Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth’s hands currently knew their business better than the rest of her.
Her heart thudded against stays that seemed oddly tight, her ears were still ringing with the echo of the last shot, and her stomach would have cheerfully remained behind in the hollow.
Her fingers were already reaching for Mrs. Hobart’s large reticule.
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said, surprised by how steady she sounded, “I must have your flask.”
Her companion slumped in a disordered heap upon the opposite seat, her bonnet askew, her pelisse wrinkled, one plump hand pressed to her bosom. At Elizabeth’s words she started, blinked, and reached for the reticule.
“My what, child? I am in extremity. I do not wish to argue over trifles.”
Elizabeth tightened her hold. “This is not a trifle. Mr Darcy is bleeding. You have a flask.”
“You misremember,” Mrs. Hobart gasped. “I am attacked in my nerves. I am sure I shall faint. I must have my restorative. You would not deprive me at such a time.”
“You also possess smelling salts,” Elizabeth said.
She had recognized them at once, for Mamma always kept hers at hand.
Never was her mother more delighted than when she could request her salts or use them in the service of another.
“Should you require a restorative, your salts will do. If Mr. Darcy takes a fever, however, he will require rather more than that. Hand me your reticule, if you please.”
Mrs. Hobart thrust her hand into the depths of her bag and withdrew a lady’s silver flask.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, and took it.
Outside, a boot scraped upon the step. The door was pulled open and Mr. Darcy stepped inside, locking the door as he dropped into his seat. He rapped his cane twice upon the ceiling. The coach gave a sudden heave, then a rolling jolt as the wheels bit into the rutted road.
They were moving, and with some haste. The hollow, and the memory of the men who had crouched there with raised pistols, dropped away behind them.
Elizabeth drew a deep breath. Her lungs did not like the effort and informed her so in a tight little protest. She ignored them, set the flask between her knees, and dragged her own small reticule into her lap.
The familiar feel of its worn string between her fingers steadied her. She unfastened it and groped within. Linen met her hand first, and she withdrew a clean, plain handkerchief.
Her shawl lay on the bench where she had left it, soft and warm, the fringe twisted. It was not in the newest fashion, nor was it of the finest wool. It had, however, been a gift from Jane, and the notion of tearing it sent a brief pang across her heart.
But Jane would be the first to tell her to make use of it for Mr. Darcy’s comfort.
Mrs. Hobart’s hand rose and fell against her bosom in little jerks. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved in a murmur that might have been prayer or complaint.
The silence that followed was so unlike Mrs. Hobart’s usual stream of observations that it alarmed Elizabeth more than a flood of words would have done.
She cast one swift glance at the pale, stern face opposite, noted the flutter of lashes, the faint movement at the throat, and for the moment was content that Mrs. Hobart would live to proclaim many more staunch opinions.
It was, Elizabeth thought, the most genuine emotion she had yet seen from her companion.
She picked up the shawl and spread it across her lap. Her fingers traced the border.
“Pray forgive me,” she whispered under her breath, and removed her sewing scissors from her own bag.
The coach jolted again and the first cut went crooked. Elizabeth did not trouble herself over that. She snipped on until a decent width of bandage lay across her knees, uneven but long enough to wind twice about a man’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Darcy asked, having finally deigned to look at her.
His countenance looked much as it always did, composed, grave, even a little forbidding about the eyes.
Only the set of his mouth was altered, too firm, as though he held it so by significant effort.
He kept his left arm still, and the dark cloth of his coat showed a torn patch high on the sleeve where it had dried to a darker shade.
For a moment the three of them sat, the coach rocking and swaying around them, as if they were all figurines arranged by some perverse hand upon a shelf.
Mrs. Hobart with her eyes shut and her handkerchief crushed against her mouth, Elizabeth with a torn shawl, a handkerchief, and a flask upon her lap, Mr. Darcy looking directly at her.
Elizabeth did not think. Thinking led to images of the hollow, of men with narrow eyes and steady hands, of the way Mr. Darcy had angled himself between her and danger. Thinking led to the sensation of the recoil of the pistol echoing in her ears. She closed her eyes briefly.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said when she opened them, “take off your coat.”
His brows rose with surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your coat,” she repeated, nodding at it. She lifted the flask. “I have Mrs. Hobart’s spirits, a clean handkerchief, and a bandage. Your arm must be seen to.”
