Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (191 page)

Elizabeth’s body lay pressed against a fallen log at the edge of the creek. A stable man was gingerly turning her onto her back when Darcy fell to his knees in the mud next to her. “She is alive, sir,” he said, gazing at Darcy with watery eyes. “I am so sorry, Mr. Darcy. We passed this spot three times, but the darkness and her position camouflaged her presence. It was only Stan spying her shoe caught above that finally alerted us.”

Darcy nodded, unable to speak, as he bent to examine his unconscious wife. He could easily understand why the searchers had not seen her. The log, which had fortuitously prevented her from landing in the water, had also effectively blended with her dark hair and dress, rendering her nearly invisible. Most of her hair had come unpinned during her frantic run and tumble down the twenty-foot slope, and her dress ripped in a dozen places.

Darcy managed to croak out an order for more light and to send for the physician, duties that were hastily executed. Darcy was no stranger to death and
maiming. Managing an estate as vast as Pemberley unfortunately included the occasional catastrophe, such as what had occurred at the shearing shed today when a hoist had broken, crushing two men under the plummeting bales of wool. Of course, none of those previous disasters had involved someone precious to him. Horror clutched in his soul—fear tormented—and only years of stringent self-possession and a steely backbone kept him thinking rationally.

He noted first a gash above her right temple where blood had caked with the mud, forming an ugly mess in her hair, but the wound did not appear to be actively oozing. Her skin was cold, the pulse in her neck rapid and thready, but her respirations regular and unlabored. Her bare right foot was swollen and bruised at the ankle. He did not palpate any obvious broken bones or other lacerations. In fact, the primary damage seemed to be to her head. She was wet and shivering, so he called for a blanket. Lifting her carefully into his arms, he navigated, with assistance, up the slippery slope and onto his horse, returning to Pemberley Manor slowly.

The house was a flurry of activity and blazing lights. Darcy carried Elizabeth to their bedchamber, in retrospect a time-consuming inconvenience, but it only seemed fitting. He was firmly but gently pushed away as Mrs. Reynolds and Marguerite took over. He retreated to the foot of the great bed, clasping one pillar for support and watching the women begin the task of cleaning and examining his wife. It was several minutes before he marked the splotch of blood staining the front of his shirt. He puzzled over it for a bit, inventorying his person for a wound of some kind, when his befuddled and agonized mind grasped that it had come from Elizabeth. He must have articulated an exclamation of some sort because all eyes turned to him, Mrs. Reynolds’s face grim as she nodded.

Darcy was confused and suddenly felt weak. The outer door opened as the physician and maids with fresh water buckets came in. Voices erupted with inquiries and explanations. Darcy heard “unconscious” and “ankle” and “bleeding” and more, but it all seemed to come from far away and through a fog. He vaguely heard his name called but as if from a million miles away. The room started to spin, his vision blurring as he tightened his grip on the bedpost.

“Master Fitzwilliam!” It was Mrs. Reynolds’s authoritative snap, calling him by a title he had not worn since a young boy, that partially restored his clarity. She was right before him, face stern but loving. “Mr. Darcy, you must sit down.” She took his elbow and guided him unresistingly to the chair by the fire.

“But…” he began.

“Listen to me! We must attend to Mrs. Darcy. We cannot afford to have another patient on our hands! Do you understand? Stay here and put your head between your legs.” She patted his head affectionately, gestured to Samuel who hovered at the door, and returned to the bed. In seconds Samuel was by Darcy’s side, pressing a glass of brandy into his slack fingers and ordering him to drink.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting with only sporadic glimpses of Elizabeth, but was in fact only an hour, the doctor approached Darcy where he sat slumped in the chair. He jerked to his feet, swaying slightly, face creased with misery and entire body filthy with dried mud and blood.

“Mr. Darcy, let us speak in the sitting room.”

The two men sat facing each other, Darcy deliberately sitting where he could espy his wife through the open door.

