Page 37 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Elizabeth stared at her cousin, but she said nothing as the noise around her continued, a flurry of servants moving with purpose. Mr. Collins’s voice cut through the clamour like a blade.
“That the inestimable Mr. Darcy, a gentleman of such consequence, such exalted position, has been placed in danger most dire! I am quite unable to reconcile myself to the notion that he should have suffered injury—indeed, grievous injury—in consequence of your ill-advised actions. Lady Catherine herself is in a state of great discomposure, and it is solely by her unparalleled generosity that you find yourself in this house rather than removed to lesser lodgings more suited to your station.”
Elizabeth clenched her hands into the fabric of her ruined skirt, her patience already worn thin. Before she could summon a retort, a firm but gentle hand grasped her arm.
“Come, Eliza,” Charlotte murmured, her voice low, gentle. Without waiting for a response, she ushered Elizabeth up the stairs and into a chamber that had apparently been prepared for her use, closing the door firmly behind them.
The moment the door latched, silence fell. The storm of activity was suddenly gone, muted by the thick walls, leaving only the soft rustling of fabric as a maid moved efficiently about the room.
A blanket had been draped over a chair to protect the upholstery, and at a nod from Charlotte, Elizabeth lowered herself onto it, her limbs trembling with exhaustion.
Charlotte knelt at Elizabeth’s side. “At last, some peace,” she murmured, reaching for the damp cloth a maid had brought. “We shall see you properly tended now.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes as Charlotte began to gently clean the dirt and dried blood from her arms, removing the makeshift bandage Mr. Darcy had sacrificed his cravat to make, carefully cleaning the wound several times before binding it again with clean linens. The maid moved quietly to prepare a bath, and the promise of warm water and a moment’s respite beckoned.
Only as she sat there, briefly alone as Charlotte helped the maid, did the true weight of all that had passed begin to settle upon her shoulders.
She had nearly died. But Mr. Darcy had saved her.
Charlotte helped her to the next room where a large tub filled with hot water awaited. The heat of the water enveloped her, seeping into her bones, loosening the tight knots of pain and fear and weariness that had settled there. Elizabeth leaned forward, closing her eyes as Charlotte gently poured warm water over her shoulders. The maid worked efficiently, her hands steady as she lathered a cloth and ran it over Elizabeth’s arms, careful around the wound that would soon require the surgeon’s attention.
Elizabeth’s mind was restless. She longed to ask about Mr. Darcy, but she did not dare while the maid was about. After having remained relatively composed throughout the events of the day, she could feel herself coming apart. But she could not, not yet. Her hands gripped the edges of the tub. She had to be strong.
“Is Maria still at the parsonage?” she asked, simply to have something to say.
“She is, and writing furiously in her journal, I imagine.”
Elizabeth laughed, but it came out sounding more like a hysterical bark.Like an angry goose,she thought, and laughed again.
Charlotte patted Elizabeth’s shoulder gently. “All will be well, Eliza,” she said reassuringly.
Elizabeth nodded, but did not—could not—speak. Was it a terrible thing to wish to unburden herself to Mr. Darcy rather than anyone else?
Once she had bathed, the maid helped her into a soft night rail and Charlotte guided her to the bed. Elizabeth sank onto the mattress, the mound of pillows that had been piled up to support her nearly swallowing her up. She closed her eyes. It would be difficult to remain awake for long. Even the ice wrapped in a cloth that Charlotte applied to the side of her face hardly registered.
Charlotte tucked the blankets around her before stepping back and sitting in a chair that the maid had drawn up to the side of the bed. The room was warm, but a shiver ran down Elizabeth’s spine. She turned her head toward the door, willing it to open, willing someone to come in with news of Mr. Darcy. Yet, the door remained closed, and soon she could no longer keep her eyes open.
Time passed in the sort of languor where one was aware of what was happening but unable to move, and it was in this state she heard the heavy sound of approaching footsteps that heralded the arrival of the surgeon.
“Mrs. Collins,” he said. “Miss Bennet.”
With great effort, Elizabeth opened her eyes halfway. He moved to her side, setting his instruments upon the small table the maid had arranged. He assessed the wound on her arm. “That will require stitching.” He pulled up a chair and began to roll up his sleeves.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. She had steeled herself for this, but now that the moment had come, she felt dread pool in her stomach.
Charlotte hovered nearby. “She should have something for the pain.”
“Aye, a drop of laudanum will do.” The surgeon gestured to the maid, who swiftly prepared a dose in a small bit of water. Charlotte held the glass to her lips, and Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before swallowing it, the bitter taste curling her tongue.
Minutes passed. The room blurred at the edges as the laudanum took hold. The pain dulled and sleep beckoned. She tried to form the words, to ask—
Mr. Darcy?
But the question never passed her lips. The last thing she saw before her mind surrendered to oblivion was Charlotte’s comforting smile.
Certain sounds reached Darcy as if from a great distance, distorted and sluggish, as though carried through water. Fitz’s voice and other hushed murmurs, a fire sparking to life, the distant clatter of something metal being dropped on a tray. His limbs felt heavy, his body a heavy weight that he could neither shift nor escape.
Somewhere to his right, Fitz’s voice cut through the haze, his tone laced with that forced amusement he always employed when uneasy.