He looked at the little array of items with scepticism.
“There is no occasion for alarm, Miss Bennet,” he said. “It is a mere scratch. I have had rougher treatment from a restive horse. The bleeding has already abated. I assure you, it is not of consequence.”
Elizabeth heard again the wet sound of something striking him, felt again the give of his body before it. She set her jaw.
“You may call it nothing, sir, but neither your arm nor I are persuaded. Pray do not oblige me to wrestle your coat from you; my temper is high, and I should hate to inform your family that the august Mr. Darcy was subdued by a young lady.”
A sound came from Mr. Darcy that might, in another man, have been called a laugh.
In him it was little more than a brief sound and the loosening of tension about the eyes and mouth.
He moved his arm and winced. “I confess that I have no wish to be so declaimed. You have the advantage of me, Miss Bennet. I cannot bandage my own arm without a good deal of unnecessary clumsiness. I am in your hands.”
He spoke the last words with more seriousness than his light tone justified. Elizabeth felt them, absurdly, to the tips of her fingers.
He began to work at the buttons of his coat with his right hand, the left still held a little away from his body. Each movement of the injured arm made the muscles along his jaw contract. Elizabeth watched the slow progress and, after a moment, reached across.
“If you will permit me,” she said. Her gloved fingers brushed his as she set to the task. She worked steadily, then helped ease the coat from his shoulder as he slowly drew his left arm from the sleeve.
“Will you move nearer to the window,” she said, “that I may see the arm more clearly?”
He shifted along the seat until his shoulder was beneath the small pane on her side of the carriage.
Elizabeth moved to the opposite bench, bringing her little store of supplies with her. Mrs. Hobart clutched her handkerchief tighter and turned her face away.
Mr. Darcy tried to roll his sleeve up past the wound, but the cloth had adhered to it. The first tug pulled at the torn skin and drew a line between his brows.
“Allow me,” Elizabeth said.
She dampened the sleeve with a little of the spirits, then slipped her fingers beneath the edge of the linen and carefully eased it up. Her fingers had to move along the curve of his arm, firm and solid under her hand. She felt the muscle shift as he tried not to flinch.
The wound, once uncovered, made any thought of impropriety absurd.
It lay along the outer swell of his upper arm, an angry but shallow furrow where the ball had grazed rather than gone through.
The skin was broken and reddened, the edges roughened and scorched, as if someone had drawn a line of fire and then stamped it out badly.
The ball had grazed him because he had shielded her.
Her. The supposed fraud he had spent the past days attempting to expose.
What Elizabeth felt for this impossible, infuriating man made no sense—he despised her, and she should be furious with him.
Instead, she wanted to weep with relief that he was alive, wanted to touch him in ways that had nothing to do with tending his wound.
These feelings were impossible, inappropriate, and entirely her own burden to bear.
Mr. Darcy would be horrified by her feelings. He must never know.
“You are fortunate,” she said. “It is not too deep. Another inch, and I should have been obliged to admire your valour while you underwent the attentions of a surgeon.”
“I am delighted to have spared you that spectacle,” he said. “I am less sure that I have been fortunate. I find myself in a carriage, in January, with my arm exposed to the tender mercies of Mrs. Hobart’s . . .” He took a sniff. “Brandy.”
Mrs. Hobart gave a faint cry of outrage. “It is not brandy. It is a cherry cordial of the highest quality. It has been recommended to me for years by a most respectable physician. The very smell of it restores my spirits.”
Elizabeth caught Darcy’s eye and cast her own up to the ceiling. She knew the smell from her father’s decanter. The drink was brandy. It might not be ladylike, but it was far more useful than a cordial just now.
“We are about to test its effect upon Mr. Darcy’s arm,” Elizabeth said.
She uncorked the bottle again, and the sharp scent of spirit leapt out at once, filling the little coach.
“If it fails as a physic, it will at least have the merit of clearing the air.” She met Mr. Darcy’s gaze and waited for his permission to proceed.
He nodded, and she pressed the damp linen against the wound.
Every muscle in Mr. Darcy’s jaw, neck, and shoulders stood out in sudden relief, but he did not move his arm. Elizabeth could almost feel the sting herself.