Page 25 of Lord Lonbourn’s Daughter

Colonel Fitzwilliam pounded on Darcy House’s knocker. The butler opened the door, and his usually stoic expression faltered for a second before he regained his composure.

“Bring him in, Colonel.”

“Where is Lady Elizabeth?”

“At home. I mean, Bennet House, sir.”

#

“What is that noise? It sounds like a riot,” her father groused.

“A riot on Grosvenor Square? I highly doubt it.” Elizabeth removed to the window overlooking the street. “There is a crowd gathered outside Darcy House, but I doubt it is a riot because the gentlemen are too finely dressed for marauders and riffraff.”

Elizabeth pressed her face closer to the window.

It was difficult to see what was going on next door from the sharp angle.

It was then that she noticed the horse with a man draped over it with his clothes in tatters.

Colonel Fitzwilliam came and lifted the man off the beast with the help of a couple of footmen.

Even though his countenance was battered, bruised, and covered in blood, she knew that face, that posture, and that frame.

She inhaled sharply, turned on her heel, and ran as fast as she could, not bothering with shoes, bonnet, or shawl.

She raced down the stairs and out of the door.

The street was packed with gentlemen, at least a hundred, but Elizabeth noticed none of them.

She ploughed her way through, caring nothing for whom she might bump into or push aside until she reached the steps, bolting up them and into the entrance hall.

She came to a sudden halt when her eyes landed on her husband, who was being carried carefully up the stairs by his cousin and his servants.

A tall gentleman she did not know followed her inside and called out, “I hope he remembers that he owes me two thousand guineas when he wakes up!”

“If he wakes up,” Colonel Fitzwilliam mumbled.

Elizabeth felt her ire rise and turned her eyes towards the stranger.

He had a black eye and a cut above his brow, his clothes were dishevelled, and he smelt of horse and sweat.

She instinctively knew that this brute had something to do with her husband’s condition.

Why else would he follow an injured man inside his home and demand money?

Mr Darcy was not the kind of gentleman who did not pay his bills, and the person in front of her was certainly not a tradesman.

She wanted to yell at him, to throw all the curses she had ever read or learnt from her father’s not-so-clandestine mutterings, but words failed her. She had to settle for a fierce stare full of loathing at the interloper, though she doubted he was much intimidated.

“See that we are not disturbed, Mr Murray, and send for Mr Darcy’s physician,” Elizabeth ordered.

“A rider has already been dispatched, milady.”

“Good. We shall need clean towels and warm water.”

“Yes, milady.”

The stranger obviously did not understand subtle hints; he was still standing in the entrance hall, waiting for his money. Elizabeth felt rage boiling in her blood. She walked resolutely over and positioned herself in front of him. She saw humour dancing in his eyes, spurring her anger on further.

With flat hands against his chest, she pushed with all her might. The impact made him stagger a tiny step backward—the exasperating dullard.

“Get out!” Her voice trembled in rage.

She observed his mirth turn to annoyance.

“Mr Darcy cannot pay any blackguard until he is recovered. In the meantime, a sensible man would have left his household to tend to his needs. He cannot pay you if he is dead.”

“Lady Elizabeth, this is Lord Hazard. He is a gentleman of the finest order,” Mr Murray whispered in her ear.

“What is that to me? He could be the archbishop for all I care because he obviously has no sense of decency.”

She turned her back on him and marched up the stairs.

“I am beginning to understand why your master is so willing to have himself killed,” she heard the oaf drawl to the butler as she departed. “Give Mr Darcy my regrets and best wishes for a speedy recovery—if that is what he wants. Send me word when he comes to—he owes me a handsome sum of money.”

Lord Hazard finally left Darcy House with its mistress halfway up the stairs, not caring one jot about his comings and goings. She had wasted enough time arguing with him and Mr Murray. She needed to see her husband, gauge his condition, discover his injuries, and tend to them.

