Chapter 20

It appears that the consensus was for option 1 -- thanks for all of your comments on my dilemma. I will be posting the rest of the story unedited, while still working on the the revisions for the final version. Thanks for your patience! 

Without further ado... 

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 face burned red, inflamed; the cold, draining death had malformed into something of devilish, furious fires. 

“She lives?” Darcy questioned himself. “Is this possible? Please, can this be 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. “Let this be real, let this not be a dream.”

“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; nor did he want the man touching her so. 

“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, striding for 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.”  

Removing the crudely tied straps left of her shift, Berkes handed the muslin to Darcy, who tucked it around her chest in a mean bid to keep her decent. The task was futile, she forfeited decency a long while past. Nevertheless, Darcy believed it his duty to keep her protected in any way possible. 

“Right. I will… she is quite stiff. I must… Mr. Berkes turn her your way.” Mr. Farr gestured Berkes back and forth, left and right. After a few minutes, they decided to move Elizabeth to the edge of the bed. Darcy sat on her left, gripping her waist and supporting her weight. Berkes perched on Elizabeth’s right, keeping her steady, readying for any jolts to come. With the doctor facing Darcy, one hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, the other grasping her elbow, he lifted and thrust. A most miraculous thing happened, as well as a horrific miscalculation. In the moment, Elizabeth shuddered and squeezed Mr. Darcy’s hand; however, Mr. Farr failed to reset her shoulder. 

“Damn it!” said the surgeon, dropping back to reexamine her arm. “Is there a broken bone?” 

“There likely is now,” roared Berkes, shoving Mr. Farr away. “Are you drunk again?” 

“Now, now, Mr. Berkes,” Sir Walter stepped forward. “This girl is a special case, you must understand–” 

“No, the soldier is correct, Sir Walter,” Mr. Farr mumbled, rocking back on his heels and wiping his dripping face. “Mr. Berkes, you will have to do it.” 

Darcy shook bodily in fury, a twitch pulled at his eye. “Claridge, take her,” he hissed. Lord Claridge did so at once. Darcy rose, stepped before the surgeon and struck him hard in the jaw. Mr. Farr toppled back, sprawled prostrate on the floor. “You stay right there, you little bastard. Berkes, can you reset her arm?”

“Yes,” he responded in full confidence. Darcy felt less assured, but they had no time to seek out another surgeon. Taking the place of Berkes, they resumed Elizabeth’s previous posture. Berkes allowed himself several minutes of prodding her shoulder, even asking the surgeon a few questions to confirm his intentions. Finally, he told Darcy to hold her firmly to his side. Claridge grasped Elizabeth’s cheek, pressing it to his chest. Fortunately, the sun had risen, giving the room light to see by.

“Take her hand,” Darcy instructed the earl. Claridge clutched her fingers tightly, placing their hands in his lap. “Once more, milady,” Darcy whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. “Stay with me.” 

Berkes took a deep breath, raised her arm slowly, aligning the arm carefully. In a smooth, gentle yet deliberate motion, he thrust the arm back and into place. This time Elizabeth gasped, her body arched in a terrifying manner, as though a hook plunged into her chest and lifted her into the air. She then suddenly collapsed, Darcy pulled her into his arms before she could fall. “Well done, Elizabeth. You did perfect,” he murmured, pressing his face into her hair, allowing the raven curls to absorb his tears. 

“Good, good,” the surgeon said from the floor. “Now, get her to drink more of the wine. Lots of honey. Lots of honey. When I am dry I must suture her wounds anew.”

“Why must you do such a thing?” Claridge demanded in barely contained wrath. 

“I want him out of my sight!” Darcy growled, adjusting Elizabeth so she might be secure in his arms. Berkes stood over the pathetic little man, his arms crossed and staring down on him.

“The fever breeds festering wounds. Look now, she bleeds profusely,” he said, pointing. They all turned their eyes to her waist. To be sure, she bled as though freshly pierced. Berkes grabbed two pillows, pressing them forcefully against the wounds. “The soldier there, he’s got instinct. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Walter?”

“Shut up you–you drunken pig,” Sir Walter said in most unusual agitation. 

“Right you are,” Mr. Farr replied in singsong. “Nevertheless, do retrieve lake water. Clearlake water. I will wash her clean with the healing waters. Then suture. A double suture. I invented the technique. It will help to heal her,” he said, his forehead slippery with perspiration.  

