Chapter One #2
How long he lay unconscious he knew not, but when he was aware of himself, he was lying not on the hard, cold street, but on something soft and comfortable.
He felt nothing to either side; it must be a bed, or a very wide sofa.
Although his eyes were open, he could make little sense of the dim lights and shapes that swam around him, and in the background, a hum of indistinguishable noises assaulted his ears.
“Ah, you are awake. Good job!” A cheerful voice broke the web of darkness that still encompassed his mind, and he was able at last to take in his surroundings.
He was lying on his back on what seemed to be a cot in a large and ornate room.
From his supine position, the shapes above him coalesced into a beautiful trompe-l'oeil ceiling, complete with winged cherubim and baskets of fruit so realistic that in his daze, he winced as he imagined a bunch of grapes falling upon him.
The mouldings where the walls met the exquisite ceiling were as elegant as the artwork, and from what he could see without moving his head, the walls themselves were richly papered in some deep colour he could not quite determine.
He raised his head to take better account of the rest of his surroundings, but a wave of pain and nausea forced it back onto its pillow.
“I would advise you not to move,” the cheerful voice rang through the throbbing in his head. “You took quite a knock when you fell, and with the blood you lost from your injury, I suspect you will be happier remaining still for a while yet.”
The voice came closer, and a face interposed itself between Darcy’s soft pillow and the magnificent ceiling.
Of indeterminate age, with thin greying hair and a pair of gold spectacles, the man tilted his head and offered a smile, which shone from watery eyes.
“Name is Yarrow. I’m a physician.” He introduced himself.
Darcy groaned. “Lord Stanton summoned me immediately upon discovering you upon the stones. He watched from his carriage as you defended yourself against those curs who set upon you and described exactly what he saw. You ought to be proud of yourself, young man. Not many of your set would prevail against three such as they. No, do not move. Here, have some water.”
The face swam out of view, and almost immediately Darcy felt a hand under his head, raising it enough for a small ladle of water to make its way to his lips. He drank gratefully, then mouthed for more. “Slowly,” the cheerful doctor urged. “One sip at a time.”
When he had drunk his fill, Darcy shifted again and, despite Doctor Yarrow’s caution, tried to raise himself to sitting.
His left arm, he discovered, was bound to his body, his forearm lying across his middle.
His right leg ached mightily, and he felt the skin might tear with the motion.
With a great effort, and ignoring both the doctor and his aching body, he pressed himself up with his right arm and sat up, drenched in sweat and pain, as he waited for the room to cease its relentless spinning.
“Ah, one of those,” the doctor quipped. “Your determination will see you recovered soon, but do not press yourself too much.”
“What happened?” The words scratched themselves from Darcy’s throat. “How...?”
“May I entice you to lean back, sir? Then I shall explain.” The pounding in Darcy’s head convinced him of the wisdom of the suggestion, and he allowed himself to be lowered until his head rested once more on a mountain of pillows, but with his upper body sufficiently inclined that he could see something of the space around him.
“Good,” the doctor nodded once, and then seated himself beside his patient and informed Darcy of his injuries.
The strike to his thigh had been a sharp stone, flung from the slingshot, that had torn a gash through his leg.
“That leg will smart for a while,” Doctor Yarrow explained with good humour, “but as long as infection does not set in, there should be no permanent damage, other than an impressive scar.” He explained how he had doused the wound in alcohol, as per the most modern military procedures for battle wounds, stitched it closed, and had seen no sign of infection as of yet.
The crack to Darcy’s shoulder had been more serious. “I believe that rock broke your clavicle, your shoulder bone, that is. Not much we can do about that, other than keep it still and give it time to heal. A month, perhaps two, should see you right. I’d recommend a nice long rest somewhere.
