All's Fair in Love and War and Death

by Anne Morris

  “Thank you, Mr. Cole.” She was very grateful for the respite and the ride.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She froze in the act of clasping Mr. Cole’s hand as Elizabeth heard her name called. Her eyes swept up and bored into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s, who was walking up the road behind her. Her hip twinged again as her foot slipped on the little step of the trap. Mr. Cole’s hand became an arm which braced her fall as Elizabeth’s feet met the ground without grace, though she did not lose her balance.

  “Colonel!” she cried out to him. “Colonel…however?”

  “We’ve come,” Fitzwilliam shouted as he came up beside her and Mr. Cole. The farmer looked confused at her and the army man speaking in tongues to each other. Mr. Cole also did not know Colonel Fitzwilliam by sight since he was not part of the local militia.

  “Mr. Cole gave me a ride,” Elizabeth explained unnecessarily.

  “I am Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said the soldier to the farmer.

  “Sir,” nodded Mr. Cole. There was a long pause. “Care for a drink?”

  “No, I thank you,” replied the colonel. He was looking at Elizabeth who looked worn and ragged. Fitzwilliam was wondering if the farmer might be paid to take them both back to Netherfield.

  “…heard the soldier owed money to other officers,” said a voice.

  “…wonder if Wickham owed the colonel money, that’s why he’s angry with the lot,” said another.

  “…but will Mr. Darcy cover Wickham’s debts to smooth it all over? Darcy’s rich as Croesus. That would certainly get him out of trouble for dueling,” said another man.

  Fitzwilliam froze in reaching to touch the farmer on the shoulder to get his attention to ask for a ride. The discussion among the men outside the public-house was difficult to ignore. He walked two paces over to address them.

  “Couldn’t help but hear you’re discussing the duel,” he remarked. “My foolish cousin, Darcy. I’m Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

  “Heard you were there,” said one man, raising an eyebrow.

  Another shook his head as he looked at the colonel, “why you’d try to kill each other, I don’t know. And then a damned tree does the job for you!” the man laughed. He showed no shock for his language when Elizabeth came to stand beside the colonel. She grabbed his arm.

  “One of you said you thought my cousin ought to pay for Wickham’s debts?” prompted Fitzwilliam. He was tempted to put a comforting arm around Elizabeth, but they were back in the living world now. Any protection Fitzwilliam could afford her was governed by society’s rules.

  “Yes,” nodded the man.

  “As though he’s alive and kicking?” the colonel tentatively asked.

  “So rumor has it,” replied the man. “The colonel’s surgeon said that Darcy fellow would recover.” The man took a pull on his drink. “Eventually,” the drinker added when he put his tankard back down.

  “The surgeon?” Elizabeth Bennet spoke finally. “Did you speak to him, or is this just news that you have heard?”

  “Aye miss, the surgeon was here saying as how he pulled the bullet out and got blood all over his hands this morning and gave the man up for dead. But someone from Netherfield Hall came to find him as Darcy’ has not yet given up the ghost.” The man noticed Elizabeth’s face go pale. “Beggin’ your pardon miss.” The man nodded, looking away.

  “Mr. Cole!” bellowed Colonel Fitzwilliam. The man had already passed into the public-house, but Mr. Cole dutifully came back outside.

  “Yes,” the farmer nodded, though he did not look pleased.

  The colonel was fishing through his waistcoat pockets. “Mr. Cole…I will pay you,” he looked down at the assortment of coins in his hands. “I will pay you a crown and a half,” coins clinked, “…two bob, and…” Fitzwilliam attempted to count through the pennies but then shook his head. “...assorted pence to drive us to Netherfield Hall right now.”

  “Just to drive you up to the Hall?” Mr. Cole asked in astonishment; his entire demeanor changed.

  “To Netherfield, yes!” agreed Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “I will,” answered the farmer, eager now. The colonel passed over the three half-crown coins, two shillings, and assorted pence in his hands to the astonished Mr. Cole. Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth climbed up behind him in the trap and began riding the short distance to Netherfield Hall.

  Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth stared at one another as the horse and cart bumped over the road towards Netherfield Hall. Neither dared to speak. Apparently, there was a third survivor of the trip to the other world. Darcy had come back. They almost held their breath in anticipation as they rode, and contemplated how he had come back.