“Get it,” Darcy said breathlessly, taking one of the pillows from Berkes. Colonel Fitzwilliam left the room to send men for lake water. “What can we do for the present?”

“Pray?” the surgeon cackled. “Stupid girl just delays the inescapable.” 

“Retrieve his tongue, Berkes,” said Claridge. 

“Poultices,” Sir Walter exclaimed quickly. “Let us apply a poultice.” 

“No!” Mr. Farr said in abrupt vehemence. “No, I know what I say. We must first remove the present sutures, then wash the area with lake water. After sewing up the wound again, we can treat with a salve. I have just the one.” He rested his flushed and swollen head on the floor. “For now, do as I say: honeyed wine. It’s the sweet. She must have swallowed some before. I act a clown but I’m no fool.”

“Darcy,” Berkes said in a whisper, his stare intently shifting from Elizabeth’s shoulder to her weeping wound, “I do not know whether the surgeon is a man of remarkable genius or if the girl truly is some sort of creature from another world–perhaps a combination of both–whatever it may be, I fear we must follow his directives, for now.” 

Darcy’s palm cradled her cheek, the heat beneath her face radiated through his own flesh, flaming the worry in his heart. She lived, but she did not live easily. “Elizabeth burns from the inside out,” he returned in a gasping murmur.

“We will cool her,” Claridge said, his hand still wrapped around hers. 

“As for her arm, I will fashion a temporary sling,” added Berkes, signaling for another pillow from Fitzwilliam who hovered at the head of the bed. “The blood, however, must slow. I have seen many men die of lesser wounds. Let us do what we can to get her to drink the wine. I believe it our only choice at this hour. Fitzwilliam, where did you send the men for the water?” 

Colonel Fitzwilliam told them of a lake he knew of near Stanwell, spring fed and clear. In the madness of keeping Elizabeth alive, he could think of nothing closer. A hush fell upon them, knowing it might be hours before the men returned. Sir Walter approached, suggesting a change of clothes for Elizabeth. She bled through the entirety of the shift many times over. And now, the moisture upon her skin from the burning fever saturated the dress, adhering to her flesh and clinging to her every curve. After some debate, it was decided that Sir Walter would assist Darcy in cleaning and dressing Elizabeth. One of Georgiana’s shifts would be given over; moreover, Darcy’s housekeeper Mrs. Cooper would be summoned home to help with these more delicate situations. Mrs. Cooper, an elderly woman who had been with the family since before Darcy was born, could be trusted to be discreet. The rest of the servants were sent away the previous morning by Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

The gentlemen took more than an hour to fully wash the blood and muck from Elizabeth. Sir Walter incessantly clucked his tongue, further and further unnerved over her condition. Darcy adopted an exercise in silence, performing the role of nurse with unspoken horror. Gashes and sores and blooming bruises imprisoned her body. Around her neck, marks which could only be made by fingers crushing her throat began to darken. Darcy stepped away at that discovery, charging into his study to strike his fist against the wooden wall. The bloodied and swollen knuckles were a relief. He returned promptly, speaking nothing of his short disappearance and gladdened for the pain biting at his fist. Not knowing what to do with her trailing locks, they decided to leave it for Mrs. Cooper. Claridge, Fitzwilliam and Berkes remained within the sitting room, regularly inquiring at their progress. Near to the strike of twelve noon, Berkes’ men returned with the lake water. 

Kicking awake Mr. Farr, Colonel Fitzwilliam dragged the surgeon into a sitting position, splashed cold well water on his face and forced him to drink several cups of coffee. After some minutes, he was awake enough to stand on his own. Nonetheless, he required another strike of the clock before his hands ceased shaking. At long last, Mr. Farr made a large slit in Elizabeth’s new shift to remove the first life-extending sutures in order to sew in new. Elizabeth did not move at all, remaining wholly unconscious, excepting for one remarkable feat–as Darcy held her hand, Elizabeth’s own fingers loosely curled around his. Mr. Farr applied his poultice, wrapped a cloth around her waist and announced this was all he could do for the time being.

Carefully, Darcy lifted Elizabeth from the bloodied and gruesome bed, embracing her with the utmost tenderness. He called for Jeffers, telling him to ready the mistress’s chambers. They had not been used since his mother’s last visit to London so many years past. With only two servants abiding within the household, the process took a great while. Darcy watched their progress with little consideration, only caring for life still stirring within the woman in his arms. Linens were pulled from the furniture. Clean bedclothes were spread over the mattress. The windows were opened to allow the stale air to escape into the afternoon skies. 

