Page 15 of Mistress of Pemberley

She travelled for a time as if numbed, feeling neither sorrow nor the wish to unravel the tragedy. How distant was this state from her light-hearted spirits when she had arrived in Kent. Now, she departed with tear-filled eyes and a pain in her heart, the likes of which she had never known.

His image burned her mind, as she had last seen him on a horse, just as she had always seen him: a man at the height of his masculine glory—tall, handsome, elegant. Someone she could never have imagined suffering from illness or injury. Only days ago, Mr Darcy had been a young man like anybody else, with his entire life ahead of him. She could not imagine him wounded, uncertain of what tomorrow might bring.

In their small community, tragedies had occurred, but never had someone close to them endured something so shocking and grave. There had been illnesses and accidents—never a bullet. A bullet that could have ended his life instantly yet had left him teetering on the precipice.

She recalled other sorrows—a neighbour’s tragedy, Charlotte’s brother’s death long ago, a gravely ill father, Miss King’s parents both lost within months of each other—but none felt so staggering, so close to her, so unreal. A bullet? Only the men hunted in their world, and her father’s rifle had long sat unused. How was it possible that Mr Darcy had been shot?

She had heard that duels still took place, and for a few fleeting moments, she was seized with terror at the thought that he had challenged Wickham to a duel. Yet duels did not occur in the heart of London. How could anyone be shot on a London street? By accident? That did not seem to her a plausible hypothesis. But if not by accident, then it meant someone had sought to kill him. Gripped by fear, she banished the thought—it was better to arrive and see what had happened rather than conjure up dreadful imaginings.

Her compassion was great. Despite the arguments they had had in the past, in times of crisis, she regarded him as a friend who needed help. Then, her thoughts turned to Miss Darcy, her vivid face always graced with a warm smile. Elizabeth glanced at the letter in her hands, lightly touching the marks of tears upon the paper, and fully grasped the young woman’s grief. Orphaned so young, now faced with her beloved brother’s life hanging by a thread. Although the letter had not been explicit, Elizabeth sensed that a bullet lodged so near the heart could mean only one thing. Yet she shook herself, unwilling to dwell on such a dreadful thought.

For much of the journey, she puzzled over and over again why they had called for her. Both Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy had insisted on her presence. Why summon an almost stranger?

That turmoil ceased abruptly when she realised that, had she said yes to his proposal, she would have entered their house at the end of that journey as his future wife. She finally suspected why both Darcys had asked for her presence; regardless of how the marriage proposal had ended, it had been an important moment in their lives. Fitzwilliam Darcy had proposed to her in a dreadful manner, but she did not doubt his determined intention, honesty, and love. A man like him would never have asked for her hand unless he loved her deeply and had total confidence in her. And his sister, without a doubt, either knew or suspected, for throughout their visit, they had formed a deeper friendship than was customary. Miss Darcy had come to know her, and it seemed she had liked her, agreeing with her brother’s decision to marry her.

In that terrible moment, Elizabeth was, in truth, the person closest to them.

His plea reflected this—at a time of great crisis, it was in her that he placed his faith. But again, she wondered, what did they expect of her?

Her breath came heavily, and tears fell intermittently, unchecked. With every mile that carried her nearer to their tragedy, she felt herself growing further from an answer. What was she supposed to do in that terrible situation?

She suddenly realised that she had not spared a single thought for her family in the haste of her departure. She had left for a stranger’s house, alone, without informing her parents; her father would not have approved without first obtaining some information about those with whom she was to stay. But then she cast aside such worries, for no danger awaited her in the Darcy household. Perhaps the only peril lay in being engulfed by an ocean of suffering—yet she knew how to fight, for she possessed the strength to reclaim her calm even in the most harrowing of circumstances. She would write to her parents, but only after she had uncovered what had transpired and what Mr Darcy sought of her.

Then, at last, she arrived. Miss Darcy met Elizabeth in the hall and flung herself into her arms. She did not cry; perhaps she had no tears left or knew she had to remain strong.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

And Elizabeth embraced her as though she were a sister.

∞∞∞

“I am so relieved you agreed to come,” murmured Georgiana, leading her to the drawing-room.

Again, Elizabeth asked herself why this young lady she had seen only a few times had waited for her arrival with so much impatience and hope.

“I want to introduce you to the servants first,” Georgiana said, ready to call them, but Elizabeth, more and more surprised by the turn of events, stopped her with a gentle gesture. She was eager to ask what had happened, but with a considerable effort, she abandoned the idea, suspecting that such a question could make the young lady lose her feeble composure.

Instead she said, quite determined, “Miss Darcy, you must explain why you have summoned me. I am ready to do anything for you, but only after I understand how I might assist you.”

