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Posted on Friday, 2 May 2008
[AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER, please read first: This chapter is rated PG-13 for some elements of violence. I tried to keep it fairly mild – nothing gruesome – since I didn’t want to cut the scene, and, quite frankly, didn’t want to inflict that kind of horror on you or myself. ; ) The particular part in question is marked by a double row of asterisks about half-way through the chapter, and can easily be skipped over if you are uncomfortable with the content. If you prefer not to read that section, what happened is well implied in later chapters, so you won’t miss anything.
Although the village of Meryton, like many other small villages, could not claim the superior accommodations or entertainment provided in London, it prided itself on being a place of moral rectitude, perhaps for a lack of anything better to flaunt in the faces of its occasional passerby. After all, what was crowded, impersonal, corrupt London to a quiet and restful little town like Meryton?
It stands to reason, of course, that wherever there are wild young men in want of some mischief, there are doubtless going to be places of less-than-reputable business to oblige them, regardless of the apparently sparkling ethics of the village itself; and such an establishment was, oddly enough, seated right along the town square.
The nondescript red-brick building was set back slightly from the main road, unmarked by any sign, but anyone who had an inclination for the amusements offered inside knew without instruction where to go for them.
The main portion of the building, connected to a smaller, smoke-hazed gambling room, was being idly supervised this particular evening by one Agnes Grable. Agnes had the dubious honor of being the tavern’s best bar wench, able to down the most virulent whiskey faster than the town drunkard, and more than capable of handling herself in brawls, which were not uncommon occurrences during the later hours. Her slender, girlish build gave no hint to the strength that had developed beneath those ill-fitting clothes, but it had come to good use in discouraging many a foxed pup who made bold to give her a pinch or an ale-reeking kiss. Her quick left hook had become legend in the underbelly of Hertfordshire society, and she took an inordinate amount of pride in the number of noses she’d broken since she first had come to work at the tavern ten years before.
She had been barely fifteen then, with no notion of how to deal with disorderly men, but time had taught her that the faster she learned, the safer she was. It was not precisely the sort of life a woman dreamed of as a little girl, but it made money, and she counted herself lucky not to be out on the streets, the fate of most girls with no fortunes and no family.
The experience of a decade of work had also taught her to trust her instincts, and tonight, she felt certain that trouble was brewing in the farthest corner of the room, where five or six men had been grouped about since three that afternoon, talking in hushed tones and downing a tankard every half-hour. Drunk as lordlings, they were, but Agnes never lost coins over foolish scruples, and had kept them supplied with all the ale they could buy.
“Oy, Aggie!” one of the comparatively more sober gents called out impatiently, banging a heavy fist on the scarred tabletop. “Bring us another pint, lovey! Ye’ve thirsty men, ‘ere.”
“Keep yer wig on, Robbie,” she bellowed. “‘Ave ye the blunt for it?”
“Put it on credit, lovey – I’ll pay ye on Tuesday.”
“No credit, ye lunkhead; ye know that. Jack ain’t gonna let ye drain ‘im dry again.”
A belligerent scowl crossed the man’s ruddy face, and Aggie sighed. Nasty, these men could be, when they were in want of a drink. Before she reached down behind the counter to retrieve her pocket-knife – should the man be in a temper to rough her – a wiry, grey-haired man emerged from the grimy kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Trouble with this lout here, Aggie?”
“Nay, Jack,” she said, keeping her voice purposely loud enough to carry across the room. “‘E won’t give us any trouble tonight, ‘cause he knows I’ll call Simon in ‘ere to teach ‘im some pretty manners if’n he means to start a fight.”
The mention of the burly lad, hired by Jack to do odd jobs about the place and keep an eye out for Agnes and the girls, was enough to quiet Robbie’s protests. In the momentary silence that filled the room in wake of the threat, the sound of the door creaking open echoed unusually loudly, and Agnes turned just as a passel of smartly-dressed gentlemen came inside.
Agnes immediately recognized the man leading the little group – the handsome Mr. Wickham was one of Jack’s best customers, and the officer had not been above a bit of good-natured flirtation with her when he stopped in to have a pint. Slick fellow, he was; Agnes knew enough of shady dealers to recognize a master at the game. One night last week she’d watched as he methodically drained two hapless young bucks of nearly a thousand pounds each; the game had ended with one of the unlucky gamblers sleeping off his drink on the floor beneath the table, while the other had tearfully begged Wickham to play another round and give him the opportunity to win back his wagers.
Aye, he was a crafty gent, and although Agnes admired his golden looks and his aptitude at concealing his cheating with marked cards, she wasn’t of a mind to help him out if he meant to stir up trouble with her other customers – and that seemed most likely, as he was even now heading directly for the table at the back of the room.
“Look at those fancy toffs,” Jack mumbled as he watched the other men edge uncomfortably into the dirty taproom. “Afraid they’ll soil their fine coats here, are they? Aye, but they’ll accept a drink, no matter where it’s served. Go see if they’ll take, Aggie. They’re sure to have good coin.”
With that, Jack disappeared back into the kitchens, and Agnes resigned herself to another bout of sneering, pinch-nosed demands. These spoilt tulips came in every so often, wanting to see how the other half lived, thinking themselves grand men for having had a drink or a flirt at the only tavern in town.
As she approached cautiously, however, the gentlemen had settled down at the table with the others, and Wickham was speaking in hushed tones to the group, while everyone – even the tipsy Robbie – listened closely. Agnes managed to come close enough to hear snippets of a sentence or two, before a round-faced man with a lofty, pointed nose saw her and superciliously gestured her away.
Tempted to dump one of the tankards over the haughty man’s balding head, Agnes was an instant away from a sharp retort when Wickham turned and smiled at her. “Miss Grable, will you fetch these fine men another round of drinks?” His proclamation brought on an enthusiastic cheer, and Agnes, beginning to wonder whether such an action would be at all wise, was about to tell him to take his bloody business elsewhere.
“Now, if you please, ma’am,” he added, still smiling, but the look in his eyes sent Agnes hurrying back to the protection of the counter. She knew the danger in that look, and was disinclined to risk her own neck for the sake of any of these drunken fools. Well, if it was ale they wanted, it was ale they would get.
Not wanting to get any closer to the table again, Agnes made the grumbling Jack bring the drinks to the table, while she lingered in the doorway of the kitchens, watching the men grow progressively louder and wilder, and, just when she feared she might have to call in Simon after all, Wickham drained his glass and rose from the table, and the other men followed suit.
Within a minute, they were gone.
Staring after them in amazement, Agnes finally looked over at the deserted table and cursed. The louts had left the place in shambles, and, resentfully fetching a ragged brush and a pail of water, she began the task of setting the chairs aright and scrubbing the sticky alcohol away from the floor and tabletop, knowing all the while that it would be just as dirty again as soon as another group of merrymakers decided to grace the taproom with their presence.
