Count No Evil （Incremental） #3
When they arrived at the hunting lodge, Salina indicated they had saved supper and led them to a small breakfast room.
Barrow joined them, reporting he had pulled all splinters and needles from the colonel, patched him up, administered laudanum, and stuffed him into bed.
He had not the vaguest idea what would happen next, so Charlotte thanked him for seeing to her duties and bade him go to his own bed and wife.
Mr Darcy nodded appreciation at her decisiveness. He once again appreciated her qualities, deciding that she would not be a mere colonel’s or general’s wife. This was a lady born to be mistress of a household, and mother to a flock of probably well-behaved and studious children.
“Miss Lucas, the servants have done their duty well today. Perhaps I will stay and assist through the night.”
Charlotte gave him a look he had learned meant argument was pointless.
“No, you need to go home. Things are under control well enough here. I apologise for causing you distress or wasting your day, but I have matters well in hand.”
“It would be my honour to stay.”
Charlotte studied him, judging how much she needed to say. “Your presence would be like trying to put out a fire with oil, kindling, and matches. The colonel reacts badly to you. Let me deal with him.”
The situation pleased Darcy little, but he could find no argument against it; he had put the colonel in Miss Lucas’s care. Until she relinquished that claim, or he found reason to be dissatisfied—which seemed so unlikely as to be impossible—he would follow her guidance.
“Very well, I will abide.”
He took his hat and coat, returned to the stable, and drove the phaeton back to Pemberley.
~~~
Despite the day’s exhaustion, sleep eluded Charlotte; she was awake when the colonel started screaming.
He did not scream with a sound that could wake most people.
His voice had recovered from his ordeal with the rope sufficient for speech, or perhaps even yelling, but he could not scream with volume.
She was quite certain he felt all the terror of his fever dreams, but it was difficult to hear him more than a few yards away.
Against the emphatic advice of all the well-meaning men, she had established her bedroom next to the colonel’s, and even had Barrow move her bed to the opposite side of the wall against which the colonel slept.
Salina was in the next room, and Barrow a few rooms down the hall.
Unwilling to keep his wife near the colonel, Barrow shared the duty of watching him with one of the other Rosings servants.
A small outbuilding a quarter mile away housed their wives, and the men took turns occupying the cabin.
Charlotte rose, donned her dressing gown, and strode down the hall to the colonel’s room.
She expected to find a footman or Salina awake, but the colonel had not made enough noise to rouse them.
Charlotte made her decision. Her instructions were clear, unambiguous, and reinforced by the authority of everyone from the general to Mr Darcy to the doctor.
She was never to be alone with the man, never to jeopardise her safety, never to…
never to… never to have any chance of healing him.
Was she to spend more months attempting what had failed, or try something new?
Her mind made up, she entered his room. He thrashed in the blankets; the counterpane lay partly on the floor and partly twisted around him in knots. He sweated profusely, letting out inarticulate screams that could not quite seem to escape his throat.
Charlotte watched him, debating whether to wake him and further considering how to help him. What she had done was not working, so she decided to take another track.
Walking over to the bed, she took charge of the counterpane with the authority of an upstairs maid, straightened the linens, and covered him properly. He still thrashed, but at least he was not bound in the sheets like a giant snake.
That task done, she hesitated only a moment before she removed her dressing gown, lifted the counterpane, and climbed into the bed.
The colonel continued to thrash and moan.
Charlotte simply started singing a lullaby she learned from her great-aunt, while pushing the hair from his eyes and rubbing his head as one would a baby.
It was the same song and motion she had used years ago to rock the noisiest, fussiest, and most ill-tempered baby she had ever known to sleep.
She had always assumed that someday Lizzy Bennet would repay the favour by singing the same song to her own children, but it was difficult to say if that would occur.
Any sensible man would snap up her friend in a heartbeat; yet, in her current state, Charlotte knew only one sensible man, and he was four thousand miles from Elizabeth, and honour-bound to leave her in peace.