Mr Darcy was lying on the top of the covers of his bed, and he was frightfully pale where his complexion was not covered in blood.

The mere sight of him made a chill run down her spine.

She needed to know how much was dried blood and how much skin had ruptured underneath. His cuts might need stitching.

“Where is that bloody doctor?” Colonel Fitzwilliam grumbled. He had not yet noticed her presence.

“We must get him out of his clothes for the examination,” he then told his cousin’s valet, who immediately began to untie his master’s cravat.

Calm and collected, Elizabeth walked over to her husband’s side and brushed away the lock of hair that always fell over his forehead.

It was stuck in dried blood, and the tug made him flinch and briefly open his eyes.

Elizabeth let out a rush of air in relief before ordering a footman to bring her a bowl of water and a piece of flannel.

Protests erupted in the room, but she paid them no heed. Colonel Fitzwilliam dared to speak to her directly.

“Lady Elizabeth. We need to undress him before the doctor arrives. You should not be in here.”

Elizabeth turned slowly until she could meet his eyes.

“Mr Darcy is my husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I am not leaving.” The words were delivered with a calm she did not feel and in a voice she barely recognised. She felt detached from her emotions, intent on getting whatever was needed to be done accomplished without interruption from anyone.

The colonel gaped at her but gave no reply.

She turned back to her husband, who had been divested of his cravat.

She continued with unbuttoning his shirt until the water and cloth arrived on the bedside table.

She dipped the fabric in lukewarm water and slowly and carefully began to rinse the blood off his face. She would do him no further harm.

His valet and cousin continued to undress him.

When they had finished, she glanced quickly down his body to look for other injuries.

His chest did not look too bad, but she could see bruising on the back of his shoulder.

Farther down, his left knee had obvious discolouring and had begun to swell.

She also noticed that he had gooseskin all over.

She folded the cover over him. His left buttock was severely discoloured as well.

She continued her ministrations to his swollen eye, putting her hand under his head to tilt him a little towards her.

He groaned as she touched a large bump on the left side of his head, and she made sure to ease him back onto his pillow without him lying on the injured part.

Her hand was sticky with blood when she pulled it out of his hair.

She rinsed it and continued until the water was coloured red.

“Can someone fetch me some clean water?” She turned to a footman who immediately obliged her.

She had nearly finished when the physician arrived half an hour later. She stepped aside to allow the doctor to tend to his patient.

“This might not be pleasant, Lady Elizabeth. May I suggest that you leave the room so that I can examine him? I shall give the colonel a full report.”

“No!” she replied with force.

“No?” the doctor asked, clearly bewildered.

“I am his wife, Doctor Scott,” Elizabeth offered as explanation.

“We have tried to make her see reason, but she is as stubborn as her husband,” the colonel said.

The doctor grumbled something unintelligible but performed his examination without any further comment about the presence of the patient’s wife.

“Well, Colonel, he has suffered no broken bones as far as I can tell, but he is badly bruised. His face, left shoulder, and buttock have taken the brunt of it, but his knee looks like it has suffered a strain. It is difficult to give an exact diagnosis when the patient cannot cooperate nor answer questions. He has a large bump on his head and a swollen eye that accounts for his loss of consciousness. We must hope he awakens soon. With a head injury, the longer they stay unconscious the less chance they have of a full recovery. Then there is the fever. Not much can be done about that either if he does not awaken to swallow any tinctures. I hesitate to bleed a man who has suffered so much blood loss already. In my experience, it does more harm than good.”

“Thank you, Doctor!” the colonel expressed.

Elizabeth felt no need to thank him for giving her such dire news.

She busied herself with helping her husband’s valet to pull a clean shirt over his battered body and covering him up, making sure no cold air could seep in through any cracks.

She pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed, gently stroking the knuckles she had cleaned earlier with tender ministrations.

They were as swollen and bruised as his face and left buttock, yet it was the right hand not the left that was bruised.

Why would all the injuries be on his left but for his right hand?