Chapter 9
Darcy woke to the ache in his bandaged chest and the dim light of dawn. For some reason he was angry. And he did not know why, which angered him more. There was a bitter taste in his throat. Was it laudanum? Maunder knew he did not wish to take the drug, why had he not obeyed him?
“Maunder!” He meant his voice to be commanding, but only a rasping call came. He scowled, again conscious of his discomfort.
Maunder had scuttled to his side. “Mr Darcy, I am glad you are awake. Might you take some water?”
“I can still taste the laudanum, man! Why did you allow it?” he growled, wishing his ribs would allow him to shout. He wanted to rage at the man, not merely chastise him.
His valet looked wary. “Your cousin insisted, sir. You were rather …”
“Don’t tell me excuses! You must protect me.”
The door opened and Richard hurried in, a banyan carelessly tied over his nightshirt, his hair disordered. “Darcy!” His voice was still low, but he sounded exasperated, and Darcy’s shame overcame his anger.
“What day … what day is it?”
“It’s Friday, Darcy. The twenty-ninth of November.
You have been ill these three days complete since the ball.
Now drink some of that water and apologise to Mr Maunder; you have been abusing him relentlessly.
Then he may go back to his rest and I will explain some things to you.
” Richard’s hands were on his hips, but there was a softer look in his eyes than there usually was when he was in this sort of mood.
Darcy turned to look at his valet. “I apologise, Mr Maunder. It seems I have been an unpleasant master.”
“Think nothing of it, sir. Allow me to hold the glass for you.”
Darcy was glad that he was now sitting up, well propped by pillows; it was easier to breathe and he could drink more easily than having to be moved and supported when upright.
He supposed it was well that he was feeling a little more himself. Three days — three days that he could barely remember; except for many indignities. And probably more that I do not recall. Hot humiliation and shame coursed through him.
Richard sat himself on the chair beside him, yawning, but otherwise alert. “Mr Maunder, might you be good enough to call downstairs for coffee for me before you retire?”
“Of course, sir.” He looked relieved and Darcy felt a little ashamed.
“Did I mistreat him?”
Richard shrugged. “You have been a bear, Darcy. Displeased with everyone and everything. When I have had my coffee, I will explain why. Meantime, rest.”
It was a few hours later that Darcy was awake once again. Richard was leaning over him. “Come, Darcy. You must wake. Mr Jones is concerned you are not taking enough nourishment.”
Darcy could smell the broth in the steaming cup beside him and scowled. Richard gave him a thunderous look. “No complaining. Must I explain again that your mood is not just making your own life miserable, but of all of us, too?”
Mr Jones touched Richard’s shoulder. “If I might assist, Colonel?” He moved forward.
“Sir, you must take a little more broth. I know you are angry at the indignities you are suffering, but that will hopefully ease a little as time goes by. Your discomfort must seem worse this morning. It is because I had to reset your nose again late last night. You had displaced it sideways during a period of agitation, and I have used a new way of starching a piece of cloth to attempt to hold it firmly in place.” He smiled.
“I know it is uncomfortable, but it will improve as the swelling recedes. Your cousin was insistent that it be done, and that you would not wish to display a crooked nose once you are well.”
“I thank you,” Darcy said stiffly. He must, he supposed. Richard had said he had been here three days, and he could remember the apothecary had been beside him much of that time.
Now it was early evening, and Darcy did not know how he would sleep tonight. He needed exercise, but how could he achieve it when even attempting to move around in the bed exhausted him, although not in the way to be satisfyingly tired?
The house was quiet, a contrast to the noise in his head. It still ached, but he forced himself to think of the night of the ball. He must remember what had happened — he did not wish to rely on the accounts of others.
He had danced with Miss Elizabeth, he remembered that much at least, although he could not quite remember what had gone wrong between them. But he knew something had. He frowned; he could not recall her in the ballroom after that. Had he looked for her?
The next thing he recalled was being outside not dressed for the cold and the darkness. Was that when he had been set upon? He was not sure he wanted to remember that part of it. But why had they wanted to attack him? And who were they?
He pulled his mind away, his head aching more fiercely. Perhaps he could have accepted the headache powders, though he would never consent to more laudanum, when he was in control of himself to do so.