The notion that the colonel required rebirth was not new, though new to Charlotte, and she thought perhaps it might work.
Increasing her daring, she decided to devote herself entirely to the task.
Why this particular man should receive more attention than any other soldier, she did not know.
Why this particular man was so important to her, she did not know.
Why she was unwilling to admit failure, she did not know.
Was it pride, compassion, duty, or just plain old-fashioned stubbornness?
She knew none of these things, but she did have an idea how to deal with him.
Slowly, carefully, acting as one would with a frightened animal or a colicky baby, she worked her arm underneath his neck and wrapped him in an embrace.
He was too large to be embraced like a baby, and far too old to listen to her cooing sounds; but whether it made sense or not, she had chosen her path and would follow it unless he became violent.
Eventually, she managed to pull the gentleman over so that his head was tucked under her chin, nestled tightly into her bosom, while she held him as tightly as she could and rocked him like a baby, still cooing, singing lullabies, and otherwise just trying to get him back to sleep.
Why she was treating a battle-hardened colonel like a colicky baby was not an idea she wanted to delve very deeply into, but it seemed to be working.
Eventually, the colonel’s thrashing slowed, his sweating ceased, his screaming stopped, and finally he fell into a deep, restful sleep—perhaps the first in many months.
Charlotte studied the man as a naturalist studies some particular animal, prepared to take her leave as soon as he slept. The plan, once formed, was perfection in its simplicity. It likely had a better than even chance of success, had she not fallen asleep herself.
~~~
Charlotte woke with a gasp as dawn shone through the windows.
Unless the weather was particularly cold, the servants were not allowed in until authorised; thus, at that moment, not a soul knew what she had done.
She was safe, her reputation intact, and she could simply return to her room with none the wiser…
well, none except the colonel, who sat staring at her.
Neither had the vaguest idea how to proceed, so Charlotte dipped her head in the semblance of a curtsey, slid from the bed, seized her dressing gown, and fled.
By nine o’clock, the colonel had requested a tray in his room, while Charlotte followed her custom of eating in the breakfast room with the servants.
It violated the usual bounds of propriety, but she saw no purpose in creating a deal of extra work when she needed to speak to them anyway.
There were few enough that they might never be particular friends, but they could see they were all in this situation together, and eating separate meals seemed silly.
By ten o’clock, the colonel felt more refreshed than he had in years. He broke his fast in his room, then spent an hour devising the best way to fashion a cravat to hide his scars.
By eleven o’clock, the colonel, feeling surprisingly chipper considering the previous day’s disasters, had Barrow change his bandage, poured more gin on the wound, poured a little more down his throat, and took up a book Darcy had stacked in the corner.
By twelve o’clock, the colonel had worked his way through several chapters and grew restless. He thought it high time to leave the room and brace the dragon, though, truth be told, Barrow had not left quite enough gin for that endeavour.
By one o’clock, the colonel was bored to death, yet still afraid to leave.
By two o’clock, the colonel decided that having survived Badajoz and Salamanca, he should be able to survive the breakfast parlour at a hunting lodge on the Pemberley estate with the ordinarily most stable woman he had ever met.
~~~
Charlotte Lucas sat at a table in the breakfast parlour, her favourite room because it possessed just the right light, the right table, a good chair, and all she required.
She had a pot of glue and a quantity of brown wrapping paper laid on the table, and attempted to assemble the mortal remains of her poor work box.
She would miss that box, but she wished to see if she could salvage some meagre semblance to remind herself of the previous day, when she had nearly destroyed years’ worth of effort by failing to control her temper.
There was nothing like a box that had stood the test of time for years—should have stood the test of decades—yet in one blinding fit of rage was turned into kindling that might or might not serve as an object lesson.
She glued the sixth piece to a group of five she had managed to assemble, when she was surprised to see a seventh piece slide into view to join its brethren.
The scarred hands, with which she was oh so familiar, reached between her own to push the centre of the box down flat.
Between the four hands, they almost resurrected half the lid.