“Fitzwilliam will speak to you.”

“Could you tell me yourself…so that we might spare him the effort—”

“No, please,” whispered Georgiana, her eyes filling with tears, though not a single one fell down her cheeks. She was extraordinarily composed considering the tragedy she was enduring. Once again, Elizabeth admired her, but in a manner so unlike what she had felt at Rosings, where Miss Darcy had been an intelligent, elegant, and carefree young woman. “Fitzwilliam wishes to speak to you, and I cannot deny him, whatever risks it may pose to his life.”

Elizabeth nodded, for at that moment, she found herself unable to speak. Such a thing had never happened to her before—a painful lump in her throat rendering her incapable of uttering a word.

Miss Darcy seized the moment to call their household servants. “Mrs Talbot is our housekeeper, and together with Mr Talbot, our butler, they ensure the smooth running of this house. They are prepared to carry out any task you may require.”

“Welcome, Miss Bennet,” they said almost in unison, curtseying and bowing before her with marked reverence, as if she were a member of the family or a close friend. What could the servants know about her to regard her with such confidence? For beneath the evident sadness etched on their faces, there was an unexpected glimmer of relief in their gazes.

“You will meet Fitzwilliam’s valet, Parker, when we go upstairs. He remains constantly at my brother’s side whenever I must leave. And Rose will be your maid.”

A demure young woman curtsied before her, and Elizabeth smiled at her. She had never had a maid solely for herself but refrained from asking questions. Explanations would likely come from him.

After the servants withdrew, Miss Darcy made a gesture inviting Elizabeth to sit, obviously preparing for a conversation before taking her to Mr Darcy.

“Miss Bennet—”

But Elizabeth stopped her. “Before anything else, I must inform my family that I am here. This morning’s departure was rather hasty.”

“I am sorry—” began Miss Darcy, but Elizabeth interrupted her.

“Miss Darcy, I am here because I wish to stand by you and assist however I can. But I must inform my uncle and aunt that I am here. Since there is no time for long messages, I would like to summon my aunt here to explain matters and ask her to write to my parents on my behalf.”

“You may do whatever you wish. You do not need permission. Please…” Georgiana hesitated, uncertain how to convey that she considered Elizabeth part of their family. “Please feel at home. The household is at your disposal. I made that clear from the beginning.”

Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, for she was beginning to understand. Miss Darcy wished her to assume some of the household’s burdens. She grasped the young lady’s desire for someone to relieve her of the immense weight she bore alongside her grief, but the situation was exceedingly peculiar. In what capacity could she undertake such a role? But she just did not know how to pose that question, so in the silence that fell, Miss Darcy softly whispered, rousing her from her reverie, “Miss Bennet, how shall we notify your aunt?”

Elizabeth retrieved a note from her purse, one she had hastily written at the inn where they had stopped to change horses. She had explained what had happened in a few short sentences and asked her aunt to come to the Darcys’ house, as there had been no time for a more detailed message.

“I would like to send this,” she said, and shortly thereafter, it was dispatched to Gracechurch Street.

Once more they sat in silence, but that could not continue; the time for explanations, or at least some of them, had finally arrived.

“Miss Darcy, please tell me…how is your brother?” Elizabeth hesitated, for she did not know precisely what answer she expected. He was in a critical state, and she did not know how to speak to him or look at him, how to behave in his presence—a man in the antechamber of death.

“I asked the physician to come and meet you,” said Miss Darcy. Elizabeth glanced at her with gratitude, but there was something more in Elizabeth’s gaze, something that made the young girl smile faintly for the first time in days.

“What is it, Miss Bennet? Why do you look at me so?”

“Your brother once told me—what feels like in another life—that we resembled each other.”

“And?”

“I do not know whether I could have managed things as well as you have at sixteen.”

“Oh!” Georgiana exclaimed. “I am grateful for your praise, and the thought that we resemble one another fills me with joy, but I cannot do more than I have done—or am doing. I need help.”

Elizabeth understood the weight of her words. They were not a cry for help cast into the void but a direct plea aimed solely at her, who sat just a few feet away. It was a direct request, and it left her momentarily speechless.

“Fitzwilliam is unchanged,” Georgiana said suddenly, as though trying to muster courage for them both. “He has lost blood, but since the physician managed to stop the bleeding and he woke up, apart from being confined to his bed, motionless, propped up by pillows, you could say he is the same as ever. He is paler but his demeanour is the same… I do not know how he manages this,” she whispered, and a few tears slipped down her cheeks, though her face remained still, like a marble statue. “What must it be like to know you are so close—”

“Georgiana,” Elizabeth gently chastised her, settling beside her on the sofa, silently deciding to use her given name. “We know what his condition is, but to dwell on it at every moment would paralyse you with sorrow and prevent you from doing what he surely expects of you.”