Berkes and Claridge stood on either side of Darcy, Fitzwilliam beside his brother. The four men were haggard and awash in Elizabeth’s blood; nonetheless, they stood tall, firm and resolute. If she could survive such an ordeal, they could summon the strength to carry on as well. Before laying her in the bed, Mrs. Cooper washed her hair. The housekeeper decided to keep her mane loose, for pins would only be a troublesome nuisance. Darcy offered no objections, only gratitude. The rest of the day, per Mr. Farr’s orders, was spent tending to Elizabeth’s increasing fever. The surgeon forwent his previous cutting quips, choosing to speak sparsely and carefully. The man Sir Walter commended and so esteemed steadily manifested in this sober Mr. Farr. 

By the fall of night, Elizabeth’s fever spiked to such a degree that Mr. Farr frantically called for a bath to be drawn with cool water. Darcy fully immersed Elizabeth into the water in panicked urgency. When the fever finally began to recede, Darcy lifted Elizabeth from the bath as Claridge wrapped her in a robe. She required yet another garment change before Mr. Farr allowed her to placed atop the bed. Fortunately, the wounds bled but little; still, Mr. Farr reapplied the poultice and wrapped a dry bandage tightly around her waist. Being settled in chairs about the bed, Jeffers insisted on dinner for each man. They ate, and one-by-one, they fell asleep, beginning with Sir Walter. Darcy drifted in and out of slumber, never sleeping easily, his hand always entwined with Elizabeth’s. Toward midnight, Berkes stepped away at a summons from one of his men. Darcy roused, rewet the cloth draped over Elizabeth’s forehead and checked her wounds. There was more blood, a fine bloom of it. Darcy debated whether to stir Mr. Farr. Claridge waking as well, examined the spreading crimson blots. The gentlemen carefully peered beneath the clothes, the tension easing out of their shoulders at finding but a small bloody discharge at the corners of the sutures. 

When Berkes returned, he appeared turbulent, restless even, as though the very thought of standing pained him. The dark of his merciless eyes was shadowed by the furrow of his heavy brows. His wide mouth set in a thick, firm line. His arms were crossed behind his back, indicating the news was not pleasant. Before revealing anything, however, he adjusted the sling around Elizabeth’s arm with diligent consideration.

“My men have learned a great deal,” he said, pulling up a chair to sit beside the earl.

Claridge checked the fever at her cheeks one more time. Darcy fluffed the pillow beneath her head before resuming to hold Elizabeth’s hand, stroking her fiery skin in slow, firm circles. Each man prepared themselves for whatever would be revealed. Berkes prodded Colonel Fitzwilliam awake before carrying on. 

“They discovered a young man who worked for the bastard who facilitated the girl’s sale.” 

“Sale?” Darcy charged. “She was sold?” 

Berkes nodded. “The young man called him Buggy, he is dead now. Buggy happened across Miss Bennet as she searched for accommodations in Whitechapel.” Darcy’s breath caught his chest but did not interrupt. “He arranged for her to be refused at every boarding house excepting for a Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s. Once safely lodged in a shared room with a woman keeping watch over Elizabeth, Buggy set to making the terms. The young man knew but scant details, though we gained a few intriguing bits. Buggy went to the West End, seeking out a society whoremonger with some of the wealthiest clientele in all of England–a Mr. Sharp. The whoremonger negotiated a deal with a foreign nobleman. The foreigner–”

“But she was traced to Whitechapel,” Claridge interrupted. 

Berkes held up a hand to quiet him. “The foreigner demanded to see the girl before agreeing to pay for her. The young man did not know why he assented to travel to Whitechapel. He did know, however, that the foreigner greatly desired to have Miss Bennet once seeing her; so much so, he deigned to take her directly at the boarding house.” 

“Take her?” Darcy choked. 

“It is just as you suspect. Miss Bennet somehow escaped, though. Buggy and his gang, including our little informant, chased her through the streets until trapping her in a postern alcove some blocks away, and rather than return her to the foreigner, they thrust a dagger straight into her back. The ruthless bastards left her in the gutter, assuming the Whitechapel streets would take care of the rest.” 

“This bastard, this Buggy, is he dead?” Colonel Fitzwilliam put in, his nose flaring. Darcy appreciated the question as his own throat felt too heavy to speak. 

