Chapter Fourteen
Bingley ripped off his own cravat to press it against Darcy’s chest to staunch the flow of blood.
“Let us lift him to the back of my gig,” a man called as he brought his carriage to a halt near them.
Darcy gasped audibly when a group of men lifted him to rest upon the narrow bench.
A man in regimentals reined in beside the gig. “I am a surgeon,” he explained.
“Darcy House,” Bingley instructed, “opposite the square.”
“Can someone take my horse?” the captain asked as he climbed up onto the gig to assist Darcy.
“I have it, sir,” another man said.
“Follow me,” Bingley ordered while catching the reins of Darcy’s horse.
While they bounced along the unpaved riding circle in the park, Darcy counted his own heartbeats while the captain’s fingers probed Darcy’s shoulder. The man was none too gentle, and Darcy could not disguise his moan of pain. “Come on, sir. Do not leave us now!” the captain ordered, and Darcy forced the darkness to retreat where he might view the countenance of the man leaning over him. Dark eyes. Nearly black. Dark brown hair on his head and the rough scratch of a beard on his cheeks. He resembled the Devil more than an angel meant to save him.
Within less than a handful of minutes, their party had circled the park to pull to the kerb before Darcy House. Darcy heard both Bingley and the captain barking orders, but all he could execute was to count his breaths. Soon his footmen had surrounded the gig. Bingley was expressing his gratitude and telling the man if there was damage to the seat to send notice to the name on the card, and he would make the man whole. The two men who had assisted with the horses refused payment, as Darcy’s servants lifted him from the carriage to place him on what had to be an interior door, but from where it came, he did not know. Likely repairs would be required inside, but he was blessed for his staff’s concern.
They carried him into the house. He could hear Georgiana crying and begging him not to die, but all Darcy could do was to consider how he wished he had told Miss Elizabeth something of his affections.
“What has occurred?” Fitzwilliam demanded.
The surgeon directed Darcy’s footmen to carry him to his chambers. “Leave him on the board until I remove the bullet.” They balanced him as best they could carrying him up the stairs, but he could hear the captain identifying himself to his cousin and saying, “A man in regimentals fired at Mr. Darcy. That is the name, correct?”
Darcy could hear Georgiana gasp when Bingley said, “Wickham.”
With that, Darcy heard little else. He closed his eyes and set himself the task of surviving for Georgiana’s sake. He could not leave her alone in the world. Moreover, he would not give Wickham the satisfaction of killing him.
Elizabeth had known happiness for her youngest sister’s sake, when Mr. Wickam rode into the circle before Longbourn Tuesday morning at about eleven on the clock—much later than any of them had expected, but he had arrived, nevertheless. Though Elizabeth had not relished the idea of hearing Lydia’s constant complaints, they would have been more tolerable than standing witness to her eldest sister marrying the man Elizabeth affected. In her private estimation, the idea was worse than anything Lydia had executed against the family.
Lydia scampered out the front door to rush into Mr. Wickham’s arms. The fact that the man frowned spoke to the lieutenant’s true lack of admiration for his wife. “I told them you would return,” Lydia declared.
“Of course, I returned,” the lieutenant said in apparent distraction, but Elizabeth could not ascertain the source of the man’s obvious urgency. “Are your things packed? Did you see to mine also?”
“Yes, George,” Lydia said obediently.
“Then let us fetch them,” he ordered. “We should be on our way. We might catch the noon coach from Meryton if we hurry.”
“What of the horse and our meal?” Lydia protested.
“I won the horse and saddle fair and square,” Wickham said too quickly to be believable. “Now, I can join those riding in maneuvers instead of marching behind them.”
“How shall we travel?” Lydia asked in confusion, but Elizabeth already knew the answer.
“I will ride beside the coach as an outrider. Protecting everyone,” Wickam declared. “We will only require one fare on our journey north.”
“You shall protect us all,” Lydia declared with a smile and a happy step as she rushed to do the lieutenant’s bidding. Meanwhile, Elizabeth imagined Wickham riding away at the first flicker of trouble on the road.
“I pray, Father Bennet, that you hold no objection to my feeding and watering the horse?”
“None whatsoever,” her father announced, but Elizabeth noted the slight smile marking her father’s lips before he presented her orders. “Elizabeth, dear, would you ask Cook to pack a bag for Mr. Wickham and another for Lydia? Something portable for their journey north.”
“Very kind, sir,” Wickham mumbled, but with no real enthusiasm.
“Mary,” Mr. Bennet instructed. “Please assist Lydia. She and Mr. Wickham do not wish to miss the noon coach. After all, ‘our dear Wickham’ must return to his duties in the north.”
