Chapter 19 (with bonus preview of Chapter 20)

Chapter 19

Mr. Darcy

Darcy crumbled under his own weight. His face fell into his hands. A sob rose in his throat, to which he swallowed back down. In attempt to rise, his legs wobbled and gave way to the floor once more. Berkes reached down and helped him up. In these precious moments, perhaps Elizabeth’s last, he cared not for his pride. Lurching toward the bedside, butting up beside his cousin, Darcy brushed his fingertips over her cold, pallid lips. She had no reaction. In his heart, he knew not to believe, not to give hope to something impossible, yet there she laid in his bed, alive. He hoped, despite it all. 

“Say your goodbyes, Fitzwilliam. She will not last much longer. The blood escapes less and less. There are minutes, cousin; not hours, not days, certainly not years.” 

Ignoring the colonel, Darcy asked of Claridge, still knelt beside him, “W-Why did you not tell me?” Every word ripped out of his heavy, stone-hard throat.

“How could you have left her?” Claridge implored.

“I couldn’t bear it. The pain was impossible,” Darcy pled quietly. “I thought her gone.”  

“She is not. She fought through the night and day to stay alive. My God! How did you leave her?”

Darcy could not answer, his trembling and aching hands traveled over her cheeks, attempting to discover any shred of life left in her beautiful face. Even in the moments before death, her beauty was not to be extinguished. 

“Excuse me, sirs. I must look upon the lady,” came a trilling voice. He cleared his throat when neither man moved.

Lord Claridge sluggishly pushed to his feet, pulling Darcy with him. “Let the doctor look on her. Sir Walter will be discreet.” 

Darcy watched as the ancient little man lifted Elizabeth’s eyelids, tapped at her elbows, prodded at the wound and generally clucked his tongue over and over in apparent chagrin. Atop his brown-spotted scalp sat a puff of white hair, much like a floating cloud of summer, a distracting force in these dizzying minutes. Darcy winced each time Sir Walter pressed his wrinkly fingers at one and another of Elizabeth’s injuries. There were so many injuries, he hardly knew where to lay his eyes. 

“I can do naught for her,” Sir Walter announced at last, placing his tools in a worn leather satchel. “As you might imagine, I am quite at a loss with injuries such as these.” He coughed a little and reached for an elegantly embroidered handkerchief. Darcy thought to rip it out of his knobby hands. “As the court doctor for King George, you might well guess, I was never sought for to treat dagger wounds. The French disease, however, I can offer a suggestion or two. Quite a rampant little bugger.” 

“Is there nothingto be done?” Darcy demanded. “Anything, I will do anything.”

Sir Walter tapped his thin lips. “Well…” 

“Yes?” Darcy encouraged. He eased closer to Elizabeth. 

“I know of a surgeon, a military surgeon. Brilliant! Utterly brilliant.”

“Berkes, go get him,” Lord Claridge said. 

“Now, halt your man, my lord,” Sir Walter warned. “Mr. Farr is not of our society.” Darcy and Lord Claridge shared a snarl. 

“He is also considered quite insane,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, almost laughing. “His methods are rejected by every medical authority. I know this man, vexatious to say the least.” 

“Too true indeed, my good colonel,” Sir Walter said. “On the other hand, the man is a genius, observant and performed quite a miracle or two whilst servicing the frontline.” 

“Please give his location to me, Sir Walter.” Darcy pressed his palm to Elizabeth’s forehead, her flesh frozen and still. He knew there may not be time, but he would try.

With directions from Sir Walter, Berkes sent two of his men to retrieve the surgeon. Colonel Fitzwilliam accompanied them, insisting Mr. Farr might be more conducive to lending his services should he be acquainted with his caller. Colonel Fitzwilliam knew the surgeon from a brief stint in Cologne. 

Lord Claridge offered one of his carriages to return Sir Walter to his home, but he asked whether he might remain. The doctor thought the girl must be dead, yet she exhibited signs of life. Sir Walter was most curious to hear Mr. Farr’s theories. Darcy cared not if he remained. His every concern lied with Elizabeth and demanding Jeffers cut him bandages of white linen so he might check at the flow of blood. Lord Claridge stood over Darcy’s shoulder, keeping careful watch as well. After an hour, Sir Walter appeared to have fallen asleep by the fire. 

