Chapter XXX
Darcy dismissed the carriage a short distance from the house.
His driver looked at him with poorly concealed curiosity.
Darcy imagined the reason was not difficult to discover.
His coat had been brushed as well as circumstances allowed, yet no amount of care could entirely conceal the swelling beginning beneath one eye, nor the stiffness with which he descended.
He thanked his man and waited until the carriage disappeared from the front before turning towards the house.
His intention was simple. He would enter quietly by the side door, change his clothes before anyone noticed his condition, and then send for the physician at his own convenience.
Georgiana need never know that morning had been spent in a garret above a public house, exchanging blows with George Wickham.
He reached the servants’ entrance without meeting a soul. For one hopeful moment, he believed fortune had finally decided to favour him.
The door opened before he could touch it. Mrs. Barnes stood upon the threshold. She looked at him pleasantly.
Then she looked properly.
Her expression changed at once. “Mr. Darcy!”
“It is considerably less alarming than it appears.” Darcy raised his hand.
“I sincerely doubt that.”
“It is only a few bruises.”
She stared at him in horrified silence.
“I assure you…”
“No, sir.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no.”
Mrs. Barnes had managed Darcy House for nearly thirty years. She had seen much. There was no point in defying her.
“Let me have a look at you. You will come inside immediately.”
“I was already intending to.” Darcy rolled his eyes, but only as Mrs. Barnes turned to lead him.
“Sit down, sir.”
“I had hoped first to change my coat.”
Darcy looked at her for a long moment. For reasons he could never afterwards explain, facing Mrs. Barnes in that moment appeared almost more difficult than facing Wickham had been.
Very quietly, he surrendered. “As you wish.”
She ushered him into the morning room before any servant in the hall had sufficient opportunity to stare openly.
Only once he had lowered himself into a chair did she speak again.
“Who is responsible?”
Darcy hesitated.
“Wickham.”
Mrs. Barnes closed her eyes briefly.
“I certainly hope you won.”
Darcy grinned, or he tried until it became a grimace.
She rang the bell with remarkable firmness.
The footman appeared.
“Send immediately for Mr. Hargreaves.”
Darcy sighed. “Mrs. Barnes…”
“Master Fitzwilliam.” She had not called him that since he became the master. Somehow, that was more effective than any argument she might have made.
The footman disappeared again.
“Do I need to inform Miss Darcy?”
“That will not be necessary.” He said with resignation.
Before Darcy could construct another objection, hurried footsteps sounded in the passage. Then Georgiana’s voice. “Mrs. Barnes? Has my brother returned?”
She appeared in the doorway. She smiled with relief.
Then she saw him, and the colour left her face. “William…” She crossed the room almost at a run and stopped before him, frightened to touch him. “What has happened?”
Darcy managed what he hoped resembled reassurance. “I have merely had a disagreement.”
Her eyes widened. “A disagreement?”
“An energetic one.” He shrugged. “I am afraid we will have to postpone our trip to the musicale.”
She looked from the bruised cheek to the swollen hand. “I do not believe disagreements usually end like this.”
“No,” he admitted. “This one was unusually determined.”
Another pair of footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Lydia appeared in the doorway, still fastening one of her gloves. “Oh! I thought perhaps you had forgotten…” She stopped abruptly.
Her eyes travelled over Darcy’s bruised face, then to the swelling across his knuckles. The colour drained from her own. First, she said nothing. Then, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “You found him.”
Darcy met her eyes. “Yes.”
“Wickham did this.” It was not a question.
Georgiana gasped.
“He attempted to.”
Lydia closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, good gracious.” She took an uncertain step into the room. “You fought him… because of me.”
“No. Well, yes.” Darcy shook his head gently. “No. Because he deserved it.” He glanced at his sister.
Georgiana’s eyes moved from her brother’s face to Lydia’s. In that moment she understood. This had not been about revenge. It had been about protecting another young woman from the humiliation and pain she herself had once endured.
Lydia looked at him for several seconds, and when she spoke again, her usual liveliness had disappeared entirely. “I am so sorry.”
“There is nothing for which you need to apologise.”
“There is everything.” She looked away. “If I had only listened… if I had not been so foolish…”
Darcy interrupted her quietly. “We shall not speak of that again.”
She raised her eyes.
“It is over, Miss Lydia. He is in custody.”
For the first time since entering the room, Lydia breathed freely. A tear escaped before she could stop it.
“You beat him?”
He hesitated. “In the end, he looked worse than I.”
