Chapter 13
Sam entered Atlas’ stall with fresh hay, speaking quietly to the horse. Elizabeth should have been embarrassed to be so close to Mr. Darcy, but she was not. Instead, she appreciated his kindness.
“How is he?” She sat up. Her neck ached from the awkward position, but concern for Atlas pushed the discomfort aside.
“I need to check the wound again.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was rough with fatigue. He moved to the box, lamp in hand, and Elizabeth followed.
Atlas stood with his head lowered, his breathing steady. Mr. Darcy carefully peeled away the bandage, examining the area in the lamplight.
“Still clean,” he said with relief. “No fresh bleeding.”
“That is good.”
The three took turns throughout the night checking the wounds. At dawn, Sam examined the horse and found no further bleeding.
“The crisis may be over,” Mr. Darcy said as they stood together as the sun rose. “If we can keep infection at bay for another day or two—”
“Then he will heal,” Elizabeth finished. She wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it.
Once Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy arrived to provide aid and Longbourn’s housekeeper brought a tray for Mr. Darcy and Sam, Elizabeth was persuaded to go into her house. Jane met her at the door with tea and a gentle scolding about the necessity of caring for herself as well as the horse.
“You look exhausted, Lizzy.”
“I am well enough.” Elizabeth accepted the tea gratefully.
Jane grew concerned. “Mr. Darcy looks worse than you do. He will make himself ill if he continues.”
“I know. But I cannot convince him to leave Atlas’s side for more than a few moments.” Elizabeth set down her teacup. “Jane, he loves that horse as much as I do. Perhaps more. The thought of losing him—”
“Then you must help him save Atlas,” Jane said simply. “Both of you, together. You are stronger together than either of you could be alone.”
Elizabeth thought of the long night, the shared vigil, how they had worked together without needing words.
“I will do as you suggest,” she said. “Atlas will need fresh bandages soon.”
After resting, Elizabeth returned to the stable to find Mr. Darcy and Sam examining Atlas. Their furrowed brows made her stomach clench.
“What is wrong?”
“He is too warm.” Mr. Darcy’s hand rested on Atlas’s neck. “And look—the wound.”
Elizabeth moved closer. The edges of the wound, which had been clean that morning, showed the faintest hint of redness.
“Infection?”
“Perhaps. It is early yet. We caught it quickly.” But Mr. Darcy’s voice held a tension that belied his calm words. “We need to clean it again.”
“Tell me what to do.”
They spent the next hour carefully washing the affected area with water that Cook had boiled and cooled to a bearable temperature. Mr. Darcy applied more salve with meticulous care while Elizabeth held Atlas steady, murmuring reassurances to the horse.
“There,” Mr. Darcy said finally. “That is all we can do for now. We watch him. Keep the perimeter clean. Pray the infection does not spread.”
But by evening, Atlas stood with his head hanging lower, his eyes dull, his breathing labored. The redness surrounding the injury had spread, and despite their best efforts, a thin line of pus had begun to seep from the edges.
“No,” Elizabeth said, pressing her hand to Atlas’s chest. “No, this cannot be happening.”
Sam’s face was dour. “We need to lance the wound, sir. Drain the infection before it spreads further. It will be painful for him, and there is no guarantee—”
“There is no guarantee it will work.” Mr. Darcy’s voice broke slightly. “But we must try.”
“Yes. We must try,” Elizabeth said.
Mr. Darcy and Sam worked by lamplight, their hands steady despite the strain evident in every line of the men’s bodies.
Elizabeth held Atlas’s head, spoke to him constantly, and tried not to flinch when the horse’s muscles tensed with pain.
When it was done, the wound drained, cleaned, and dressed with fresh bandages, Mr. Darcy and Sam stood, trembling from exhaustion and fear.
“Will he survive this?” Elizabeth asked hesitantly.
“I do not know.” Mr. Darcy’s honesty was painful but appreciated. “Infection is unpredictable. Sometimes a horse fights it off. Rarely—” He stopped, unable to finish.
“Then we will fight it with him,” Sam said. “We will not give up.”
“No,” Mr. Darcy agreed, his eyes meeting hers. “We will not.”
The days that followed tested Elizabeth as she had never imagined. Atlas grew weaker, his legs swaying when he stood, his head hanging low. They drained it twice more, hoping it would be the last, watching with dread as the infection persisted.
