Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible, but then Darcy recalled Warren had sent for him hours ago on account of his poisoning.
It was Sir John who had to carry Elizabeth into the house, for Darcy could barely climb down from the cart on his own.
Mr Hunter, the surgeon, rushed toward the entrance on horseback and offered to see to him first as he dismounted hastily, but Darcy shooed him away to tend to Elizabeth.
His poor betrothed was confused. The surgeon might be with her for some time, but he preferred that. What was poisoning compared to what was likely a mind-altering concussion?
He was relieved he made it to his own chamber unassisted. He waved off his valet and collapsed atop his bed, still wearing his boots.
A knock woke him and he threw himself upright, wondering if it was news about Elizabeth. The door opened, and Sir John crept in. He saw Darcy, then leered. “Hoping I was someone else? I think she will be confined to bed for some time—her bed, not yours.”
Darcy scowled. Sir John had been helpful today, but he was still a frustrating, lewd man. “I need to know how she is.”
His grin faded. “I do not know,” he said solemnly. “You have only been sleeping for about half an hour. The surgeon is still with her. I merely came to say goodbye, and to tell you Henry is bringing your horse back.”
Darcy sat up with a cough, and Sir John poured him a glass of water. Was his head pounding because of the poison or because he had neither drunk nor ate anything for hours? “You are leaving so suddenly?”
“This place is already infamous,” he said.
“I want nothing more to do with the commotion at Woodcote. I am returning to town where the only scandals are about who slept with whose wife. I have left a card for the magistrate if he needs a statement, but I have little to contribute. I was only an observer of Lady Metcalfe’s rage when you stopped her. ”
Darcy drained his glass. His throat sighed and his stomach rioted. “She must be out of her mind, poor creature.”
“That is what we will tell ourselves. I wish you a speedy recovery,” he said, shaking his hand in parting, and Darcy thanked him for his help.
He poured himself another glass of water.
As he finished his drink, he realised with a start that Longbourn needed to know what happened.
His existing anguish and pain were compounded by the horrifying prospect of having to disclose the situation to her parents.
The weight of the impending task pressed down on him.
She had been in his care, and he needed to tell them—and be held to account.
A servant would not do. He must sneak off before the surgeon and his valet confined him to bed.
His throat still burned, but the prickling feeling in his hands had mostly subsided.
He felt faint, but eating was impossible.
Riding thirty miles would certainly be difficult, but he could not delay another moment.
This never should have happened to her. It was his fault for not sending Elizabeth away the moment the vase fell. Whether or not her parents had sanctioned it, she was under his care as soon as they agreed to marry.
He found his hat and gloves and lurched down the back stairs toward the stables to avoid anyone who might stop him. At the bottom of the stair, putting on his hat, was Mr Travers. He looked up on hearing his footsteps and then turned to go without saying a word.
“You are leaving?” Darcy called after him.
Mr Travers nodded briskly. “The York races begin on the twenty-fifth, and I need to see my father first.”
Likely to beg him for more money. Mr Travers was as addicted to wagering on horses as some men were to the bottle.
“Your inconsiderate use of Lady Metcalfe has driven her into madness. She believed you would finally commit to her. All those years of taking her money and affection.” He shook his head in disapproval. “And now your daughter needs—”
“I will thank you not to slander me,” Mr Travers said, but there was no heat behind his words. “I have no children. And I made Lady Metcalfe no promises, not since my father swore to cut me off if I married beneath me, and to a woman stupid enough to get into a regrettable situation.”
“You put her in that situation! And now your daughter—” He caught Mr Travers’s indignant look. “And now the daughter of your friend is facing her mother’s trial and imprisonment. Not to mention she is also in a situation of utmost distress herself. She deserves your sympathy and your help.”
“It is not my problem. Let her brother mind her.”
Her brother, the baronet, was a child, and all of Lady Metcalfe’s children would need to be advised, protected, and shielded from their mother’s scandal as best they could.
“If not for your daughter’s sake,” he said on purpose, “what about for the sake of your lifelong friend, a woman you must have once loved?” A woman whose affection for a man who would sleep with her and take her money but never marry her pushed her over the edge to madness.
