Page 31 of Mistress of Pemberley

“May I present Mr Robertson,” the colonel said to Darcy and Elizabeth, who were waiting in Darcy’s bedchamber.

The surgeon bowed with some difficulty, for he walked with a cane, and for a moment, he and Darcy exchanged a knowing smile. In an instant, a bond of trust was formed between them, built upon shared suffering.

“Before I examine you, I would like you to recount the incident again,” Mr Robertson requested, his tone firm and professional. All eyes turned towards the colonel, the sole witness; Darcy remembered nothing.

“We were returning from the club in my carriage. It must have been around midnight, yet the night was quite bright. When we reached the house, we saw there was another carriage stationed directly in front of the building—it was undoubtedly the vehicle belonging to that man, Rowen, placed deliberately so that no other carriage could stop outside the house. It gave him a place to hide until Darcy arrived on his own doorstep. He most likely intended to make his escape in it as well, but he had no coachman.

“My carriage pulled up a little farther down the street. Darcy had to walk but a few steps, no more than twenty, to reach the house. There are seven rather large steps from the pavement to the door, flanked by wrought-iron railings.”

“Five feet from street level?” Mr Robertson asked.

“Perhaps more,” Darcy replied, increasingly attentive to his cousin’s account. In the past, the colonel had avoided giving him details. Three months later, he was eager to know what had happened, and he found himself also intrigued by the surgeon’s precise questioning.

The colonel nodded, his gaze intent, unaware of the room around him, as though he were no longer present but reliving that fateful night on the street.

“Darcy left his gloves on the carriage seat, and I descended immediately to return them to him. It all happened within twenty seconds—Darcy alighted first, and I followed shortly after. I believe the assailant was waiting for my carriage to depart, but he must have noticed that Darcy was almost at the house and the carriage was not yet moving…and his plans were overturned. He hesitated to fire while they were on the same level in the street. He fired only after Darcy had ascended the steps. He shouted something— sir or mister— but I also called out to Darcy, and he turned towards me. As I approached with his gloves in hand, the scoundrel fired.”

“One seldom fires upwards unless in self-defence,” Mr Robertson remarked thoughtfully.

“The plan must have been to rush out from behind the carriage and fire at close range, no more than a foot away, while still on the street,” the colonel surmised. The surgeon nodded, and Elizabeth pressed her hand to her heart as though his words had struck her as deeply as a bullet.

“Seeing me, the man panicked, and rushing for his carriage, he could not evade me, and I grabbed him. I screamed like a madman, calling out to my coachman, making a lot of noise, calling for Darcy’s footmen to come out. While they rushed out and carried Darcy inside, my coachman and I held the assailant down.”

“If it had not been for my gloves, I would have stood no chance,” Darcy said, glancing at the colonel with gratitude.

“Perhaps,” the surgeon admitted.

“The plan was foiled because my carriage did not move. He acted hastily, without further consideration, but he would not have had another opportunity. Once Darcy had been warned of a potential threat, he would have taken precautions,” the colonel concluded.

“Yes, the bullet came from below, fired almost at random,” Mr Robertson confirmed. “Do you know what kind of firearm was used?”

“Yes, he abandoned it before attempting to flee—a cavalry pistol, converted from flintlock to caplock, most likely stolen from a battlefield in France.”

“Very well. So, you were carried into the house—”

“Unconscious,” Elizabeth interjected, recalling Georgiana’s letter, which had described him as insensible for two days.

“Unconscious?” the surgeon enquired, surprised.

“Yes, I awoke two days later, in unbearable pain.”

“Unbearable pain? Why?” Mr Robertson asked, stepping closer to Darcy for the first time since he had entered.

He had requested that Darcy sit on a stool with no back, and rather than examining his chest, he moved behind him, inspecting his head and neck instead.

“Now that I think of it, the majority of the pain was not in my chest—it was in my head…an excruciating headache,” Darcy said, reflecting deeply on that day when he had awakened in his bed, remembering nothing.

For the first time, the events seemed to fall into a coherent order, the surgeon’s precise questioning arranging them like pieces of a puzzle.

“The physician who attended me examined me, hoping that the bullet had left my body,” Darcy recounted. “But he saw no wound to show that had taken place.”

“A bullet from a pistol rarely passes cleanly through—it lacks sufficient force, and when fired from below, even less so,” Mr Robertson murmured, speaking almost to himself. Then he added in a clear voice, “Mr Darcy, you lost consciousness because you struck your head. Even now, there is a swelling at the midpoint of your skull[JA6][DO7]—most likely, you hit the iron railing.”

He guided Darcy’s hand to the spot, where he could feel the lingering lump.

“Have you experienced any other pain?”

“My left arm,” Darcy answered without hesitation, for it still ached. “They told me it was likely due to broken ribs, with the pain radiating into my arm.”

“Were you advised to remain still?” the surgeon asked, his tone carefully measured. The three of them immediately perceived the weight of his question.

“Yes, so that the bullet would not shift towards my heart. I slept almost upright for weeks.”

“Indeed, when the bullet’s location is uncertain, that is a reasonable short-term measure—but not a lasting solution. I must examine you thoroughly, every inch of skin on your left side. We shall summon your valet to assist in preparing you, and then we shall proceed.”