Darcy had drifted in and out of consciousness while the unknown surgeon had dug deeply into Darcy’s shoulder. Even with the large dose of laudanum they had poured down his throat, the pain was excruciating. He heard Fitzwilliam say, “Someone should go after Miss Bennet. She must be informed of what has occurred. The Bennet family was to depart Hertfordshire this afternoon.”
“I will go,” Bingley could be heard saying, but all Darcy could do was to knot the towel beneath his right hand into a tight ball to which to cling. He wanted to ask Bingley to bring Miss Elizabeth instead of Miss Bennet, but he could not form the words. He wished to extend his apologies to the woman and confess his undying, rather, perhaps he should say “dying,” loyalty. Even if he must marry Miss Bennet, he would see that Miss Elizabeth wished for nothing in her lifetime. He would even encourage Fitzwilliam to marry her. She deserved better than the life of spinsterhood.
The captain ordered Darcy’s footmen to hold him in place while he made another cut. As Jasper and Declan laid out across his chest and opposing shoulder, the surgeon cut deeper into Darcy’s chest. He had attempted not to scream, but it was an impossible task he had set before him. He heard Georgiana begging the captain not to hurt him and Mrs. Annesley’s voice encouraging his sister to come away, but there was no means for Darcy to assure either that he would not leave her, for the darkness was all too encompassing for him to fight it any longer.
They had all brought their luggage downstairs, placing it in the front hall to await the carriage being brought around when an unknown coach entered the paddock.
“Who could that be?” Kitty asked as she rushed to the window to view the carriage. “I have never seen it before. Beautiful horses.”
“Maybe Mr. Darcy means to see us safely delivered to London or he sent an extra coach so we will not be so cramped in ours. Such a very considerate man,” Mrs. Bennet surmised. None of them had fully disclosed their plans to their mother.
“It does not have Mr. Darcy’s crest on the outside,” Kitty announced with a frown. “A gentleman is stepping down. Fine cut to his clothes. Reddish blonde hair. Not as tall as Mr. Darcy or the colonel.”
A hasty knock at the door and a whispered exchange in the hall had the gentleman shown into the large sitting room.
“Mr. Bingley!” Jane exclaimed with the first genuine smile Elizabeth had noted on her sister’s lips in longer than Elizabeth could recall. Assuredly, it was long before Jane’s engagement to Mr. Darcy. “How pleasant of you to call. Have you decided to view Netherfield Park, after all?” The man did not respond immediately, and Jane continued on, “As you may assuredly see, we were preparing to travel to London today.”
“I was aware of your journey,” the young man said solemnly. “Such was the purpose of my traveling to Hertfordshire.”
Jane appeared disappointed. Therefore, Elizabeth said, “My sister has forgotten her manners. I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” She gestured to where her parents stood together. “Mr. Thomas Bennet. Our mother, Mrs. Bennet. Two more of our sisters, Miss Mary and Miss Catherine. And you are Mr. Bingley? I recognize your name. Mr. Darcy spoke of how you and he have been looking for an appropriate estate. I understand you are familiar with our Uncle Gardiner.”
Neither Jane nor the gentleman had moved. Their eyes remained on each other. “Yes,” the man said, and “yes” again. At last, he turned to their father. “I must beg your forgiveness, sir. I have come on a dreadful task. I have . . . I have come at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s request to fetch you. You specifically, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth’s senses were suddenly on full alert. “Why Colonel Fitzwilliam?” she asked, while a sense of dread rushed to her chest. It was then that she noticed several smudges of mud on the man’s riding boots and one on the knee of his pantaloons. The white of his shirt also had a splash of red dots. Blood? The room swirled before her eyes, and she thought to faint, but she locked her knees in place to prevent a swoon, though she knew better than to hold her position for long, but long enough to take in several restoring breaths. “What has happened to Mr. Darcy?” she demanded.
“Darcy has been shot, miss,” the man declared in solemn tones. “We are not confident of his survival. I have been instructed by the colonel to deliver the news to Miss Bennet.”
“Will he survive?” Elizabeth implored, as the room again spun before her eyes. Mary had been close enough to offer an arm for Elizabeth’s support.
“I cannot say with confidence, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley offered in sympathetic tones. “Fortunately, there was an army captain also in the park this morning. He is a surgeon and has performed an operation on Darcy to remove the bullet and several fragments.”
Elizabeth’s mother shrieked in despair. “It cannot be,” she declared. “He is to marry our Jane on Thursday.”
“I fear, ma’am, even if Darcy survives, it will be many weeks before a marriage can be considered.”
“You were with him?” Elizabeth demanded, ignoring her mother’s hysterics. “How did it happen? Are London’s streets so lawless? Was this in Mayfair?”
“One of the parks on the rim of Mayfair. A riding trail employed there by many gentlemen in the early hours so they may give their horses their heads while the ladies have yet to rise for the day.”
