Page 65 of Attempted Compromises
“How?” Darcy asked hoarsely, his throat tight.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “The laudanum was too much for his system,” he explained. “Given his apparent fondness for spirits, his body likely couldn’t handle the combination. He would have gone quickly, at least.”
The weight of the announcement hung in the air like a storm cloud, and Darcy closed his eyes, the enormity of the situation pressing down on him. One life lost, another potentially endangered, and countless questions unanswered.
And Elizabeth—what horrors had she endured to make it back to them? Darcy’s jaw tightened as resolve hardened within him. Whoever had orchestrated this would pay, but first, he had to uncover the truth.
Chapter 18
Elizabeth sat in a room she barely recognized, her body limp and unresisting as Mrs. Nicholls and two maids worked around her. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly, its warmth reaching her chilled limbs. Despite the heat, however, she shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering, her limbs trembling as if the chill in her bones could not be chased away.
A steaming bath stood near the fire, hastily filled with the boiling water brought up from the kitchen that Mrs. Nicholls had the foresight to order when she first saw Elizabeth. Beside it lay a warm woolen dressing gown with a matching robe, liberated from Mrs. Hurst’s closet, as she was the only woman in residence who did not stand a full head higher than Elizabeth.
The room was alive with the sounds of bustling maids, hurried footsteps, and whispered exclamations, but it all felt distant to Elizabeth, as though she were trapped behind a thick pane of glass. Mrs. Nicholls led Elizabeth over to the fireplace and sat her down on a plain wooden chair.
“Come now, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls murmured, her voice steady but tinged with worry. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes. We need to warm you up, my dear. You’re chilled to the bone.”
The housekeeper’s hands worked deftly to unfasten her boots and the buttons on the back of Elizabeth’s sodden gown. The fabric of her dress clung to her bruised skin, peeling away with an unsettling sound that made her flinch, though she remained silent.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said gently, drawing her back to the present, “can you lift your arms for me, dear?”
Elizabeth obeyed without thinking, her movements mechanical. She felt the maids slip her tattered gown from her shoulders, their hands careful but firm. The cold air hit her skin, sending another shiver down her spine.
The maids hovered nearby, their faces pale, their eyes darting nervously over the torn fabric and Elizabeth’s battered frame. The rustle of fabric and the occasional whispered gasp were the only sounds in the room.
“She’s shaking so much,” one of the maids whispered, her voice thick with worry. “Is she ill, Mrs. Nicholls?”
“She’s in shock,” Mrs. Nicholls replied grimly. “Stoke the fire, Alice.”
“Oh, look at that bruise,” another one of the maids breathed, her voice quavering. She pointed to a deep purple mark onElizabeth’s arm, visible now that the sleeve had been peeled away. “That must hurt something awful.”
Elizabeth didn’t react. She felt as though she were floating outside her own body, watching as the maids uncovered scratch after scratch, bruise after bruise. The cuts on her arms were long and jagged, angry red lines crisscrossing her skin from her frantic flight through the hedgerows. A deep scratch on her cheek still oozed blood, and the maids clucked with concern as they dabbed at it with a cloth.
The stalwart housekeeper’s hands trembled slightly as she worked, her jaw tight with suppressed emotion. “Miss Elizabeth doesn’t need your fretting. Go fetch some ointment from the still room. Now.”
The younger maid darted from the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall. Elizabeth sat numbly as Mrs. Nicholls began to unlace her stays, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. As the fabric fell away, revealing bruises forming along Elizabeth’s ribs, the older woman let out a tsk of dismay.
“You poor child,” Mrs. Nicholls murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “What have you been through?”
Elizabeth said nothing. The words were trapped somewhere deep inside her, buried beneath layers of shock and exhaustion. She let herself be guided into the bath, the warm water stinging as it met her raw skin. She flinched slightly as the heat touched her battered skin but made no other protest. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind sluggish, and she moved only when promptedby Mrs. Nicholls or the maid, like a puppet being maneuvered on unseen strings.
The water quickly turned murky as the maids gently washed away the dirt, blood, and grime from her ordeal. The dried blood on her chin, where she had bitten her lip to stifle her cries, came away with soft scrubbing. One of the maids wrung out a cloth, her hands trembling. “It’s like she’s been through a war,” she whispered to her companion.
“Hush,” Mrs. Nicholls said firmly, though there was a tremor in her own voice. She took the cloth and dabbed at a particularly tender-looking bruise on Elizabeth’s temple. “There now, Miss Elizabeth. This ointment will help. Just a bit of sting, but it’ll ease the pain.”
Elizabeth barely registered the words, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm, her mind as numb as her frozen limbs. She felt detached from her body, as though she were watching the scene unfold from a great distance.
As the warmth of the bath began to seep into her, the haze of shock slowly lifted, and emotions she’d held at bay began to rise.
The events of the day played in disjointed fragments—Wickham’s sneering face, the maze’s twisting passages, the terror that had gripped her chest as she crouched in the hedge, listening to his shouts. She had run, hidden, and fought to survive, but now, in the relative safety of Netherfield, the enormity of it all began to settle upon her.
I was so close to…
She couldn’t finish the thought. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories to dissipate. Yet they remained, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to pounce.
The maids worked in silence now, their movements gentle as they washed away the dirt and blood. Elizabeth felt their hands on her arms, her shoulders, her hair, but her thoughts were elsewhere. At first, fear dominated—sharp, visceral fear.
What if Wickham had caught me? What if I hadn’t been able to run?The thought made her chest tighten, her breath coming in shallow gasps until she thought she would drown.
