Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  Elizabeth gave her a sharp glance. Wickham? Why she'd scarcely given him a thought. No, it was Darcy. “No, Lydia," she answered, "it's not Wickham.”

  “It's Darcy. If he doesn't return..."

  "Darcy?" Lydia queried, her brow puckered in a frown. "But I thought..."

  "I've been so blind." Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples, her tears coursing down in abandon. She grasped the handkerchief Lydia stuffed into her hand. "I love Darcy, though I didn't realize how much until now. I hardly spoke to him for two whole days, and I can scarcely credit I was so proud and stupid not to love him every moment I had to spend with him, and now he's gone and he may never return! Oh, Lydia, what if I never get to tell him I think he's the most wonderful man alive, the most sweet, sensitive and loving man I've ever met! And that I'm so glad he married me, and so thankful I grew to know him. He asked me not to speak ill of him to our child, should I have one. Oh, I know he doesn't think he'll come back, and if he doesn't think so, then I have no hope." Another bout of tears burst forth and she buried her face in the handkerchief.

  "Oh, Lizzy, how awful!" Lydia cried, her voice choked with emotion. She wrapped her arms about her sister, and gave way to her own flood of tears.

  They cried together for some minutes.

  "Well," said Elizabeth with a sniffle, "it's clear we are not doing much good by sitting here weeping. If they're coming, they should be here soon. I intend to gather some pistols and go through to the cave, and I shall be there if he needs me."

  "Lizzy! Darcy left strict instructions! You mustn't disobey him."

  "If he dies, sister," Elizabeth returned with a tilt of her head and a stubborn jut of her chin, "how will he ever know I disobeyed him? Besides, I can't bear to sit here useless, when he may be in forfeit of his life." Her voice strengthened in her determination. "You may obey him if you like, but I shall find a brace of pistols, and wait for him in the cave should he return, that is."

  Lydia spread her hands in helpless indecision. She chewed her bottom lip, considering her sister with some unease. Finally, she shrugged. "Very well, Lizzy, I'll go with you."

  * * *

  A ball whizzed past, searing across his forehead like a flaming rod. His grunt of surprise and pain was drowned by the blast of a pistol far too close for comfort. He heard the splintering of wood, and cries of men.

  His free hand automatically went to his waistband. His fingers curled around the leather pouch, clutching it as if it were the wellspring of his inner strength and determination. God, they couldn't have come this far, only to fail! He urged Colonel Fitzwilliam into a stumbling run towards the cave.

  Two more staggering steps, each sending bolts of pain searing through his head, and his knees buckled beneath him. He fell to the ground, blackness threatening to overwhelm him.

  "Elizabeth!" Wickham's shout came through a thick, dark fog. "Give that damned pistol over!"

  Elizabeth? Surely not! He must be hearing things. The blackness demanded his surrender, but he wanted to grasp the most beautiful thing he'd known in his life and hold it to his heart. Elizabeth. He'd only thought he'd heard her name.

  Two more shots crashed in his ears, and a sudden hush descended, save for the wind. Someone was beside him, leaning over him, calling his name. His lashes flickered up, but only blood and the blurry vision of an angel met his gaze. Elizabeth. It couldn't be. He closed his eyes, tasting the salt of tears on his lips before oblivion claimed him.

  Darcy stumbling, falling to the ground. Elizabeth, heart racing, grimly forced her finger round the trigger, sending a ball of lead into the side of the attacking vehicle. Wickham's demand for her weapon met with no resistance. She shoved it into his extended hand. He fired a shot, and one of the villains toppled. He tossed the firearm aside, and Lydia quickly thrust her pistol into his hand. Another neat, steady aim, and the other man fell. Elizabeth lifted her skirts and ran to Darcy. Lydia and Wickham followed in her wake.

  "Darcy! Darcy!" Her frantic urging sounded near to hysteria to her ears. She sank to her knees, tears stinging her eyes and falling on Darcy's face. The sight of the blood on his face and in his eyes squeezed her heart into a painful, tight ball. She sobbed, trembling with anxiety.

  The cold hand of reason reached through her consciousness, and she breathed deeply, allowing logic to still her distracted mind and emotions. She must remain calm. Darcy needed help. Unmindful of the presence of the other men, she ripped her petticoats, and tried to staunch the blood flowing from the gash on Darcy's forehead.