Elizabeth continued to ask the questions which remained silent on Jane’s lips. “Did Mr. Darcy argue with the man who shot him?”
With a shake of his head in the negative, Mr. Bingley denied the idea. “No, he was offering me an apology for what was supposedly an affront of my person. I was quite irritated with him, but not enough to wish him harm. Darcy has been a steady companion since our university days. Even when we do not see each other for long periods, I have always loyally considered him a solid bloke. A chum. An honest friend.”
“Then a complete stranger shot him? Was the man drunk?” Elizabeth still asked the questions that should have been on Jane’s lips.
“No.” Mr. Bingley again shook off her assumptions. “Darcy had argued with the man, some four days prior. A long-standing disagreement with the son of his father’s former land agent.”
Elizabeth again reached for Mary’s arm for support, while her father stated what she already knew. “Mr. Wickham attempted to kill Mr. Darcy and then came to Hertfordshire to retrieve our Lydia and take her back to Newcastle as if nothing untoward had occurred?”
Mrs. Bennet screeched for her smelling salts and swooned onto the nearest couch. “Our Lydia will be ruined! What are we to do?”
“One disaster at a time, Mrs. Bennet!” her father barked his instructions. To Mr. Bingley, he said, “You were charged with a task, young man. You should be about it.”
Mr. Bingley squared his shoulders. “Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to believe Miss Bennet would wish to oversee Darcy’s care.”
“Would it not be more appropriate for the colonel and Miss Darcy to do so?” Jane pleaded. She looked about her as if someone else should make the decision for her. “I am not customarily helpful in such situations.”
“You must go, Jane!” Mrs. Bennet had sat up. “A death bed wedding would present you with the privileges of Mr. Darcy’s widow.”
Elizabeth noticed that both Jane and Mr. Bingley flinched, while Jane declared, “Mama, such is not appropriate.”
Elizabeth said solemnly, “I believe you must go, Jane. Our trunks are already packed. Leave the wedding clothes here. You are not of the nature of one who wishes to be Mr. Darcy’s bride at all costs, but you owe the gentleman your loyalty—one way or the other, you should be near. Moreover, Miss Darcy could use the support of Miss Jane Bennet, her brother’s betrothed, at this time. If there is the smallest chance you can arrive in time to speak your devotion or your farewells, it must be done.”
“You will go with me?” Jane asked tentatively. “You know I faint at the sight of blood. You and Mary are much better with those who are ill or injured.”
Elizabeth looked to Mary, who nodded her agreement. “Mr. Ericks would demand it of me,” her sister said softly.
In less than a half hour, trunks had been sorted and placed on Mr. Bingley’s coach. Cook had provided a basket of bread and cheese and cakes, but none of them appeared hungry.
“I pray Jane will not be a widow before she has the opportunity to know marriage,” Mrs. Bennet declared in continued insensibility, as they all departed the house for a second time on this day.
“Jane cannot be a widow before she is married, Mama. Think upon the silliness of your words.” Elizabeth argued as she crawled into the coach before the others. She meant to be in London as quickly as possible.
“Write when you know the nature of the full story,” her father ordered, and Elizabeth nodded her agreement. Within minutes, Mary followed and then Jane. At last, Mr. Bingley managed his farewells and joined them. Soon, they were on the main road towards London, and Elizabeth began to count off the seconds in her head until they reached Mr. Darcy’s home.
In St Albans, Mr. Bingley’s coach stopped so the horses could be changed out. Elizabeth had not entered the inn with Mr. Bingley and her sisters. Instead, she stood on the small porch and continued to count off the minutes. By her estimation, they still had an hour to reach the outskirts of London proper and then however long it would be to Mayfair. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that Mr. Darcy would live. “Even if he intends to marry Jane, dear God,” she murmured, “permit him to survive. I cannot imagine . . .”
When she opened her tear-filled eyes, Jane was before her. Elizabeth swallowed hard, while her sister smiled. “It is as I suspected. How long have you loved Mr. Darcy?”
“For nearly six years,” Elizabeth admitted. “In truth, perhaps I did not always love him—loathed him for more years than I care to name. Yet, in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.” A sad understanding formed in Jane’s blue eyes. “I am sorry, my sweet Jane. I promised myself I would never admit it even to myself.”
Jane gathered Elizabeth into her arms. “I am sorry to have wronged you.” When they climbed into the coach again, the two eldest Bennet sisters sat together on the coach’s forward-facing seat. They held hands, just as they had done throughout most of their lives. They remained as such until Mr. Bingley’s coach rolled to a stop before the most fashionable house Elizabeth could ever imagine, though, in truth, her eyes were not on its grandeur. She would not be happy until they rested on “his” face, and she knew he was still alive.