“He expects the impossible. I cannot be like him. He lies in bed and speaks as though tomorrow he will rise and go to his club or dine with Richard when—”

“That is how he has chosen to face this tragedy,” Elizabeth interrupted her, her heart aching deeply. She knew his flaws well, yet she had scarcely considered his virtues. But looking around at the beautiful, elegantly appointed home, as though it were prepared for a ball—certainly by his orders as he did not want anyone to mourn before the time was due—she remembered how many things he had managed in the past. Pemberley, a place she did not yet know but already loved, imagining its beauty. Then she thought of the incredible lady beside her, so well nurtured by Mr Darcy. All of this was his doing. Their lives had not faltered when their father died, and it was because of him. He had been the force that carried forward the family built with such love by their parents. Arrogant, exasperating, dull at times—Fitzwilliam Darcy was, undeniably, a man to admire.

“Ladies,” said a voice, and both turned abruptly towards the door, so absorbed in their discussion and thoughts that they had not heard the physician enter.

Georgiana introduced him, but she said nothing of Elizabeth beyond her name. What could she have said? She was merely a friend—and until recently, not a close one.

“You will need to repeat everything you have told me,” Georgiana said. “Two days ago, I listened but understood almost nothing of what you said.”

The physician shook his head slightly. It was evident he had not slept, and his expression bore no trace of good news.

“Do you understand how a pistol works?” he asked Elizabeth. She shook her head. She had seen drawings with explanations but had always harboured an aversion to pistols, rifles, and any kind of weapon capable of wounding or killing. Few knew she had not ridden horses since Sir William had shot one in front of her and Charlotte after it broke a leg.

“Vaguely,” she replied.

“The gun is loaded, usually from the muzzle end, with black powder. Then the lead shot is inserted, a metal ball, often wrapped in paper or cloth, all rammed down with a ramrod. The gunpowder provides a powerful propelling force—”

“And the bullet is discharged,” Elizabeth murmured, horrified.

“Exactly,” the physician said, glancing at them with concern as they grasped the severity of the situation. “I have not seen many gunshot wounds before, but I know that much depends on the composition of the bullet.” He paused, uncertain whether to reveal the whole truth.

“Please continue, Mr Morrison,” said Georgiana with determined composure. Although their demeanours were worried, they were neither panicked nor crumbling under the weight of the terrible news, so the physician decided to continue.

“As I said, it greatly depends on the bullet’s composition. In fortunate cases, it passes through and out of the body. That was what I sought the first night when I repeatedly asked you to move him so I could examine his back—”

“There was no wound to show the bullet had left his body,” Elizabeth interjected, her voice laden with the pain she could no longer contain. Until that moment, she had understood that his condition was grave, even critical. But she had not dared to imagine there might be no hope.

“Yes, it does not,” the physician said. “But even when the bullet does not leave the body, several possibilities exist. It depends on whether the bullet remains intact or in fragments…within the body. Unfortunately, we cannot yet determine Mr Darcy’s case. For now the bullet has not struck anything vital and has settled in a harmless location, given he is still alive after four days, yet it might pose a danger in time and with movement. That is why I must insist that Mr Darcy remain still and generally avoid any agitation. He is extraordinary—full of courage and determination.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with pain, and their shared suffering merged into one for a few moments.

“He is a remarkable man. I have rarely seen so much unselfishness and such a strong will… We must take great care of him,” the physician continued, and both women nodded in agreement.

“He is waiting for you, Miss Bennet. He told me you were coming. Your presence will surely bring him relief.”

She wondered how Mr Darcy had presented her and who he had said she was. But it was obvious he believed she was coming. Instead of infuriating her, it only surprised her how well he knew her.

The physician departed, promising to return in a few hours.

She needed to speak to Mr Darcy, and for the first time since learning of the terrible news, she realised that she would soon come face-to-face with the man who had not looked back after giving her that farewell letter. He had left Kent just as agitated as she had remained behind. But then she recalled the pain in her heart, which she had not known how to interpret, although his pain had been even greater—because he had loved her.

“Now I am ready to see your brother,” Elizabeth said. She made no effort to hide her profound emotions—a mixture of compassion and care but also a hint of fear as she did not know how she would respond seeing that man who had been the epitome of an active gentleman but was now confined to a bed, not to mention the situation itself, entering the bedroom of a gentleman.

“Do not worry,” Georgiana said, taking her arm. “He is not so changed, and I am sure he will make every effort not to put you in an embarrassing situation.”

And a few moments later, she opened the door of his chamber on the second floor.