  Fitzwilliam expressed his thanks to Mr. Cole before Fitzwilliam leapt down and reached up to help Elizabeth. Netherfield Hall stood solid and warm-looking as they ascended the steps to the main door and knocked. Visitors, though they felt like warriors come to lay siege to a castle.

  “Sir!” cried the butler upon opening the door, his eyebrows raised in shock and concern. It showed the state of affairs in the household that such a servant would react in such a manner.

  Fitzwilliam did not wait but swept in with Elizabeth on his arm.

  “Where is he?” Fitzwilliam asked as he made for the drawing-room which had formerly held Darcy’s body. The colonel wondered if the butler recalled who he was.

  “Colonel! He’s…Mr. Darcy has recovered!” cried the butler, his shoes making no sounds as he followed behind the colonel. “Mr. Darcy’s in his room, with the surgeon and the apothecary fawning over him. Mr. Bingley asked about you.” The man stopped and watched as Colonel Fitzwilliam, with Elizabeth Bennet on his arm, moved towards the stairs. “And after Miss Elizabeth too,” the butler threw after them as they made their way up the stairs.

  ***

  Fitzwilliam tugged Elizabeth up the stairs and then turned down the hallway. Darcy’s chambers were just across from where she and Jane had stayed. Fitzwilliam knocked fiercely on the door. A footman opened it, and they walked in together, propriety not to be followed in this case.

  Mr. Jones, the apothecary, and another man—the militia surgeon, she presumed—were on either side of Darcy who lay propped up in the bed. Darcy was shirtless, and Elizabeth blushed looking at his semi-naked body, though he was swathed in bandages. His skin was almost as white as the sheets and the bandages. Fitzwilliam Darcy must have lost a great deal of blood.

  His eyes were closed, and though Elizabeth willed him to look at her, he did not. Elizabeth clutched dreadfully then at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arm.

  “Is he…will he live?” Elizabeth whispered.

  “Darcy has been given a chance by his father,” Fitzwilliam whispered back. “He will live.”

  Elizabeth squeezed his arm, not in agreement, but more to assure herself that his words were the truth. The colonel had been a doubter that morning but seemed to have taken to heart the reality of the other world now.

  “Colonel!” cried Mr. Jones as he turned to spy the visitors. “You are this young man’s nearest relative?”

  “I suppose I am, though Miss Bennet will be as soon as we can get Reverend White in to unite these two,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  The apothecary, like the butler, was not one for expressions of emotion, but his surprise at that statement was evident. Perhaps it also alleviated the tension in his shoulders at having a maid in a sick room who was not related to a male patient.

  “He fooled us all,” pronounced the surgeon. Elizabeth had never met him. She wondered if he did not have sufficient rank in the militia that the surgeon had never received the social invitations that the other officers had. Perhaps he was not of a commissioned rank, but if he had managed to save Darcy’s life, the man was a general in her book. “No pulse, no heartbeat. All that…” the surgeon stopped speaking as Elizabeth’s face went white.

  Someone brought her a chair, and the colonel let her sink into it. It was a stiff, horsehair-stuffed chair, covered in a dull damask, and
yet, Elizabeth thought there was nothing softer or finer as she sat and watched the surgeon attend Darcy. Bandages were being changed, and Mr. Jones was preparing some concoction to prevent a fever.

  Elizabeth was numb and in shock. Now that she was back to life, her trials hit her in multiple ways.

  Her body demanded rest; her eyes drooped, and Elizabeth had to keep dragging them open. Her emotions were in turmoil having thought she had lost her beloved, found him again against every probability, only to believe she had lost both him and the colonel. But here Elizabeth sat in Darcy’s bedchamber. No one shooed her away as she watched the ministrations of the professional men (and as Colonel Fitzwilliam paced and growled almost like that black dog they had left behind).

  Her knowledge of this world and the other had been enhanced, but Elizabeth thought that it was knowledge she wished she did not have. Too much knowledge of what might befall one can lead to either being too reckless or too cautious. Elizabeth thought about what Darcy had said on the other side. ‘It is normally not for us to know how many years we have ahead of us.’ Would their life together be affected because Darcy knew too much of what was to come? Because her beloved knew how much time he had—when he was to die?

