Chapter 12
It must have been some time later when he startled awake. Bingley was in the room, as was the apothecary.
Darcy realised he was holding the ring and his watch. He could not let them see, and he tucked them hastily under the blankets.
Bingley was looking around. “Where is your cousin, Darcy?”
“Longbourn.” The word caught in his throat.
“And Mr Maunder?”
What right did he have to check up on Darcy? “Meryton. He should not be long.” He knew his voice sounded truculent, but could not bring himself to care.
“I can manage alone, Mr Bingley.” Mr Jones smiled at the man. “I know you are also anxious for your appointment.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows, and Bingley flushed. Interesting, but I can hardly be troubled by it. I will find out later. He forced out the politeness. “Good morning, Mr Jones.”
The man nodded at him as Bingley slipped out of the door. “I see you have removed the splint. Was it irritating you?”
“It was.”
“Very well, but you must wear it at night and take very great care not to knock it when you are up, or we might negate all the trouble it has caused you so far.”
The man’s tone was respectful, calm and quiet, but Darcy was in a quarrelsome mood.
“How long before I am feeling myself again, Mr Jones?”
The man busied himself with the instruments in his bag.
“You have had a difficult time, sir. I know it is irritating to be told to be patient, but that is what you will have to be. Your face — the pain and the bruising are already improving; it will take a few weeks longer to be able to be less conscious of the discomfort. The headaches may be a week or two more than that. But your ribs will pain you, especially on movement, for perhaps another six weeks or so.” He straightened up.
“However, your temper, sir. I cannot tell you whether the irritability and the sudden rages you might feel will ever resolve.” He met Darcy’s eyes steadily.
“But it may well get better. Three months or so and you will know.”
“It must get better. I am known as a kind and generous man.”
“It cannot be foretold, sir. But you have famous self-control. You may be able to bring the outbursts under some control more effectively than other men do.”
He smiled slightly. “Are you intending to stay abed today?”
Darcy frowned and glanced at the clock. “No,” he grumbled. “My cousin appeared with the mail coach from town and there has been no opportunity for Maunder to assist me since then.”
At that moment, there was a quiet knock on the door of his dressing room. His valet must be back.
“Enter,” he called and his valet slipped into the room.
“I have completed the errand, Mr Darcy.”
He turned to the apothecary. “I was told you are here, sir. Is there anything you need me to assist with?”
“Not at all.” Mr Jones closed his bag. “Unless there is anything you wish to speak to me about?”
“Mr Darcy has asked me when he may be offered food that he might find more palatable, sir.”
Jones chuckled, and Darcy felt rising anger at his amusement. But the man’s words softened it rather.
“Your master may try what he wishes. If he finds it painful with the bruising to his face and jaw, then he may agree to return to soft food for a little longer.” He turned to Darcy.
“I do feel that you ought to begin to have a more usual day — rise in the morning and retire at night. That sort of thing, although a rest during the afternoon might be necessary at first.”
The sound of Miss Bingley’s voice intruded from the corridor, and all three men froze.
“Oh, sister! This whole travesty of a wedding will cause so much more of a scandal than if we had taken Mr Darcy back to town. He would have received so much better care than has been …”
“Miss Bingley!” Richard’s angry voice was almost as piercing as that woman’s.
“Do you not know how seriously he was injured? He would surely have perished on the road.” There was a pause, and Darcy wondered what his cousin was doing.
When Richard began speaking again, his voice was quieter, but no less vitriolic.
Perhaps he had stepped closer to her. “Two things we are certain of; firstly, he has received, and is receiving, excellent medical care, and secondly, that Darcy finds the sound of your shrill, whining complaints physically painful, which is why your brother has attempted to keep you out of earshot of my cousin.”
Darcy looked at Mr Jones. The insult to him would have been obvious. But the man’s face was imperturbable, although a small smirk of amusement was just discernible.
Darcy cleared his throat. “I must apologise, Mr Jones, for …”
“I pray you, do not be concerned, Mr Darcy. You could not possibly be to blame for the actions of another, and to be honest, Miss Bingley has already made her opinions known to me.” The man drew breath to continue, but the door opened, and Richard slipped in.
His cousin closed the door and leaned against it, chortling. “I am just unhappy that Bingley didn’t hear her, or she might be in the coach to Scarborough this very moment.”
“We heard,” Darcy said dryly.
“Then I am impressed you did not begin shouting, Darce.” Richard’s voice was breezy and cheerful. He crossed the room and clapped the apothecary on the shoulder.
“May I tempt you down to the library, sir, for a snifter of brandy before you go to your next call?”
Darcy was settled in an armchair by the fire for the final hour of the evening. He was alone, as he wished to be. He needed to think through the happenings of the day.
He was betrothed and would wed within the week.
He could recall how he had felt about Miss Elizabeth before the Netherfield ball.
How he had found her dangerously attractive, her dancing eyes and mischievous expression; her impertinent comments and her obvious intelligence.
And her kindness. The kindness that had made her come to his assistance when helpless — and how he hated the mortification of that memory!
But now? All he could feel was anger. Anger that she had not arrived with many servants so there could be no scandal. It mattered not that she had cried out to them to follow her; she ought to have waited.
He rubbed at his head, the ever-present ache threatening to worsen.But he needed to live; Georgiana must be protected.
If he had died, her protection would have been given over to others — although the way he had failed her at Ramsgate …
He shivered; no, perhaps it was for the best that he could still protect her.
The small card box glared balefully at him from the table. A plain, worn, brassy-gold ring. Maunder had purchased it from the pawned section at the jewellers. It would do, and his hand stole under the pillow to his watch, where his mother’s ring would carry her love and remain with him.
He curled his lip. That he lived meant he must pay the price.
Instead of choosing his bride, he must take an unwilling woman, one whose connections and fortune were so far beneath him he had been certain he would never offer for her.
But she had made a good match of it. The settlement was over-generous; she would have no cause to repine.
But he had no doubt that she would be bitter and resentful at having to marry. Perhaps she blamed him for putting himself in such danger. And me? I will be reminded of the humiliation of needing her to rescue me every time I set eyes on her. His temper flared.
Felicity in marriage would never be theirs.