“What about her?” Mr Travers leant a hand on the door to leave, as though he found everything tiresome.
“That woman has disgraced herself by these violent attacks. She will be found guilty of attempted murder and kidnapping, and the only consolation is if she is deemed insane and not put to death. Regardless, it is no concern of mine.”
Mr Travers touched his hat carelessly and left. His tone and manner all spoke of indifference. How could he sleep with a woman for decades but feel nothing for her? Nothing warmed his blood enough to action, not even Lady Metcalfe. Only wagering spurred him on.
Sir John was flippant and careless of women, but he never raised and crushed a woman’s expectations like Mr Travers did.
Darcy pitied Julia Metcalfe too. She was a hateful, spoiled woman who knew her father was not her true father and that her mother loved another man who never loved her back. How did that affect how Julia sought men’s attention? She was not even certain who the father of her child was.
Whilst pondering these sad reflections, Darcy slumped against the wall to gather his strength, and that was where Henry found him. He dashed in from the stables and was about to charge up the stairs and nearly collided with him.
“Mr Darcy! I just saw to your horse. What are you doing here?”
He hauled himself off the wall. “I must go to Longbourn. Miss Bennet’s home,” he added at Henry’s questioning look. “Her family must be told, and without the delay of another minute.”
“Sir, you are deathly ill.”
He bristled at being called sir. He was just ten years older than Henry. Were they not contemporaries and both gentlemen? He felt older, and more so after today, but was he that old to an eighteen-year-old to necessitate being called ‘sir’?
“Well, I am not likely to die now,” he quipped, glad that he did not cough whilst saying it.
Henry raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “How likely are you to fall off your saddle?”
That did not matter. “Her father and mother,” he said, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. “The news has to be conveyed, and I cannot send a servant for such a task. They must hear it from me.”
“I will go.” Henry said it solemnly, and Darcy dropped his hands.
“Someone from Woodcote must explain since you cannot, so it is my responsibility. She was in our home. Anyone can see you cannot endure a ride like that. Give me a letter, if you must,” he interrupted when Darcy opened his mouth. “But I will ride to Longbourn.”
Henry had a strong posture and a determined look.
The boy had surprised him. And as much as he hated it, he was not well enough to go himself, and agreed.
“I will send my carriage after you to bring back anyone who wants to tend to Miss Bennet. If the family debates on who to send, Miss Bennet would prefer her sister Jane.”
“I will mention that if they need direction.”
“When you speak with Mrs Bennet…” How could he say this? “She will fly into a panic that will make it impossible to accomplish anything. I fear you must bring senses and nerves that could be useful to a mind such as hers—”
“I can do it,” he insisted. “Write a letter whilst I change and pack. I will leave in quarter of an hour.”
Henry gestured to the stairs, and Darcy trudged back up.
He lumbered to his room and wrote as brief an explanation as he could to Mr Bennet and offered to come himself when he was able.
He could scarcely imagine their horror. They expected their newly engaged daughter on Monday and were about to be told about all the violence done to her because she had said yes.
Henry came in, now stylishly dressed in riding clothes. Thankfully, there was something of substance beneath the fashion after all. Handing over the letter, Darcy asked, his voice shaking, “Has the surgeon seen Elizabeth?”
He nodded. “I asked my mother what he said so I could tell her family. Mr Hunter does not think it a hopeless case, but she has suffered a severe contusion. She is awake, but not yet lucid—but he is confident it will pass. He insists on seeing you.”
Hearing Elizabeth’s condition did little to console him, and he wanted to ask more questions.
But Warren then came in with Mr Hunter behind him.
The energy that had been coursing through him when Elizabeth was in danger had receded.
It was his turn to be examined, bled, prodded, and confined to his bed.
He had no strength left to argue and would submit to whatever was done to him.
On Sunday, Darcy woke early to the same sore throat and abdominal pain he had gone to bed with the night before.
Now that he had nothing urgent to focus on, he could only think on how much his chest hurt and how irregular his heartbeat was.
He was lucky to be alive. The surgeon suspected arsenic, and was certain that had he drunk the entire cup, his valet would have found his corpse on the floor.