“As you undoubtedly noted, your wife suffered a blow to the head, perhaps several as she fell, but one of which lacerated her right temple. The wound itself is superficial, only requiring six stitches. We cleaned it thoroughly so it should not fester. Luckily, it is well into her hairline and will not leave a visible scar. As for the head trauma, sir, the truth is I simply do not know.

“At this early juncture, her unconsciousness is actually a good thing. She would likely be in a great deal of pain, and sleeping through all this allows her body to deal with it and protects her mind. We have found that these states of suspended awareness generally reap no lasting damage if they persist for a few days. Since we have no way of seeing inside her head, I cannot say with any certainty if there is injury internally.”

“Can you hazard a guess?” Darcy asked.

The doctor spread his hands. “I hate to do that, Mr. Darcy, as there is so much we do not comprehend about how the brain functions. However, considering her relatively good condition overall for falling down what I am told was a twenty-foot, mud-soaked, and rocky embankment, and recognizing her youth and perfect health in general, my
guess
, and it is only a guess, would be that she would recuperate without deficiency.”

Darcy nodded, “Thank you, sir.”

The physician continued, “There is more, Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy suffered a sprained ankle. It is not broken, and the muscles and tendons feel to be intact. I have wrapped it and instructed the women to keep it elevated. It should heal
nicely, although when she does waken, she will need to stay off it for two weeks at the very least. I have examined her thoroughly and, although bruised and scraped, she has no broken bones or cuts that will scar or likely fester.”

He cleared his throat and glanced away briefly, alarming Darcy, before he continued, “The next matter is of a personal, sensitive nature, and I apologize ahead of time…”

Darcy laughed harshly without humor. “In light of all this,” he waved his hand vaguely toward his bedchamber, “I rather doubt you could offend me. Speak frankly.”

“Had you or Mrs. Darcy suspected that she might be with child?”

Oddly, Darcy was not the least bit surprised. He had not knowingly linked the blood on his shirt with the possibility of a miscarriage, but it suddenly fit. “No… that is, we had not discussed the possibility, but it had occurred to me. She is… was… three weeks or so late for her cycle, and,” he sighed deeply and closed his eyes as the turmoil of the past days abruptly crashed over him. “She had said nothing to me, but she has been extremely irritable lately, although I do not know if that means anything.”

“Oh yes, it certainly can. My wife was horr…” the doctor paused and flushed slightly and Darcy laughed faintly, surprised at the strange humor of the situation.

“Well, that is good to know, I suppose,” he whispered. “So, she has… lost… the baby?”

The physician frowned, “The truth, Mr. Darcy, is that I cannot be sure. She bled, a great deal, but not as much as normally seen with a miscarriage. However, if she was very early in her pregnancy, that may be why. I do not wish to submit her to an examination of that nature at this time. My gentle palpations proved nothing. The bleeding has mostly stopped, also unusual in a miscarriage. I have instructed Mrs. Reynolds in what to watch for. We can pursue the matter in a few weeks when she is fully recovered. In the meantime,” he rose, and Darcy rose as well, “the women will care for her needs. I shall return in the morning. You must rest and attend to your own health, Mr. Darcy. Your wife needs you so you cannot allow yourself to become ill.”

Darcy returned to their bedchamber where Mrs. Reynolds was covering Elizabeth with a blanket. Everyone had left for the time being except the two of them.

“Mrs. Reynolds, thank you for… Well, for everything.”

“Of course, Mr. Darcy. I will leave you two alone for now. Samuel is drawing your bath, sir. I will send a tray up later.”

“Thank you. Will you talk to Miss Darcy? She must be frantic. I will see her as soon as I can.”

Darcy knew there was so much to say, so much to do, but he could not focus on anything other than his wife. Finally alone, he knelt at the side of the bed, too weary to move a chair, and took her hand. Aside from the bandage over the right side of her head, a marked pallor, and a few lingering drops of mud in her plaited hair, she was beautiful and merely appeared asleep.

