Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The Surgeon’s Report
Darcy did not at first recognise the rider turning in at Netherfield’s gate. Twilight and distance reduced man and horse to a single dark shape against the pale winter fields. Only when the figure swung down with an easy, familiar motion did his chest ease.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir,” the butler announced a few minutes later. “He begs a few moments before he resumes his journey.”
Darcy met his cousin in the smaller parlour. Richard’s greatcoat was travel-stained, his boots were splashed with half-frozen mud.
“I understood you already with your regiment,” Darcy said.
“I shall be there to-morrow,” Richard replied. “My leave is quite spent. I could not pass so near without calling.”
Darcy poured wine for them both. “Your letter reached me this morning. I did not expect to see you as well.”
“I thought it best to confirm matters in person.” Richard took the glass. “You are therefore prepared for what I have to say.”
“Wickham is still in Holborn,” Darcy said. “Under Mrs. Younge’s roof.”
“Very much so. She greeted me as if I were an old friend, and began at once to lament the expense of nursing him.” A hard smile crossed his face. “I gave her no encouragement.”
Darcy set the glass down with enough force to make it ring. “You saw him.”
“I did.” Richard’s tone lost what little lightness it had held.
“The hand is as bad as Greene describes—swollen, discoloured, foul. He has a fever and can scarcely stand. Greene urged amputation again. He refused again. There is nothing to add, save that the man is as obstinate in sickness as he has ever been in health.”
Darcy inclined his head. “And Greene understands our arrangement?”
“He does. He knows his fees are to be taken from funds lodged in your banker’s hands, and that he is to write to you whenever there is any material change. If he neglects his pen, he loses his pay. If Wickham attempts to stir from that house, you are to be warned at once.”
“So my money keeps him under observation,” Darcy said, his lips pressed firmly together, “and will not, in the end, prevent his death.”
“For a time it keeps him where he can do no mischief,” Richard answered.
“I left enough to cover Greene’s attendance for a fortnight and no more.
Mrs. Younge will see that the letters go forward, if only to preserve her own comfort.
She is in great dread of being left with a dying man and no prospect of reimbursement. ”
“Does she understand how precarious her own situation is?”
“I took care that she should. I told her, as plainly as a lady of her understanding can bear, what charges might be laid if she were to speak a word of Georgiana in any public place, or if she allowed Wickham to trouble you again. Her livelihood depended upon her character with respectable families. Even the rumour of prosecution would ruin her. She comprehends that much.”
“And Wickham?”
“He was not in a condition to comprehend anything clearly.” Richard’s brow arched.
“He managed a few insults before the surgeon’s knife claimed his attention, but he will not be riding after heiresses for some time to come.
Between the wound, the fever, and Greene’s determination, he is as nearly confined as a man can be without gaol walls about him. ”
They were both silent for a little. At length Darcy said, in a lower voice, “Georgiana has told me all. Your instructions—what she might do if she were ever forced to resist—may have saved her.”
Richard’s expression altered—pride, anger, and grief passing over it in quick succession. “Then my coarse lectures were not entirely thrown away,” he said. “I am only sorry she was ever brought to need them.”
“As am I.” Darcy met his eye. “She is safe now. That is owing as much to your exertions as to mine.”
“Say rather that it is owing to hers,” Richard replied quietly. “The courage was hers. We have only done, afterwards, what we ought—somewhat late.”
He drank, then set the glass down. “And what of her present situation? I hear reports of Longbourn and its ladies. Are you still much among the Bennets? Ought I to make my bow there before I go on?”
Darcy hesitated. “They are…kind. Mrs. Bennet is full of gratitude. Mr. Bennet hides more sense than he chooses to display. As for Miss Elizabeth—” He stopped, aware too late how easily her name had risen.
“She has been of the greatest service to Georgiana. Miss Elizabeth says that so long as my sister is at Longbourn, she is under her protection, and she seems resolved to keep that promise.”
Richard’s brows lifted. “Does she indeed?” His look held more amusement than surprise. “Then if I have any thanks to offer, it appears I should address them there.”
“That will not be necessary,” Darcy said, more sharply than he intended.
“No?” The corner of Richard’s mouth flicked up. “As you please. I shall take my cue from you, and content myself with your report of Miss Elizabeth’s sentiments.”