  "Where's the list?" Wickham asked from beside her, directing his question to the other man, presumably Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  "In his hand," came the weary-unto-death answer.

  "The list! Is that all you can think of?" Elizabeth cried. She grabbed the pouch from Darcy's unresisting fingers and shoved it at Wickham. "Here's your damned list!"

  "Guard it with your life," Wickham muttered with a weak, lopsided grin. He put a hand to his shoulder and swayed. Lydia sprang to his side, easing his unconscious path to the ground.

  "Ladies," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, on his knees beside Darcy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance." He slid senseless to the grass.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elizabeth and Lydia exchanged a horrified glance. "Lydia! What are we to do?" Elizabeth cried, panic again rising to the fore. "They're all—"

  “Yes, they are," Lydia breathed, disbelief reigning supreme in her voice. She pulled at her petticoats, applying the torn strands to Wickham's shoulder. "He's bleeding dreadfully, Lizzy. I wonder he had the strength to down those men—I vow I've never seen a neater aim!" Her tone held a wealth of ungrudging respect. Pressing more material to Wickham's wound, she muttered, "Lord in Heaven! They can't have made it this far only to die now!"

  Elizabeth came to a swift decision. "We need help, Lydia. You must go through the cave and rouse Bexley. Be as quick as you can!" Lydia stood and sprinted off, her feet flying over the ground.

  'Hurry," Elizabeth mumbled after her, sending a cursory glance towards Colonel Fitzwilliam. She didn't see blood on the bone-thin man, but the gaunt lines of his face told their own story. She spared a pang of sympathy for him, but he breathed, and there wasn't much she could do for him at present.

  She made to tear another strip from her petticoat, found the leather pouch still gripped in her fingers and shoved it down her bodice. Another strip of fine fabric surrendered to her determined demand, and she pressed it to Darcy's forehead. His features were pale and drawn in the feeble light. She wiped the blood from his face as best she could, biting back her tears. "Don't die, William," she whispered, smoothing his wet hair away from his face. "Please don't die."

  She glanced at Wickham and saw instantly that the petticoat Lydia had used to bind his wound was soaked through with blood. She tore at her own, pressing the cloth to his wound. How could a few minutes seem like such an eternity?

  "Hurry, Lydia!" Wickham looked as bad off as Darcy, or worse. His hair lay wet and lank across his forehead. His scraggly beard and mustache looked rakish and unkempt. She smoothed back his hair, hardly believing there was a time she would have chosen him over Darcy.

  Darcy. How she loved him. Would Lydia never return? Had it only been but a few minutes? She breathed deeply, steeling herself for the wait.

  Long moments later, what looked to be a brigade of servants, armed with lanterns and equipped with sturdy blankets, flooded through the cave.

  She leapt to her feet. "Thank God! Bexley, how glad I am to see you! See the men safely to the house; I'll go ahead and muster the maids to set things in order to receive them."

  ''The maids are already busy, madam," Bexley assured her, dropping to his knees beside Darcy.

  * * *

  Elizabeth wasn't encouraged, nor were her nerves soothed. Her stomach roiled with the upset and turmoil of the night—the fear, the blood, the darkness of death. The doctor suggested she seek her bed, and a chance glance in the mirror assured her he was r
ight, for she looked positively haggard. Leaving strict instructions with Mrs. Reynolds to waken her should Darcy return to consciousness, she slipped between the sheets and willed herself to sleep. Darcy couldn't possibly benefit from a wife with shattered nerves and wits.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes, peering past the drawn curtains to the new day beyond. The sun was high in the sky, sending a golden glow into her room. Emily puttered about, readying her clothes.

  "I brought some food for you," the maid said, smiling. "Are you refreshed, or should I come back later?"

  Elizabeth sat up with a jerk. Her cramped fingers uncurled from the leather pouch. She'd taken it to bed. Wickham had charged her with its care, and she hadn't known how else she might guard it more carefully.

  "I'm much refreshed," she assured Emily, thinking it only a small lie. But she wanted to visit her patients, fulfill her duties as mistress of the house and plant herself at Darcy's side. She endured an excruciatingly long half hour of her maid's ministrations, gulped a few hasty bites of food, tucked the leather pouch in her bodice and made for the connecting door.