“‘Ave a rowdy crowd in ‘ere, Aggie?” One of the girls had ventured downstairs to discover the source of all the noise. “Sarah swears somebody was ‘aving a brawl down ‘ere, so loud it was.”
“Aye, a couple of rabble-rousers, but they left, an’ good riddance to ‘em.” Agnes angrily dashed the bucket of water over the sudsy floorboards. “Makes ye wonder what the world’s comin’ to, it does.”
Miss Bingley, after twenty-some years of having her brother’s household arranged to her satisfaction, did not tolerate any disruption to her plans, particularly when those plans involved company; and any infringement on her policies was apt to bring on a tremendous tantrum, for despite all her sophisticated airs, she was as frank in her expressions of displeasure as a child.
This evening’s dinner party had been planned many weeks in advance, and when Miss Bingley found herself with only twenty minutes until the guests were to arrive and no brother to host the event, she was in high dudgeon, ordering the servants here and there and threatening to anyone who would listen that she would chase down her recalcitrant brother herself if he did not appear soon.
Mrs. Nicholls did her best to soothe the mistress’s unsettled nerves, but when nothing seemed to console her, the housekeeper sent for Miss Darcy in the hopes that the company of another young lady might be able to assist her hostess in some manner or another.
Georgiana, who had charted the passage of the hours with increasing unease, was willing enough to attend to Miss Bingley, if only for the purpose of occupying her restless mind; she ventured downstairs directly after changing into her evening clothes and looking once more out her window for a sign of the men’s approaching figures. The drive and the road beyond it, however, remained deserted.
When she arrived in the parlor, it was to find Miss Bingley also stationed at a window – although her manner was more one of pique than concern.
“My dearest Georgiana,” the aggrieved lady cried, upon spotting the young woman framed in the doorway. “There you are – you will not believe what Charles has done now! I would swear that he takes particular trouble to disoblige me.” Her fingers toyed nervously with the diamond collar at her throat as she turned her eyes back to the green expanse of lawn. “He is ever trying to provoke me – he knows the Gouldings are coming to dine with us tonight; he knows that I most especially wish him to be here, but has he heeded me at all? I hardly should bother with him as it is....and he promised me so faithfully this morning that he would return with plenty of time to spare. Hmmph! A fickle, unreliable lot, these men are – you would do well to remember that, dearest.”
“Miss Bingley, surely Mr. Bingley would not do you the disservice....”
“I can believe him capable of anything these days,” she replied sharply, stamping one elegant foot in mute frustration. “I would not doubt that Charles is off somewhere mooning over Miss Bennet like a simpleton. What will I tell the Gouldings? Oh, I knew those Bennets would....” Miss Bingley appeared to recollect to whom she was speaking, and her tirade came to an abrupt halt. “They will all think it very rude if he does not come,” she concluded lamely, a bit flushed.
“Come now, Miss Bingley,” Georgiana soothed, “do not alarm yourself. I am sure your brother will come soon, and even if he does not, some suitable excuse can be made to the Gouldings.”
This sensible suggestion did not much suit Miss Bingley, but years of ingratiating habit disallowed her to gainsay Georgiana, who herself received the impression that Miss Bingley did not care so much for the slight to her guests as much as the fact that her brother had not done as she asked. After all, this dinner party was Caroline’s last fling as mistress of Netherfield before the wedding.
“Really, it is too unkind,” she continued, walking the length of the room to peer out the windows facing to the north. “Did I not tell him how important it was that everything be perfectly arranged for tonight? The Gouldings are one of the few families of good standing in Hertfordshire – one of their cousins is a viscount, for mercy’s sake! How can Charles ignore that?”
“Indeed, how could anyone ignore that?” The low timbre of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice startled the ladies, who turned about to find him lounging against the doorjamb, eyeing Miss Bingley’s silk-draped figure appreciatively. The look was intent enough to make Georgiana blush, though the recipient of it merely tittered behind the screen of one gloved hand. “Good evening, sir,” she intoned, attempting to appear indifferent but crossing the room with such rapidity as to ruin the effect. “You are as late as my brother. I quite feared you would choose not to come at all.”
“How could I stay away?” he replied, bowing smartly over her fingers, “when such a vision of beauty awaits me at the table?”
A glittering smile was the reward for his gallantry, although Georgiana privately thought her cousin to be doing it a bit brown.
“I shall be glad to have you join us,” Miss Bingley informed him, as the three settled down to await their guests. “Even if Charles is inconsiderate enough to desert us, it is a great comfort to know that you are not so neglectful.”
“I am delighted that you think me kind, madam – would that you will always view me with equally charitable feelings.”
She laughed at this pronouncement, and rapped him briskly with her fan. “If you continue to be so charming, Colonel, I shall endeavor to always think well of you.”
“Richard,” Georgiana cut in, unable to bear anymore of this flummery, “might you do me a favor and inquire whether Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley have come? We cannot see the stables from the parlor, and they may be there.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, smiling ever so slightly, stood to ring the bell concealed under the drape of the wall-hanging, and in a scarce half-minute, the butler appeared. “Sir?”
“Please send someone to the stables to see if Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have arrived, Mason.”
“Yes, sir, at once.” The butler vanished into the hall, and Fitzwilliam reclaimed his seat next to Miss Bingley, sending an impertinent wink in his cousin’s direction.
Vexed that her schemes were so transparent, Georgiana did not make any more attempts to scold the coquettish pair, and it was with great relief that she heard footsteps outside. She was to be disappointed, however, for the form that appeared was only that of Mason, who had come in to inform them that the Gouldings’ carriage had just pulled into the drive.
The realization that her guests actually were at the house made Miss Bingley’s composure melt away into all her first sensations of alarm. “Georgiana, this is dreadful!” she hissed, as Colonel Fitzwilliam escorted them into the hallway to welcome their guests. “What shall I say to them?”
“Say that unforeseen business occupies him,” the colonel said dismissively. “They will not question it, and as long as no one mentions that Darcy and he are at Longbourn, I daresay the Gouldings will not see anything odd in the matter at all.”
“Perhaps not,” she admitted. “In any case, I shall not say anything of it, no matter how they might hint for news.”
“That is the way about it,” Fitzwilliam replied, a hint of laughing mockery in his eyes. “Honesty, after all, is a highly destructive virtue.”
“I should not think you would wish to admit that.” The blatantly provoking comment succeeded in distracting Miss Bingley momentarily from her dismay. “Are you quite sure you ought to be telling me that every word from your mouth is a charming falsehood? You will convince me that your compliments are empty indeed, sir.”
“Oh, no – I could not lie about your fine looks, madam. I only mean to say that the more truth you speak, the more likely you are to drive away your friends. Prevarication is ever so much simpler.”
Georgiana groaned inwardly, and not for the first time, wished her cousin was not so flippant by half.
