Mr. Darcy's Obsession

  She wondered how much Mr. Darcy had paid him. It seemed unfair that Lieutenant Ralston had been able to see him when she herself could not. Did he know what interest Darcy had in the matter? She could not bring herself even to admit to the question of whether he knew anything of Darcy’s mind concerning her.

  There was only one way to find out. She seized her chance when Lydia was distracted by a friend who provided an audience for the no-doubt embellished story of her marriage. “Lieutenant Ralston,” Elizabeth said, “we must become better acquainted now that we are brother and sister. All the knowledge I have of you is hearsay from mutual acquaintances.”

  He bowed graciously. “I hope their words were kind.”

  “Indeed, I believe they have given me an accurate portrayal. Do you know we share an acquaintance in London as well as many here in Meryton?” She gave him a pointed look.

  Charlie materialized at her elbow wearing his most earnest look, the one that usually hid some form of mischief. “Miss Bennet, I think your sister is calling for you. I can help the lieutenant.”

  “What remarkable hearing you have, Charlie,” she said with an amused flick of her eyebrow to show him she was not fooled. “I was just speaking to Lieutenant Ralston about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Darcy.”

  The lieutenant took an involuntary step backwards, glancing around furtively. “I was unaware you were acquainted with that gentleman.”

  “A surprising coincidence, is it not?”

  He bowed again, apparently at a loss for words.

  Charlie reached past her for a pair of shoe roses, stepping between Elizabeth and Lieutenant Ralston. “Perhaps Mrs. Ralston might like these, sir. Very fashionable, they are.”

  Whatever the connection between the lieutenant and Mr. Darcy, Charlie was clearly part of it and determined to keep her in ignorance of it. The pieces of the puzzle came together at last: Mr. Darcy must have sent Charlie to Meryton to divine the culprit in Lydia’s condition. She had not been able to tell him directly when he asked, so he had discovered it in his own way.

  It was too entertaining an opportunity to miss. “Charlie has met Mr. Darcy as well, have you not?”

  “Mr. Darcy? Yes, he’s a very fine gentleman, Lieutenant. Very fine indeed.” Charlie winked at Elizabeth, apparently not the least put out by the improvisation.

  Lieutenant Ralston said, “I cannot argue with you. I had not realized he had so many connections to the Bennet family.” His eyes raked down Elizabeth’s form. It was not difficult to guess what relationship he thought she had with Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth’s cheeks grew hot, though she could not have said how much was embarrassment and how much was anger at his presumption. She did not wish to think closely about how many people might come to that same conclusion, given the evidence.

  Charlie drew himself up to his full height, which was still below Lieutenant Ralston’s chin. “Mr. Darcy is an honourable gentleman, and he wouldn’t take it kindly if somebody implied otherwise,” he said belligerently.

  The lieutenant’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but Charlie did not so much as flinch. It was amusing to see the young boy facing down the uniformed officer of His Majesty’s militia. But Lieutenant Ralston would not dare draw the sword, and should it come to fisticuffs, Elizabeth would put her money on Charlie’s cleverness over his opponent’s brawn.

  Still, she was relieved to hear Mr. Browning’s heavy footfalls behind her, though he seemed oblivious to the conflict at hand. His proud attention was all on the swaddled infant in his arms. Elizabeth suspected that there was not a soul in Meryton who had not been subjected to one of Mr. Browning’s presentations of his son in the last fortnight. One would think he was the first man in history to father a child.

  “Lydia, you will want to meet your new nephew,” he said, as if granting her a great privilege. “Is he not a handsome, lusty boy?”

  Lydia looked up from the ribbons in her hand just long enough to give the baby a disinterested glance. “All babies look alike to me. Where did you get these hideous ribbons? They are no longer at all the fashion in London.” She dropped them in an untidy heap on the table.

  Mr. Browning’s brow darkened. “Must I speak to you yet again about proper respect?”

  “You cannot tell me what to do. You no longer have any authority over me, for I am a married woman now.” Lydia wore a triumphant look.