Lydia stared at him. Then, with complete sincerity, she said, “I-I do not think anyone has ever done anything so brave for me.”
Darcy looked uncomfortable. “No, no. I should have done it earlier. It was easier not to confront him.” He looked away briefly. “It was easier to believe that time would solve the problem than to confront a man I knew to be without honour.”
Lydia was quiet.
“Nobody has ever fought for me.”
“Let us hope there will not be another occasion making it necessary.”
That did make her smile.
She said nothing more, but something in her expression had changed.
For Lydia Bennet, who had once been so easily dazzled by charm and appearances, Fitzwilliam Darcy had become the very image of what a gentleman ought to be.
***
Before the physician arrived, Darcy requested pen and paper, but he hissed at the pain in his hand.
“Let me do this for you. You can dictate whatever you wish to write.”
Darcy looked at the two girls, who refused to leave his side.
“Very well,” he finally said, and went back to the armchair and sat down very slowly.
Lydia took her place at the desk with great seriousness, dipping the pen carefully before looking up.
Darcy began to dictate. The first note was to Richard to make sure he saw to Wickham’s arrest. Then he asked that another note should be sent.
“Dear Miss Bennet, I regret that I must write to inform you that I shall be unable to attend the musicale this evening as we had intended. An unexpected circumstance has arisen which requires my attention, and I must apologise for the inconvenience.”
Lydia wrote every word with admirable concentration.
“Anything else?”
“No. That will suffice.”
She nodded, folded the paper, and sealed it.
“Thank you, Miss Lydia.”
“It is quite all right.”
She carried the note towards the waiting footman. Only when her back was turned did a small smile appear upon her face.
Mr. Darcy’s message was perfectly proper, perfectly composed, and perfectly uninformative. It did not, however, remain entirely as he had dictated.
At the bottom of the page, in a hurried hand, Lydia had added:
Lizzy, please come quickly. Mr. Darcy has fought Wickham, and he is hurt.
She sealed the note with complete satisfaction and handed it to the servant.
Darcy, entirely unaware that his carefully measured explanation had been improved upon considerably, merely thanked her once again.
***
The physician arrived soon and confirmed what Mrs. Barnes had already suspected.
“No broken bones,” he pronounced at last, after examining Darcy’s ribs with professional thoroughness that his patient endured with dignity under the scrutiny of his housekeeper.
“Several severe bruises. A cut lip. One swollen hand. You have been fortunate.”
The doctor bandaged his ribs with a salve and, talking over his patient’s head, instructed Mrs. Barnes to apply the bandage again when he retired. “I recommend rest,” he finally said.
When the doctor had finally departed, leaving behind bandages, ointments and a remarkable number of instructions, Darcy thought to move into his study, hoping his two ladies would be satisfied with his promise that he would take a nap on his couch.
After he took sustenance from the tray provided for him, Darcy leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The house had at last grown quiet.
“I suspect,” he murmured, “that I have entirely lost command of my own household.”
For the first time since entering the house, he believed the afternoon might finally settle into peace.
He was mistaken.
Several streets away, a visitor had already set out in great haste.
***
Darcy had almost drifted into an uneasy doze when a quiet knock sounded at the door.
He opened his eyes immediately. “Come in.”
Mrs. Barnes entered.
“Miss Elizabeth is here to see you, sir.”
For a moment, Darcy simply stared at her. He wondered whether he had imagined the name.
“Miss… Elizabeth?”
“Yes, sir. She insisted.”
He looked down at himself.
Then, at the state of his coat, which had been removed and replaced only by a loose shirt and waistcoat, and even that was open. The bruising upon his face and hand, and the general evidence of the morning’s events, suddenly became far more alarming than they had seemed a moment earlier.
“Good Lord.” He attempted to rise. “Mrs. Barnes, my jacket.”
“Sir, I believe Miss Elizabeth is already…”
But it was too late. Elizabeth stepped into the room.
“There is no need to put yourself out, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly. “I am not here to judge your appearance. I only wish to see that you are truly well.”
She stopped scarcely three paces inside the room.
Neither spoke.
She had prepared herself to see him injured.
She had not prepared herself to see him so utterly unguarded.
The swelling beneath one eye had already darkened. A cut marked the corner of his mouth. His right hand rested awkwardly upon the arm of the chair. He appeared paler than usual, and though he attempted to rise, she noticed the involuntary tightening of his jaw as pain protested.
“Do not.” The word escaped before she intended it.