Elizabeth dropped the candlestick, horrified at her actions. “I just meant to hit him a little!”
“So did I!”
“I’ve been shot!” Darcy said.
Bingley dropped the chair and joined Elizabeth as they abandoned the unconscious Kincaid and ran to Darcy who was only sitting up because his body had fallen against the column and so was propped up. From the front he looked fine, if a little pale, but a quick inspection revealed that the pillar and the back of his coat were both quickly soaking with blood.
“Darcy, are you all right?”
Darcy gave Bingley a look he would normally bestow on a complete idiot.
“Well, he’s conscious at least,” Bingley said. “Where does it hurt?”
Darcy didn’t respond at first, apparently more than a little stunned at this new prospect of being shot in the back. Finally he gasped and said in a tiny voice, “I’m a little cold, to be honest.”
Elizabeth put her hands on his cheeks. “Stay with us, please, darling.”
Darcy did not respond. He was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’ll get help,” Bingley said.
“Get the constable! And a decent surgeon! Darcy will not be cut up by some student!”
Bingley could only nod as he disappeared out the door, barely stopping to close it behind him. Meanwhile, Elizabeth removed her coat and placed it over Darcy who was shivering and trying to say something. “Shhh. You don’t have to say anything.” She inspected him again and saw no blood in the front, only blood pouring out his back. As far as she could tell from the tear in the fabric, he’d been shot in the upper chest very close to the shoulder. “The bullet hasn’t gone straight through.” She didn’t know if that was good or bad. All of the blood was making her nauseous, but she swallowed it down. There was no time for that now. “Darcy?” His eyes were closing again, and she dared to shake him, just a little. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, for the record, if you die, I will never forgive you.”
His face gave no indication that any of her words were registering, but he was making an attempt to keep himself awake. “Lizzy—”
“Don’t tire yourself. Please, just stay with me.” She did not even notice the entrance of the constables that Bingley had alerted. She did not hear their questions. “Darcy, please.”
He smiled. “I—I love you.” And then his eyes rolled back into his head, and there was no more visible struggle. Elizabeth hugged his chest and wept until someone pulled her off to make way for a man who seemed to be some kind of doctor. Bingley was nowhere in sight.
This man felt Darcy’s pulse and put his head to his chest. “He’s alive. He’s just unconscious from the shock.”
“I take it this is not his home,” said the constable, turning to Elizabeth.
“No,” she said, trying to collect herself. Darcy was alive. “No, no. It’s that man’s—the man who shot my husband.” She pointed to Kincaid. The pistol had dropped from his hand on impact from her strike and was lying next to him. “I’m Mrs. Darcy. We have a house in the West End. Can he be moved?”
“It would be best to try to stop the bleeding first,” said the apparent physician. He called for a constable to help him get Darcy to a couch as another held Mrs. Darcy and kept her from running to her husband. “’Sit okay if we cut off the garb? Some gents get angry—”
“No, no, do whatever you have to do.” She was a little annoyed at the constable holding her back, but she had not the strength to resist him. Instead she watched helplessly as they cut away the sleeve of Darcy’s coat and shirt, exposing the wound, which the physician immediately covered with the cloth from his undershirt and pressed down on.
Time seemed to be moving in another realm; Elizabeth thought only moments had passed since she had seen her husband go down, and yet they were bandaging him, and before she knew it, someone had taken away Kincaid in chains, and Mr. Bingley appeared soaked and half covered in mud from the waist down. He was flanked by a curly-haired man with glasses and a large black bag. “This . . . is . . . Dr. Maddox,” Bingley said between heaving breaths. Had he actually run the whole way to his townhouse? “Very good . . .”
Dr. Maddox bowed to Mrs. Darcy and the constable and turned immediately to Mr. Darcy and the attending physician. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to stop the bleeding.”
“Is there an exit wound?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we have to get the bullet out as soon as possible. But that must be done in more sanitary conditions. Here—let me bandage him. Can someone prepare a stretcher? And we’ll need several blankets.”