  Lieutenant Ralston placed a hand on Lydia’s arm. “Now, now, my dear, I am sure you did not intend to give offense.”

  Lydia yanked her arm away, giving him a disbelieving look. “You need not take his side. You are an officer, and he is a mere shopkeeper.”

  “He is still your brother, my dear.”

  Lydia sniffed. “I need not acknowledge him. We all know Jane married him only for convenience.”

  The veins stood out on Mr. Browning’s temple and his face grew red. “You need a lesson in respect, young lady, married woman or not!”

  The baby began to howl in response to the angry voices. Elizabeth took him from his irate father and swayed soothingly from side to side. Mr. Browning half-dragged Lydia by the arm through the door between the shop and the house, despite her cries of protest. Lieutenant Ralston seemed disinclined to intervene.

  As the baby’s screams grew to a deafening level, Elizabeth decided that even the busy street would be a more peaceful environment than the shop. She slipped out the door and walked down the cobblestone street to the green, speaking softly to the infant. Finally, in the shade of a tree far enough away to drown out the raised voices of Mr. Browning and Lydia, he began to quiet. Elizabeth patted his back gently until he grew drowsy. She had no inclination to face Lieutenant Ralston, Lydia, or even Charlie again. He would not have forgotten the humiliating look the lieutenant had given her.

  As if her thoughts had conjured him, Charlie appeared, dodging pedestrians as he ran towards her. His face was flushed and he panted out the words, “Miss Bennet! You must come immediately! Hurry!”

  ***

  Darcy was not in the best of humours. His uncle’s urgent summons had caused him to be wakened from a delightful dream of Elizabeth, just as her phantom fingers were trailing their way down his cheek and her lips waited for his kiss. He would have preferred to enjoy the conclusion to his dream, especially if it continued in such a promising manner, than once again to make his way to Derby House in the first morning light. No doubt Henry had told the earl of their disagreement, and Darcy did not imagine the upcoming interview would be anything but highly disagreeable. If only the bonds of family did not require that he treat his uncle with respect! His parents, however, had drilled into him at an early age the responsibility owed to his relations, especially the earl.

  To his surprise, Darcy was shown immediately to Henry’s private chambers. The room was dark and stifling, the heavy curtains drawn. Several men crowded around the bed. A rank smell assaulted Darcy’s nostrils.

  From his vantage point at the end of the bed, the earl turned to Darcy and beckoned. Darcy expected it to be another of Henry’s performances. No doubt he had a mild cold and was playing it up as a deathbed scene. He caught sight of his cousin, his face red and beaded with sweat, his breathing rapid and laboured. This was no act; Henry was truly ill.

  His uncle said, “He asked to see you. No idea why.”

  Darcy had no idea either. He took a step forward. “Henry?”

  His cousin opened bleary eyes. “Darcy. You are here.”

  One of the other men, a doctor, judging by his tools, said, “Has he taken the laudanum?”

  Henry’s valet hovered nearby, a cup in his hand. “Most of it, sir.”

  “Good. Remove the bandages, though I doubt we will see any improvement, given his fever.”

  Henry moaned as the bandages were unwrapped gently. The doctor leaned forward, lamp in hand, examining the swollen fingers. Pus oozed over the surface, and with a shudder Darcy realized the cause of his cousin’s illness.

  “As I suspected,
we have the beginnings of gangrene.” With a frown, the doctor gestured to his assistant. “We need maggots here, to cleanse the necrotic flesh.”

  His assistant made a show of opening his bag and withdrawing a clay flask. Darcy watched with horrified fascination as he removed the stopper and shook out a handful of squirming maggots. With an odd delicacy, he spooned them into open sores on Henry’s fingers and then wrapped the fingers again in a loose bandage. Henry cried out in pain at the movement, but made no protest. Darcy wondered how much of the proceedings he understood through the haze of laudanum.

