Chapter 5
Was he on board ship? That was the only time he could recall swaying around like this while lying in his berth. He grimaced; the voices were all wrong. No ladies were aboard the ship when he went to the continent. And that voice — the one that knifed through his head — that was Miss Bingley.
Darcy must avoid her, he knew she would compromise him if she had the chance. So why was she here, in this swaying vessel?
His berth tipped and he flailed wildly.
“Sir! No.” Hands pressed down on him. “Lie still, sir. You are injured, and we are carrying you upstairs.”
Not a ship, then.
Maunder wouldn’t be here if it was; he was always ill on board, they had discovered. He tried to open his eyes; the light lanced through and he screwed his face up against the candlelight overhead.
I must find candles like that. I have never seen them so bright. He forced his eyes open again. “Maunder.”
“Lie still, sir. You will be in your chambers directly.”
“No, you must … the candles.”
Why did the man sound so bemused? “Candles, Mr Darcy?”
“Yes, so …” but darkness was overcoming him again and he reached out. Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would hold his hand. No, she must not see me like this!
There were voices around him again. But the berth wasn’t moving, not even rocking as in harbour. So he was not aboard any more. Had there been a shipwreck? He strained to listen.
Bingley. Maunder. An unknown man. He frowned and pain bloomed down his face. He groaned. Humiliation. He must find out what was going on. First, he must sit up. He drew back his arm to roll over. But someone grasped it firmly.
“Have a care, sir!” And Maunder tugged his arm back. “Keep very still. We are cutting your coat from you.”
What? Darcy tried to make sense of things. Another hand rolled his eyelid up. Bright light, and Darcy wrenched his head away.
“One moment, Mr Maunder. While he can swallow, let us administer this.” The strange voice again. Close. Too close for a stranger, and Darcy raised his other hand to push him away, but the pain in his chest bloomed and his hands went instinctively to press against his ribs.
“Be careful, Mr Darcy. You were set upon outside and we are trying to help you.” The strange voice was calm and unemotional. “Now, please allow us to assist you to sit up and drink this.”
Darcy blearily tried to see who it was, but the lights were too bright and not only that, somehow his eyes did not want to obey him to open more than a fraction.
“Who…”
“I am Mr Jones, the apothecary, sir. Now let us lift you.”
Maunder was on his other side, and an arm slid under his head — acute pain — to lift it and then a pillow was placed there. But it was too much. Blackness, and a feeling of helpless, uncontrollable rage.
Was it only an instant, or many hours? Darcy couldn’t tell. But the voices were further away now. Still very clear. He must not move, or he might not hear what he needed to.
“… a concussion of the brain …” that was the apothecary, he thought. Now some inaudible words. Bingley. Speak up, man!
The apothecary was speaking again “… you must be careful, his confusion will likely change to anger and an uncertain temper. He will not be able to check it himself.”
Bingley’s response was dismayed. “He will hate that. And my sisters will not understand.”
“It is not something he will wish to happen, Mr Bingley. It is a well-known consequence of suffering such an injury, and Mr Darcy cannot be blamed for it.”
There was some murmuring then, and he wondered whether he would hear more. Perhaps he ought to get up.
“Now, Mr Maunder,” the other spoke more clearly now. Darcy was glad his valet was here. The man was utterly trustworthy. Wait. Why did he need trustworthy? He could make no sense of it — what had happened? Why?
But there was still talk. “You must continue to keep the facial wounds very clean even though they are not deep. There was a surprising amount of soil as well as gravel, and an infection would worsen the scarring at best.”
Darcy was wary of remembered pain, but almost without thought, he raised his hand to his face. What has happened to me? Why do I not remember?
His face was swollen, his eyes, his nose. Grazes and broken skin under his fingers. His nose was sore, but the worst pain was his ribs. Every breath he took.
“Sir!” Mr Maunder was there, drawing Darcy’s hand away. “Please do not touch your face, sir. It is important.”
Darcy frowned. But that hurt, too. And there was also a heavy throbbing at the back of his head; his hand moved there without volition. The other man’s presence loomed at the other side of the bed.
“Mr Darcy. You have a wound to the back of your head which I have sutured. Again, it is important not to touch it. It will heal better.”
Darcy struggled to open his eyes as far as he was able.
“Good.” The apothecary seemed more cheerful. “Do you understand what happened, sir?”
Darcy knew his head might fall off if he shook it, so he tried to form the words, but no sound emerged. Miss Elizabeth. He wanted to ask after Miss Elizabeth.
“Drink this, Mr Darcy.” The man held a small glass to his lips, and as he was thirsty, he gulped at it. But the bitter taste identified it and he spat it out before trying to glare at his tormentor.
“I did say he would not accept laudanum, sir.” Mr Maunder’s voice was hushed.
“Perhaps he will take some water from you. He appears to be thirsty.” At last the man had something right. Darcy wished he could give him that disdainful, superior look which obtained instant obedience. Unfortunately, he was reduced to this mortifying state.
“Well, I think he had some of the sedative, anyway. I hope so. Until the swelling goes down, he will not get any rest otherwise.”
Darcy scowled inwardly. At the very least he must ensure no one would wrest control of his thoughts. But why that was, he did not know.
“What did that chit do?” Miss Bingley’s voice rose above his thoughts, and he couldn’t prevent himself wincing. “My ball was ruined, and poor Mr Darcy, so disfigured!”
Bingley’s voice was there, too. “Caroline, do not come to his door. It is unseemly, and you must not speak so loudly.” The voices continued until they were cut off abruptly.
“Well, Mr Maunder,” the apothecary spoke over Darcy’s bed after a pause. “I think I will ask Mr Bingley to station two footmen outside this door to ensure there are no disturbances from now on.”
“Thank you, sir. I think that may be best. I … I believe Miss Bingley may be so determined to nurse Mr Darcy herself that she might forget all propriety.”
She might have been permitted in here? Darcy shuddered, then winced. He was satisfied on hearing she would not; but … I would not concern myself with propriety if it had been Miss Elizabeth …
“And despite that, I think you will need assistance in here, too, because …” but Darcy didn’t hear the rest; he seemed to be floating again, rocking. Was he on the boat again? He thrashed out an arm, peering to the side.
On the nightstand, he could just see a square of white, and somehow, he knew he must reach it. Was it hers?
His hand had almost touched it when Maunder took his arm.
“No sir. Leave it, please.”
Somehow, it was important. Dizziness, rocking boat, obstruction. Rage. Nothing mattered. Darcy gathered all his strength and tore his arm free.
“No!” His voice was not his own, but it was clear enough. But his body wasn’t fully under his control; he was going to fall. Strong arms caught him and the two men pulled him back onto the bed.
“Have a care, man!” Bingley was there, too, and Darcy’s humiliation was complete.
He could see the white square still there, but he had no more energy to reach for it.
He was slumped back uncomfortably, but could do nothing, could not even make sense of the voices, just vague sounds.
The candlelight was piercing, even through his closed eyes.
He really must get some of them for reading. Soon.
Someone rolled his eyelid back again, and the light speared into his head. Is that groan from me?
“Well, some of that laudanum obviously stayed down. Perhaps you will have a chance to rest before it wears off, Mr Maunder.” Meaningless words. Darkness again.