The Gouldings were soon ushered into the antechamber, duly received with perfect cordiality, and the excuses of the gentlemen were made without delay. Mr. Goulding, a good-humored and indolent old gentleman, accepted the slight without so much as a blink, but his wife, more apt to find offense where none was offered, gave her hostess a severe look and remarked that it must have been very urgent business indeed that called away Mr. Bingley from his own dinner party.
Miss Bingley managed some sort of civil reply, although one could see that she was irritated by the airs of a woman of such rustic origins, conveniently forgetting that her own were far from noble.
After a round of necessary introductions, the party went directly into dinner, and Miss Bingley was tolerably satisfied in that, for the table looked to great advantage. To add to her sensations of triumph, the colonel did not once turn his attention from her beyond a polite inquiry or two directed to the Miss Gouldings, who were reasonably pretty but scarcely out of the schoolroom – for despite his reputation, Fitzwilliam had plenty of scruples when it came to dallying with the nursery set.
The young Mr. Goulding was not handsome, but he smiled readily and seemed to count himself fortunate for the opportunity to converse with the lovely Miss Darcy, who had partnered him for the evening. As amiable as Georgiana found Mr. Goulding to be, she was not in any humor to pay him mind – as the hour progressed, her anxiety had developed rapidly into alarm. It was not at all her brother’s style to be late for anything, particularly when he was expected. Surely he would have sent a note if he had been delayed at Longbourn? And Bingley....his sister’s declarations aside, he was not a man to offend anyone, and his defection from the party certainly was an uncharacteristic gesture.
Glancing over at Richard, she wondered how to communicate her anxieties without alerting the rest of the group to the trouble. He was occupied wholly with Mrs. Goulding at the moment, attempting to charm her into a more approving mood, and seemed disinclined to look her way.
Fidgeting throughout dessert and after-dinner tea, Georgiana finally could take it no longer. Something was amiss – something had to be amiss. She rose from her seat, the chair scraping harshly against the tiles. All eyes flew to her at once, but she was too preoccupied to feel embarrassment. “Pray, excuse me – I have to leave.” With that vague explanation, she fled the room.
As a footman closed the door behind her, a pall of silence fell over the others, and with a sigh, Colonel Fitzwilliam tossed down his napkin and stood. “Excuse me for a moment, please,” he said shortly, before taking off in pursuit of his cousin.
He caught her in the foyer, where she was ordering Mason to fetch her cloak and have Buttons saddled. Waiting until the butler left to carry out his duties, he then grasped her by the arms and drew her, protesting vehemently, back into the parlor.
“Are you mad?” he demanded, giving her a brisk shake. “You cannot be thinking of riding at this hour.”
“He should be here by now,” she said fiercely. “Something has delayed him, and I do not like it. You know Fitzwilliam – he would never, never intentionally give me cause to worry.”
“He has most likely been detained at Longbourn by Miss Elizabeth and stayed to dine there; you are making a fuss over nothing, Georgy.”
She look she gave him was withering. “If everything is as you say, why would he not send a note? It is as easily done as not.”
“The man does not have to report his every movement, Georgy. Perhaps he did not wish to give the servant the trouble.”
Georgiana did not think this sensible enough to even remark upon. “I can see you are fixed on mocking me,” she said coldly, “but I hardly need your approval for anything. I will go and look for Fitzwilliam, and you may stay and dally with Miss Bingley. Enjoy your meal, Richard.”
With a proud toss of her head, she mounted the stairs and left him on the landing, cursing under his breath. There was nothing he could do for it – how could any self-respecting man allow himself to be chided by a mere dab of a girl? Motioning to the nearest footman, he ordered a horse saddled for himself and went above-stairs to fetch his greatcoat.
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He was a dead man. Oh, God, he had to be dead – he could hardly breathe. It hurt, so badly; the pain was incredible, like nothing he had ever felt before. Every movement he made, however slight, lanced through his ribs like a twisted slash of a blade. A slow shudder rolled through his body, and he moaned.
He felt the toe of a boot nudge his shoulder gingerly; mustering all his strength, he blinked away the blood from his eyes and tried to look up, but it was too much effort. His eyelids dropped shut.
“Is ‘e dead?” The belligerent voice issued from the shadowed grove nearby, where a huddle of men sat, some pale and wide-eyed, others too drunk to take notice of anything, some rapidly sobering up and staring transfixed at the broken body lying in the grass.
“Nay,” came the reply, as a man drew his foot away from the fallen gentleman. “Nay, he’s breathing steady still. Don’t know how long he will, though.”
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh God,” one of the men whimpered, rocking faintly back and forth against the trunk of an oak. “Oh, God.”
“Shut your mouth, you fool!” the first man cried. “No cause to fall apart now; keep your thoughts to yourself, sirrah, or we’ll all be dead men. We’ve only to think what to do now....”
Aware of people shifting and moving around him, Darcy struggled again to open his eyes; he needed to, he had to, he had to know what was happening. Everything was dark and cold and strange, and he shivered, gasping aloud as the motion sent a shock through him. Oh, Lord, he hurt. Where was Elizabeth? Elizabeth would be here soon; she would come and explain everything to him, and then maybe she could come with him to Pemberley – he would bring her to Pemberley, yes, that was it. She would love his home, beautiful Pemberley. They would be happy and safe there, with plenty of children, and her sister and Bingley....A wave of dizziness swept through him, and he laid his cheek against the damp cool of the grass. Bingley.....Bingley had been with him. Had Bingley left him here alone? No, Bingley would not do that to him; they were good friends, always had been good friends.
Forcing his eyes open, Darcy waited for the uprush of lightheadedness to pass, and he turned his head slowly. His eyes cleared, and dimly he saw his friend lying spread-eagled on the ground a few feet away, motionless, a slight trickle of blood curled against his forehead. That first sensation of frozen horror made Darcy forget his own pain. He remembered. They had hit him – the men had hit Bingley, right on his head. What unpleasant men they were!
Why had they hit poor Bingley? His friend never quarreled with anyone. Darcy turned away again, images and fragmented thoughts rushing in and out of his mind, jumbled and confused and maddeningly incomplete. Elizabeth – he had been with Elizabeth earlier. He knew that. He and Bingley were riding home; there had been a flash, and the horses had been frightened.....
His brow furrowed, and he tried to reach up to touch his pounding head, but his hand would not move. Strange.
Someone had pulled him off his horse – yes, there were rough hands, all over him. He had tried to fight, to retrieve his pistol from the saddlebag, but there were too many, too many hands....all those hands....They had twisted his arms behind him. Bingley had tried to come after him and send away the men, but they had struck him too; why had they done that?
There had been many people – he could not see them well, it all happened so quickly. They were all around him, he knew it; someone had shoved him to his knees, and he tried to stand. Then everything was in confusion.
