Page 18 of A Stronger Impulse

Darcy awakened from a light doze to the sound of raised voices. It was enough to startle him, for the place was kept as hushed as a cathedral. How long had it been since Lady Matlock’s last visit? A week? Two? Or had he dreamt the whole thing? He could not always avoid the doctor’s medicines, not without revealing his determination to escape. His only hope was that they would grow careless and leave him unbound and unattended, thinking him docile, resigned to his fate. Perhaps these noises signified the arrival of Lady Matlock, come with Caroline Bingley and a vicar. His soul was equal parts revulsion and despair.

To his surprise, it was another aunt entirely who stalked into his chamber as if she owned it, followed by the housekeeper and the loathsome Mr Younge.

“It is critical that the patient remain undisturbed,” the fellow was bleating. “Any shock to his system, any at all—even foods improperly prepared—could be responsible for the disappearance of the last remaining vestiges of his sanity.”

“Darcy. These individuals are under the misapprehension that I am subject to my brother’s edicts. You shall come home with me, now. Rosings Park is a far superior place for recovery.” But though she had addressed him, she did not once glance his way. She only snapped her fingers, and four burly footmen came into his range of vision. One of them wielded a knife, and the doctor and housekeeper leapt back. But ignoring them, the fellow dove beneath the bed; Darcy felt a tug, and one of his leather restraints gave, then the next. The three other footmen hurried forward, and Darcy saw that they carried a litter.

He could walk. Of course he could, but before he could release any words from his cobbled tongue, one of them clutched his ankles and the knife-wielding one took hold of his shoulders. As one, they slung him onto the litter supported by the other two. Then, each grasped a corner and marched for the door as if they had choreographed the manoeuvre.

“My lady, wait. I beg you!” the doctor called, sounding as if he were about to cry.

Darcy could only imagine how displeased the earl would be when he discovered the man had lost his patient and to whom. He felt no sympathy.

Neither was he himself to have any say whatsoever. The litter was carted down the stairs and out the front door, where a large black travelling coach was blocking traffic on the street. The door was thrown open; a little man who looked vaguely familiar poked out his head.

“In here, in here, and hurry up about it,” he ordered the footmen.

Two of the footmen grabbed Darcy again, ankles and shoulders; he might have struggled, but by gads, he was in his nightshirt! If he were to run, the entire village would chase after him, likely only to return him to Younge’s power. The footmen practically tossed him into the rear-facing coach seat, which had been made up into a kind of cot. One of them climbed in, folding himself onto the floor at Darcy’s feet. The little man knocked on the coach roof as another slammed the door shut. Seconds later, they were off.

It appeared as though the man expected some type of resistance from beyond—he continually peered out the curtained window, tapping his foot agitatedly. For several minutes, Darcy waited for someone to say something. The carriage was well-sprung, and lying on his side was a great pleasure, however, so the wait was not unpleasant, even though the cot was far too short for his long limbs. He was not nearly so uncomfortable as the footman crouched near his feet.

Darcy stared, brow furrowed, until the little man’s identity came to him—Anne’s physician. Davis? Donaldson? No. Donavan. Anne had difficulties with her digestive humours, very often feeling ill after eating. She had commented rather sardonically that she did not complain of Donavan’s treatments, for his potions did not taste so awful as some and were unlikely to be poisonous. It was hardly a glowing recommendation in a physician.

Finally, after some time, the man’s posture eased, and he left off peering out the window, appearing satisfied that there would be no pursuit. If Darcy had expected some sort of acknowledgement from him, however, he was to be disappointed. Donavan withdrew a book and began perusing its pages. Occasionally, he glanced towards the footman, ensuring he hadn’t moved. But Darcy may as well have been a bag of bricks on the seat opposite him, for all the attention he was paid.

This illness or affliction had humbled him exceedingly. He had lost, in a few short moments, all of his…rights of self. One might think the physician, with a professional concern, might glance at his patient—even once.