At long last, Darcy House once more resounded with the sounds of stomping shoes and murmured voices. Standing tall and shoulder-to-shoulder, Darcy and Lord Claridge placed themselves in front of Elizabeth as the surgeon and his three escorts pushed into the room. Mr. Farr, a man of thick and short stature, was held between Berkes’ men. He looked rather drunk. His thin, oily mustache dripped with perspiration. The disheveled cravat around his neck battened with stains of grease and wine. Lord Claridge reached into his breast pocket to pull out a handkerchief. 

Tossing it at the swaying surgeon, he spat, “Wipe your face and hands before you touch her.”

Mr. Farr stumbled forward, shoving between the two men. “Move, move,” he grumbled. At sighting Elizabeth, his brows raised. Mr. Farr smoothed his mustache and covered a belch. Darcy stepped before the intoxicated surgeon, ready to protect Elizabeth. 

“Get back,” protested he, “and get me coffee.” Jeffers knew his cue. 

 Four cups of coffee later, the first two of which Colonel Fitzwilliam snatched a flask from his hand, the surgeon completed his examination of the wound. Five men stood by, including Sir Walter and Berkes, awaiting his diagnosis. 

With a clearer voice, he announced. “She’ll die before the night is over. Two to three hours at most. The wound to her lower left abdomen went straight through, too bad she was not fat.” Mr. Farr belched again. Lord Claridge waved the stench away. “She survives now as the course of the dagger missed…” he paused as though searching for words, “organs and arteries.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” Darcy pled.

“You shouldn’t have…” he paused once more, rifling his pockets for something–a flask. Colonel Fitzwilliam previously cleared them all away. 

“What?” Darcy shouted. 

“You shouldn’t have stabbed her,” he said offhandedly. 

“I would never.” 

Mr. Farr lifted his shoulders, unconvinced and unconcerned. “I have known ways to service blood loss–honeyed mulled wine. Suture the wounds, obviously. More wine, lots of honey. The sweet does something–don’t know. I have theories.” 

Jeffers fled through the servant’s entrance, likely racing for the kitchens. 

“Anything more?” Lord Claridge insisted. 

“Turn her over.” 

“Why?” Fitzwilliam questioned, narrowing his eyes. 

“The dagger entered through the back. The bigger wound. Keep it clear. Draw the blood away.” 

“He’s useless.” 

“Shut your mouth, Richard,” Lord Claridge hissed between his teeth. 

After several minutes of suturing the wound, adjusting her position, and deciding Elizabeth was best laid on her side, Darcy still felt helpless. Then when Mr. Farr gasped, Sir Walter swiftly mimicking him, Darcy’s heart stopped. 

“What is it?”

“Her arm,” Sir Walter answered, pointing. Indeed, Elizabeth’s shoulder laid in a grotesquely awkward location. 

“Her shoulder has been ripped from the joint.” Mr. Farr pulled the covers down and began examining Elizabeth’s skirts. Darcy roughly jerked him away. 

“Are you out of your mind?” 

“Yes, I’ve been told so, often. Was the girl violated?” He raised his brows in question.

“I-I do not know,” he replied, at last giving way to buried suspicions. “Can you fix her arm?”

“Why bother?” 

“Do it,” Darcy demanded. 

“We must wait, Mr. Darcy,” Sir Walter interrupted, placing a fatherly hand on Darcy’s forearm. “Let us try to bring her back to life first.” 

Darcy turned a fiery glare on the old man. “Help her now.” 

“The shock of setting the arm will likely kill her quicker.” Mr. Farr grasped Elizabeth’s wrist, lifting her arm, studying the situation of her shoulder. “Is that your desire?”

Claridge eased behind the surgeon, standing to his full and considerable height. “Enough with the cheek, Mr. Farr – unless you would like to learn the consequences of such speech.” He enunciated his words slowly, deliberately. 

