Chapter 59
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Elizabeth went first to her son’s nursery, wanting more than anything to see him out of the house as soon as she could. Moments later, fear, which had not yet touched her during the ordeal, caught fire within her.
Henry was gone, his bed neatly turned down, which reassured her somewhat. The bed was as Nurse Jenny would have left it—not as a three-year-old boy might. Jenny was absent from her room as well.
Before pulling the bell to summon someone who might be able to tell her where they had gone, Elizabeth spied a note on a small table nearby. She found it was from Darcy, and it had obviously been scratched out in haste:
Sent Henry and Jenny to my house—our house. I love you, Mrs Darcy.
— FD
A burst of happy relief came upon her, and she laughed at the number of blotches and blots Darcy had scattered about his little missive. “You see there, Mr Darcy, from your penmanship, I can readily discern that your spirits are disordered.”
The ink was still wet in several places so Elizabeth knew it was recently penned and likely that Darcy remained close. She wondered whether he had accompanied Jenny and little Henry.
As she considered the note and the likelihood that her husband was with her son, she heard a shot.
For a moment, she froze—and then she ran.
She believed the sound to have come from the back of the house and raced towards it.
She heard footsteps running on the floor below and hoped it was Colonel Fitzwilliam and Hanley.
She first checked a back stairway, the one used by the servants, which would provide the most likely means of escaping the house undetected.
It was there that her burgeoning happiness was quashed, seeing the lifeless form of Darcy on the stair before her.
He had fallen at an odd angle, his blood all around him.
“No,” she whispered. “No, Fitzwilliam, no.”
Elizabeth knelt beside him and felt the pulse on his neck, relieved that it was strong and sure beneath her fingers. She kissed his neck and then his lips, which were slightly parted. The feel of his breath on her lips was a vast relief.
Fitzwilliam and Hanley found them moments later. Seeing his cousin, Fitzwilliam cursed, and Hanley asked, “Mrs Darcy, was Francis here when you arrived?”
“He may have gone out the back.” Fitzwilliam ran off in pursuit of the man who not only was a threat to the country but was now the attacker of his cousin as well.
As Hanley moved to join the colonel, Elizabeth stopped him. “Mr Hanley, take this.” He raised his eyebrows when Elizabeth reached into her pocket and then thrust a pistol at him.
“You are armed, Mrs Darcy? Is this your usual way?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Only when I live with a madman.”
In the next hours, Elizabeth was surprised by how well she managed.
She supposed all the events of her recent past must have served her well in some capacity for she was calm and composed as she tended to Darcy.
There was a great deal of blood, but she gave it no heed; instead, she kept her gaze affixed on him.
She sedately summoned a footman to go for the apothecary and a surgeon, and she directed two footmen to the chamber where Darcy should be placed.
There was a moment, when she was alone with him and awaiting the surgeon, that fear took hold of her. She kissed his lips and his eyelids before whispering fiercely in his ear, “You had better not die, Fitzwilliam Darcy. You gave me your word, and a gentleman honours his promises.”
Elizabeth refused to cry, for to cry would be to admit there was something about which to cry. She would hold fast to the idea that he would be well.
The effort of it made her tremble slightly, but that too was determinedly disregarded.
She was by his side as the surgeon did his work upon him and as the servants cleaned him.
Darcy’s valet was summoned from his house to bring fresh attire.
The man was industrious despite the hour.
He began by removing the remains of Darcy’s shirt and cravat.
The surgeon had cut some away but left tatters, and Fields clucked in sartorial distress over the ruin of a fine shirt.
When his chest was bared and cleaned, Fields paused and looked at Elizabeth. “Lady Courtenay, I must remove the rest of his clothing.”
Elizabeth did not remove her gaze. “I assure you, Fields, I have seen much more of him than this. Furthermore, I am not Lady Courtenay. I am Mrs Darcy.”
If Fields found such a statement baffling, he said nothing of it, giving her a short bow before setting to work.
Elizabeth was still by Darcy’s bedside when Colonel Fitzwilliam returned just as dawn was breaking over the town. She started at the sound of his voice. “How is he?”
She shrugged. “He has lost a great deal of blood, but the bullet did not penetrate his body. It tore a strip of skin from across his chest.”
“Very good.”
“Good for now, but it could lead to an infection.”
Fitzwilliam nodded gravely and took a seat on the other side of the bed. “He has a strong constitution. I do not doubt that he will be well.”
“Nor do I,” she answered firmly. “Dare I ask about Francis Warren?”
“We caught him. He has not been in contact with his old group enough to know that loyalties have shifted. People of this sort are generally willing to turn on each other, particularly if there is a sum to line their pockets.”
“Was money given?”
“The credit must go to Hanley. He knew just who to bribe. He is a useful sort of fellow and far more brave than he looks. Had the most absurd little gun on him…”
Despite everything, Elizabeth chuckled. “It is a lady’s pistol, Colonel, and it was a gift to me from your father. I thought it a rather pretty little thing.”
“A weapon should never be described as a ‘pretty little thing,’ but it served its office well. Hanley persuaded Mr Warren to give himself over, and now he will remain in the gaol to meet his destiny—a destiny he has cheated for several years now, I might add.”
“Does he deny who he is or all that he has done?”
“Of course,” Fitzwilliam replied. “I daresay there is no man more ardent in his declarations of allegiance to the king than one who faces the consequences of prior sedition. It cannot hold. Both Hanley and I clearly heard his confession. And let us not forget that the same evidence leading to the first Warren brother’s hanging remains for the right man.
It will be a speedy business, I assure you. ”
“As speedy as any business that has gone on for so many years,”
They sat through the rest of the early morning hours, watching over Darcy as he slept and saying little.