His senses were suddenly filled with the memory. It had all been a blur of restless color, shapeless forms....he could smell the sweat and deep earthy loam of the ground, the sharp bitterness of blood, and the excitement, the feeling of the crowd’s excitement in the air all around. And the pain....
Someone was touching him now – fingers were dipping into his coat, searching the pockets, sliding under his waistcoat, in the fold of his boots. The man kneeling over him suddenly stood; there was a glimmer of gold, and Darcy vaguely recognized his pocket-watch. He wanted to ask the man to return it – his father had made him a gift of it on his twenty-first birthday – but the fellow tossed it aside and knelt again. Clumsy hands pressed against his chest, and he bucked involuntarily against the sensation of fire spreading through his side. This time the pain did not fade, and for some moments he could not think at all.
Eventually he became aware of the seeking hands again. Were they searching for weapons? Somehow the thought struck him as unbearably diverting, and he laughed aloud, a wild, half-mad sound that burst chillingly into the ears of the men around him.
“Lordamercy, someone stop him,” one of the men called. “He’ll wake up half the town with that d-mned howling.”
“I knew it, I knew it,” another wailed, still curled tightly back against the tree. “‘E’s mad, ‘e is, and we’re all of us gonna die; God’s laughin’ and we’re gonna burn....”
“Shut up – shut your mouth! You’re talking nonsense like a blasted fool! Now you quit that whining or we’ll be done with you too.”
Darcy could not stem the laughter; his body shivered convulsively with every stinging breath, but he could not thrust away the hysterical mirth that bubbled in his chest and clamored to be released. A booted foot swung into his side, bending him double. He wanted to scream, but could not, dared not.
Shuffling feet inched around him, and he dimly saw one of the men gesturing angrily to the others, before a half-dozen nameless faces swarmed overhead, staring down at him. The hands....hands were tugging at him again, at his coat and his feet, dragging him through the grass. He stared up at the sky – the sun was beginning to fade. He was tired. Would they let him rest a little? Maybe if he asked them politely....
Fingers tangled in his hair, jerking his head backwards – Darcy was too exhausted to protest that they need not be so forceful, and something draped about his legs, drawing unbearably tight. A sudden burst of fear curled in the pit of his stomach, and he tried to inch away from the constriction, but a hand on his chest shoved him back down. Light exploded behind his eyes, and something white-hot and horrible shot through his entire body; soon shadows seeped into the corners of his mind, spreading quickly, and with a grateful sigh, he succumbed to the seductive comfort of the quiet and darkness.
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A careful search of the grounds had revealed no sign of the truants, and although Colonel Fitzwilliam again insisted that nothing was amiss, Georgiana could not be satisfied. After a brief but intense quarrel, he grudgingly called for the carriage to be sent around, and the pair left directly for Longbourn.
Cursing Darcy silently all the way along the road, Fitzwilliam resolved to give his cousin a scolding he would not soon forget the moment they arrived at the house. After all, he’d been dragged out from a comfortable home and amiable company to gallivant about in the dark of night – and for what? Darcy was probably just now sitting down with Miss Elizabeth in front of a warm fire to coze and while away the rest of the evening.
They traveled as expeditiously as possible; Georgiana tapped on the roof so often to hasten the horses that the colonel finally grasped her wrist as she reached up for the fifth time. “Let the poor coachman drive in peace, Georgy – he is going as quickly as he dares this late at night.”
The carriage might have been traveling as speedily as was wise, but still it seemed impossibly slow, and Georgiana’s nerves were far past their breaking point when the coach finally passed through Longbourn’s gates.
The door was answered by the housekeeper, who appeared understandably astonished to find visitors on the doorstep at such a late hour, and Georgiana and Fitzwilliam were promptly ushered into the parlor.
Elizabeth and Miss Bennet immediately rose to their feet with exclamations of surprise, accompanied by an older, handsome dark-haired woman who looked upon the scene curiously. “Georgiana, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what – pardon me, but what calls you here?”
Georgiana hardly heard what Elizabeth said; the only thing she knew, the only sight that registered in her mind, was that her brother was not there. A rush of dizziness overtook her, and for the first time in her life, she felt herself in real danger of fainting. The elder woman must have seen the paleness steal across her countenance, for she reached out to steady the girl and lead her to a chair.
“Georgiana, what is it?” Elizabeth, overcoming her initial amazement, knew her feelings to be giving way rapidly to genuine alarm. “Is someone ill?”
Miss Darcy was unable to make any intelligible reply; and Colonel Fitzwilliam, perhaps beginning to understand the implications of this evening’s search, was no less shaken, although his words came out steadily enough. “When did my cousin leave this house?”
“Charles and Mr. Darcy left just before one,” Jane replied, the crease of her brow indicating that she had not yet caught the meaning of his terse question. Her sister, however, was quicker by half.
“Has something happened to him?” she demanded, suddenly awash with the same sensation of ambiguous horror that seemed to have so incapacitated her friend. Her voice rose. “Where is he? What happened?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, seeing that the lady was very close to grabbing his lapels and shaking an answer out of him, was distinctly relieved when the older woman came forward to put comforting – and restraining – hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Lizzy, pray, come and sit down until we sort this matter out.” She looked up at the colonel as she pushed her niece into the nearest chair. “I am her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, sir. May I assume that you are Mr. Darcy’s cousin?”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, at your service, ma’am,” he said reflexively.
“And I think I may also safely assume that something serious has occurred to cause all this commotion – if I understand you, the gentlemen did not return to Netherfield this afternoon. Am I supposing correctly?”
“You are.” The colonel paused as Jane gasped involuntarily, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Elizabeth sat stonily where she had been placed, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him; he had to look away before he could continue. “We searched the grounds – the roads up to here; we thought that perhaps he and Bingley had stayed with you. But....”
“He’s not here!” The outburst from the silent girl on the settee startled everyone. “Oh, Lord, Richard, he’s not here. I told you he would have sent a note....”
“Georgiana, calm yourself at once.” The sharp command quieted whatever rising hysteria had gripped his cousin, but she glared at him fiercely, frightened tears welling up in her eyes.
“Perhaps they stopped in the village,” Jane whispered, sounding as though she was trying desperately to convince herself of it. “Perhaps they —”
“They were engaged to dine with the Gouldings tonight, Miss Bennet,” the colonel reminded her, doing his best to speak gently, uncomfortably aware that the duty of bearer of ill news had somehow fallen unto him.
“Fitzwilliam would have sent a note,” Georgiana repeated woodenly, the thought fixed stubbornly in her mind; she knew she was not speaking sensibly, but the growing dread constricting her breast was too much to bear. She had to say something, to do something.
Aware that the situation was on a set path to spiral out of control, Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced over helplessly at Mrs. Gardiner, who appeared to be the only woman in the room wholly possessed of her wits. The lady comprehended the pleading look, and set about reclaiming order, as she often had when things in Gracechurch Street were in turmoil.