The constable holding Elizabeth went to handle these orders; once released, she ran to her husband who was on his stomach and totally unresponsive to her voice. It was Bingley who took her in his arms, and she could feel his heart still pounding, probably from all the running. On any other day, the sight of Mr. Bingley running through slushy, muddy London on a cold November day would be an amusing one, but at the moment, she found no comfort. “He’s going to be all right. This is the best doctor in Britain.”
“He just . . . he couldn’t stay awake. He tried so hard.”
“I would actually prefer him to remain unconscious for the trip to your residence,” Dr. Maddox said, not facing her, consumed in his work as he tied up the bandages winding them around Darcy’s arm. “It will make the trip easier. Someone, please tell me when things are ready.”
“Is the bleeding stopped?”
“It won’t be until I sew it up, and I can’t do that with a bullet in him,” Maddox explained in a calm, decisive, but compassionate voice. “I assume he would want this done in his home.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
“Then can one of you send ahead orders to have water heated to boiling then covered and put outside to cool so it will be ready when we get there?”
“I’ll do it,” Bingley said, releasing his hold on Elizabeth, and he ran out to find a messenger or to run there himself.
With his patient temporarily stabilised, Dr. Maddox bowed to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, I assume.”
“Yes.” She curtseyed to him, but the action was too much for her, and she toppled over. “This is very selfish of me, but I need to be ill.”
“I understand.” Without question, he helped her to the kitchen where she lost her afternoon tea in a basin. “Look, the stretcher is here. Everything is going to be fine, Mrs. Darcy.” He left her when she seemed steady again to attend to his more pressing patient, but sincere as he sounded, she had trouble believing his words.
***
The short ride to the Darcy townhouse was the most torturous ride of Elizabeth’s life. Not only did the usual rocking of the carriage make her queasy, but the fact that the carriage was following a wagon with her husband covered in blankets made it positively unbearable. Only Bingley’s presence and calming touch as he held her shaking hands kept her from swooning.
When they stepped out and the servants rushed to them, it finally occurred to her that she would have to deal with Georgiana Darcy, who must have been told by the messenger. “Brother!” the girl cried, and was only kept away from the stretcher by Dr. Maddox who insisted that they’d better get him inside as fast as possible, and it was easier without her in the way. They got him upstairs to an audience of horrified servants and into his bedchamber where everything had been prepared, and the maid was just gathering together extra towels.
The first order of business was apparently who was to go in the room. “Mrs. Darcy, I must insist—,” Dr. Maddox said in the doorway.
“No use in that,” Bingley said. “If you weren’t the doctor and you were still standing in the way, she would strike you with a candlestick right now.”
Elizabeth gave Maddox a look of extreme severity, one that made him back out of her way. She did turn back to Georgiana. “Why don’t you organise the water we’re going to need? Dr. Maddox wants it boiled and then cooled. And we’ll need lots of disposable towels.”
> “Darcy—”
“I know.” She hugged her sister. “I know, but I think he would take great comfort in you not watching this.”
“He’s not going to cut his arm off, is he?”
“No . . . No?” She looked at Maddox for confirmation, and he shook his head. “No. Please, help your brother by helping in the kitchen.”
Georgiana was not one to put up a fight, and so she disappeared. Maddox emptied the bedchamber of weeping maids and called only for a single servant “with a strong stomach.” He allowed Bingley and Mrs. Darcy to stay and asked that the door be closed as he opened his bag and began to unload a strange assortment of instruments onto the bed stand.
Meanwhile, the patient was coming around. Mr. Darcy mumbled incoherently and made some attempt to move, as if he were trying to get off a rough spot on the bed he could not identify. Elizabeth took his hand. “Darcy.”
“Can we sit him up?” Maddox said as he washed his own hands. He took a bottle of green liquid and a spoon and pulled up the chair in front of Darcy. “Mr. Darcy, do you think you can swallow?”
