CHAPTER 16 – The Healer
Dawn was almost upon them when the small group walked the road towards Hunsford’s parsonage. The skies had cleared and the wind had ceased, signalling that the storm that had lashed the island for three full days had finally come to an end—a welcome respite after so much misery.
The night had been long and exhausting. They had all remained by the manor, assisting those still battling the flames and salvaging whatever could be saved.
Once the immediate danger had passed, the gentlemen ensured that the rooms containing the most valuable objects were locked, preventing opportunists from looting what remained. Only then did they finally rest.
Despite her grief, Mrs. Collins had the presence of mind to offer lodging to the displaced family from the manor house.
The parts of the mansion that had not burned were now uninhabitable.
Soot and dust had settled over every room, and no one could be certain whether the remaining structure would hold after the fall of the eastern wing.
The parsonage, though modest, offered warmth and comfort—far preferable to sleeping in the barn with the servants of Rosings.
Once home, Charlotte Collins displayed admirable composure, directing her surprised servants to prepare a quick breakfast and ready every available room for Rosings’ guests.
Clean clothes were offered with the hope they would fit, and pitchers of warm water were brought to the makeshift bedrooms so they could freshen up.
***
“Darcy,” said the colonel, “you must take care of that wound.”
Darcy glanced at the bandage Ferguson had hastily wrapped around his hand. It was black with soot and dried blood. “I should wash it.”
The men excused themselves and headed to the kitchen. Darcy sat at the table while Fitzwilliam took a seat opposite him.
“I did not have the chance to thank you for coming to my rescue,” He winced as his cousin unwrapped the cloth. “You saved my life.”
Fitzwilliam inspected the wound carefully. “You would have done the same for me.”
“Yes, but that does not lessen the merit of your actions.”
The colonel gave him a quick glance and accepted the praise with a curt nod. Darcy smiled. His cousin’s military experience had hardened him against what he deemed unnecessary or overdone gratitude, yet it was well deserved.
The cook placed a basin of warm water and a bar of soap on the table.
It was a nasty wound. The flesh of his palm was cut open, and part of the skin had peeled away, clinging to the hand by a thick strip.
There were several cuts on his fingers, and part of a fingernail was missing, but overall, the injuries were not life-threatening.
Still, there was always the risk of infection.
If untreated, Darcy might lose more than a finger—perhaps even his hand.
“Can you handle the pain if I wash your hand in hot water?” Fitzwilliam asked. “I see no other way to remove all this dirt.”
“If I could fit inside,” Darcy smirked, “I would gladly crawl into that basin right now. All I want is a hot bath and a bed.”
“It has been a long night.” Fitzwilliam produced a flask from his pocket and offered it to him. “Take a sip. You will need it.”
He took several gulps and looked away as his cousin submerged his hand into the basin. The pain was great, but he endured it without crying out.
“Ah, Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin when he saw her at the door. “Just in time! A charming lady’s presence is sure to ease my cousin’s suffering.”
“I. . . I brought some clean linen. I thought you would need it.” She stepped closer.
At the colonel’s request, the water was changed, and Fitzwilliam repeated the process until he was satisfied the wound was clean. He dried Darcy’s hand and pressed the skin back into place.
“If this heals well, you will have nothing more than an unattractive scar. The muscle does not appear damaged—though I fear your beautiful handwriting could suffer.”
Darcy managed another smile. “It will still be neater than yours.”
Fitzwilliam smirked and asked Elizabeth to cut the linen into strips. Ferguson, who had been assisting, helped her prepare the bandages.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the manservant interjected. “There is a healer in the village. She may be of help.”
“A healer?” The colonel raised a brow. “I never fathomed my aunt would allow such a woman near Rosings.”
“The old mistress did not know of her.”
“Go fetch her.”
Ferguson left, and Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, I am no longer needed here. Pray stay with my cousin until the healer arrives. I am certain he will enjoy your company far more than mine.”
Darcy shifted uncomfortably as Elizabeth took the seat across from him.
Left alone, he lingered with Elizabeth in silence.
His thoughts strayed to the night before—the way she had come to him, the tenderness in her touch as her hand brushed his face.
Compassion, surely—yet could it have been more?