Twisting his head between Darcy, Claridge and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who stood at the end of the bed, Mr. Farr nodded. “I could lose more than my fee?” he quipped. 

“A great deal more,” confirmed Claridge. Berkes stepped out of the shadows, his hand placed on something beneath his coat. 

Breaking the tension, Jeffers returned. He held a tray containing a carafe, a wineglass and a jar of honey. Every nerve within Darcy’s body cried out at watching the thick, brown liquid dribble out the sides of her mouth, spilling onto the ravages of her shift. He doubted a single drop made it down her throat. The clock continued to the click, the night continued to amble by, Elizabeth continued to slip further and further into the unknowable depths of death. Mr. Farr tried again and again to force the wine down her throat. Darcy crawled closer and closer to his own depths of destruction. Forfeiting Elizabeth over to Claridge, Darcy pushed away from the bed. The earl eased behind the girl keeping her upright as Mr. Farr stroked her throat in an attempt to stimulate swallowing. 

Darcy staggered across the corridor to the small balcony overlooking the lane. Colonel Fitzwilliam joined him. He said nothing as Darcy slipped down the side of the balustrade and wept into his hands. Fitzwilliam did no more than sit beside his cousin on the hard, cold stone floor. Sometime later, the tears stilled, yet Darcy and Fitzwilliam remained unmoving for several minutes. 

“My dearest friend, my brother,” said the colonel, quietly, “take these last breaths to say goodbye to Elizabeth. Before you believed it too late, now it is not. Satisfy your final farewells; rest easy knowing no truths were left unsaid by you.” Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed himself to his feet, then helped Darcy to his.

The room felt too hot, too silent. The doctors stood together deep in thought, unspeaking. Berkes was not present at all. Claridge sat behind Elizabeth, keeping her upright, but no longer held the mulled wine to her lips. Rather, he stroked her right arm and cradled her ruined left arm. Her face had come to rest in the crook of Claridge’s neck, as though she might be no more than deeply wearied. Should the smallest tinges of color grace her cheeks, he might even believe her to be slumbering. Her face, however, exhibited nothing of bloom. She drowned in the grips of Hades’ choke. 

Approaching his cousin, he brushed the tumbling locks of midnight over Elizabeth’s shoulder and kissed her forehead. Reaching behind her back and under her knees, Darcy gently lifted her into his arms. Colonel Fitzwilliam directed everyone out of the room, allowing Darcy and Elizabeth to be alone. The bed, stained by wine, honey and her blood–so much blood–would never again be occupied by another living soul. Darcy laid her across the sofa, the gently blazing fire illuminated her unmatched beauty. Removing his waistcoat, cravat and boots, he wanted nothing between; he wanted her body to be together with his in their concluding time together. 

Once more, Darcy very carefully lifted Elizabeth into his arms, holding her tight to him if only to capture the sensation in his memory. She was much too light, too cold and too still. At last, he nestled onto the sofa, Elizabeth on his lap, her body pressed to his. Darcy embraced her as only a lover might, knowing her more intimately than any other. He looked to her delicate feet dangling over the side of his leg, her torn stockings caked in muck and gashes and blood. An errant thought of where her slippers might be crossed his mind, he pushed it aside in avowal to slay her assailant another day.

“Milady,” he whispered, the name clawed desperately at his throat and suffocated the lungs within his chest, nevertheless he went on. “I will give everything of myself to our son. Do not worry for him. When we meet again, I will tell you all the tales of our life together. He will want for nothing.”

A lifetime of the memories he and Elizabeth would never share together plagued the deepest reaches of his mind, begging for relief. He could not speak, he could do nothing more than close his eyes to halt the tears. If simply to make the pain constricting his chest stop, perhaps in hopes the pain may take him with her, he murmured against her temple, “Go now, my love. Do not put yourself through this suffering another moment. Leave, be at peace, my love–milady. I love you.” No more could be done, so he repeated, “I love you,” no more could be said. The rest was left to her, Elizabeth must now surrender herself to the inescapable. 