Darcy opened his eyes, but his answer was incomprehensible. Maddox filled the spoon. “Open his mouth, please.” The servant awkwardly opened Darcy’s mouth. “Now, Mr. Darcy, this is not going to taste very good, but trust me when I say it will make this far more bearable.” And then he carefully put the spoon in and emptied its contents. “Now, try to swallow.” Darcy managed to do as he was told. Everything else, he was fairly oblivious to. “Good, good.” Maddox put the jar and spoon aside and took a piece of leather from his bag. “You’re going to want to bite down on this.”
Again, there was no real answer, but it wasn’t expected at this point. They got Darcy on his stomach, exposing the wound, and at Maddox’s insistence, Bingley kept Elizabeth turned away, but she would not relinquish her hold on Darcy’s hand. From the corner of her eyes she could see Maddox putting his glasses up in his bushy hair and peering close to the wound with his instruments, and it was up to her vivid imagination to invent what was taking place. It did not take much work.
It took a long time, longer than she expected. How long did it take to find a bullet? It was black and metal, and it didn’t belong there. Maybe it was buried in bone. Again her stomach turned and threatened, but she swallowed the bile and tightened her grip around Darcy’s cold and unresponsive hand. “You’re doing well, darling. Did I tell you Geoffrey said his first word? It was his name.”
Time and time again Dr. Maddox called for more towels and the warm water. “Aha!” he said finally, holding up his pliers with the small bullet that had brought so much havoc into their lives. He put it on a saucer on the bed stand beside his other items. “Don’t dispose of it. Now then, Mr. Darcy, the hole is very small, and the worst is over.” He asked the servant for his needles, and Elizabeth sobbed again as Dr. Maddox went to sew up her husband. Only Bingley’s firm hand kept her from peeking at the actual procedure. “There. Just one more wash . . . Mr. Darcy, you are a most excellent patient.”
It was hard to judge Darcy’s reaction to any of this during the operation because he was face down on the bed, his head turned away from Elizabeth, and he made very little sound. It was only when Dr. Maddox gave the order for them to turn him back over was it clear that he was at least partially conscious, but he said nothing when the bit was removed. Dr. Maddox washed his hands for what seemed the tenth time, removed his bloodied smock, and replaced his glasses. “There should be at least four layers of cloth between him and the sheets, and they should be changed at least every six hours,” he said to the servant. “No exceptions.” Again he reached for the bottle and the spoon, which he washed in yet another dish of clean water. “Now, Mr. Darcy, if you would oblige me and open your mouth . . .”
This time he succeeded in opening his mouth on his own, to the great relief of everyone. He was responsive to commands. He swallowed the green solution with a look of distaste. “I know; it is most unsavoury,” Maddox said. “But you’re the better with it; trust me. All right, Mr. Darcy needs his rest, and if I would dare to say, Mrs. Darcy, you need some as well—and perhaps a change of clothes.”
She had not realised how bloodied her own garments had become, as had Bingley’s. “Yes.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, kissed her husband on the cheek, and opened the door for the maid to request a change of clothes. “But first, an assessment?”
“Outside, if you would.”
He was so polite and yet full of authority, at least in his role of doctor. The three of them stood in the hallway outside the master bedchamber. Dr. Maddox pushed his glasses further up on his nose. “I believe he will be fine. It took a long time because the bullet was very close to several nerves in the neck. If I had extracted it too forcibly, there would have been damage, and he might have lost movement in his arm or his leg. Nerves are tricky things. He has lost a lot of blood, but he is young and healthy, so he should recover in time. And I don’t know; he may wish to keep the bullet. Some men prefer it as a keepsake.”
“I doubt it, but thank you,” Elizabeth said. “What was the medicine you gave him?”
“Not snake oil. It is an opium-based concoction, a recipe I got from a medical book in the Cambridge library. It will greatly decrease . . . well, let us say, his awareness of pain. The heart can only take so much, so I feel it is quite necessary.” He bowed slightly to Elizabeth. “I would prefer, if the lady would allow it, to remain in the house with my patient until he is more recovered—”
“Of course. You may stay as long as you like, Doctor,” she said.