His nose throbbed, but he forced himself to keep his hands away. One touch earlier, and he had been appalled at the starched cloth and the thick padding either side of it. He must look dreadful — how long before it was improved?
Bingley had come to see him this afternoon for a few minutes. He seemed cautious and uncharacteristically quiet, even when Darcy pressed him for news.
“There is nothing much to say, Darcy,” he said apologetically — and warily. Darcy supposed his own tempers might have been heard beyond the confines of his chamber, and he resolved to control himself, and asked if Bingley had seen any of the neighbours.
His friend admitted calling at Longbourn and talked about his angel. “Miss Bennet is concerned for her sister of course, who is very quiet. She still goes out for her long walks, but confines herself to the woods and fields, and does not venture into town.”
“Why not?” Darcy frowned.
“Well,” Bingley hesitated. “There is some talk, of course. But your cousin will tell you about that, I am sure.”
Darcy could get no more out of him except that Miss Bingley was still determined to have Darcy convalesce at Netherfield, preferably downstairs often.
Bingley coughed. “I understand it will be some time before you wish to see others.”
Darcy nodded gloomily. He must look terrible, and for the first time he wondered if he might be permanently disfigured. At least the swelling around his eyes had gone down so he could properly open them; and the terrible brightness was much less.
The next day, his mood was still uncertain. He made a face as he sipped the broth. “It is too salty.” He could find something to complain about.
“Then you will drink what there is and I will send down for less salty broth to be made in future.” Richard still sounded impatient, and Darcy supposed Richard thought he ought to have overcome his injuries and be up and about. Darcy thought so too.
“When can I get up?”
Mr Jones looked at him appraisingly. “If you seem well this afternoon, and we build up the fire, then perhaps you may sit out — only a few minutes. But I believe you may find that just to stand beside the bed and then get back in may be all that you can manage for now, Mr Darcy.”
He turned and placed the empty cup on the nightstand.
“You must be aware, sir, that your injuries are such as would incapacitate most men for many, many weeks. It will be at least another week before you are able to leave this room and most of that will be in this bed. And that is a recovery at least twice as fast as I would have expected.”
Darcy felt dashed. He must soon recover some semblance of independence, be less dependent for every small indignity of care.
Richard laughed. “Stop scowling, Darce. We have all experienced what you are like when you are ill. The sooner you are up and about the better, especially for us.” He rose to his feet.
“Now, you look tired enough to sleep, so I will away into town and listen to the gossip and see if I can discover anything of interest.”
The apothecary had been right. Damn him. Darcy had not managed even a step away from the bed. Richard was tall, broad and strong as an ox, of course, and Mr Jones, although of slighter build, seemed to have a knack to support him, Maunder having been relegated as too short to be of assistance.
But Darcy’s knees had buckled as soon as he attempted to stand, and the room swayed alarmingly.
But he had managed to force himself to sit on the edge of the bed, with his feet on the floor, by denying the dizziness that assailed him.
Once he was back in the bed, his temper got the better of him, and Richard had sent the others away.
“Mr Maunder, go and rest.” Then he had swung round.
“Mr Jones, I believe the rest of the town might be pleased to see you, and you might be able to open your shop for an hour or two. Or sleep. We shall not expect to see you until tomorrow, unless called for.”
Once they were alone, he gave Darcy a blistering taste of his own medicine, and Darcy had lain in his bed for an hour thereafter in bitter, resentful silence.
“I apologise, Richard,” Darcy said in a low voice. “I have behaved abominably.”
“You ought to apologise more to Maunder and Jones. They have no way to avoid your temper, whereas if it all gets too much, I could walk out of here today.”
Darcy’s heart sank. “Do not, I beg you.” He meant it, although he had never thought he would stoop so low.
On Monday, Darcy finally managed to reach the chair, and sat trembling and uncomfortable for half an hour before retiring back to bed. The coddled egg that arrived shortly afterwards sat in front of him for many minutes before he forced it down. Nursery food. Another sign of defeat.
Tuesday was marked by another memorable incident. A shrill voice could be heard from the corridor. “What wonderful news! But the chairs are much more comfortable downstairs. Mr Darcy must come down tomorrow!”
A lance of pain through his head, and Darcy’s temper suddenly flared. “Silence, woman! For heaven’s sake, silence!”