∞∞∞

When Elizabeth, accompanied by Mr Robertson and the colonel, returned, they found Darcy awaiting them with his shirt unbuttoned.

Elizabeth had attempted to glean more information from the surgeon, but whilst exceedingly polite, the latter had firmly stated that he would draw his conclusions only after examining the patient.

“I must ask you to remove your shirt,” Mr Robertson said. Standing beside him, Elizabeth assisted with a composed air, striving to appear as natural as possible. She was his wife, after all, and no one but her found the situation remarkable. Yet, it was the first time she had beheld him thus, and once again, she fervently hoped that the frantic beating of her heart would not be heard.

Only Darcy observed her closely as she held his shirt in her hands. “Thank you, my dear,” he murmured. The words were entirely conventional, yet they stood in stark contrast to the amused gleam in his eyes, for he had clearly perceived her discomposure; he suspected the reason, and he was profoundly satisfied by her response.

The surgeon took out a cylindrical instrument of metal and wood, pressing it against Darcy’s chest as he listened intently to his heart beating for several minutes. He then turned his scrutiny to the scar, measuring it, running his fingers repeatedly over its length, tracing upwards to the shoulder. Finally, he studied it for some time through a powerful magnifying glass.

“Raise your left arm, if you please.”

“My arm still pains me,” Darcy admitted.

Elizabeth turned to him with concern, for he had long insisted he felt no discomfort. The colonel stepped forwards to assist, holding the arm aloft while Mr Robertson continued his examination.

“If you would step over here for a moment, Mrs Darcy,” the surgeon said. He pointed to a minor swelling beneath the skin, a lump in the armpit, nearly imperceptible without the magnifying glass.

Elizabeth paled. “My God—it is the bullet,” she breathed.

Mr Robertson gave a slight nod of assent.

“But what is it doing there, nearly beneath his arm?” she asked, her voice frantic, glancing from Darcy to the surgeon.

“You may lower your arm now, Mr Darcy. And once you have dressed, please walk to the drawing-room, where we shall await you.”

Elizabeth longed to protest, but reason told her Mr Robertson was right. The bullet was not lodged near his heart, poised to end his life in an instant. And yet—what if he was mistaken?

“I am not mistaken, madam, I assure you,” the surgeon said, smiling faintly at the questions so plainly written upon her face.

They seated themselves in the drawing-room, and the wait was not long. When Darcy appeared, he was immaculately attired, just as she had always known him to be, just as she had first seen him at the Meryton assembly. Yet now, when he looked at her, there was only love in his gaze.

At that moment, she wished to throw herself into his arms, kiss the surgeon, embrace the colonel and then the entire world.

“One moment,” she said and sent for Georgiana.

The girl arrived, pale as a ghost, and turned even paler at seeing her brother, standing—formally dressed—beside the sofa where Elizabeth sat.

“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.

“I am well,” he reassured her, opening his arms to embrace her. “Do not cry,” he teased, though her face bore only astonishment.

“To bring this difficult moment to an end,” Mr Robertson interjected, prompting them all to take their seats—except for Darcy, who stood beside Elizabeth’s sofa and took her hand in his. “The bullet was fired from below and, I believe, ricocheted off the ribs before settling beneath the arm. It touched nothing vital—”

“But there was so much blood,” Georgiana murmured.

“It struck something, yes, but not fatally,” the surgeon clarified.

“And he was unconscious,” the colonel added, forcing himself not to recall the dreadful sight that had met him upon his return after he had delivered the assailant into custody.

“Not from the wound,” Mr Robertson corrected. “Mr Darcy struck his head. Likely in the chaos of stopping the bleeding, no one noticed. The impact must have been severe, but there was no external wound.”

“My head ached for weeks,” Darcy admitted.

Elizabeth tightened her grip on his hand in quiet reproach—for he had never spoken of this, not to her nor to anyone.

“The head injury was far more dangerous than the bullet,” the surgeon said. “But it has left no lasting effects. The swelling has receded almost entirely, and there is no longer any danger now, three months later.”

“And the bullet?” Elizabeth asked.

“It may remain where it is. To attempt its removal would be far more perilous than leaving the body to manage it as it will.”

“I have spent three months in bed,” Darcy muttered, sinking onto the sofa beside Elizabeth. “Two of them sleeping nearly upright!”

He did not know whether to laugh or weep—for the enforced stillness had been insufferable, so oppressive that, at times, he had thought of death with a strange, quiet acceptance.

“Now, let us not rush to conclusions,” Mr Robertson cautioned. “I believe it was well that you remained in bed, avoiding excessive movement, especially for the blow to the head. The duration may have been prolonged—had I been consulted, I would have prescribed three to four weeks of rest. That said, I would not advise you to jump straight onto a horse. You must move about, certainly—but slowly. Long walks. No carriages,” he added with a chuckle.

“But when may I travel?” Darcy asked, turning to the surgeon—for he could not conceive of life without Pemberley.

“Let us wait another two months. By late August, I dare say you will be fit for travel.”

And the happiness that had been absent for so long returned to the Darcys’ house.