“Girls,” she said, “until we know exactly what has happened, I suggest we not make things more difficult with too much speculation; we will only make ourselves more anxious.” Crossing the room, she rang the bell, and Hill arrived hardly a half-minute later, having been lingering nearby, hoping for a hint of what had caused the strange late-night call. “Hill, is Mr. Bennet abed yet?”
“No, ma’am,” the housekeeper said, peering avidly at the circle of grim and drawn faces grouped around Mrs. Gardiner. “He is in his study, ma’am.”
“Pray fetch him for us – tell him that it is urgent.”
Mr. Bennet was duly sent for; and although he had not been particularly pleased to be taken away from his account book, it did not take a moment after entering the parlor to realize that something unfortunate had occurred. His daughters were pale and still, their eyes turning instantly upon him as if for guidance.
Miss Darcy, who appeared to have regained something of her composure, explained the matter succinctly and quickly, and it was only when she finished the brief tale that Mr. Bennet fully understood the consequences of the disappearance. Seven hours....a good deal could have happened in the seven hours that had elapsed since anyone had seen the gentlemen last.
Although his natural reaction was one of dismissal, Mr. Bennet was uneasily aware that the family had plenty of cause for consternation; he had heard something of the gossip winding its way about the village, and although he had dismissed it summarily, it suddenly came back to press upon him urgently. “I shall call for Jem and the boys,” he said resolutely, when everyone had said their part and the room was quiet, waiting for his verdict. “They can help us search the grounds here. If the lads are not at Netherfield or on the road there, they must have been delayed somewhere on our property, or just beyond it.”
He turned to find Hill in the doorway, listening unabashedly, and he sent her off to fetch the groundskeeper and his sons. “Have them bring lanterns and a horse, Hill – and see that they are quick about it. And Hill,” the housekeeper stopped on her way out and turned inquiringly, “if your mistress or any of the girls should come down to see what is about, tell them it is nothing and send them back up. The last thing we need is a host of hysterical females swarming about the house.”
Hill bobbed a curtsey and scurried off; Mr. Bennet turned to the colonel and Mrs. Gardiner. “Is there anything else?”
“You seem to have everything arranged, sir.”
“Perhaps the girls ought to go up to bed,” Mrs. Gardiner gently hinted. “Miss Darcy is very welcome to share Elizabeth’s or Jane’s room; it is very late, after all.”
Georgiana immediately grasped her cousin’s sleeve. “I am going with you.” It was said in such a tone as to discourage any argument at all, and the colonel, too overstrung and anxious to quarrel with her at such a time, merely nodded.
“Elizabeth, Jane...”
“No!” Elizabeth blurted, sounding for all the world like an obstinate child. “Jane and I will search with you too.”
Mr. Bennet combed a weary hand through his hair. “Lizzy, this is not a moment to be perverse; you will only slow our progress; and heaven forbid, we may see something you ought not to see. There may have been an accident, and I would spare you two the sight of it. It is no place for either of you.”
Her father’s matter-of-fact tone infuriated her. “Do you honestly expect us to stay here and wait while they may be in danger? I refuse to sit at home when I could be assisting you. If Jane cares to remain she may, but I will follow you no matter what you say.”
Mrs. Gardiner held back a sigh, understanding both Mr. Bennet’s adamance and her niece’s determination. “Elizabeth, dearest, do try to think sensibly. Your father knows what he speaks of. The walk may be difficult, and you will not be able to stop for rest; you will be traveling in the dark, with only lantern light, and it is a cold night. If you want matters to be sorted out as quickly as possible, do not hinder your father. We are only wasting valuable time quarreling.”
Jane surprised them all by speaking up, her voice soft but resolute. “Lizzy and I want to go, Aunt Gardiner, and we will.”
Nothing could be said against it, and Mr. Bennet went out into the hall to hurry along the preparations, unable to conceal his exasperation with his daughters, who had never before given him much opposition in such an important matter. The colonel followed him, going outside to prime the pistol he had carried concealed beneath his greatcoat.
“Fetch your warmest clothes and some sturdy shoes,” Mrs. Gardiner said briskly, ushering the girls from their seats and pushing them toward the cloakroom. “Miss Darcy, come and see if a pair of these boots will fit you; slippers will not do for so lengthy a walk, and you may need a lined cloak instead of that pelisse.” Elizabeth blindly let her aunt drape her in suitable apparel – her fingers were shaking too much to button her coat – and in an instant the three were bundled up snugly and grouped around the front door, waiting for the men to return. Elizabeth felt a cold hand slip into hers, and she clung to Georgiana’s fingers, trying to both give and receive comfort from the gesture.
Presently Mr. Bennet trooped inside and sternly motioned for them to come, asking Mrs. Gardiner to go above-stairs and see that everything was kept in order. Footsteps creaked on the the ceiling, and Mrs. Bennet’s voice could be heard calling for Hill. Mr. Bennet sent the housekeeper up and hastened the girls out the door into the deepening evening darkness.
The groundskeeper Jem Lewis, his four sons, and his brother waited on the drive with three saddled horses and several lanterns. The plan was hastily explained: the two younger Lewises would head for the southern end of the property; the elder two would take the east; Colonel Fitzwilliam and Daniel Lewis would search toward the west, the boundary which stretched farthest away from the house; and Jem Lewis, Mr. Bennet, and the ladies would move toward the northern front of the lawn and out of the gate to the road just outside.
The men agreed that one pistol shot into the air would mean that the missing men had been found and two would indicate that assistance was needed, and the party then divided the supplies and set off in different directions.
Jem led their group into the bit of wilderness to the side of the drive, and although he did not appear to be too keen on the notion of three women joining the search, he was wise enough not to remark upon it beyond asking them to be silent and watch their steps carefully. He held one heavy lantern, casting a dim and eerie glow on the uneven ground, while Jane and Georgiana carried another between them. The moon was high and bright, and they traveled stealthily through the moonbeam-lit tangle of underbrush and tree branches, not a word said beyond a hushed conference between Mr. Bennet and the groundskeeper.
Elizabeth was on edge, apprehensive of what they might find, but enormously relieved to be doing something. She dared not think of what might appear before them; if she did, she knew she would be of no help to anyone, most especially not to Fitzwilliam and Mr. Bingley. She was certain by now that some accident must have befallen them, and it was apparent that it must have happened a short while after they left Longbourn. These roads could be treacherous at times, for they were not well-kept nor paved smoothly, and wildlife was abundant in the area. Perhaps their horses had been startled, or they had become lost somehow; Elizabeth was aware that Mr. Bingley did not yet know the country as well as she did, and Darcy knew it even less. It was not improbable that they should have become a little disoriented, had they strayed off the main road.
The little party moved rapidly through the wood with no sign of the men, and Jem led them back onto the main road and out the gate. Elizabeth felt Georgiana shiver, and she immediately put one arm about the girl’s waist, hugging her closely. The rising anticipation in her own throat precluded any attempt at verbal consolation; all she could do was try to appear calm and quell her own frantic desire to break away and run down the lane, shouting Darcy's name at the top of her voice.