  ***

  Elizabeth must have dozed off a little, as Mr. Bingley was there, kneeling beside her. His was a kind and welcoming face to wake to, though his smile was a bit sad. Bingley’s hand had gently covered hers in an attempt to wake her, and that light touch did the trick.

  “I fear you are tired, Miss Elizabeth,” he declared. His smile brightened. “I have had to see my sister Caroline off to London. She was most distressed with the news about Darcy.” His eyes twinkled a little. Such was his nature that Mr. Bingley could always find a little amusement in any situation. “Louisa and Hurst took her away just as the surgeon and apothecary were sent for. They left just as we discovered Darcy was not a…well, as we discovered he was not truly gone from us. I fear we are a bachelor household now.”

  She had to raise a hand to cover a yawn. “I see.” Elizabeth nodded. “I cannot stay.” She wondered that Mr. Bingley had not corrected Miss Bingley’s assumption that Darcy had died.

  “My carriage is yours,” Mr. Bingley smiled. “Whenever you need it. But it has been an extraordinary day. Minutes or an hour are not going to matter in returning you to Longbourn.”

  “Has Darcy woken up?” Elizabeth asked, turning her eyes from Mr. Bingley’s pleasant blue over to the bed. The surgeon had left, but Mr. Jones sat contemplating Mr. Darcy almost as though Mr. Darcy was some Roman statuary. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat in the shadows in another chair. He appeared to be sleeping.

  “No. Darcy may sleep days before he wakes,” Mr. Bingley replied gently, and again laid his hand softly on hers. Elizabeth recalled what Jane had shared about losing her heart to this man, and Elizabeth thought him extraordinary in the face of adversity. Bingley appeared a little whimsical and foolish at times in society, but his kindness and loyalty were strengths that surely made him the best of men.

  “You will allow me to visit if I go home? You know Darcy has asked me to marry him?” Elizabeth explained.

  “Yes. It is the reason for that bullet in his gut, Miss Elizabeth. Darcy would no more brook a word against you,” said Bingley. He realized that was the wrong thing to say as tears came to her eyes. Elizabeth did not wish to feel she was the cause of his death, or near-death.

  “He loves you, Miss Elizabeth. Of this, I am assured. You may come to see him,” Bingley pledged. “Perhaps, to appease the neighbors, you should bring a chaperone?” His eyes danced again; it was merely in his nature to find joy. Perhaps he was thinking of Jane, though Jane could no more chaperone Elizabeth than any of her sisters could.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I will go home then,” she said. Elizabeth pulled her hand out to pat his. “And thank you for the offer of the carriage.”

  “I will order it for you,” Bingley stated. He stood, and with another small, but encouraging smile, he left.

  Elizabeth stretched her legs and feet before she stood and walked to the bed. Darcy was still lying propped up on a multitude of pillows though a sheet covered his form now. Mr. Jones looked up from his contemplation of Darcy to glance at her. Elizabeth thought the apothecary wished to ask about their betrothal, but there was a slight shake of the head.

  “I have never seen anything like this, Miss Elizabeth. I have not been to war. I suppose the colonel or Captain Miller have tales, but Mr. Darcy has come back from the dead. I have no other explanation for it,” Mr. Jones mused.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth agreed as she stared at Darcy’s pale form. “Darcy has come back from the dead. I am extraordinarily lucky to have him still.”

  The apothecary was surprised again. Mr. Jones thought it Darcy who was lucky to be alive at all, not Elizabeth Bennet to have him.

  “Miller said he removed the bullet and did all he could for him this morning. I suppose that explains it. Though I have never heard tell of a man lying so long…” Jones paused as he stopped himself and contemplated his word choice, “lying in state, mind you,” the apothecary continued as he danced around the topic of Darcy being thought dead for half a day before recovering. “I shall pass the night with him to ensure there’s no fever.”

  “He is a young man and is healthy,” Elizabeth asserted, looking at her beloved’s handsome face. “Perhaps we need not wonder too much about it. Darcy was not really dead; his body was just healing itself.”