“You did lose a fair amount of blood through that gash to your leg,” Doctor Yarrow continued, “which would account for your subsequent loss of consciousness. You hit your head rather hard on the stone street when you went down. That can be a serious injury indeed, but you came to quickly enough, so I foresee little trouble there.” He peered at Darcy’s eyes and bade him to track a moving finger without moving his head.
“Seems all right. Still, I would caution you not to move for some days. Lord Stanton assures me you may remain here until I give you leave to depart.”
“But I cannot... I have appointments to make, and business to attend to...”
“And they will all keep. Messages can be sent. Ah, here is Lord Stanton.” The doctor rose and gave a neat bow, then addressed Darcy one last time.
“I shall return in the morning, young man. I’ll ask him to summon me if you take a turn for the worse.
I’ve left a draught to help you sleep. Your lordship,” he bowed once more to the newcomer and departed the room.
Darcy attempted once more to struggle upright, but the room swam about him, and he succumbed to the pull of his pillows.
“Do not, on any account, attempt to move,” a new voice sounded, and a different face now hovered above his own.
“The doctor informs me you must rest and rest you shall. I am Stanton, at your service. You are my guest until Yarrow informs me you may be moved. May I have the honour of knowing to whom I speak?”
Darcy blinked and the face came into focus.
Stanton seemed only some ten years older than himself—somewhere between five-and-thirty and forty years of age, Darcy surmised—and possessed dark eyes and hair that had not begun to grey.
His manner was soothing and everything elegant, and he spoke with the calm tones of a man more accustomed to sober thought than rash action.
The invitation had been warm and genuine but not gushing, and despite being a man slow to trust others, Darcy took an instant liking to his saviour.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy, your Lordship, and ever your servant.” His voice sounded almost normal now, with only a slight roughness to them.
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy. You must be in want of more water.” At once, Stanton stood and hurried across the room, returning a moment later with a cup and a ladle.
“Are you able to manage yourself, or may I assist you?” Darcy’s eyebrows rose at this.
A lord, a peer of the realm, was offering to wait upon a mere gentleman!
Most unusual! Darcy liked the man even more for it.
“I believe I can manage, your Lordship,” he replied, and with exquisite care, shifted to a more upright position, so he could accept the offered cup with his good hand.
“Indeed you can,” Stanton smiled. “Shall I pour you something more suited to the time of night? A small brandy, perhaps? Yarrow suggested a sip might do you good.”
He rose from his seat, returning a moment later with the offered drink.
Darcy accepted the glass with gratitude and took a sip.
It was a fine drink. Was it French? It was nigh on impossible to find good French brandy during these dark days of war, but the wealthy and well-connected found their ways.
He himself had a crate of some unknown origin sitting in his cellars.
“Did you know the men who attacked you?” Stanton asked between sips of his own drink. “I saw little, but they seemed quite determined.”
Darcy began to shake his head, but then thought better of it and grimaced.
“I cannot say, for I could hardly see their faces. But I cannot imagine that I was their predetermined victim, for that would involve having wronged somebody in some way. I can only imagine it was just bad luck that brought me across their path.” He brought the glass to his lips and drank.
“I cannot thank you enough for coming to my rescue. I dread to think what would have happened had you not been there to frighten them off.” He would have been found in the morning, stripped of his fine clothing and every item of value on his body, and most likely dead. He shuddered at the thought.
But Stanton shook his head. “You had them on the run. When you disarmed the man with the knife, they lost heart. You were already almost at my door, and we only needed to remove you from the street and into the house.” He waved his arm about him. “And here we are.”
“It is certainly more comfortable than the street,” Darcy opined.
Stanton nodded. “I do beg you to forgive the accommodations,” he gestured to the room around him, and to the cot upon which Darcy lay.
“We thought it best to move you as little as possible, for you were bleeding profusely and we knew not what other injuries you might have. Carrying you up the stairs to a bedchamber seemed unwise.” Darcy concurred.
He was a large man, he well knew, tall and strongly built, and would have been no easy load to manage up a tall staircase without causing yet more damage to his injuries.