They hurried across the road to the thatch of oaks that lay a half-mile down the hillock toward the village, and again ventured into the wood, lanterns held high in a futile attempt to scan the bushes and low-lying hedge.
The stillness was broken as Jane uttered a little cry – a flurry of voices immediately demanded to know what was wrong, and she pointed with a trembling finger in the direction of an oak tree; a hulking black mass hung from the branches, indistinguishable in the darkness.
“There was a stag hunting party for the tenants on the grounds yesterday,” Mr. Bennet said at once, sounding relieved as he recognized the sight. “The servants must have forgotten to take one down.”
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her pulse beat frenetically, and tried to calm herself. There was no reason to suppose that anything sinister had happened....There was no reason at all to think the worst....Her imagination was simply running wild....
Jem motioned them forward and the party moved to go around the tree. A shaft of faint moonlight split through leaves and branches from this angle, and the old oak and its burden were illuminated as brightly as if by torchlight.
There was a sickened silence before Georgiana screamed. The object dangling from the tree was not a buck.
It was a body.
Posted on Wednesday, 7 May 2008
The silence in the parlor was stifling, the very stillness of it pressing in and around the room’s occupants. Muffled voices carried down from upstairs and doors opened and shut out in the hallway, yet no one ventured into the room to offer a word of solace or explanation.
Elizabeth sat quietly by the window, staring unseeingly out over the sun-dappled lawn. It was a lovely morning, serene and light, with wisped clouds and a brilliant velvet-blue sky; and she wished with all her heart for rain and lightning. The cheery splendor mocked the fear and uncertainty of those gathered inside, deliberately flaunting its beauty when everything was in confusion.
Still, she could not hate it; she had no feeling, no fluttering of emotion, for anything at all. Nothing could penetrate through that shock of the night before, which had yet to fade into any sensations of terror, or even of rage. Just a cold, unfeeling nothing, a dim sense of ambiguous horror that eroded away on her spirits.
Her father sat nearby, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the arms of his chair, a book from which he had not read one single sentence perched against his knee. Every so often his bespectacled eyes strayed to her, and then moved quickly on to Jane, who was sitting, teary-eyed and pallid, on the settee with Mrs. Gardiner.
It had been a long night; everyone’s faces were hollowed with shadows, but no one had dared to suggest sleep to remedy it. The urgent sense of anticipation in the house prevented anyone from catching a moment’s rest; the air itself seemed brimming over with restless tension, every footstep and murmured whisper magnified by a tenfold.
Elizabeth knew her aunt was watching her, the concern writ clearly in the lines of her brow, as if she were observing an unpredictable creature, liable to burst out in a tirade or a bout of swooning when least expected. It might have irritated her, had she cared enough to proffer any reaction.
The floorboards overhead creaked loudly enough to be heard in the parlor; Jane and Mrs. Gardiner immediately looked up hopefully, but Elizabeth, after five hours of leaping to nerve-tingling attention at every solitary sound, did not even give herself the trouble of glancing toward the door.
The entry, however, was set to prove her neglectful, for it presently swung wide, and Mr. Gardiner stepped inside. He smiled faintly at the assembled group, and after a brief and silent moment, joined his wife and niece on the settee, taking the latter’s hand gently in his own. “Jane, the physician has excellent news for you: Mr. Bingley is resting now, but he woke for several minutes.” Jane’s eyes flew up to her uncle’s face, though she appeared not to comprehend him. “He spoke coherently enough and seemed anxious to see you, although he was understandably confused,” he added. “Mr. Jones said you may visit him when he wakes again, though it may not be for several more hours. A blow on the head can be mighty draining.”
Jane made a choked sound, put her hands to her face, and began to cry.
Mrs. Gardiner looked gratefully up at her husband and reached out to embrace her sobbing niece. “There, there, my love – you see? He will be just as he ever was soon. He is well, Jane; he is well.”
Elizabeth watched the scene dispassionately, hardly feeling any relief at all, although she was aware somehow that she should probably have been rejoicing with her sister over the good news. It had been a dreadful shock for poor Jane, to find Bingley lying concealed in the brush nearby; she had nearly tripped over him in her haste to move away from the spectacle of Darcy hanging from....
Almost as if the thought had triggered something in her mind, she immediately shut away the memories. She would not think of it – she could not. Somehow in the tangled numbness of her mind, she believed that if she did not acknowledge it, perhaps it might not be so dreadful as everyone thought; the events of the night had claimed a surreal enough feel to them; it was not so improbable that she might have simply imagined it all, was it?
“Come now, Jane,” Mr. Gardiner said compassionately, offering his niece a badly-required handkerchief. “You may rest easy now, aye? Mr. Bingley has suffered nothing more daunting than a little tap to the skull....and perhaps a devil of a head-ache.”
Jane sniffled, choked out a faint laugh, and nodded her understanding, too overcome to speak. Mrs. Gardiner draped one arm across her quivering shoulders and held her tight. “Perhaps you and I might pay Mr. Bingley a brief visit; we can look in on him from the doorway for a moment or two without disturbing him, don’t you think, Jane?”
She nodded vigorously, allowing her aunt to assist her to her feet, and followed her uncle hastily out the door, hesitating only once to look back uncertainly at her sister, who had yet to say anything. Elizabeth, however, did not even glance at her, and Mrs. Gardiner gently urged Jane on out into the hallway.
Mr. Bennet, now shut away alone with his daughter, seemed more uncomfortable than before, torn between attempting a word of reassurance or two, or simply leaving her to wait in peace. Elizabeth’s stony silence was unnerving, and after a moment, he came to his feet, book in hand. “I believe I might see to the lad myself, if you’ve no objections to it.”
He paused, as if anticipating a reply, but none came. Walking the length of the room, he stopped by her chair, his hand poised over her shoulder to give her a reassuring pat, but he drew away awkwardly and went on to the door.
Only then did she look at him, and he averted his eyes and closed the door soundly behind him. As if the small gesture had somehow broken through the numbness oppressing her, Elizabeth listened to the door snap shut, feeling abandoned and suddenly afraid – so afraid that she felt a physical ache every time she thought of what was happening above-stairs.
Mr. Jones had been summoned immediately during the night, and later a surgeon from London had been called, but neither gentleman had seen fit to keep the family informed of the condition of the patients. Or so it seemed, for once or twice Elizabeth had spied her father and uncle in conference with a servant in the hall, their voices low and hushed to prevent female ears from hearing so much as a syllable.
In that first dreadful moment, Elizabeth had thought her lover dead; Darcy had been still and whitewashed in the faint moonlight, his fingers just brushing the red-spattered grass beneath him as he dangled from the branch. Fascinated horror had rooted her to the spot, and she could not have moved so much as a finger even had her very life required it.