  “Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, you are correct,” replied Mr. Jones, who joined her in gazing at the patient.

  Elizabeth moved to the other side of the bed and reached a hand down to him. Darcy’s arm was warmer now than when she had touched him that morning. How long until you recover? Elizabeth wondered.

  Mr. Bingley returned to say the carriage was ready. Somehow, Colonel Fitzwilliam roused himself and told her he would escort her back to Longbourn. Mr. Bingley was gentleness itself in piling rugs over her lap as Bingley saw them off.

  “Colonel, how do I explain my absence to my family? And how is Mr. Bingley so remarkable?” Elizabeth asked as they rode towards Longbourn.

  “I believe men are called to step up in extraordinary circumstances, and Bingley has proven his colors. He asks no questions when action is required. We, Darcy and I, shall have time in the future to speak to him about the day’s events,” was his reply.

  “Mr. Bingley has proven to be an exceptional friend,” Elizabeth agreed.

  “Yes,” Fitzwilliam answered. “And I am escorting you home as I mean to apply to your father for your hand.”

  “Colonel!” Elizabeth cried in shock.

  “On behalf of Darcy! On behalf of Darcy!” Fitzwilliam placated as he fumbled in his coat and retrieved the license. “Darcy came to London to get this, did you know?”

  Fitzwilliam handed her a piece of paper. It was crumpled and worn and looked old. There was a dark stain on it that Elizabeth suspected was blood. But it was a marriage license with Darcy’s and her name on it.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy, his occupation was listed as ‘gentleman,’ and his name was attached to hers: Elizabeth Bennet, spinster. It was dated two days before.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth whispered as she looked at it. Tears fell onto it and added to the damage the license had already experienced. The love she had for Darcy came back with a vengeance warming her more than Mr. Bingley’s rugs had. “Colonel, I am so very much in love with your cousin,” Elizabeth said all in a rush.

  “I know,” Fitzwilliam replied.

  Elizabeth wiped at her eyes and spent the rest of the ride contemplating the words on that paper before her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There was quite an uproar at Longbourn when they arrived. Elizabeth had been missed. Perhaps there was some additional worry, given the news about the duel, about her own fate. Her stepmother and many of her sisters knew about her love for Mr. Darcy, so they had reason to be concerned with tales of the duel and Mr. Darcy’s
death having been carried to Longbourn.

  Elizabeth deflected as many inquiries as she could, saying she had lost herself in walking after Colonel Fitzwilliam had brought her his terrible news, and after the colonel had then taken her to Darcy’s side. But now there was the startling news of his recovery to share which distracted her family from other, more uneasy questions about her missing time. Colonel Fitzwilliam, meanwhile, asked to meet with Mr. Bennet.

  Mr. Bennet was not quite sure what to make of the man before him. Once or twice, Bennet had wondered how the situation would unfold when a worthless young man came to beg him for one of his daughters’ hands in marriage. It had never occurred to him that one man might ask on another’s behalf.

  He first viewed the unknown man with a great deal of suspicion (and wearing a red coat which added to Bennet’s uneasiness). Mr. Bennet had, at least, suspected that he would have some acquaintance with his future son-in-law. But to have one stranger ask on another stranger’s behalf puzzled him exceedingly, and Bennet said so.

  “Why doesn’t this Darcy come and ask me himself?” Mr. Bennet protested as he glared at the soldier across from him. The man frowned back as he brought his hands together in front of his chest, though it was not a sign of prayer.

  “Darcy is lying injured in his bed,” was the army man’s reply.

  “Well, what is the rush?” cried Bennet, who disliked any disruption to his day or his routine. “Why does Mr. Darcy not wait until whatever ails him has passed and then come ask me himself?”

  Those fingers became interlaced, and the knuckles turned red and white as his grip tightened. “Have you not heard any of the news today, sir? About the duel?” demanded the colonel.

  “Duel?” frowned Bennet. “A fight? What has that got to do with my Lizzy?”

  “Mr. Darcy was injured, shot in a duel. He fought for your daughter’s honor. I doubt anyone in Meryton has talked of ought else today,” said this man to him.

  “Well…I’ve been reading,” Bennet answered, deflecting his ignorance.