The women had lovingly cleaned her head to toe, dressed her in a warm white flannel gown, changed the bed linens, and positioned her body comfortably. Darcy tenderly ran his fingers over her cherished face, whispered her name, ultimately giving in to his crushing agony. His head fell to her bosom and he was wracked with convulsing sobs felt in every fiber of his body.

He must have fallen asleep or into a stupor. He returned to awareness at a light touch on his shoulder and a gentle whisper. “Brother?”

He groggily gazed up at the teary, sympathetic face of his sister. “Georgie,” he murmured and held his arms open as she fell into his embrace there by the bed. More tears were shed by both of them, but it was cleansing and nourishing to Darcy to feel his sister’s love and share his grief and anxiety with her. They talked in soft tones, prayed together, and eventually Darcy was encouraged to leave to bathe while Georgiana maintained a vigil at Elizabeth’s side.

For three days they would take turns as companion to the unconscious Elizabeth. Darcy rarely left, primarily only when forced by his bodily needs. He ate little and slept only when his mind betrayed him by slipping into a fitful doze. Georgiana worried as much for her brother as she did for her sister. They all attempted to reason with him, but he refused to listen, the infamous Darcy stubbornness at full capacity, so they surrendered.

The physician came three times each day. Throughout the first and second day he expressed little concern over Mrs. Darcy’s continued unconsciousness. He declared her heart stronger, her breathing regular, her pupils reactive to light, her wounds healing as they should, and her bleeding stopped. She seemed in no outward discomfort. He left a bottle of laudanum, for if she did waken, he assumed that she would be in pain and need relief. This unsettled Darcy but he did not argue. Lord Matlock had sent for his personal physician from London by express messenger; however, it would still take two to three days for him to arrive.

Marguerite bathed her, repositioned her frequently with Darcy’s assistance, and washed her hair thoroughly. Mrs. Reynolds regularly provided warm tea and broths, which they fed by careful spoonfuls. Darcy was numb. His mind refused to function beyond his need to be with her. Mr. Keith and Mrs. Reynolds handled everything else.

By the afternoon of the third day, the doctor was evincing some disquiet. Elizabeth’s overall status was improving. Her ankle was substantially less swollen; the head laceration was healing well and definitely not infected; the other bruises and scratches were in their proper stages of regeneration; and her vital signs were strong. However, the fact that she manifested no indications toward arousing did not bode well for her mental and neurological recovery. He confessed that his personal experience as a physician was not abundant in the realm of head trauma, so he could only speak from a textbook point of view. Whatever the case, there was nothing any of them could do but wait.

When Lizzy opened her eyes she saw… darkness. How long she stared with unseeing eyes was impossible to guess. Eventually, however, two facts seeped into her addled mind: she could see a faint light from somewhere vaguely to her left; and she had a blinding headache. Cautiously and incrementally between stabbing pains, she turned her head to the left, recognizing after a grueling period of chaotic scrutiny that the light came from the fireplace in their bedchamber. Her eyes fuzzily drifted about the familiar room while her mind refused to function and the pain threatened to engulf her. She probably fell asleep for a time, because, next she knew, her eyes opened again to a slightly brighter light that she sluggishly realized was twinges of a sunrise peeping in through the windows.

The pain was there as fierce as ever, but she did seem to be more in control of her thoughts and her eyes focused clearly. As cautiously as before, she turned her head to the right, alighting on the dearest sight imaginable. Her William. He was asleep beside her, clothed, and covered with a light blanket rather than under the comforter with her. She frowned, sending throbs through her skull.
He looks horrendous.
At least three days’ growth of beard, dark circles under his eyes, lips chapped and pale, and hair uncombed. It made no sense and hurt too much to try reasoning it out.

“William,” she said, aware immediately that no sound had actually passed her lips. She closed her eyes, willing the headache away, licked her incredibly
dry lips with a tongue equally dry, and tried again. “William.” A vague squeak was all. It took five more whispers to finally rouse him, and then he only stared at her as if paralyzed.