Darcy had no answer ready to that and was relieved when Richard reached for his gloves.
“I must be on the road. My general expects me before Christmas Eve. You will write, when Greene’s further reports reach you?”
“You shall hear from me. And if Wickham—or Mrs. Younge—forgets the terms you have laid down, they will find my patience has bounds.”
Richard gave a short, humourless laugh. “For their sakes, I hope they never put it to the trial.”
He took his leave. As his cousin rode away, Darcy turned back into the quiet room, thinking of Georgiana at Longbourn, of Mrs. Annesley’s steady presence beside her, and of the surgeon in London, whose pen and knife—both now in his pay—stood between his sister and the man who had so nearly destroyed her.
The flames sank and flared again. He thought of Miss Elizabeth at Longbourn, standing her ground, sheltering Georgiana from both pity and curiosity without once seeking consequence for herself.
Loyalty, steadiness, courage in the face of every awkward eye—these were the very qualities he had long supposed peculiar to his own circle, the virtues in which he had most prided himself.
It was a mortifying reflection that a gentleman of ten thousand a year should be taught them afresh by a country gentleman’s daughter with no fortune and no connexions to recommend her.
The Meryton Assembly
Mrs. Bennet adjusted her best shawl with an air of profound agitation. “I cannot conceive why you should choose to remain at home, Mary. The Netherfield party will be there—gentlemen from London—and you wish to sit indoors reading sermons!”
Mary, who had been arranging cushions for Georgiana’s comfort in the drawing room, did not look up from her task. “I have no great fondness for assemblies, Mamma. The music is always too loud, and the conversation too frivolous. I had much rather remain here with Miss Darcy.”
Georgiana glanced up at her with a look of quiet gratitude. “I am glad you do, Miss Mary. I should have been sadly dull alone.”
“There will be dancing—and gentlemen!”
“Neither of which hold any appeal for me.” Mary glanced at Georgiana with a small smile. “Miss Darcy and I meant to work through some new music this evening. I find that far more improving than being jostled about by gentlemen who cannot keep time.”
Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands in despair. “You are the oddest girl, Mary. I wash my hands of you. Elizabeth! Jane! Are you ready? We must not be late!”
Elizabeth came down the stairs in her best muslin, freshly pressed for the occasion. She found Georgiana and Mary in the drawing room, both apparently content with their choice to remain behind.
“You are certain you do not mind staying?” Elizabeth asked Mary quietly.
“I am certain. Georgiana and I shall have a far pleasanter evening than you will, I suspect. Assemblies are always such a crush.”
“We have a sonata to conquer, have we not, Miss Mary?” Georgiana said, her eyes brightening. “I am determined to keep my part, if you will promise not to overtake me with your steadiness.”
“You will find me equal to the task,” Mary replied, with a touch of pleased importance. “Miss Darcy is an excellent partner—she never hurries me, and she never laughs when I am solemn.”
Georgiana reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “You must tell me every thing when you return. I want to hear all about it—the dancing, the music, every thing.”
“I shall give a full account,” Elizabeth promised, squeezing her hand. “I own I am half tempted to stay here myself. Your evening of music sounds far more agreeable. Assembly rooms are always overheated, overcrowded, and supplied with remarkably weak punch.”
Mrs. Annesley, who had been sitting quietly with her needlework, looked up with a sympathetic smile. “Enjoy yourselves, young ladies. We shall be comfortable here.”
E Elizabeth hesitated. “Does Mr. Darcy not go with the Netherfield party, then? I own I am surprised he would forego an opportunity of observing the neighbourhood.”
“Mr. Darcy prefers to remain at Netherfield,” Mrs. Annesley answered, with composed propriety.
“He is pleased that Miss Darcy should have cheerful company, but he is unwilling to be much in company himself whilst curiosity about her situation might arise. He thinks it better that her name should not be the subject of enquiry at present.”
Georgiana coloured and looked down. Elizabeth could not blame him. A brother who had nearly lost his sister might be forgiven for wishing to guard her from every idle question. She curtsied and followed her mother and Jane to the carriage.
The assembly rooms at Meryton were already crowded when the Bennet party arrived. Mrs. Bennet immediately began scanning the company for unfamiliar faces, her fan working with vigour.
“There,” she whispered, gripping Elizabeth’s arm. “Near Sir William. That must be the Netherfield party.”