Jem had reacted first, rushing forward with a knife to cut the suspended figure down, and it was only when he was stretched out upon the ground that Darcy had moved. It was a faint jerk of his head, but enough for Elizabeth to notice; and that discovery had quickly been followed by the realization that his chest was rising and falling steadily, his pulse still strong.
They had taken him back at once – pausing only to find and collect Bingley from the hedge – and then the people had come. Servants, the apothecary, assistants....crowding into Longbourn as the two men were carefully transported upstairs; the house awoke and soon blazed with light and activity. Elizabeth had been decidedly barred from the bedrooms, thrust into a parlor to wait and worry.
The first hour or so had been restless, as she paced and prayed and fidgeted – but sometime around dawn, the stress of the night ebbed from her awareness as she retreated into herself, shutting away her thoughts, hardly aware of the people around her and things being said and done. She could not think of it; if she did, the tension and uncertainty, the fear, the awful, endless waiting, would drive her completely mad.
And now she was alone. Everyone had left her, and she did not know whether to feel grateful for the solitude or to curse it. Her own unspeakable thoughts seemed so much more pressing, so very demanding, with nothing to distract them from running continuously through her mind. If only someone could tell her something, anything at all, then perhaps she might regain a little of her composure. She did not want to be so useless, but she had no choice, for she knew perfectly well that there was not a thing in the world she could do for him now.
The muffled tread of slippers above her head made her suddenly aware of how utterly still the house was. Kitty, Lydia, and Mary had been shipped off promptly to Mrs. Philips’s, and some wise servant had blessedly given Mrs. Bennet a sleeping draft. Mr. Bennet had attempted to coax Elizabeth into leaving for her aunt’s along with her sisters, but she had given him such a scathing look as to inform him that she would not be budged from the house for a moment.
The delicate press of steps continued, and Elizabeth leaned her head wearily against the chilled windowpane. Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam had gone above-stairs – she had heard their voices pass the parlor door – and were probably even now with Darcy. She supposed it was their prerogative, considering that they were close kin, but she was to marry the man, for heaven’s sake.
Did no one have the decency to tell her whether or not he yet lived?
“Miss Darcy?”
Georgiana lurched to her feet as the door of the guest bedchamber opened. She heard Richard come to his feet beside her, but she did not turn to him; her eyes were fixed on the trim figure of Dr. Harold Grantley, who looked impeccably presentable and surprisingly hale for a man who had been awakened by express at two in the morning and bundled into a post-coach for a four-hour journey from London.
“You may come in and see him now, if you wish,” the physician began. His mild grey eyes turned from the frightened young lady to the colonel and back. “I would prefer to tell you all first, so that you might be prepared.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Fitzwilliam said hoarsely, over Georgiana’s muffled exclamation. “How is he?”
Dr. Grantley removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and polished them contemplatively with his handkerchief. “May I be perfectly frank, Miss Darcy?”
Georgiana impatiently nodded as her cousin laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You may,” he answered for her.
“Some of Mr. Darcy’s injuries were quite severe,” Grantley said, his tone composed and methodical, in the manner of a tutor attempting to relay some complicated concept to a fairly dim student, “but not nearly as damaging as I had at first supposed.
“Most apparent, of course, are the facial contusions. They look very alarming, but I assure you they will heal quickly with the proper amount of attention, and I stitched the laceration on his head. I do not think his appearance will be much altered.” He coughed and leaned slightly against the doorjamb. “He did, however, sustain some serious wounds to his side: two ribs were broken, and several others badly bruised. I could not find a sign of anything else, and even the ribs could have been fractured more completely than they were. They are set and wrapped, and with plenty of time to recover, I cannot foresee any complications. He is a young man in good health – I expect that everything will mend well.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam felt his cousin sag under his hands in trembling relief. “Is he awake?” he demanded.
The surgeon shook his head. “I gave him a dose of laudanum to help him sleep; that is what he needs most now.”
Having no small amount of experience with field injuries, the colonel frowned at that announcement. “Laudanum with a head wound? Was that wise, do you think?”
Dr. Grantley looked a little displeased at having his judgment questioned, but he was well accustomed to hearing distraught family members express their doubts about the best course of treatment. “Absolutely, sir. He did not appear to have a concussion; he was able to speak his name and tell me where he was, and I could not feel any impact on the skull itself. The laudanum will allow him to rest without pain for a few hours at least.”
Fitzwilliam only nodded his understanding, not liking the situation but comprehending that he had overstepped his place and expertise.
“He does not show any inclination toward fever yet,” the surgeon continued, folding up his handkerchief and stowing it away in a pocket, “but as a precaution, I have bled him to release the poisoned blood. Because he has only sustained broken bones, I do not think fever will be a great worry, but it is always best to remain vigilant. I would advise that you have someone in the room with him at all hours.”
“Of course.”
“May we see him?” It was the first sentence Georgiana had ventured since her brother had been taken upstairs, and both men startled at the sound of her voice.
The surgeon’s tone gentled. “You may. Do not be anxious if he does not respond, ma’am; he will sleep deeply for another few hours.”
Inclined to view the man more charitably for that small kindness, the colonel observed the weary lines etched into Grantley’s face and suggested that he might care to go down to the dining room and order some luncheon for himself and rest for a moment. The physician gratefully thanked him and went downstairs, no doubt eager for a respite.
Georgiana did not bother to watch Grantley leave – the instant he gave his permission, she entered the room, leaving her cousin behind in the deserted hallway. The room was filled with light, the windows open to clear the air of any unpleasant scents from the medical procedures that had taken place there.
She approached the bed and pushed aside the bed curtains with hands shaking so badly that she could scarcely take hold of the draw-cord. Her brother lay quietly beneath a mountain of coverlets, his face turned toward the opposite window. His hair shone dark against the white of the pillows – vaguely she noted that someone must have taken the trouble to rinse the blood from it – and she stood there, musing absently that he looked as though he had merely lain down for a quick rest.
Faintly she heard Richard closing the door behind her, and she forced herself to walk around the side of the bed, not knowing exactly what to expect after the physician’s somewhat vague report.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, loath to intrude on the private moment, stayed by the door, watching uneasily as Georgiana crossed around the bedpost to her brother’s side. He saw her abruptly stop nearly mid-stride – her mouth opened soundlessly. Her eyes, wide and blank, stared past the figure on the bed, and she simply stood there in the shaft of sunlight and quivered from the crown of her head to her toes.
He reached her side just as she bent double, gasping, her arms wrapped tightly about her stomach. She let out a cry, and divining her intent in a second, the colonel dove for a nearby washbasin and thrust it in front of her. Helplessly, he held her around the waist as she gagged and retched, ridding herself of what little breakfast she had forced herself to swallow; and after she had exhausted herself, she sagged bonelessly onto his supporting forearm, moaning and struggling for breath.
