Chapter Eight
What Mr. Darcy Saw
Wickham! Of all the people in England, why did he have to encounter the one who had been such a thorn in his side for so long?
And of all the places in England—nay, the Empire—where that blackguard might be, why did Wickham choose Meryton?
Could he not have found another village in which to live his vile life, other people whom to vex with his immoral dealings?
And of all the people whom he had to meet and charm with his glib, forked tongue, why did it have to be Elizabeth?
Miss Elizabeth, he corrected himself. It had become harder of late to think of her in such formal terms. As much as he had conducted his visits to Longbourn in an attempt to befriend Mr. Bennet and hopefully learn some of his secrets, it was now the man’s daughter whom Darcy truly looked forward to encountering.
He would have to guard his heart better; his reaction to seeing her laughing at Wickham’s frothy conversation alerted him to the precarious state of his emotional restraint.
He liked that young woman far too much, and it would not do.
Nevertheless, his visits must continue. He had come to find a rare sort of friendship with Bennet, and he was slowly easing his way into the man’s confidence.
As of yet he had seen nothing that suggested that Bennet was anything other than a loyal and true Englishman, but so too had he noticed matters in the local area that struck him as not quite as they should be, even in a town with militia regiments quartered nearby.
The town was too prosperous. He glanced about him as he galloped across the fields on the horse he had borrowed, ignoring the faint fatigue in his arm and shoulder, taking in every detail he could notice.
The land was good but not exceptional, the society fine enough but with no grand lord to give the neighbourhood any special éclat.
The local estates, too, were of sufficient size and elegance to render the area comfortable, but there was not one that bespoke particular wealth.
Upon first arriving in the area, he had noticed that even Longbourn, the richest of the local estates, was bordering on the edge between genteel adequacy and incipient poverty.
He had seen the half-broken fences and the rutted road, and he knew from his long discussions with the man that Bennet had been unable to put excess income aside to provide dowries for his daughters.
And yet the village prospered. Two regiments of militia would bring some wealth to the area, but not to this degree, would they?
Where was the money coming from? This was something he might put to the villagers and see what sort of response he received.
He had been so lost in these musings that he had failed to pay attention to where his horse was taking him until he heard his name being shouted from some distance away.
“Darcy! Darcy, for God’s sake, man, slow the beast down! This cannot help your shoulder at all. Darcy, stop!”
Returning to himself, he did as he was bid and looked around him. Wherever could he be? Having been unable to ride before now and restricted to where the carriage might take him, he did not recognise his surroundings at all.
“Darcy, have you taken leave of your senses?” Bingley brought his own stallion up beside where Darcy now sat still and brought the beast to a skittering halt.
“You said you wished for a gentle trot, merely to ascertain how your arm was healing, and yet here we are, miles from Netherfield, possibly in a different county! Were you thinking to ride to Derbyshire in a single day, and with your arm only recently out of bandages?” The accustomed good humour in his friend’s voice had been replaced by concern and frustration.
Darcy shook his head to clear his mind. “I am sorry, my friend. I saw something that troubled me, and I was lost in my thoughts. I let the beast take its head, when I ought to have been the one in control.” He turned to survey the area and grimaced.
His head had begun to hurt and his shoulder, now that he was aware of it again, was aching; his arm was nearly numb with fatigue. “Where are we?”
Bingley screwed his eyes against the sun and brought his mount in a full circle around Darcy’s.
“I believe we are well beyond the fields attached to Meryton, half-way to Oakham, I believe. Did you not see the militia’s encampment as we rode past?
That was a half hour ago. You have been riding hard for a great amount of time. ”
Darcy nodded and then stopped as another wave of pain flooded his head. He closed his eyes to ward off the discomfort and asked in as level a voice as he could find, “How far to return to Netherfield?”
Bingley chewed his lip, as he often did when thinking. “I believe...” he peered once more into the distance, “I believe it is more than a half hour’s ride back if we cut across the fields. But Darcy, you do not look well. Can you make the distance?”
“Of course I can,” he retorted. “‘Tis no great expanse. Do not worry yourself at all.” But as he moved to pull at the reins to urge his horse to turn and proceed, the pain in his head became an insurmountable dizziness and his arm and shoulder hung heavily at his side, throbbing in waves of agony with each beat of his heart.
He felt the world darken, and he fought to remain upright in his saddle.
He had fainted only once in his life, and he was determined to have the number be no more. “I...”
“You are not fit to ride! Do not tell me otherwise. Look,” he pointed at a blur in the distance that Darcy could not make out, “I do believe that is the far end of Longbourn’s park.
Let me help you there, and we can beg a place for you to rest until you are recovered enough to continue back.
I will not hear of anything else, so do not argue with me.
” With that announcement, he grabbed the reins from Darcy’s hands and used them to lead his friend’s horse step by painful step until they achieved their destination.
As soon as they passed through the gate, one of Bennet’s men spied them, and within moments he was off to fetch a wagon with which to transport Darcy to the manor house.
By the time the wagon arrived, Darcy was scarcely able to keep his eyes open.
The sun had intensified in brightness to the point where he felt it piercing his eyes even through closed lids, and the hum of activity around him had become a roar that threatened to cause his skull to shatter.
The pain in his head was, by now, so intense that he felt it to his gut, and he hoped he would not embarrass himself by casting up his accounts in front of all these well-meaning people.
How he survived the short ride on the wagon or made it into the house, he did not know; he was only just aware of where he was and where he was going.
Mrs. Bennet greeted him with a loud screech that left him groaning in agony, and it was only when Miss Mary—he thought it was her—came and led him with gentle hands to a quiet and dark room that he felt he might survive.
“I will find you a mint and lavender compress” her whispered words pounded through his skull.
She asked someone—a footman?—to help him out of his coat, and even the exquisite torture the motion caused his shoulder was not equal to that in his head.
At last, clothed only in his shirt and buckskins, he was lowered onto the bed where he might rest. “I’ll have Lizzy look in on you when she returns.
She sometimes suffers from megrims as well and knows what to do. ”
Was this a megrim? Was this what his sister suffered so often? Never had he imagined such extreme agony. Was this what Dr. Yarrow had warned him of? He ought to be glad that he had not suffered anything like this before, but the pain was too great for rational thought.
A few moments later, a cool damp cloth was placed upon his brow, scented with the promised herbs, and then footsteps receded and a door was closed. Tossed about by a sea of pain, he allowed himself to drift until he achieved an uneasy slumber.
The sensation of soft hands massaging something into his temples dragged him to consciousness.
As he struggled through the dark waves that threatened to pull him back below, he heard her voice, almost inaudible, calming him and easing him.
“I would not have woken you, but you were so unsettled in your sleep that I thought this might help.”
Whatever “this” was, it did seem to help.
He could not see her, for the light was too dim and the compress upon his forehead came low enough to cover his eyes, but he would know her voice anywhere.
He made a sound between a moan and a sigh as she touched the compress, then replaced it with a new cooler one.
The air was redolent with the scent of lavender and mint, and he sniffed deeply of it.
“I find these herbs helpful,” she whispered.
“They draw blood to the surface of the skin, allowing your humours to cool, which can help reduce the pain. I have had a balm made up, with very strong essences of both, which I rub onto my own head and neck when a megrim threatens. Is it easing your pain at all?” Her fingers returned to his temples, rubbing and pressing gently, drawing the pain out with each caress.
“It is,” his voice was a mumble, but he knew she understood him. “Please continue.”
She said nothing for a while, but continued her task. After several minutes she spoke again. “John, your footman, is here with me. And a maid. I would not have you think...”