Chapter 4
Elizabeth breathed carefully. The light from the house had dimmed as Mr Darcy descended the steps and turned to walk past her. She had pressed herself back against the wall and averted her face, glad of her dark cloak. She did not want him to see her.
It took a moment before she understood what she was hearing — Mr Darcy was walking into a trap.
What to do? She could not call out, he would be distracted and might be caught unawares by the presence of the men, or he might even think she intended to trap him.
Hastily and without thinking, she caught up her skirts and chased after him.
She was too late; the waiting men were alarmingly close to the house, and she saw Mr Darcy felled from a blow to the back of his head.
Before she could scream, a booted foot kicked the prone man in the face. “That’s for Georgiana, Darcy. I want you to know who ruined your handsome face.”
Elizabeth’s scream rent the air as she dashed towards the fight without considering the danger she might be in. Blows were falling upon Mr Darcy and she heard his grunt as one struck his chest. She might despise him, but no one deserved this.
She dashed over, but the men were already scattering at the sound of her intervention. At least it must mean there were footmen coming to assist.
But she was there. Mr Darcy lay on his side on the driveway, and in the torchlight at the side of the drive, Elizabeth saw blood glistening on the gravel near his head.
Dropping to her knees beside him, Elizabeth’s heart was in her mouth. He wasn’t moving; could he be — could he be dead? She had never seen — but no! There was a gasping breath, and Mr Darcy winced before rolling onto his back with a groan.
“Mr Darcy! Pray do not move, sir! You were set upon and are injured.” Carefully, she lifted his head a little from the ground.
Perhaps it would make his breathing easier; but she could not support it properly.
He seemed almost insensible, so she slid her arm underneath his head.
That was easier. But it elicited another groan.
“I am so sorry, sir. Help will not be long.” How could she move? But she was bent over him, her face indecorously close to his.
He seemed to stir a little, his gaze attempting to focus on her, and his arm lifting. “Elizabeth?” he murmured, then seemed to fade again, the full weight of his head pressing against her arm.
She must disguise her shock at his use of her given name.
“Mr Darcy, help is coming. Please do not attempt to move. I think I hear people coming.” With her free hand she managed to work the handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the wound on his cheek that was bleeding freely.
Where were the servants? Mr Wickham must not be tempted to return.
She was worried about Mr Darcy’s breathing; each breath was accompanied by a wince of pain and was merely a gasp — and his breathing was much too fast.
Shouts and the sound of running boots were not a moment too soon. And she could stop worrying about Mr Wickham and concentrate on preparing her story.
“Miss Bennet!” The shocked sound of Mr Bingley’s voice brought her back to herself. Had the footmen waited until their master was ready to lead them? No wonder they had had to wait so long.
She leaned back slightly, but there was another groan from Mr Darcy, and Mr Bingley’s expression turned to alarm.
“Darcy! What happened to you, man?”
His friend made no sound and Mr Bingley looked at her with suspicion.
“Sir, might Mr Darcy be taken inside? He was set upon by three men, and I believe he is grievously injured.”
“Yes, yes,” he looked around vaguely. “You, Dawes. Go and get a litter. Quickly, man!”
Then he dropped to his knees on the other side of Mr Darcy, and looked at his friend. Elizabeth did the same.
Mr Darcy’s face was a terrible mess. One eye was swollen shut and already darkening; and the top part of his nose was crooked, and just as swollen.
Blood was flowing freely over the lower part of his face.
Elizabeth lifted the handkerchief she was holding over the cut on his cheek.
That, at least, seemed to be bleeding less, and was not as serious as the other wounds.
But his breathing was still much too fast and much too shallow and still seemed to pain him. She whispered to Mr Bingley.
“I saw one of the men kick him in the chest. Perhaps he has broken a rib.”
Mr Bingley grimaced. “But what were you doing out here with him, Miss Bennet?”
There were more than just servants gathered round now, and Elizabeth was very conscious of what things looked like. But she could not be concerned for that, Mr Darcy was far too unwell for her to be concerned for herself.
Mr Bingley turned to look at his servants. “Patterson, get a groom to ride my fastest horse to the apothecary. Hurry!”
Mr Darcy stirred at those words, and appeared to be attempting to sit up, pushing himself almost onto his elbow before collapsing back onto her arm. “What …”
“Rest, Darcy!” Mr Bingley’s voice was finally stronger and he was acting like the master of Netherfield at last. “The men will be back with a litter soon, and we can get you indoors.”
But Mr Darcy didn’t appear to have heard him. He seemed very dazed again, and turned his head towards her. He seemed to want to speak, but Elizabeth feared he might speak her name again; he must not, not before so many people.
“Please be still, sir. I believe the litter is coming now.” Please live. Please.
But there was another man, a servant. He came very close to Elizabeth, and knelt down beside her.
“Madam. I am Maunder, Mr Darcy’s valet. I will slide my arm under his head, as you remove yours.” His voice was firm, but cold. What was he thinking of her? She had saved his master.
As she removed her arm, the valet and Mr Bingley shared a shocked glance.
Elizabeth was quite astonished herself. Her sleeve was soaked in blood.
The blow to the back of Mr Darcy’s head had quite escaped her memory, given the sight of his facial wounds.
But it was no wonder he was so pale, having lost that much blood.
A hand pulled her away. “What has happened, Lizzy?” At Papa’s voice, Elizabeth let her shoulders droop in relief. But she could not allow herself to go to him for comfort; not when she was being observed with hostility by so many; nor would Papa wish to risk blood on his clothes.
And there were not just men here, after all.
“Miss Eliza! What have you done?” Miss Bingley’s voice was louder than any, and Elizabeth happened to be looking at Mr Darcy’s face and noted his grimace. But he seemed barely conscious. How could such a brief encounter have had such terrible consequences?
“Caroline!” Mr Bingley’s voice was furious. “You should not be out here. Go back inside and do your duty as hostess. You must get everyone back into the ballroom at once. Ensure the hallway is clear as we take Mr Darcy in. He will not be pleased if you allow him to be stared at.”
She gaped at her brother. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Miss Bingley spared one more horrified glance at Mr Darcy and then turned for the house, passing the two servants carrying a litter piled high with blankets.
“Come, Lizzy. We must leave here.” Papa tugged on her arm, and Elizabeth could think of no reason that would permit him to allow her to stay longer.
Reluctantly, she stepped away, and as she did so, she heard a cry of agony.
He was being lifted onto the litter. She knew it without looking.
She also knew he was so dazed that he would probably not remember this, which was all to the good.
But she would never forget that haunting cry.
Papa was speaking to one of the many footmen who were standing around. Then he turned to her. “I don’t want to know what happened tonight, Lizzy. When we get home, you must go straight to your room, and I will hear the full accounting in the morning.”
She frowned. “But Sir William is here, Papa. He is the magistrate. Will he not wish me to tell him what has occurred?”
“Not tonight.” Papa’s cold voice bewildered her. “I do not think you have heard the whispers that have already started.” He shook his head. “I do not understand why you were out here with him at all.”
“I was not with …” Elizabeth’s gaze went to the door, where the still form of Mr Darcy was being carried up the steps. One hand dangled down, limp. She wished she was beside him and could tuck it into the blankets safely. She shivered and turned away.
Papa was watching her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have looked where she did. He sighed, looking much older than he usually did. “I sent the servant in to call for the rest of the family. As the coach was called earlier, it is ready.”