How I wish I could be certain my tongue would obey my brain’s commands! He would give the good doctor a setting down he would not soon forget.

But at least there seemed reason to hope. Plainly, someone had communicated with Lady Catherine regarding his circumstances. It had to have been Fitzwilliam, for he could not think of anyone else who would, and yet, why? The colonel was just as capable of hiring a doctor and burly footmen and a coach. He might have acted through her in an attempt to avoid his father’s censure, but frankly, Darcy himself could barely believe in Lady Catherine’s rescue. It seemed unlikely that Fitzwilliam would conceive this plan and then leave it to their aunt, of all people, to execute.

Could Georgiana have written to her? Certainly, their Darcy relations were the unlikeliest prospects for her to rely upon for defiance if she wished to present any. Truthfully, he could hardly imagine anyone behaving as boldly as Lady Catherine had done today, excepting the colonel. Georgiana had always been terrified of her, so it seemed improbable, and yet…it was possible.

The idea that Elizabeth might, somehow, have intervened crossed his mind, but he had already decided that his brain was not to be trusted. It had been a dream. She had never come to visit him, never appeared at his bedside. It was all in his tangled brain, nothing but a beautiful delusion.

Still, his prospects must have, and all of a sudden, changed for the better. They could hardly get worse. Could they?

* * *

Lizzy awakened on the morning of her twentieth birthday feeling low of spirits. Not that her birthday was ever celebrated at home, but at least she had not lived with a constant dread of homelessness. It was now necessary to avoid direct conversation with Harriet for as long as possible to delay any discussion of departure. After returning from her early-morning rendezvous, she ate breakfast and returned to her room before Harriet could join her, wondering what she ought to do. Pulling her trunk from the small adjacent dressing room, she began the careful process of folding and rolling, packing all but a few necessities, feeling as though she must be prepared for any eventuality. But she did not have so many possessions that the task took more than a couple of hours. A book passed another, but restlessness soon set in.

Harriet had intended to shop with Martha today, and she had probably left the house by now. But as Lizzy had no maidservant—and was uncertain of her status in the household—she was loath to compel Mrs Morris’s servants to accompany her on a walk. She took enough of a risk, she knew, going out alone in the early morning hours. She might, however, walk down the seldom-used clifftop path from the eastern edge of the crescent—still in sight of the Morris row house but in the out of doors, away from the park, with its public paths and public notice. Matching thought to action, she slipped out of the quiet home through the tradesman’s entrance.

The wind whipped at her skirts, but at least it had ceased raining. While this neighbourhood traded upon dramatic scenes of the ocean’s majesty, her current view took in Sea Cliff Lodge, a mild English country idyll placed improbably within a wild and reckless setting. Which window is Georgiana’s? she wondered.

Her contemplations were abruptly curtailed by the sudden appearance of a travelling coach-and-four with outriders turning up the long drive approaching the Lodge. When the enormous, lumbering black-lacquered coach—complete with cherubs and gilded Greek gods glistening upon its roofline—passed through the gate, she lost sight of it.

Could this be Georgiana’s aunt, answering her letter with a personal visit?Will she take Georgiana with her when she departs? Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, blinding her to any views.

Quickly returning to Mrs Morris’s home, she went back to her chamber until she could get herself under better regulation. Georgiana should go with her aunt, if that was an option. She needed to be safe within the loving arms of family, family who truly cared, and away from her awful companion and obnoxious Lady Matlock. Perhaps her aunt was here to take charge of both Darcys.

And that is good,she reminded herself. Not only would their best interests be looked after, but it relieved her of at least one worry, amongst so many others. It was selfish to grieve at their exodus from her life. She tried opening her book again, but the stupid tears kept blurring the page. A tap at her door startled her from her bleak thoughts. What now?

“Come in,” she called.

It was Doris, the upstairs maid. “Excuse me, miss, but you’ve a message. The lad is waiting a reply.”

Puzzled—and a bit alarmed—Lizzy took the note from the maid’s outstretched hand and broke the seal.

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