Elizabeth urged Fitzwilliam to rest, but he would not hear of it, not until his eyes were closing on their own.
When he left to avail himself of a guest bedchamber, Elizabeth remained, her eyes on Darcy and her mind urging him to be well.
It was the wetness that woke him.
A persistent, snuffling sort of wetness punctuated by sniffing at his head and neck and then shoved unceremoniously into his ear. More sniffing and then a warm, furry body pressing itself alongside him.
He wondered at the sensation even as he came into consciousness, though the comprehension of pain soon caused him to stop wondering about the wetness. His chest, his head, his arm—all were agonisingly painful. He tried to move and almost cried out, restraining himself to a grunt.
Shifting just slightly, he turned his head towards the warm body that shared his pillow, inhaling the unmistakable scent of a dog.
Then he heard the voice, a small boy’s voice, prattling away beside him. Darcy was being told a story, it seemed, although the exact nature of it was difficult to discern as the storyteller had his thumb lodged in his mouth as he told it.
Darcy opened his eyes and saw the small figure of Henry beside him.
Henry evidently wished to keep an eye on Darcy’s face as he was lying with his feet propped on the pillow next to Darcy and his head resting on his bent arm near Darcy’s hip.
Annie was tucked into the crevice between Darcy’s head and her young master’s feet.
As Henry weaved his tale, he absently traced his fingers in patterns across Darcy’s abdomen, and Annie occasionally sniffed and licked Darcy’s head and neck.
The dog sensed that Darcy had awoken and rose to her feet, wagging her tail madly. Henry looked up and saw Darcy watching him. “Papa!” he cried out in delight. “My story maked you wake up!”
Darcy laughed but barely any sound emerged.
Henry then began a litany of fears and concerns, most of which centred on the facts that he was not permitted to enter Darcy’s bedchamber and did not like taking naps.
The effort of trying not to laugh caused Darcy to ache, but it was worth it—well worth it—to see his dear boy perched beside him so high spirited and amiable.
Henry edged his way up, positioning himself as close to Darcy as possible. “Mama sayed you will get dead, and she cried.”
Darcy swallowed and cleared his throat in hopes of speaking above a croak. “No, I am not going to die, my son. I am going to stay right here with you and your mama. Where is your mama?”
“In her woom.” He might have said more, but just then, a loud, sawing buzz cut through the air. It was Fitzwilliam, sleeping in a nearby chair. Henry burst into laughter at the sound while Annie ran over to sniff and investigate its source.
Darcy smiled to see his cousin so near but realised that it must be the middle of the night. Which night? How long have I been asleep? Where is Francis Warren?
“Henry, perhaps you will help your papa? I wish to wake Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“I can do it.” Henry smiled, his face innocent and cherubic. He scampered off the bed and approached Fitzwilliam.
A quick survey of his body showed Darcy that nothing appeared to have been broken, but nearly everything had been bruised, and a large weeping gash went across his chest and arm where it appeared a bullet had grazed him.
Disregarding the pain, he pushed himself into a more upright position on the bed and was just settling back in his pillow when he heard Henry’s voice.
In his short tenure as a father, Darcy had noticed that small children could shriek at a particularly ear-splitting frequency.
He was sure that no other creature on earth could produce such a mind-shattering sound at such a volume.
It was just this sort of shriek that Henry emitted to wake Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam leapt to his feet, clearly ready to engage in combat with whoever had woken him, and he let loose with more than a few words that Henry should not know.
It was fortunate that Henry was rolling on the floor with laughter and did not appear to hear him, or so Darcy hoped.
The outward expression of Darcy’s mirth was more restrained due to the aching within his chest, but he believed he enjoyed the joke just as much as Henry did.
The colonel was not so amused. “Henry! What are you doing, scaring me like that? Do you not know it is the middle of the night?”
“Papa waked up!” Henry affected the look of an absolute angel, and Darcy pressed his lips together to avoid laughing.
“Darcy! How are you feeling?” Fitzwilliam forgot his vexation with Henry and went to the bed. “You look as though you rode atop the stage down Jumblegut Lane.”
“As do you, and at least I have this devil of a wound to excuse my appearance.” Darcy grinned.
“And you, sir!” Fitzwilliam looked back at young Henry. “What are you doing out and about? It is only just now”—Fitzwilliam squinted at the nearby mantel clock—“half-five in the morning.”
Henry raised his chin and looked down his nose. “Papa wanted me to say a story to him.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Well, I believe we shall put you to use then. Run along and wake your mama so she might know your papa is awake.”
Henry agreed and hied off to do as he was bid.
Darcy enquired, “How long have I been asleep?”
“You have been kept asleep with laudanum for the past four days,” Fitzwilliam informed him. “Dr. Abernethy attended you, and it was his recommendation to prevent you from disturbing your sutures. You did give us a bit of a scare, running a fever for a day or so, but you managed to overcome it.”
“I cannot recall precisely what transpired. I can clearly remember the meeting at your father’s house and all we discussed. I recall coming to Towton Hall and listening to Francis’s confession, but after that, I have no recollection.”
“You surprised Francis as he attempted to leave the house. Damned fool that you are, you decided to rush at him rather than permit him to leave and allow the magistrate’s men to capture him.
So you attacked him on the stairway, he attacked back, you struggled, he pulled his gun, and you, by what I saw, pushed him down the stairs, breaking his arm in two places.
He shot you as he fell, but the bullet did not enter your flesh, it just grazed it. ”
Darcy glanced down. “I see. Where is Mr Warren now?”
“He is in the gaol, and there he will remain. I daresay he is the most watched man around.”
“Let us hope so.” Darcy sighed. “I wish ill on no one, but I assure you, on that day when we might at last…” His voice died off as Elizabeth appeared in the doorway.