She sat so still now. Was she thinking of it too?
Their eyes met briefly, a smile flickered and was gone, yet the words remained unspoken—he could not dare to reach too far into her heart.
He cleared his throat. “How is Mrs. Collins? She is showing great strength given what happened last night.”
“Indeed, though I am sure that inside, she is devastated.”
“I presume she will return to Meryton.”
“She has expressed that wish, yes.” She was quiet for a long moment. “You were incredibly brave, sir, trying to save Mr. Collins’s life, despite all he had done, and at the risk of your own.”
“Every soul is worthy of salvation, and every man deserves the chance to account for his actions—even those deemed undeserving by others.”
“But he murdered your aunt, and he tried to kill your cousin!” Elizabeth’s voice was tight with emotion. “What defence could he possibly have for that?”
“None now that he is dead,” Darcy said grimly. "Justice is no longer his to claim or defend."
She lifted her brows at his words. “Do you think Charlotte might have been mistaken; that your cousin lied?"
"I do not doubt my cousin’s fear was real, nor the danger she faced. But whether Collins was truly behind everything. . . That I cannot say with certainty.”
"You were the last to see him alive. Did he say anything that made you question his guilt?”
“I do not know. His final words were like a riddle to me. He seemed beyond reason.”
A quiet stillness settled between them. The cook had just walked outside, presumably to fetch more water.
Darcy became acutely aware of Elizabeth’s touch—his hand resting in hers, warm and steady.
There was a gentleness in her grasp, an unspoken reassurance that stirred a quiet hope within him.
He drew in a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak.
“Miss Bennet, what happened last night. . . you must. . .”
The door flung open and Ferguson walked in, followed by a middle-aged woman.
The healer, who Ferguson introduced as Mrs. Smith, wasted no time in examining his injuries. She sat down and studied them carefully, her fingers tracing lightly over his palm.
“The wound’s clean, but it’s warm. Infection’s started.” She turned his hand, inspecting the broken nail. “This’ll fall off. It’ll grow back. Don’t fret, sir. You’re strong. You’ll mend.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow, sceptical of something that sounded almost a premonition. Her next words surprised him even more.
"You brushed death twice last night," Mrs. Smith began, her voice low and steady. "Once by fate’s cruel hand, and once by your own doing.”
He imparted a glance towards Ferguson, wondering what the man might have said to her, but Ferguson was listening attentively to the woman’s words.
“The island don’t let go easy, sir,” she continued.
“Those who stay got reasons, and those who leave take ghosts with ’em.
But your heart’s uneasy. Questions rattlin’ round in your head like a bad wind.
Be careful. Truth ain't always a kindness, and when it comes knockin’, you best be ready to face it. ”
A chill ran through him. A rational man, Darcy had never been prone to fancy, yet her words struck with unsettling familiarity, as though she had drawn them straight from his own thoughts.
Standing in this forsaken place, he found it harder than ever to dismiss the weight of such omens.
He had spent his life reasoning away superstition, yet now, doubt whispered at the edges of his mind.
“Other injured ones?" Mrs. Smith enquired. "I can tend to them.”
“No, most of the servants came out unscathed,” Elizabeth interjected. “But there are four deaths to lament, only one related to the fire.”
The woman shook her head grimly. “I knew the red dawn would bring tragedy.”
She prepared an herbal ointment and applied it to Darcy’s wounds. The salve was thick and dark, cool against his skin, and offered immediate relief. “This will stop the infection. Keep it covered for five days. On the sixth, remove the bandage so the scar may dry.”
He nodded. As she stood, Mrs. Smith smiled. “Go rest, sir. Your lady will take care of you.”
The couple exchanged glances; Elizabeth with a bashful smile, Darcy slightly amused.
After Mrs. Smith departed, Darcy instructed Ferguson to send a basket of food to her home later that day. The events of the previous night had drained him, and Ferguson, seeing his master’s exhaustion, urged him to rest. Reluctantly, Darcy postponed his conversation with Elizabeth for another time.
Nonetheless, he offered his arm and attended her to her door.
“Sleep well, my lady,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand.
Elizabeth smiled. “You too, sir.”