Page 38 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“What in the blazes is this on your head, Darcy?”
Words eluded him, slipping through his mind before he could catch hold of them. He felt hands at his temples, carefully unwinding the cloth that had been wound about his brow, its edges rough, stiffened with dried blood and recalled how gently Elizabeth had tended to his wounds. While Fitz was careful to dampen the rest with water before lifting it away, still the motion tugged at his scalp, a sharp pull of pain against the more persistent throbbing in his back.
Fitz made a noise of displeasure, a sharp exhale through his nose. “The surgeon will be here soon. Try not to expire before then, if you please.”
Darcy might have smiled, had he the strength for it. He heard the drip of wet fabric being wrung out over water and detected the scent of spirits drifting toward him as his wounds were cleaned. The touch was both sharp and distant, the pain dulled by fatigue, yet insistent enough to drag him up a bit from the reaches of oblivion.
The sound of the fire crackling to life reached his ears, and his thoughts drifted listlessly towards it. Something was being consumed by the flames, the scent of charred cloth reaching his nose. Fitz had thrown it in the fire, then—the remnants of Elizabeth’s petticoat. Wise man.
His coat was cut from him, and he could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance. He had liked that coat, though he supposed it was beyond saving. Then he was being carefully rolled onto his stomach, and a cool cloth was laid against the back of his neck. Darcy exhaled, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly. A murmur of dismay reached him, Fitz’s voice low and edged with concern. “God above, Darcy.”
The hands that worked over him were practiced, gentle where they could be, firm where they must.
Darcy stirred, the words dragging him closer to awareness. “I could not move in time,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Something fell from above—sharp.”
He had shoved Elizabeth against the wall. Had he hurt her in his haste? The crash, the sickening sensation of a knife cutting him even through his coat—he had been too slow to avoid it entirely, but the pain had been a fleeting thing against the need to keep moving.
Fitz swore under his breath. “You had best not be feverish on the morrow, or I shall be forced to listen to Lady Catherine lamenting your recklessness for the remainder of my days.”
“Herfolly, not mine,” he whispered. He might have laughed, but even the thought of it was too great an effort. Instead, his mind drifted elsewhere, to another concern, one more pressing than his own discomfort. “Miss Bennet . . .” he murmured.
Fitz sighed. “She is being seen to. You need not fret over her.”
But Darcy did fret. He knew too well that composure in the moment did not guarantee endurance after it. Elizabeth had borne the terror and the danger admirably, but now that the worst had passed, had she truly been allowed the time to recover? Had she wept? Had she allowed herself even a moment of weakness? He wished—selfishly, perhaps—that he might see her, might assure himself that she was not suffering more than necessary.
He was moved carefully into a sitting position. Something was pressed to his lips, and he drank without thought, the liquid warm and bitter, burning slightly as he swallowed. The room swayed, or perhaps it was only his own failing senses. This time he barely felt it when someone pressed a fresh cloth to his wounds. Fitz’s voice murmured something indistinct, but he could not grasp the words.
Darcy knew he should despise being moved this way and that without so much as a protest, that he was relinquishing the control over himself that defined a gentleman. Yet fatigue and the dull ache in his limbs numbed his defiance. He could almost convince himself that this surrender was not an act of weakness, but a necessary pause, a momentary reprieve from the relentless demands of self-command.
The surgeon arrived not long after, his presence announced by the firm rap of knuckles against wood. Had he seen Elizabeth already? Was she well? Darcy caught only fragments of hushed conversation between him and Fitz. The examination that followed was thorough but mercifully brief, the surgeon’s touch efficient as he cleaned and dressed the wounds. There was a sensation of tugging at his back, and he wondered blearily whether that injury had required stitching. Probably.
“He was fortunate,” the surgeon pronounced at last. “The cuts are deep, but you cleaned them well. We must always watch for infection, but with proper care, they should heal without issue. I shall have to wait for him to wake before I can say whether he has been concussed. For now, rest is the best healer,” the surgeon continued, speaking now to Fitz. “The bandages must be changed regularly. Watch for fever.”
“Of course,” Fitz replied. “I shall see to it personally.”
The surgeon gathered his instruments, the soft clink of metal against metal marking his movements. “I have left suitable draughts for the pain. No more laudanum until I can better assess his head wound.”
“We did not give him much,” Fitz replied.
“Very good. I shall return tomorrow.”
Darcy felt himself drifting away again, the voices growing more distant. He was vaguely aware of being helped to lie on his stomach, his head turned gently to lay on its uninjured side, of blankets being drawn carefully over him.
“Rest now,” Fitz said in his ear.
Time passed strangely after that, measured only by the darkening room, the occasional shifting of logs in the fire, and the quiet movements of the servants. Darcy floated in and out of consciousness, his thoughts of Elizabeth preventing him from letting go entirely. The memory of her face, pale but determined, as they navigated the treacherous path to safety. The gentle pressure of her hand supporting him, her quiet strength an anchor. Her delight when he related the story of Pemberley’s geese. Her courage, her trust in him as he helped her jump to safety.
He was drawn momentarily from his half-sleep by the sound of raised voices in the corridor. Lady Catherine’s distinctive tones carried clearly through the door, growing louder as she approached.
“This is absolutely unconscionable! My nephew, injured! And all because of that headstrong girl’s complete disregard for proper behaviour!”
The door burst open with enough force to rattle the candlesticks. Darcy’s muscles tensed, but the laudanum’s pull was strong. He heard Fitz’s attempted intervention, his voice low and placating. “Aunt, perhaps we might discuss this in the morning—”
Lady Catherine swept in, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud. Even though his eyes were closed, Darcy could picture her expression perfectly: lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp with displeasure.
“Darcy! I demand to know what possessed you to engage in such reckless behaviour! To risk your life, your position, your reputation—and for what? Some country nobody who has not the sense to stay where she belongs?”
Darcy could not open his eyes even for this, though inside he bristled at his aunt’s characterization of Elizabeth. He wanted to stand for her the way she had for him. In his current state, however, there was nothing he could do.