As he sat with Elizabeth embraced in his arms, rocking slowly and steadily, he thought of his young son, such an unexpected jolt to his existence. Nothing with Elizabeth came simply, she was a bird amongst fish, flying away from the sea. Darcy smiled at the stories he would tell his son of his mother–James must know everything of Elizabeth. He scowled at the deed of explaining James to his sister and family. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Claridge would welcome the child solely based on the brotherly affection between the cousins. His aunt and other relations might become difficult. 

Yet, for whatever joy James would bring to his days, it all felt empty without Elizabeth beside him, her hand holding his. The emptiness surrounded Darcy like an eclipse of the sun on a cloudless day. Warmth and light extinguished from the heavens. Darcy knew not how he might carry on without her. Even after he left her in the lodge, she still existed. Elizabeth waited for him; her smiles and laughter were a world away, but she lived on. Now, however, to place Elizabeth in her final bed of rest seemed no more than a fever dream of a demented mind. He pressed his trembling lips to her forehead.

Claridge and Fitzwilliam joined him sometime later. Darcy gestured for Claridge to inspect Elizabeth’s wound. The earl did so, shaking his head to indicate no traces of blood. Darcy numbed himself to the answer; still, he could not let her go, not just yet. The brothers sat in the wingback chairs situated on either side of the sofa, allowing Darcy to remain in his silent grief. It was Darcy himself who broke the quiet. 

“I wish to bury Elizabeth at Pemberley. I see no reason to invite her family, though I would like my son with me. Richard, you must fetch him for me.”  

Colonel Fitzwilliam hesitated, glanced at his brother who nodded, then agreed. “No matter the fit they give me, I shall collect the boy for you.” 

“He is mine, cousin. Of this, I have no doubts.” Colonel Fitzwilliam made no argument.

Turning to his other cousin, Darcy asked, “Can your wife arrange for the finest ivory silks at once, Ashford? I wish to bury her in only the finest of garments and casket linens.” Claridge slid his eyes across Elizabeth’s shoulders, down her back and rested his gaze on the gruesomely stained muslin at her waist. Darcy’s hand moved to cover the horrid sight. 

“Yes,” Claridge said, “worry not for such things. I will have everything arranged precisely to your wishes. Moreover, I believe I should travel with Richard in the morning. The Bennets will be more manageable with me in attendance.”

“I need you here,” Darcy said quietly. 

 Claridge made no reply. Darcy leaned his head back, the lethargy of calm and warmth pulling at his eyelids. He was so tired; everything felt adrift, neither here nor there. To fathom the loss in his arms was not attainable in the moment, it may never be truly attainable. And yet, he could not let these decisions wait. His father raised a man of governance and foresight. Sleep needn’t apply for the present. 

Stifling a yawn, Darcy announced, “I should like Mr. Boyle to lead the service. He presided over the burial of my mother and father, and now I would like him to do the same for…” his mouth formed her name, but the actual sound eluded his throat. He pulled Elizabeth tighter into him. 

“Mr. Boyle is getting quite on in years, he may not be able to make the journey at this time of the year.” Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke in distraction, his fingers pulling at the cravat around his neck. “I am sure a letter from the earl will nevertheless persuade him.” At last the knot was free and he threw the linen to the floor. “Darcy, I admit I worry at delaying the burial. Might you not bury her in London? Or perhaps she would have preferred Hertfordshire? Longbourn is a short distance.” 

“Do shut up, Richard,” Claridge snapped. 

Fitzwilliam resentfully rose from his chair, leaving the room. Darcy knew he was in search of drink. Wiping the moisture from his upper lip, he thought to remove his own cravat. However, Darcy quite removed it sometime previous, just before settling on the sofa with Elizabeth. 

“Is he correct, Ash?”

“I don’t know,” he returned, shaking his head. “The weather, the roads, the possible delays are numerous. To take her so far is a risk.” Darcy nodded, once more resting his head on the sofa in drowsiness. “In the morning,” Claridge continued, “we will discuss the matter with the coach master. He will know the quickest possible route, then we shall decide what might be feasible. Tonight, let the girl rest in peace. Indeed, why do you not place her on the bed so you can find rest for yourself?”

