Page 63 of Attempted Compromises
“Don’t just stand there! Get in here and help set this right!” she ordered.
“Just not too much,” Mr. Jones warned. “We have no way of knowing exactly what has happened.”
The men moved quickly, their faces pale but determined. They lifted Jane slightly so her head rested on Bingley’s shoulder, but no more. Mr. Jones turned his full attention to Elizabeth, his frown deepening as he fully took in her state.
“Miss Elizabeth, I insist you sit down immediately,” he said in a firm voice, his professional concern overriding any gentleness he would have used in another situation. “You’re in no condition to remain standing.”
Elizabeth blinked at him, confused, until she caught sight of her disheveled appearance in the reflection of a window, the dark sky causing the glass to act like a mirror. Her dress was torn and stained with dirt, her arms were streaked with blood fromdeep scratches, and her hair hung in a wild tangle of sticks and leaves. Finally, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair, the weight of the night’s events finally pressing down on her. She stared blankly ahead as Mr. Jones crouched beside her, his hand pressing against her forehead.
“You’re feverish,” he said grimly, turning to Mrs. Nicholls. “She needs dry clothes, a fire, willow bark tea, and rest. At once.”
The housekeeper nodded, taking Elizabeth’s arm with the intent of leading her out of the room. Before they could leave, however, a low groan came from behind them. All eyes turned toward the source as Mr. Darcy stirred, his movements slow and unsteady as he pushed himself up from the floor.
“What the devil?” he rasped, his voice hoarse as he looked around in confusion. His bleary gaze settled on Elizabeth, and his expression shifted from confusion to alarm as he registered her state.
“Elizabeth! What happened? You are injured!” Darcy took an unsteady step toward her, but his legs wobbled, nearly toppling him over.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Jones stepped forward, his hand on Darcy’s arm to steady him. “Mr. Darcy, you’ve all been drugged with laudanum,” the apothecary explained. “Please, sit down before you collapse.”
Darcy’s eyes darted around the room, his concern deepening as he took in the scattered bodies of his companions. When his gaze landed on Georgiana, a strangled cry escaping his lips.He attempted to crawl toward his young sister, but Mr. Jones tightened his grip, his voice firm.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” Mr. Jones said sharply, “take Miss Elizabeth out of here at once. Her fever will worsen if she remains.”
Elizabeth tried to resist, but Mrs. Nicholls’s grip was firm as she gently but insistently led her toward the door. “Come along, dear,” she urged. “You must rest.”
“Go, Elizabeth.” Darcy’s voice was hoarse as he added his voice to theirs.
Only then did Elizabeth allow herself to be led away, but as she stepped into the corridor, she glanced back at the room. Darcy was sitting now, his shoulders hunched as though weighed down by the chaos around him. Her heart twisted at the sight.
For a fleeting moment, she wished she could stay—stay and ensure that Jane was safe, that Darcy recovered, that Georgiana would not wake to a world forever changed. But her body betrayed her, trembling with exhaustion, and she knew she could do no more.
As the door closed behind her, Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, her thoughts racing. She prayed for Jane, for Darcy, for Georgiana. And though she left the chaos of the drawing room behind her, her heart remained heavy with the weight of everything that had happened—and the fear of what was yet to come.
Darcy’s vision blurred as he tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him. His head throbbed, his limbs felt like lead, and a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. Despite the haze clouding his thoughts, one thing stood out starkly in his mind: Elizabeth.
He watched her retreating form as Mrs. Nicholls gently but firmly guided her out of the room. Her gown was torn and filthy, her arms scratched and bleeding, her hair tumbling in wild disarray. She had looked so fragile, yet her determination to care for Jane had been unshakable, a testament to her strength.
A surge of protectiveness swelled in his chest, followed quickly by a sharp pang of guilt.How did this happen? Why is Elizabeth injured while the rest of us lay unconscious?
The questions swirled unanswered as the door clicked shut behind her. He wanted to go to her, to offer some form of comfort or reassurance, but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, he turned his attention to Georgiana, attempting once more to crawl to his sister.
“Miss Elizabeth will be all right,” Mr. Jones said firmly, his voice pulling Darcy back to the present. “She’s a strong one. Mrs. Nicholls will see to her, and I will check on her as soon as I finish here. For now, sir, you need to focus on your own recovery.”
“See to my sister. I am fine.”
The apothecary ignored him, keeping his fingers at Darcy’s wrist and neck. At last he sat back and said, “Your heart rate is steadier now, but I strongly advise you to rest. Whatever you drank has affected you, and the effects may linger.”
Darcy gave a distracted nod, his attention drawn back to his sister. Following his gaze, Mr. Jones said, “I will see to her next, but only if you promise to remain sitting down on this chair.”
Snapping his fingers at two footmen who were at the front of the crowded doorway, Mr. Jones barked. “Help Mr. Darcy to his feet so he can rest here.”
The young men sprang into action, relieved at having an assignment. They each put one of Darcy’s arms around their shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him up into the seat.
“How is Georgiana?” Darcy asked hoarsely.
“She will be just fine,” Mr. Jones replied. “Her heart is a bit slow, but I imagine the drug’s effects are stronger on her, being so slight a creature.”
Across the room, Bingley began to stir, his groggy movements attracting the attention of the maids clustered in the doorway. The faint murmur of their gossip reached Darcy’s ears, irritating him further.