  "Harrison, has he awoken?"

  "No, ma'am."

  She went to Darcy, caressing his freshly shaven cheek with a soft, smooth stroke. He looked perfectly handsome, with his head swathed in white, but so vulnerable. "Let me know immediately he does. I must attend to some matters and then I'll be back to relieve you."

  "Very good, ma'am."

  An insistent tapping at the door sent Elizabeth to open it. A footman bowed before her. "Beg your pardon, madam, but there's a gentleman here from Brighton insisting he see Mr. Darcy. Bexley don't know him, and as he came with an escort of armed outriders, well, Bexley said as how it'd be best if you spoke with him first. He said his name is Forester."

  "Colonel Forster, you say?" Colonel Fitzwilliam asked from the bed. "Send him up..."

  Elizabeth remembered Darcy's mentioning the name of Colonel Forster. Wickham's superior? Thank God Colonel Fitzwilliam was awake to identify the man. She didn't want any trouble from anyone. She wanted to get back to Darcy. She turned to the footman. "Colonel Fitzwilliam says to send the man up."

  "And by the way, how are my rescuers today?" The colonel said after she'd shut the door behind the footman.

  "Still unconscious. I fear Wickham didn't take well to having the bullet removed. A most unpleasant experience. Darcy has a bandaged head, and we're watching for concussion. We can only wait until they regain their senses." She shrugged, impatient of every moment spent away from Darcy.

  "Colonel Fitzwilliam," said a man with a balding crown as he entered the bedchamber.

  The colonel studied the man. A slow smile widened his mouth. "Ah, Forester."

  Forster beamed. Elizabeth directed the footmen away and Forster crossed to the bed. He grasped Colonel Fitzwilliam's hand, pumping it heartily. "Richard, you old devil! I thought to never see you again! Dropped a few pounds, have you? I daresay you've a long story to relate!"

  "I do indeed. Perhaps Mrs. Darcy will send up some tea and cakes and I'll explain the whole. By the way, have you met Darcy's wife?"

  "I haven't had the pleasure," Colonel Forster said, turning to Elizabeth. He bowed over her hand. "I now see why Darcy rushed to wed you. You're very lovely."

  Elizabeth blushed.

  "Not only that, Forster," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, " but she's a fine woman. Saved our hides last night, and that's a fact. I'll tell you all about it as soon as we get those cakes."

  "Eat sparingly!" Elizabeth reminded him with a laugh. She curtsied to Colonel Forster. "I'm pleased to meet you, sir. But I must leave you gentlemen now as I'm anxious to return to Darcy. I'll send a tray and if there's anything else you need, just ring."

  "Thank you," Colonel Fitzwilliam said. "I daresay Darcy won't thank me if I keep his beautiful wife at my bedside, instead of his. Thank you too, for your help last night. We never would have made it if it weren't for you and your sister. We hadn't another shot to fire. If I might say so, Darcy is a very lucky man."

  "Thank you. Oh, and would you like the list?"

  "The list!" Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed. "Good God, yes. I've been so rejoicing in my good fortune that I quite forgot my duties." He grinned at Forster. "I hope you're pleased to know my mission was successful."

  Forster clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Dashed fine job, old man."

  Discreetly, Elizabeth turned and removed the leather pouch from her bodice. Forster accepted it with a wide smile. "Bless you."

  "It was the least I could do. I'll come by again." She lifted a hand in salute and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. She only hoped Darcy would bless her as well, and not be angry that she disobeyed him.

  Wickham's room wasn't far away, and she entered, finding the curtains drawn and the room shrouded in gloom. Lydia sat at his bedside, bathing his face with a cool cloth.

  "Lydia, did you rest well?" asked Elizabeth, moving up beside her. She gazed at Wickham, noting the flush on his clean-shaven cheeks. "Have you breakfasted yet?"

  Lydia nodded. "I had Cook send up a tray, and yes, I slept well enough. However, I fear Wickham didn't. Mrs. Reynolds said he did not stop tossing, even when they tried to bathe him and change his linens. He's been wringing with sweat, but the doctor said the fever was expected. He's come and gone already today, leaving more laudanum."