“No,” Darcy said in quick temper, “She will stay with me a while longer.”

Claridge turned to look directly on Darcy, his stare once more falling on Elizabeth’s wound. “Why did you leave her?” 

“I truly do not know. Possibly my subconscious demanded I seek out the child, to learn whether he was mine. Perhaps I meant to slay her father. Still, I cannot believe that to be true. I was maddened by grief and anger… if I could not see her, touch her, then she would not be gone. I was a fool.” 

“Yes, without question. Yet, I do not ask of this morning, I ask of two years past. Or even this fortnight past. How could you leave her at that lodge? How could you leave her in Hertfordshire? I confess, Darcy, you baffle me. You hold the girl now as though you genuinely cared for her.” 

“Why, pray tell, could you not have called a doctor immediately upon your arrival, Claridge? Clearly you knew she lived, yet you let her wither and die! If you had sent for Sir Walter sooner, she might be alive at this moment.” 

Claridge snorted, certainly not with humor. “We did not know whether you wished her dead or alive. You fled, leaving too many questions unanswered. Jeffers insisted you did not hurt the girl, but his loyalty is more reliable than his honesty. In the end, Fitzwilliam convinced me to wait. I unwisely listened to my brother. Never again, I assure you. He is much too much like our mother.” 

Taking a deep breath and curling his fist against Elizabeth’s back, Darcy bid to starve his rage. “I wanted her alive. I desperately wanted her alive,” he seethed. “You should have followed your instincts in this case, my lord. I suppose being an earl does not make you infallible, as you so often boast.”

“The girl deserved better, of that I believe we can agree.” Claridge reached into his pocket, pulling out his shining gold pocket watch. “Do you know that my men retraced her steps? It was simply done, as she left a trail of blood. She fell several times, we know this as they found pools of her blood near to bloody handprints where she endeavored pulled herself back upright. I use the word endeavored for her handprint, only one of course as the other could not support her, often slid back down the wall.” Lord Claridge looked on Elizabeth’s face, and he actually smiled a little. “I do not know whether I would have had her fortitude. To walk half-naked, battered and pierced straight through from Whitechapel to Mayfair, I do admit, would be beyond my mettle. Mayhap I could do so for my son…” He shook his head. “Even then, I fear I might fail where the girl succeeded.” 

“Whitechapel?” Darcy whispered in horror.

“Indeed, the bowels of Whitechapel. My men are now searching out her assailant. Berkes will keep me informed.”

Darcy closed his eyes, tears seeping from the corners. “Thank you for telling me,” he said in uneasy quiet. He wished to scream out in utter terror; to scream in absolute horror and grief. Elizabeth’s final rest, however, mustn’t be disturbed by his own petty grievances. Too warmed, too tired, too disturbed for words, Darcy eventually succumbed to sleep. 

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C'mon Darcy! She fought for you, it's time to fight for her... 

With that, thanks for reading! And if you want, I have a brief preview of the next chapter: 

Chapter 20

Mr. Darcy

“Farr!” shouted someone. “Farr, in here at once!”

Darcy blinked several times, attempting to clear his head of sleep. The room was still dark, the sun had yet to rise. Moreover, he felt feverish. More than feverish. His flesh felt afire, burning and sickening. Darcy wished to tear the shirt from his back as perspiration ran down his neck. Then suddenly, his arms were empty. Claridge ripped Elizabeth away from him. “No!” he croaked, needing her weight returned. “Give her back to me.” None paid him a moment’s heed. 

Pushing himself from the sofa, his head swam from light-headedness. The heat which so recently boiled his blood now vanished. For a minute, Darcy stared into fireplace, allowing the skipping flames to entrance him. Sleep continued to occupy his thoughts. 

“Ice, we need ice, Berkes.” 

“No, ice will be too severe. We must slowlyreduce the fever. Shock will set in.” 

Spinning about, grasping the sofa arm to keep his balance, he looked on the scene with bewilderment. No longer was Elizabeth awash in the shades of death. Her skin burned red, inflamed; the cold, draining death had malformed into something of devilish, furious fires. 

“She lives?” Darcy questioned himself. “How? How is this possible?”