  The doctor turned to the earl. “My lord, that will aid the healing, if he somehow manages to survive the infection, but you can see those streaks up his arm where the poison is spreading. As I told you last night, it threatens his very life. My recommendation is unchanged. I urge immediate action.”

  “Bleed him again,” the earl ordered. “I will not have him crippled.”

  “Bleeding will make no difference, my lord. The infection has travelled too far. His life is in jeopardy; his only chance is if we remove it.”

  “If that is the best you have to offer, begone!” The earl waved imperiously at the door, his ominous look sending the doctor scurrying away.

  Darcy doubted his uncle would listen to reason from him any more than from the doctor, but even though he bore Henry no love, he could not stand by and watch him die unnecessarily. “Many men are missing limbs from the wars. Henry would hardly be unique.”

  “The future Earl of Derby is not many men. He must be greater than other men, not half a man.”

  “If the doctor is correct, he may not live to be Earl of Derby, unless they operate. Surely a son with one arm is superior to a dead son.”

  The earl gave his firstborn a long look, his face expressionless. “I have other sons. He was a fool to allow this to happen.” He stalked out of the room without another word.

  Darcy could hardly believe his ears and hoped that Henry’s closed eyes meant he had mercifully not comprehended his father’s words. Darcy wished he had not heard them, either. The valet was looking at him with a fearful expression, but there was no response he could give, no reassurance that all would be well. He crossed to the window to catch a breath of what passed in London for fresh air. If only Elizabeth were there, her presence and her lavender scent would help him forget the odor of putrefaction that permeated the sickroom.

  “Darcy.” The barely audible dry rasp did not sound like his cousin, but it was he.

  Reluctantly Darcy approached the bed. “I am here.”

  “Send my man away.”

  Darcy looked over at Henry’s valet and jerked his head towards the door. The man hastened to obey.

  With the door closed behind him, Henry said, “Find the doctor. Tell him to do it.”

  “To amputate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?” It was the only sensible course, but it was unlike Henry to disobey his father, the holder of the purse strings.

  “Do it.” His head fell back on the pillow as if the effort to speak had exhausted him.

  The earl would have no mercy if he discovered Darcy had called the doctors back. Should he do so, and Henry was so fortunate to recover, Henry would most likely deny ever making the request, which was why he had not wanted the valet to hear it. If Darcy did as he asked, the price would be the loss of his family. Despite his current quarrel with Henry, he could not picture a future without them.

  It did not change the fact that he could not be party to his uncle’s casual dismissal of Henry’s life. It did not matter that he himself had wished Henry dead more than once. It was up to God, not to him.

  “I will return with the doctor. You should drink more laudanum; you will need it.” Darcy left the room before Henry could change his mind.

  He was fortunate; the doctor had not yet departed the house, and Darcy was able to speak to him privately. The doctor seemed unsurprised by the request and sent his assistant for the surgeon. Darcy’s spirit was curiously light as he returned to the sickroom. Elizabeth would be proud of the choice he had made.

  ***

  “That is quite a tale!” Bingley said after Darcy reported an expurgated version of the day’s events. “I hope he recovers.”

  “It is in God’s hands.” Personally, Darcy thought it unlikely. He would not soon forget the final scene at Henry’s bedside, where he had assisted in holding his screaming cousin down while the surgeon did his bloody work. He had not wanted to put the duty on a servant who could then be punished by the earl.

  “Does his lordship remain in ignorance?”

  “I assume so, since I was permitted to leave without any difficulty. He must have discovered it by now. If he comes here, I strongly advise you to slip out through the kitchen.” He was only half-joking.

  “You may have to join me in Scarborough after all,” Bingley said with a laugh. “We can be exiles together.”

  “I think Pemberley will do quite well for me, thank you.” He was glad of the assurance that Bingley would remain his friend, though.

  Georgiana sat up straighter. “Oh, please, may we go to Pemberley?”