“Yarrow agreed with my decision, but we did bring the cot into this parlour, which is far more comfortable, I believe, than is my foyer. Will it do?” The question seemed genuine, the man's eyes equally so, with no trace of sarcasm or self-aggrandisement.
“Oh, indeed, more than adequate.” The cot was low and narrow but not uncomfortable, and the room, now that Darcy could see more of it, luxurious. “I can offer no complaints.”
“I shall have a larger bed brought down,” Stanton mused, as if speaking to himself, “and placed closer to the wall, not too near the window, but close enough to get some air should the room grow too warm. And books... no, Yarrow said no reading, for it would likely bring you more headaches. But I shall have a literate footman or my housekeeper available to read to you should you desire some diversion. Yes. That might do it.” He pursed his lips and Darcy nearly laughed at the picture his host presented, turning his home and household on end for the comfort of an unexpected guest.
“Everything will be more than welcome, and most unexpected, Lord Stanton. I can only apologise for my presence here, for the necessity for these measures. I shall endeavour to convince the doctor of my most expeditious recovery and return to my own house to recuperate.” The very notion of being a burden on another’s household chafed at Darcy’s being.
He must try to return home the very next day. But Stanton demurred.
“Think nothing of the sort. Yarrow suggested three or four days of complete rest at the very least, and I have to admit, you seem like a sensible and intelligent chap. I am only recently back in Town and have few friends about. I could use the company. Darcy...” he said the name as if he were tasting it.
“Darcy.... Where have I heard that before?” He narrowed his eyes and tapped two peaked fingers at his lips.
“Darcy.... I have it! You must be Matlock’s nephew! ”
“You have the advantage of me, Lord Stanton. I thought I was familiar with all of the peerage, but your name eludes me.” This was embarrassing indeed. “Perhaps my head injury is impeding my memory.”
“Do not vex yourself, my friend. I am new to the title, and my father was not one to take his responsibilities seriously. He was seldom in Town, and never in the House. It is little wonder you have not heard the name. The family name is Fynch...”
“Raymond Fynch!”
The man smiled, warm and charming. “You have heard of me.”
“The ornithologist.”
“I blame my parents for that. With a name like Fynch, what else could I do but become an expert on birds?” The self-deprecating chuckle suited Darcy’s temperament exactly. He was feeling quite pleased with this new friend.
Darcy offered a wide smile, then grimaced as the action caused his head to throb anew.
He spoke slowly as the pounding lessened.
“My estate, in the north, is haven for many birds of different species. My mother had an interest in them, which she passed down to me and my sister.” A wave of dismay at his current relationship with his sister threatened to wash over him, but he refused to give in to it.
“We have spent many an hour secreted in the small cabin by the pond, gazing out into the wilderness with your book open before us, to identify and name each species we saw. Yes, Mr. Fynch... Lord Stanton, that is, I have heard of you!”
In his pleasure at meeting the man whose books, with their careful research, excellent descriptions, and perfect drawings, had so entertained Darcy and his sister, he forgot about his injuries and shifted in his bed.
At once his head shouted its disapproval, and his injured collarbone began a tattoo to match that in his skull.
He fell back upon the pillows with a groan.
“Do not tire yourself, Darcy. I believe you could use a good rest. We may talk further in the morning, which is not so far off. Yarrow mixed up a potion for you. Shall I pour you a draught? Perhaps only half, to take the edge off?”
This Darcy accepted willingly. The effort of hoisting his aching body up to an almost-seated position and then of managing the crystal glass of brandy had taken their toll, and he found himself struggling to maintain a polite conversation.
He took the draught, though it tasted dreadful, and declared his most profound apologies to his host, but he really must sleep.
“As it should be,” Stanton declared. “One of the men will be immediately outside this door. Should you require anything, he will be at your side in a moment. I wish you good night and shall see you when the sun has risen.”
Then he left, and Darcy fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.