Page 49 of A Stronger Impulse

Finally, he did calm, but her dread only increased. He no longer fought at all, no matter how the carriage ride bumped and bruised him, lying still…as still as death.

* * *

Mr Frost had no trouble gaining the direction of The Breakers—though it was dark by the time they reached Brighton. It was described to him as a white stone house, not at all large, but surrounded by unexpectedly lush gardens in dense beds and overlooking a private beach from slabs of chalk-white cliff, perhaps three miles beyond the town proper. While the establishment was small, it likely took a regiment of gardeners to maintain—a pearl of great price, despite its size.

The perfect setting for a new bride,Lizzy thought, rehearsing in her mind what she would say. Her explanations and even the tone of voice in which she would say them, must hit the right note—not imitating Lady Catherine, but too authoritative to dismiss.

To her surprise, however, the housekeeper—who introduced herself as Mrs Davis—hurried out nearly the moment the carriage drew up before the house, greeting them warmly. Before Lizzy could interrupt her effusions to explain the situation, the housekeeper added, “We were not sure, from your letter, whether you would come this week or next, Mrs Bingley. We have been anticipating your arrival.”

In that moment, Lizzy decided she would not correct the woman. The most important object was to obtain good care for Mr Darcy—and she felt the Bingleys would surely forgive her for the pretence. But neither did her prevarications end with the adoption of a surname.

“Thank you, Mrs Davis,” Lizzy said. “Unfortunately, my husband was severely injured in an accident whilst we travelled through London.”

She saw the housekeeper’s enthusiasm diminish as she peered into the dark interior of the carriage. “Shall I call for a doctor, ma’am?”

Should she? Certainly, not all doctors were the awful Mr Donavan, but one more like him would be the certain finish of Mr Darcy.

Lizzy sighed. “Truth to tell, Mrs Davis, the London doctor’s so-called cures have put him into an alarming condition. I fear he cannot withstand any more ‘treatments’.”

“Londoners. Hmph.” The housekeeper snorted. “Our household is not a large one, however, madam. Additional servants should be hired if we’re to be caring for an invalid.”

“We can discuss our needs in the morning. I am…becoming accustomed to nursing him. Our men know just how to move him to cause the least distress. James, Mr Frost, please bring Mr Bingley in. Mrs Davis will show us the way.”

An astute Mr Frost urged a puzzled James forward, and the two carried Mr Darcy into the house, laying him upon a comfortable bed in a large room, well-lit, with a nice fire burning.

Mrs Davis turned towards an adjoining door. “It’s a shame, it is, you being new-married and him so ill. Your room is through here, but I suppose you’ll be staying with your man.”

“I suppose I will,” Lizzy replied faintly, just having realised what other assumptions her falsehood implied. “James, I will need your assistance with, um, undressing Mr Bingley.”

She caught a smirk on the older woman’s face at her hesitation. Well, Lizzy had tasks enough to busy the woman and followed her from the room, while James attended to Mr Darcy. “Mrs Davis, I assume you have honey in the house?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“I shall need you to boil a half-pound of honey with two quarts of the purest water you can obtain. Boil it until it is thoroughly scummed, then bring me the reduction. It is a remedy I wish to apply before it grows much later. Also, marrow broth if you have any, barley water if you do not.” She glanced worriedly back at the closed door of the bed chamber. “And hot water, salt, scissors, clean muslin, and towelling, if you please.”

While these requests elicited an expression of slight annoyance, Mrs Davis did not protest, especially when Lizzy explained that they had eaten on the road—which they had, if only bread and cheese—and would only require such cold collation as was easily available.

Returning to Mr Darcy, she dismissed James with all the borrowed authority of a pretend wife. Her decision had been made. Whilst she had no idea what sort of attack had robbed Mr Darcy of his speech in the first place, and though such an illness was far beyond her ability to mend, he had, she believed, been well on the road to recovery before the interference of a quack. She had treated fevers, burns, and blisters, in much lesser degrees, but many times. She told herself that these were the ailments from which Mr Darcy now suffered, and she was likely as qualified as any to treat them.

Gathering her courage, she carefully peeled back the blankets covering him. James had not dressed him in a nightshirt, and it was obvious why. His shirt was stuck to his back with a glue of dried blood. At the visible signs of his suffering, she felt a tightness in her bosom, a lump in her throat. Tears would not help him, but the unfairness of it grieved her.

Mrs Davis returned, finally, with the requested items, grimacing at the prone figure on the bed, recoiling at the sight of his injuries. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with either of them. “Is there anything else needed, ma’am?”

Yes! I need help, the help of true physicians, people of wisdom and experience! I need Mrs Hill with her powders and Cook with her soups! I need Kitty to sit with me, Jane to share the burden of worry! I need to be anywhere else in the world! He needs too much from too few.

But she would find no succour here, not from the rented servants of a rented house, and the comforts of Longbourn were long gone. There was only young James and old Mr Frost…and herself. Thus, she reluctantly spoke the words of dismissal the servant wished to hear.

“Nothing more, Mrs Davis.”

Then they were alone. Steeling herself, she cut away broad swaths of the shirt until only the cloth plastered to his back and arms remained. Carefully, she wet the wounds with warm water, patting gently, picking at the blood-saturated cloth. Once or twice, he let out a groan when a piece of cloth was particularly stubborn—and Lizzy both cringed at this evidence of pain and was callously thankful for the sign that he lived. Mixing a bit of salt in with the last of the water, she gently cleansed his bared skin. When finished with the process, she straightened, stretching against the cramp of maintaining one position too long.

His back lay naked before her, the violation of his flesh in stark contrast to the strength and beauty of those portions of his form uninjured. Moving away, she opened the windows to the sea breezes, breathing deeply, trying to settle the nauseating feelings at so closely witnessing such brutality. After a few fortifying breaths, she returned to Mr Darcy.

The cooled honey mixture she applied to strips of muslin and gently laid across each wound; a few were minor enough that she decided the open air would do better for them. At least this procedure caused no pain, but neither did he stir again; his skin was hot.

By the time she finished, and had tried and mostly failed at giving him some nourishment, she was so exhausted she could hardly see straight. Briefly, she contemplated trying to sleep in the chair by his bedside, but the enticements of mattresses and pillow were too alluring. Moving to the opposite side of the bed, she placed a pillow at its foot—as far from her patient as possible but close enough to hear him if he cried out. She fell fast asleep almost instantly.

* * *

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