Elizabeth cried more than once, pressing her face against Atlas’s neck and begging him not to give up. Each time, Mr. Darcy was there—steady, calm, refusing to allow her to spiral into despair.
“He is still drinking,” he would point out. “That is significant. Horses who have given up refuse water. Atlas is still fighting.”
Miss Darcy spoke from behind them. “How much can he endure?”
“More than I think, probably.” Mr. Darcy said, his hand was comforting on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
She desperately wanted to lean into him. Instead, she took the tea tray from his sister’s hand.
Mr. Darcy reassured them, “I know you both are frightened. I am frightened too. But we cannot let Atlas see our fear. He needs to know we believe in him.”
So Elizabeth tried. Tried to be strong when she felt like breaking.
Tried to believe when doubt crept in during the long night hours.
And through it all, Mr. Darcy remained her anchor—checking the wound with methodical care, adjusting treatments based on Atlas’s response, explaining everything.
Hence, she understood what was happening and why.
On the third day, Mr. Darcy waited until his sister returned to the house, then took Elizabeth aside, his expression grave. Not a few minutes prior, Atlas laid down, no longer strong enough to stand.
“Elizabeth, we need to discuss something difficult.”
Her stomach dropped. “What is it?”
“Atlas is in pain. Considerable pain, though he bears it with his usual stoicism. And the infection, despite all our efforts, is not improving as quickly as I had hoped.” He chose his words carefully.
“There may come a time—I pray we do not reach it, but there may come a time—when the kindest thing we can do for him is to end his suffering.”
“No.” The word came out fierce, immediate.
“I do not say this lightly.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his pain.
“But I love him too much to let him suffer needlessly. When a horse can no longer stand, can no longer drink, when the pain becomes too great— Elizabeth, continuing to fight at that point is not love. It is selfishness.”
Tears streamed down her face. “But he is still drinking—”
“Yes. And as long as he continues, we continue to fight. I am not suggesting we are at that point now. I am simply—” He drew a breath. “I am simply asking you to understand that if Atlas tells us he is ready to stop fighting, we must listen. Even though it will break our hearts.”
“I cannot—” Her voice broke. “I cannot lose him. Not now. Not when I have only just—”
Mr. Darcy pulled her into his arms, his embrace solid and sure. “I do not want to lose him either. But our wants do not matter as much as his welfare.” He stroked her hair gently.
Elizabeth pressed her face against his coat and cried—for Atlas, for the unfairness of it all, for the fear that had been building for days. And Mr. Darcy held her, his strength unwavering, his presence the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
“Forgive me,” she said finally, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “I should be stronger. You need—”
“I need you exactly as you are.” His hand cupped her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For staying calm when I cannot. For loving Atlas enough to make the hard choices if they become necessary, but not before.” She managed a weak smile. “For being exactly who you are, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
His eyes widened slightly at her use of his Christian name.
A sound from Atlas’s box made them both turn. The horse whinnied.
Mr. Darcy was there in an instant, his hands steadying, his voice calm and reassuring. “Easy, boy. Easy. We have you.”
Atlas stabilized, but the incident left Elizabeth shaken. He was so weak. So very weak.
“He needs water,” Mr. Darcy said. “But he has been refusing it for the past few hours. Elizabeth, bring the bucket. Let us try together.”
They spent the next hour coaxing, pleading, trying every trick Mr. Darcy knew to get Atlas to drink. The horse turned his head away from the bucket, from the water mixed with honey, even from the grain mash that had always been his favorite.
Finally, as the sun began to set on the fourth day, Elizabeth pressed her face against Atlas’s neck and whispered, “Please. Please do not give up. I know you are tired. I know you hurt. But please keep fighting. Just a little longer. Please.”
Mr. Darcy stood at the box door, his face carved from stone, watching, assessing, preparing himself for the conversation he had warned her about.
She turned to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “One more day. Please. Just give him one more day.”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes moving between Elizabeth and Atlas. She saw the war in his expression—his love for the horse battling with his compassion for a creature in pain, his desire to honor her request balanced against his responsibility to make the hard choices.
“One more day,” he said finally, quietly. “But Elizabeth, you must prepare yourself. If he does not improve by tomorrow morning—if he still refuses water, if the fever does not break—I will make a decision. For his sake.”
“I know.” She barely got the words out. “I know.”
Mr. Darcy moved to stand beside her. They stood together in the lamplight, drawing strength from each other as Atlas struggled. Elizabeth had never felt more helpless in her life.