Chapter Two
A Most Alarming Proposal
Darcy awoke to a persistent pounding that reverberated through his skull.
He could neither discern the source of the pounding nor escape it, and reluctantly, therefore, he opened his eyes.
Light stabbed through the crack between his lids and he squeezed them shut once more, only now to realise that the throbbing was not some external noise or percussion, but rather that it originated in his own head. He let out a groan.
Within seconds, soft footsteps sounded, and a low voice whispered, “How may I assist you, Mr. Darcy?” He ventured once more to open his eyes, and this time succeeded.
A footman in smart grey livery stood at his bedside, towering above him.
As if the man read his thoughts, he knelt down until his head was more on a level with Darcy’s own and asked his question once more.
The thrumming between his ears abated marginally and Darcy croaked out a word that he intended to be “water.” Whatever the footman heard, he seemed to understand, for he disappeared momentarily and returned with a small cup and a ladle, which he used to spoon a bit of the blessed liquid into the patient’s mouth.
“Thank you.” These words sounded more as they were intended, and the footman bowed.
“May I assist you to a different position, sir? Or lower the lights further? His Lordship has been informed that you are awake, and he will attend you shortly.”
Now Darcy could see that the room was, contrary to his initial impression, not at all brightly lit.
Daylight filtered into the space from somewhere behind him, and he had the impression of several layers of sheer drapery interposing themselves between the bright sun and this subdued room.
A flicker to the side suggested some sort of illuminating flame, but he did not venture to turn his head to seek out the exact nature of the lamps.
“Sit. Yes, thank you. I should like to sit.”
Darcy felt quite helpless as the footman set about his task with exquisite care, supporting Darcy’s head with one hand as he piled pillows and bolsters behind him with the other, inquiring with every movement whether Mr. Darcy was in too much distress.
Darcy had little choice but to acquiesce to the footman’s ministrations, for his head plagued him terribly and his bound arm was quite useless.
He wondered for a moment if this was how his sister’s dolls felt as she dressed and redressed them and tossed them around.
At last the footman seemed satisfied and Darcy had to admit he was not uncomfortable, propped up as he was, with his head well supported and his injured arm free from all pressure. The pounding in his brain was still present, but it was tolerable.
“Mr. Darcy!” A cheerful voice rang from the direction of the door, reverberating through the pain in his head, and Darcy fought the urge to grimace once more.
“Doctor Yarrow.” He was pleased to recall the man’s name. That snatch of memory for some reason helped clear his mind.
“You survived the night, but your head aches something dreadful, I suppose,” the doctor announced with glee.
“To be expected. Here, I have taken the liberty of having the kitchen brew up some willow bark tea. Tastes horrid, but it will ease the pain without the soporific effects of laudanum. Not as effective, but less troublesome in the long run.”
He waved a cup before Darcy’s face and peered at his patient.
Darcy waited for the blur of motion to solidify into an object he might grasp, and then reached with his good hand for the offered drink.
Yarrow was correct. It was vile and bitter, but he was no stranger to the brew and knew he would find some relief in its contents.
The doctor relieved him of the now-empty cup and set about examining his wounds, nodding and hemming and clucking to himself. “Good, good. Still sore? Yes, good!”
The stitched wound on Darcy’s leg showed no signs of infection, and Doctor Yarrow seemed quite pleased with how it was healing, nevermind that Darcy had to bite his tongue to stop from shouting as the physician prodded at the damaged area.
He wrapped it up in clean cloth and gave Darcy a congratulatory handshake, as if his patient had done a fine job in mending from that particular injury.
Likewise, the gentle manipulations of Darcy’s damaged shoulder brought him enough pain that he almost felt he might be ill, but the doctor once again smiled and commended him on being on the road back to a sound body.
“I shan’t jab at it again for some weeks, good chap,” he beamed as Darcy caught his breath after the assault.
“Time will mend that wound. Now, your head....”