Once more, Berkes nodded. “The foreigner and his associates burned the boarding house to the foundation, imprisoning the bastard inside – along with three of his associates. Too quick a death, should you ask me.” Berkes looked to Elizabeth. “We are led to believe the foreigners have since sailed from the country. My men are seeking out Mr. Sharp to learn their names.” 

Darcy squeezed Elizabeth’s hand tightly, pulling her fingers to his quivering lips. “The young man” he inquired, “the informant, what of him?” 

“He served his purpose.” Berkes’ words were absolute. Darcy needed no more. Any person associated with Elizabeth’s attack deserved no less. 

Evading the severe stare of Lord Claridge, Berkes stayed rapt with Elizabeth as he continued. “I can reveal no more as we simply do not know more. With the boarding house gone, we cannot search it. The young man, as I previously said, had but limited knowledge on the matter. His concerns for the girl or her situation stretched no further than the few coppers thrown at him by Buggy.” Berkes’ expression hardened. “What still baffles me is how Miss Bennet found herself in such circumstances to begin with.” 

“I put her there,” Darcy answered quietly. “I am at fault. Her misery is upon my hands.”

“I see,” Berkes returned, his posture stiffening. For several seconds he fell silent, until turning his shadowy glare on Darcy. “Would you care to hear the bloody and excruciating particulars of her journey from Whitechapel? To begin, she emptied the scarce contents of her stomach at the corner of–” The forbidding man paused his tirade as Elizabeth tremulously shifted her head back and forth. A painful, rasping cry heaved from her throat. Her back arched and she squeezed Darcy’s hand. 

“Oh God!” Darcy wept, “What is happening? Farr!” he called. “Farr!” Pushing himself to his feet, he cradled Elizabeth’s face with his free hand. “Elizabeth, please hold on. I am here, my love.”

“There is nothing Farr can do,” Fitzwilliam answered, a faraway sadness in his voice. Elizabeth continued to soundlessly cry out in great agony. 

“Why? No!” Darcy roared. “She cannot give up, not now. I will not allow it.” 

Berkes and Fitzwilliam looked to one another, an understanding between them. They were both soldiers at one time. The colonel stood, grasped Darcy’s arm and forced him to halt the frantic search of Elizabeth’s person. “Darcy, she suffers from fever dreams.”

Darcy glanced over his shoulder to his cousin. All three men now stood. “Excuse me?”

“Fever dreams,” Berkes repeated. “The fever has corrupted her mind. Elizabeth’s reality descends into the deepest, most despairing of emotions. In these moments, these minutes, these hours, she will know only fear and hopelessness. Sense no longer exists, she cannot escape. At least, that was my experience.” 

Darcy felt as though a dagger sliced through his heart. He could sense the blood draining away from his flesh, pooling at his feet, leaving naught but a cold, empty shell of himself. “Another bath?” he pled in solution. 

“We will ask the surgeon,” Fitzwilliam proposed, his own expression without color. When Mr. Farr gave his diagnosis, he offered much the same as the soldiers. A charge of dismay roiling his in tired blue eyes. None of what they said stopped Darcy from lifting Elizabeth from the bed and into his arms. He would hold her to his chest until the dream passed. 

 ------------------------

Thank you for reading! We are making progress. Elizabeth is fighting, Darcy will fight right at her side. They are a mess, but they will be a mess together. 

I'm working on the edits for the previous chapters, but I should have the unedited chapter 21 up pretty soon (hopefully Tuesday, or Wednesday at the latest). Still, I want to give you a hint of what is coming up...

~ Jenna 

Chapter 21

Elizabeth Bennet

The sound of a page turning filled her ears. The sound was familiar, peaceful and safe. Elizabeth wrapped herself around the soft scratch of parchment against parchment. Listening, just listening. The sense of being warm tenderly curled around her arms and legs, and she breathed out softly. Unwilling to give up the sensation, Elizabeth took some time before slowly opening an eye. The room was bright, almost blindingly so–it was the center of a flame. Then, all of a sudden, her world blurred and she felt ill. Her eye squeezed shut, escaping the rupturing pain in her head. A moment later, her hand lifted not of her own volition to turn a page. Safety once more surged through her being. She was protected, no harm could come to her when reading a book, could it? To know this, to feel this shelter of safety shroud her entire body, Elizabeth tried again to open her eyes. The piercing light struck her anew, but she fought through, if only to look upon figure at her side. He cradled her fingers with one hand, the other held a book. He sat stiffly, his posture perfect. His broad shoulders were angled toward the bed, his legs were crossed.