached to wipe her sister’s tears away. “Dearest,” she said, as her voice cracked. “Fitzwilliam and Georgiana wish to see you.”
Mary shook her head, closing her eyes. “I apologize for causing you so much trouble, Lizzy, but I am too weary,” she murmured.
“I shall stay with Miss Bennet,” said the physician. “You must go eat something, Mrs. Darcy, lest your own health should suffer. Please have the cook send some broth and hot tea, and I shall feed it to her.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I shall send your dinner, as well.”
Mary heard the door open and caught a snatch of whispering voices before it closed again.
“I have been told more than once that I am quite an entertaining fellow,” said Beckett cheerfully. “I looked on the table and saw one of my favourite books. Were you reading Gulliver’s Travels?”
She opened her eyes, nodding.
“Shall I read to you?” he asked.
“You do not have to stay with me,” she whispered.
“Ah, but I do. Young ladies who wander about in thunderstorms need someone to make certain they do not further endanger their health. As I have assumed the role of your protector, and you should not talk and further strain your throat, I shall read for both of us. You know, I must have some amusement myself, even if you do not require it.”
She lifted her head a little, glancing around the room.
He laughed quietly. “Have no fear. We have observed every propriety. See? Betty sits there in the corner, sewing away. Your reputation is quite safe with me. Your brother has made very sure of it.”
Beckett walked to the table, retrieved the book, and sat in a chair by the bed, crossing his foot over his knee.
“Now, I think I will begin at the beginning, for you were only a chapter or two in, and I would like to refresh my memory as I have not read Gulliver’s Travels in quite a while. Are you in agreement?”
She nodded.
He began to read. “My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years …”
Beckett’s deep, pleasant voice soon lulled her to slumber.
Chapter 5
Where words fail, music speaks.
Mary, having slept fitfully, was still slumbering at mid-morning. She awakened to a commotion at her door.
Soon, she heard music playing. Is that a pianoforte? I am surely imagining things.
Lifting her aching head to determine the source, she was astonished to see Mr. Beckett asleep on a chaise by her bed, the morning sun from an eastern window displaying the planes of his face in sharp relief.
His tousled blond hair framed sculpted features relaxed above his open collar. A discarded cravat lay carelessly flung across the back of the chaise, along with his jacket and waistcoat, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The blond hair at the base of his throat and on his muscled forearms caught the rays of light against his honey tanned skin.
Mary had never before seen a grown man in any stage of undress, except her father and a few tenants who worked in the stables and fields, and certainly, neither her father in his nightcap and robe, nor the rough men covered in dirt and sweat bore any resemblance to Thaddeus Beckett.
To watch him slumber, another first in her limited experience, made him seem quite young – even harmless.
In some corner of her cotton-filled brain, Mary knew it was inappropriate to stare at him, but she could not look away.
She forgot the throbbing pain in her head and her difficulty breathing.
All thoughts of what was proper fled in her fascination with his beauty.
There was something tempting in the idea that she could observe him freely, with no idea of being caught in such an action.
Would I do this if I knew my actions would be displayed to everyone? She felt guilty. Such a thing cannot be right if I wish to hide it.
After a long moment, Mary heard a woman clear her throat. Her eyes followed the sound, and she saw her maid Betty, sitting in her corner chair, watching her.
Mary felt the blush rise from her neck, covering her face in heat. Be sure your sins will find you out.
The maid came to the foot of her bed, attempting to whisper and failing miserably, as she looked back at the physician. “Susan has gone fer your breakfast, miss. Mrs. Darcy was that put out when she saw you didna eat what she sent last night. She stayed on the couch ’til this morning. Said she’d be back by in time to help you eat.”
Mary tried to reply, but to her surprise, she had no voice at all. She pointed to the door and shrugged.
“Yes, miss?” Betty stepped closer to her.
She mouthed, “Music,” though she made no sound.
Beckett sat up, covering his yawn with his hand. He stretched, casting an amused glance at the door, then back at her.
“Miss Bennet, I do believe you are being serenaded. Is that not Beethoven’s 'Sonata Pathétique'?”
She nodded and lay back against her pillow. Who is playing? ’Tis not my sister. Georgiana or signor Landini? Is there a pianoforte in the hallway?
He left the chaise, coming to stand by her bedside, reaching out to place the back of his hand on her cheek, then moving his palm to her forehead. “Hmmm. Still a bit too warm for my liking. How do you feel this morning?”
Betty returned to her chair, keeping an eagle eye on her young charge and the handsome gentleman.
Mary pointed to her forehead, nose, and neck.
“An aching head and the inability to breathe properly are to be expected when you sit for hours in a cold rain,” he said sternly.
She put her hand over her mouth.
His eyes softened. “I see you cannot speak. Does your throat hurt?”
She nodded again, her eyes drifting to his hair, reddening as her gaze wandered down his face to his neck.
Beckett followed the direction of her attention.
“Ah. You must forgive my – uh – untidiness,” he said with a lazy grin, his ice blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was extremely concerned for you last night and insisted, much to your brother’s discomfort and disapproval, that I would stay. My jacket and waistcoat were too fitted to allow me to sleep, my cravat seemed determined to choke me, and I could not stretch my arms because the cuffs were extremely tight. I really must talk to my tailor. Why, I might as well have been in a straitjacket.”
Mary rolled her eyes. He is enjoying my discomfiture.
He tilted his head. “I was the model of propriety, as I actually was covered by a blanket.”
She narrowed her eyes, pointedly looking behind him. Really? A blanket, which is nowhere in sight, makes your state of dishabille acceptable?
The young man glanced back at the chaise, then returned his attention to his patient, his hands up, palms facing her. “I truly am innocent of whatever charges you have laid at my door. I must have felt too warm in my sleep and thrown it off. Further in my defense, I was up several times to check on you, for you were quite restless. Perhaps I forgot to pull it over myself the last time I saw to you. However, have no fear for your pristine reputation. I shall soon put everything to rights.”
Beckett quickly buttoned his collar, unrolled his sleeves, and secured the cufflinks. He retrieved his cravat, tying it before he turned his back to Mary, donning his waistcoat and jacket. The young man then turned around, smiling as he swept his hand gracefully from his neck down past his waist.