For the next quarter of an hour, Darcy answered questions, repeated lines of poetry, followed the doctor’s finger as it floated through the air, and had his eyes peered into again and again, until Doctor Yarrow announced himself satisfied.
“Could have been worse, much worse! My years treating soldiers have taught me a thing or two about concussions, and yours should not give you too much trouble if you obey my orders. Stay in bed, to begin, although with that shoulder you won’t be going far.
Lord Stanton has offered you this space for as long as you require it, and I insist you accept his hospitality.
No challenging thinking. You might consider this a bizarre order, but the men I’ve treated who immediately returned to administrative tasks suffered longer and more severely than those who kept to their beds and rested their battered brains.
That also means no reading for some days, although you may listen to others read aloud.
“I shall return tomorrow to see about getting you up and about, but for now, your task is to play the invalid. Am I understood?” He glared down at Darcy, but his grin belied the severity of his command.
“Indeed, Doctor.”
“Good. Now you’ll be wanting your needs tended, and some food. I’ll step out for a few minutes whilst John assists you, and then I shall summon a tray and some tea.”
The same footman who had assisted him earlier stepped into view and waited in calm silence until the doctor had departed.
As he assisted Darcy with his personal needs, he talked of himself and how he had grown up in the household of a village doctor, where his mother had been a maid.
As a child he had expressed interest in his master’s craft, and the doctor had taken the lad with him on his calls, where he had learned something of the craft of caring for the ill and injured.
It was through this former master that John had come to the attention of Doctor Yarrow, and through him, to Lord Stanton, who seemed to prize intelligence in his staff.
The position of footman to a man such as Stanton was much crowed about in his home village, and John admitted to Darcy that he aspired to even greater heights, hoping one day to find a position as a valet.
Darcy dutifully promised to keep the man’s name in mind should he ever be asked about such a suitable candidate.
With the pleasant and diverting chatter, Darcy was almost able to ignore his acute embarrassment at being so incapable as to tend to his own needs, and he smiled his appreciation to John as the young footman at last pronounced the patient ready to receive company.
“We shall shave you tomorrow, sir,” he whispered as he took his leave; “today your visitors will not mind your appearance.”
With that, he melted once more out of Darcy’s vision, as Lord Stanton himself strode into the room.
“Darcy,” the calm voice sounded from the doorway.
“I hope you slept well, and Doctor Yarrow has not tortured you excessively. We sent word to your own house last night about your whereabouts, but Yarrow insisted your valet not come to you till the morrow. Are John’s ministrations adequate?
He seems to know what he is about. But tell me: How are you this morning? ”
“John is more than adept at his tasks, I thank you. And the good doctor has decided that I shall live. As to how I am faring...”
Lord Stanton chuckled as he settled into the chair beside the bed. “No, do not lie. I can see that you have felt better.”
Darcy smiled and was pleased that the motion did not set his head to throbbing more than it already did.
“You have it, my lord. My head is pounding—although the willow bark tea is beginning to take effect—and my shoulder aches, as much from being immobilised, I imagine, as from the break. And yet, for all that, I cannot complain. The good doctor and your young footman have provided me with the best care I could imagine. I ought to be thanking you rather than complaining to you.”
“Not at all, Darcy! I did command you to tell the truth, after all. I am pleased that you are satisfied with the assistance I am able to offer. Hopefully you will begin to feel more yourself within hours. Now,” he shifted out of Darcy’s sight for a moment, but returned almost at once, “Doctor Yarrow informs me that you are not to tax your brain at all, but that you may be allowed some entertainment. To that end, I propose to read to you, should you wish it. I have a selection of material, from this morning’s Times, to some recent accounts of the campaigns on the Continent, to some rather lurid novels or scandalous poetry that have found their way into my library.
Does Byron amuse you? Perhaps the day’s news?
” Darcy nodded and regretted the motion.
“Good, then. The Times it is.” Stanton rustled the broadsheet.
“Here, can you manage your coffee and scones whilst I read? Allow me to assist you.”