The surgeon directed orders at Sir Walter’s apprentice, sending the boy flitting in and out of the room. Sir Walter himself stood at the foot of bed with his hand covering his mouth and his face ghostly. Claridge sat with Elizabeth’s head in his lap, stroking her cheek. The earl demanded answer after answer of Mr. Farr, of which the latter largely ignored. Darcy took a faltering step toward the bed, questioning whether this all might be a dream. 

“Elizabeth is alive?” Darcy repeated. 

From the servant’s entrance, Colonel Fitzwilliam rushed in, a bucket of water sloshing in his hand. He appeared as harried and half asleep as Darcy felt. 

“No!” Mr. Farr screeched. “Well water cannot be used. River water, worse yet. Get me lake water. Clear as possible. I’ve seen a man die in minutes from water out of the Thames. I’ve seen mountain stream water cure the dead. Has she been to a mountain recently?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shoved the bucket at Jeffers, an expression of complete exasperation on his face. He removed himself to the corner, irritably crossing his arms.  

Darcy shook his head. “This cannot be.”

“Hmm…” Farr murmured. The surgeon peeked under Elizabeth’s eyelids, waving a candle in front of her eyes. “A mystery, this girl. Should be dead. Should be dead.” Removing his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, wiping the sweat from his brow and lip, Mr. Farr stretched out his arms. “We must set her arm at once. Get me your man, Lord Claridge.” 

“Berkes!” Claridge hollered. Berkes appeared as if solidifying out of the walls. 

Darcy still could not be sure this was truly real. This must be a dream. She died in his arms. He cradled Elizabeth as her life drifted out of her body. No, he thought to himself, Elizabeth was gone. This was a dream. 

“Hold her, sir. She will jerk violently.” Mr. Farr brushed his fingertips along Elizabeth’s shoulder, feeling for something. Whatever it might be, Darcy did not know. 

“I will hold her,” Darcy said more loudly, still gripping the sofa for balance. 

Mr. Farr turned a glassy eye toward Darcy and shook his head. “The soldier knows the procedure. We discussed it earlier. I will have him keep her steady.”

Claridge moved only enough to allow Berkes to grasp Elizabeth’s waist and pull her full upright. She did not wake, she was unconscious to the world. 

“W-Why did you not do this earlier?” Darcy muttered, at last making his way to the bed.

“As I said, there was no need. Now, if we don’t do it at once and she lives–unlikely, of course–she will lose her arm. Do you wish her to lose the arm?” Farr raised his brows, teasingly unrolling his sleeves. 

“Damn it, man! Fix her arm or you will lose a tongue,” Claridge thundered. 

“I can do both, my lord,” Berkes interjected, his voice as dark as the night. “The shoulder first, I have reset three in the past. My only concern is that I never performed such a procedure on a woman. I must be gentle, I will be gentle. I can do it.” Berkes turned to the little surgeon, his wide lips lifting in anticipation. “Then I take the tongue. I have taken fourof those. I will not be gentle.”

“What say you, Farr?” hissed Darcy. “Her arm or your tongue?”

“Her arm,” Farr answered. “Mr. Berkes, do grasp her round the chest. I must–”

Darcy pushed past Claridge, forcing him off the bed entirely. Taking Elizabeth’s good arm, he wrapped her fingers in his and tucked their hands into his lap. With his other hand, he pressed Elizabeth’s burning face into his neck. 

“This will pain you terribly, milady,” he whispered into her ear, uncaring whether his words could be heard by all. “However, I am with you. I will not let you go. I will never let you go, never again.”  

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Well, that's all for now. I hope you have been finding the chapters of late interesting/intriguing/compelling, though probably not totally enjoyable. They have been angst-filled. These next chapters will take us toward a new turn in story. 

Also, I've been enjoying your comments. Miracle Max, that's great! I did do research, and I hope I'm not too deep into the miracle realm (though sometimes you do have to suspend belief). As to traveling to Longbourn and back to London, I did the math. It could have been done in a day, especially on horse -- I believe. Ha! 

Thanks for reading! 

~ Jenna