The instant she caught it, the tears came. Pulling her head up from the basin, he lifted her bodily away from the mess and pulled her close in an awkward embrace. She burrowed her face into his neckcloth and sobbed, and he patted her, crooning under his breath, aware that for all his practical experience in taking command of a situation, he had no idea how to offer comfort; it was something he had never been called upon to provide to his soldiers – he knew how to encourage, how to demand, how to push men to do better, to move faster....but he did not know how to go about the business of commiseration.
Instead, he fell back upon what he knew best. “Enough of this, Georgiana Darcy,” he said briskly, scrubbing roughly at her tear-streaked face with his handkerchief. “I’ll not watch you fall apart like this – do you want to help your brother or hinder him? You won’t do a jot of good wailing over him, and you’ll only distress yourself.”
Her expression of shock was priceless, and had he been in a more light-hearted mood, he may have found it worth a laugh; but as it was, he only squeezed her shoulder and nudged her toward the bed. “Go to him, for heaven’s sake. It cannot be as bad as....” He trailed off suddenly, catching sight of his cousin for first time in the full scorch of the light.
Georgiana, although somewhat hurt by Richard’s dismissal of her suffering, saw the wisdom in his reproof, and knew indeed that she was doing Fitzwilliam no good by becoming a helpless and fainthearted creature in need of attendance. She moved up to the bed and bent to kiss her brother’s forehead below the bandage that wound beneath his forelock, wishing with all her heart that he would wake up and look at her, if only for a minute. She mopped desperately at her eyes and turned back to her cousin, whose complexion had become oddly pale. She paused. “Richard?”
“My God,” he whispered, staring transfixed at the bed. “Oh, my God. Darcy....” He had seen his cousin, in the faint burnish of lantern light, when he and Daniel Lewis had come running at the booming explosion of two pistol shots; but the entire episode had been shrouded in darkness and frantic movement, and as soon as they had returned to Longbourn, the physician had immediately been summoned and the injured men shut away in bedchambers to be stripped and washed.
Added to that was the pandemonium created by Mrs. Bennet and her daughters as word of the attacks had been let slip above-stairs; the house had been full of cries and weeping and anxious inquiries as servants ran back and forth, torn between attending to the very vocal demands of their mistress and the obvious need the two gentlemen had of their care. Mr. Bennet had quickly taken control, shipping off the girls and confining his wife to her chambers with something to calm her down.
Five hours they had waited while the patients were tended to – Grantley with Darcy, and Mr. Jones with Bingley, whose injuries were comparatively trifling – and now....
He was unable to look away from his cousin’s face, a face he had known for years but which was now nearly unrecognizable under wide banners of purple-black and yellow bruises and the clean white swathe of bandages.
They had hung him, his mind howled at him – hung Darcy by his ankles to bleed out like an animal! The shock of it rippled into him as though he was a green soldier again, who had never seen a man bayoneted or peppered full of bullets. He was used to blood, to injury, and thought himself inured to it – but this.....this was Darcy, not some stranger on a battlefield or an enemy soldier. This was his cousin, his friend, and he was positively sick with the horror of it.
He watched insensibly as Georgiana sank onto the edge of the mattress, turning her brother’s hand over and over in her own, chafing them together as if to warm him. “His hands are cold,” she said tonelessly, seeing the direction of his gaze. “He shouldn’t have to be cold.”
A burning rage shot suddenly up into Fitzwilliam’s throat, and he could hardly breathe for the intensity of it. He knew who had done this – he knew.
Georgiana heard an odd sound and looked up at him; she cried out unconsciously at the sight of the flaring anger in his face. “Richard?”
His lips tightened, and without a word, he turned and strode out of the room.
Twelve o’clock.....half-past.....one o’clock....The hour passed slowly by, and Jane had yet to return from above-stairs. Elizabeth still sat by herself in the parlor, and it was only when the clock over the mantle chimed one-thirty that her uncle arrived to tell her that Darcy was alive and as well as he could be under the circumstances.
She took his arm and followed him above-stairs, everything looking strangely shadowed and unfamiliar, and he stopped in front of the furthest door to the right. Before letting her in, Mr. Gardiner quietly told her what the physician had said, gave her a kiss, and opened the door.
Inside she went, moving cautiously, tentatively, toward the draped bed where a prone figure lay curled under the covers. The room was deserted but for a wiry gentleman of forty or so who sat back discreetly by the window, nodding his head approvingly as Elizabeth hesitantly came around the footboard.
The instant she caught sight of Darcy, her every sensation of unease and awkwardness flew from her mind. No sound but a slight gasp escaped her, although she swayed dangerously for a second before walking closer. Satisfied that the lady was not going to faint, the man turned his attention circumspectly back onto a newspaper in his hands, peering every so often over the top to ensure that everything was in its proper place.
Darcy looked dreadful, his face battered and discolored; one eye looked to be swollen shut, the other cut above the brow, and his lip was split in two places. A linen wrap was wound about his head and over one ear, and every inch of his skin seemed to bear some proof of brutality – yet, she hardly saw any of it. Her eyes were wholly absorbed by the gentle movement of his chest under the coverlet, the occasional twitch of a hand or foot, the line of his brow that creased and smoothed as he slept.
Quivering, she reached out and touched him, spreading her hand over his heart; it beat regular and strong against her fingers, and she wanted to shout with the relief that spread over her. That single elemental indication that he had not left her was perhaps more convincing than if he had been awake and speaking fluently. He breathed, and he lived – that was enough.
She looked at her own hand as it rose and fell against the heavy cotton of his nightshirt, and the picture blurred as tears crowded her eyes, demanding instant release. Careful of his injured side and the watchful eyes of their unidentified chaperone, she pulled a chair as close as she could to the ticking and gently lifted his wrist, drawing one hand out from under the coverlet to hold it in her lap.
Twining her fingers through his, she let herself cry for the mere relief of it. It was painful but better than feeling nothing, detached from what was happening. The man by the window let her weep in peace, knowing better than to embarrass her with entreaties or offerings of any empty reassurance; and at length, she felt the tears slow and then finally halt, and she was able to look at Darcy again with more composure than she had felt in many days.
She reached out to him and paused before letting her hands rest in the thick dark hair fanned against the pillow. She dared not touch his face, fearful of hurting him somehow, although she knew that he was insensible to everything because of the laudanum. She ran gentle fingers through his hair, needing to touch him in some small way to assure herself that he would not disappear if she turned away for even a moment.
“I am right here, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered lowly, knowing herself foolish for speaking to a man who could not hear her nor comprehend her even if he was conscious, but unable to deny the comfort it brought. “I will not leave, I swear it, until you wish me to.” With that vow on her lips, she bent and kissed him; and, with fresh determination, she cradled his hand in hers and settled down to watch and wait.
Chapter Thirty-Three
******************************************** Chapter Thirty-Four