“I will break the news to Mr. Hurst,” Bingley said, “and Caroline. It seems I have much news to break.”
“Better she hears it from you than town gossip,” Maddox said, “though I would suggest a change of clothes before you return home, Mr. Bingley.”
“Yes, of course.” He put his hand on Maddox’s shoulder. “We are forever indebted to you, Doctor.”
“Mr. Darcy may not say the same when he first wakes again. He may be cursing me to every layer of hell.” He bowed and excused himself.
“Elizabeth,” Bingley said with concern. “You do not look well. You should rest, and someone should be with Darcy, anyway.”
“How did you know to follow him to Kincaid’s apartment?”
“Probably the same way you did. Darcy is so proper that he forgets that other people might not be,” he said. “Though if we’re counting, I think you did more damage than I did.”
“Only because I chose a metal weapon,” she said. “I must lend you some of Darcy’s clothing, for you cannot go home like that.”
“Good, because he is a much better dresser than I,” Bingley said. “But don’t tell him I said that.”
“If I had the strength to laugh, I would,” she said as Georgiana appeared on the steps.
“Elizabeth must retire,” Bingley preempted her. “I will fill you in on everything, Miss Darcy. The short answer is that he is patched up and recovering.”
The sigh of relief from Georgiana was audible. Elizabeth was grateful when he led Georgiana away because she was barely standing on her own and was eager to rush back into the bedchamber where a maid was waiting. She changed into her nightclothes; Darcy was sound asleep so there was no reason to change behind the dressing screen, but she did it anyway out of habit, at least while the maid was there. Because of all of the towels soaking up blood, she did not get under the covers but stayed above them, covering herself with an extra blanket. Only holding his hand and listening to his steady breathing finally allowed her to drift into sleep. Even in such a state, he was her greatest ally.
Chapter 8
Lizzy Bennet and Fitzers Darcy
Elizabeth was not sure how much time was passing, as she was lost in her own world beside her husband. In a way, it was reminiscent of their honeymoon, minus all the fun, and Darcy was no conversationalist this time around. Whether he roused at all or not she honestly had no idea because she spent her own t
ime mostly asleep, aside from partaking of a few meals that were served to her on a tray. Dr. Maddox seemed to be in and out, but she paid him no attention until he stopped her from returning to bed. “Mrs. Darcy.”
“Doctor,” she said, still a little too dizzy to properly curtsey.
“If you would permit me, I would like to inquire as to your health—”
“I am fine,” she insisted. “Just overtired.”
“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, more insistently, “How long have you been ill?”
There was clearly no hiding it from him. “Counting the journey . . . what day is it?”
“Fifth of December.”
“So . . . the fifth? Really?”
“Yes.”
She did a calculation in her mind. “Then, about two weeks, but . . .” But he didn’t interrupt her. He just let the revelation dawn. “Oh, no. I had no idea. I would not have ridden—”
“At this stage, when we cannot even be sure, I would severely doubt that there is any danger,” he said, “though I would not repeat the ride if I were you.”
“I will know more . . . in a few days, I believe. Until then, not a word of this to anyone.”
Dr. Maddox smiled. “I don’t think Mr. Darcy is in the condition to process the information if you did tell him.”
Further conversation was interrupted by Bingley climbing up the stairs. He looked exhausted himself and surprised to find Elizabeth up and about. “Elizabeth. Dr. Maddox.”
“Mr. Bingley.” The doctor bowed and scurried off like a servant, which, Elizabeth supposed, he technically was, despite whatever entanglements he had with the Bingley family.
“What was that about?” Bingley asked as soon as he was gone.
“I am not a gossip, Mr. Bingley!” she answered. “And besides, it was nothing that concerns you for once, if you can stand not being the centre of attention.”
“I am quite accustomed to residing in Darcy’s shadow as it is. All of the focus is positively draining,” he said. “It is good to see you well.”
The Darcys and the Bingleys Page 23