  A gleam of worry lurked in the depths of Lydia's eyes, and Elizabeth reached out, resting her hand on her sister's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine, Lydia. The doctor said he's in excellent physical condition. The ball did hit him from a distance, and didn't damage any vital organs."

  "Oh, Lizzy, I feel so awful, so guilty. I've thought such bad things of him, but I swear I never wished him to die!"

  "He won't die, Lydia," Elizabeth assured her. "Besides, you helped him gain his bed. I feel you've more than paid for any hateful things you've thought against him."

  Lydia sniffed and nodded. "You're right, of course. But Elizabeth, he was in such dreadful pain last night! And only think that he remained conscious until he'd shot those men! I feared he'd die when the doctor removed the bullet—have you ever seen anything more dreadful, and knowing you can do nothing to help?"

  “You mustn't dwell on it too much, dear. And do calm yourself, lest you make yourself ill. Mama won't thank me if that happens."

  "Mama would swoon if she knew of my stay here!" said Lydia with a watery laugh. "Why, all this bloodshed! Not to mention that I've been alone all morning in a man's bedchamber, especially when that man is Wickham!"

  "Why especially?"

  "Because he's a philanderer, that's why," Lydia stated matter-of-factly. "But he's also wounded. Therefore, I believe I'm safe."

  "You still think ill of him?"

  "Of course. But, be that as it may, I daresay my reputation can stand his presence—until he mends, at any rate."

  "Indeed," agreed Elizabeth. The knowledge of Wickham's perfidy had caused her little grief, but had Darcy done the same, she surely would have been heartbroken. Thinking of Darcy chafed her impatience. She was honor bound to fulfill her duties as hostess, but oh, how every second seemed like an hour! "I must go to Darcy now, Lydia. Do let me know if there's any change in Wickham."

  Darcy's bedchamber was also shrouded in darkness. Elizabeth crept in, sighing, thankful to be with him at last. "He hasn't awakened?"

  "No, madam," Harrison answered.

  She frowned. "I'll stay with him. You must be fatigued."

  Harrison inclined his head and surrendered his chair. Elizabeth settled herself into it, and gazed at Darcy. His face was still pale, but he seemed to rest peacefully. Only the slightest stain of red showed through the bandages on his head, assuring her the bleeding had almost ceased. She lifted his limp hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  She watched him steadily, content to stare at his face in repose. The bandage lent him a rakish air, his lashes fanned his cheeks and his lips looked soft and vulnerable. How she loved
him! And how long it had taken her to acknowledge that truth.

  The memory of their waltz at the Netherfield ball imposed itself of her rippling fear at the thought of his offering for her. A smile touched her lips. How glad she was he had! Even if he never returned her love, she was glad to be his wife, to know his lovemaking, and she would happily bear him his heir. Several of them, if he so desired!

  He was home. The danger had passed. He was safe, and would mend. And she'd stay at his side until she saw those eyes open. She wouldn't be dragged away again.

  Darcy broke through the black haze surrounding him. A thousand fiends of hell taunted him. He wanted to jerk upright with a shout, but some inner caution refused him such release. Thus he lay, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings; the soft bed he lay on, and his hand held by soft skin and against soft skin.

  His eyes flickered open. Elizabeth. A beautiful and welcome sight. His brows knotted in thought. Elizabeth? Leaning over him? The pistols, the shots...the salty taste of tears on his lips. What the hell? Was this his chamber? Whatever had transpired?

  "William," Elizabeth breathed, "you're awake." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and a smile of joy lifted her lips.

  He looked round the room, and his gaze returned to her. Was this real? Or was Elizabeth at his bedside just another dream? "We made it, then?"

  He found it difficult to talk. His mouth was dry. "Water?"

  "Oh, certainly!" She dropped his hand and lifted the pitcher from his bed stand. She gently raised his head, but still he winced at the throbbing pain. After he had taken several swallows, she tenderly returned his head to the pillows.

  "Yes, William," she said, "you made it."

  Her eyes were bright green jewels. Were those tears lurking in their depths? For whom? Wickham? His gut twisted as if pierced by a dagger, but he couldn't hate the man. Envy he might, but not hate. And how were his comrades? "Colonel Fitzwilliam and Wickham?"