Page 89 of Homeless

She pulled herself up a little more, spanning from his cheek to his temple. He was on fire, a furious, raging heat pouring off him.

“No!” She moved closer, sweeping her fingers down to the place where his pulse drummed visibly under his jaw. Fast. Shallow, like his breathing. “No, no, no. Fitzwilliam!”

The heat that had soothed her, kept her from shattering her teeth on the chills, had never been just comfort. It was him, giving up the last of his strength, watching over her. Staying awake, pouring medicine down her throat, all while he was sinking. Who was caring for him?

She got herself up onto one elbow. The room swung and greyed, and she hung her head for a few seconds until the depth and distances made sense again to her eyes. “Darcy?” She had her hand on his chest, on his shoulder, shaking him. “Fitzwilliam, wake up. You are — you have to — wake up!”

His head rolled toward her senselessly, and his eyes did not open. She caught his chin again. “You have to come back to me. Say something!”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he breathed something intelligible. Elizabeth, the way he had said it in the dark all those nights. He had been drowning beside her the whole time.

“No, no, you have to…” She sniffed, and she could not tell if that was tears or sweat from the remains of her fever pooling on her cheeks. Her head was light, and she had never in her life been given to swoon, but she was sure she would now if she tried to stand. It did not matter. Pulling him back, finding help… where was she to find help? There had to be someone — a doctor! She was sure she heard him calling for a doctor!

It was at that moment that the door opened.

She was half-braced over Darcy’s body when she looked up. She must have seemed a feral creature, possibly even crazed, but whoever came in that door would see — they must be made to know — that this man must live. Everything must be done, help must come, and if it did not, she would go out and find it herself!

The man who came in was in a cassock. He had little hair left, but his cheeks were round and creased with many years of good humour, and for that alone, Elizabeth’s immediate instinct was to trust him. He held a bowl of something in his hands and a cloth over his arm. He stopped when he saw her upright on her elbow, awake, her hand fisted in Darcy's shirt.

“¡Gracias a Dios!” He came nearer, setting the bowl on a little table beside the bed, and held out his hand.

Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth gave him hers, and he bowed over it to kiss it. “Dios ha sido bueno, Señora!”

She took her hand back and laid it on Darcy’s chest. “Padre, mi marido está enfermo.”

The priest’s expression brightened when he heard her speaking his own tongue. “Sí, sí, esto lo sé. He estado cuidándolo. Está muy mal.”

Muy mal… He said Darcy was very bad. And he crossed himself when he said it. She had to know… surely the good padre had prayed for her husband, as he must have done for her. Surely, he would nod and tell her that as she was recovering, so would he, in time.

“¿Dónde está la medicina?” The medicine, he must be giving Darcy the medicine, too! Where was it, that bitter remedy she remembered from her fever, that Darcy had held to her lips and bade her to drink? It was her turn now, and she would sit behind him, pull his shoulders back to her chest, and cradle his head while he drank, and soothe his brow with kisses and tender words she would never have dared utter in this lifetime, but now would have shed her own blood to be able to say to him.

But the priest’s face fell into sorrow. “Ya no queda la corteza de los jesuitas.”

She blinked. Jesuit’s bark?

Quina.

Of course! Her uncle had once considered trading in that, but had found it too hard to source. Armies would plunder for it. Some killed for it. And it had saved her life, apparently, and hopefully Darcy’s, too.

But he said there was no more. He gave Darcy some of the bark before it was gone… did he not?

“Tú también le diste un poco. ¡Seguro que sí!”

The priest took up his bowl again, dipping the cloth. “No. Tu marido te lo dio todo.” He bent and swabbed Darcy’s brow, smoothing away the sweat and fever. “No hay más. No puedo conseguir más.”

Horror came, swift and merciless. Darcy had given her the medicine. All of it. And the padre said he could not get more.

Her gaze fell to her husband, and his face swam before her eyes. “Oh, you stupid man,” she breathed. “You stupid, noble, wonderful man. You have saved me and killed yourself.”

The padre looked up. His eyes were full of sympathy, but he did not seem to understand her words. He told her that Darcy had known there was not enough medicine for them both, and refused to take any himself. For the first two days, Darcy had cared for Elizabeth entirely on his own, not even letting the padre touch her. He had bathed her, cooled her brow, and held her when she moaned from chills and fever. But by the third day, yesterday, Darcy could no longer open his eyes, and so the padre had taken on the care of both of them. He had spooned broth down their throats, helped Darcy’s hand to find hers in his sleep, and then he had prayed. He had prayed for both of them.

But he had only held hope for Elizabeth.

Tears were pooling in earnest now. She covered her mouth on a sob, and another rush of tears blinded her for several seconds. “¿Morirá?”

The priest looked down. “Lo siento, Señora.”

No… Her breath shattered in her throat. She had asked if Darcy was going to die, and instead of giving her an answer, he only said he was sorry.