  “Not yet. I have matters I must attend to,” Darcy said. He could not leave before Elizabeth returned to London. He prayed it would be soon, now that her younger sister was married and had returned to Meryton. She would no doubt remain there until her sister gave birth, but that could not be long, if it had not happened already. “We cannot leave now, in any case, with Henry’s health in such jeopardy. But soon, I promise you.” He could hardly wait until the day when he would finally bring Elizabeth home to Pemberley. The thought made him dizzy with joy.

  Chapter 14

  A pounding at the front door interrupted Bingley’s enthusiastic description of his ventures in Scarborough. At this late hour, it could hardly be a caller. More likely it was ill tidings about Henry. Darcy hardly attended to the conversation as he waited for word. It was only a matter of minutes until Simms entered with a silver platter, which he proffered to Darcy.

  “An express for you, sir.”

  It was unlikely to be Henry, then. No one would send an express the short distance from Derby House, when a footman could do as well. Expresses rarely bore good news. Darcy examined the letter, noting the direction that was written in an unfamiliar, though distinctly feminine, hand. He ran his finger through the opening and broke the seal with a snap. His breathing quickened as he read the first words.

  Penned at the dictation of Charlie Hopper by E. Bennet.

  Dear Mr. Darcy,

  I am sorry to report that we are facing some difficulties here. My master has taken ill with apoplexy and cannot speak or walk. My mistress, who only recently was brought to bed of a son (a robust young man—EB) is still weak from her labours. Between tending to my master and the baby, we are able to open the shop only for a few hours each day (and that owing only to the fact that Charlie appears to have given up sleeping—EB), but we are sorely lacking for direction in management of the shop. As Mr. Browning has no male relations apart from the babe to inherit the shop, I am writing to ask your further instructions. Miss Bennet wishes me to assure you that we are all well, apart from Mr. Browning, whose recovery is deemed unlikely by the apothecary.

  I hope you will excuse the liberty of sending this express, which was the suggestion of Miss Bennet.

  The letter was signed in large, shaky letters marred with several blots, followed by a postscript in Elizabeth’s hand.

  I have been teaching Master Charlie his letters, that he may someday write his reports to you directly. After all, who shall spy upon the spy?

  Darcy’s hands itched for the reins of his fastest horse, though it was too late in the day to travel. It would not help Elizabeth if he broke his neck riding on a dark road. He had been waiting so long, and now he had an excuse, and Elizabeth wanted him to come. His exhilaration was tempered by concern at her situation, which must be dire for her to take such a step, but a fr
esh breeze had blown through the stale air as he read each of her arch asides, and it was as if the candles burned brighter. If only she were here beside him! He stretched the fingers of his hand, the fortunate fingers that had touched hers.

  “Darcy, what is the matter?” Bingley’s voice penetrated his reveries.

  “What? A letter, nothing more.” Darcy hurriedly folded the letter, placing it in his pocket where he could touch it any time he wished. Given Bingley’s strong sentiments regarding Jane, it would be best not to explain too closely.

  Bingley still looked concerned. “Something is wrong. You need not protect me from unfortunate news, you know.”

  The words seemed to burn at Darcy. He had done this before; kept knowledge of the Bennet family to himself to protect Bingley, but it had not accomplished his goal. Bingley had suffered for it, as had Elizabeth, Jane, and Darcy himself. Elizabeth would have been his long before, had Bingley married Jane Bennet. He had lied by omission to his friend and had himself reaped the harvest of his deception.

  He would not make the same mistake again. This time he would allow Bingley to make his own decision, not that there could be a happy outcome, but Bingley deserved to know the truth.

  How to tell him? Darcy fingered the letter in his pocket, as if it still held some essence of Elizabeth. What would she do? The answer came to him without hesitation. Elizabeth would tell him directly and allow him to draw his own judgment.

  He took a deep, cleansing breath. “It is a letter from an old acquaintance of ours, Miss Bennet.”

  Bingley’s sudden movement knocked his wineglass to the floor, and it shattered, a dark red stain spreading across the Aubusson carpet. Bingley stammered, “My apologies for my clumsiness. Did you say ‘Miss Bennet?’”