by Head, Gail
Charles followed him into the library, carefully closing the door behind them before coming to his side.
“Richard, will you please say something?”
“Grissholm changed our plans,” Richard growled softly, “It is a good thing that little maid of hers had enough sense to come and fetch us. I just pray to God we were not too late.” He shut his eyes against the vision of Elizabeth's near lifeless body Darcy had carried in.
“Too late? What do you mean?”
“I mean too late to save her from Grissholm's villainy.”
Bingley paled. “What in God's name happened?”
“We were waiting near the carriage for Miss Bennet to come at the appointed time, when a girl came running toward us, crying hysterically and pleading for help. Darcy had a deuce of a time calming her down enough to discover she was Miss Bennet's maid and there was trouble. That was all it took and we were off, following the girl back to Grissholm's house. When we entered the kitchens – ”
“You entered his property? It is a miracle you were not shot!”
“We had no choice. Miss Bennet was not coming out, so we had to go in.”
“But the servants?”
“Not a one – except for the maid. I do not think it would have mattered in any case. It was clear Darcy was not leaving without Miss Bennet.”
“And Grissholm?”
Richard's fists clenched against the sickening details that were still all too vivid in his mind. Twice he began and had to pause to steady his voice before continuing. “The maid took us to the door of his study and would go no farther. It was quiet as a churchyard, which made me think she had gotten confused in her distress and taken us the wrong way; but I was mistaken. At that very moment, the most soul-wrenching cry came from the other side of the door.”
Bingley could only stare in astonishment while Richard took another deep breath to calm his temper. “I have heard my share of suffering on the battlefield, Charles, but never anything like that.”
“Miss Bennet?” he whispered, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. We entered the room, but it was so dark that it was difficult to see anything at first. Another cry gave us direction – and then we saw them.” Richard swallowed hard. “She was on the floor and he was over her.”
“Dear God in Heaven!”
“Darcy reached Grissholm in a flash, pulling him off. It was obvious the man had been drinking, but not enough to hinder his abilities. He said something about Miss Bennet which I shall not repeat, and that sent Darcy into a mad rage.”
Bingley sank into a nearby chair, completely stunned. “This is unbelievable. And Miss Bennet – what of Miss Bennet?”
“I went to assist her, and when I saw what Grissholm had done, it was all I could do to keep from joining Darcy. Her condition was utterly appalling, Charles – half undressed, bleeding, and senseless. I could barely touch her without causing great pain and it was evident she needed immediate attention. I called to Darcy, but he was beyond reason.”
“Knowing his affection for her, I can only imagine! What a nightmare it must have been!”
“Precisely. At that point, I could see Grissholm was losing ground. Darcy's fury was relentless – even after the man went down. I have no doubt Darcy would have killed him.”
Richard could say no more and the abrupt end to his gruesome narration was underscored by a profound silence. Both men knew that no amount of wealth or influence could have saved Darcy, or Georgiana, from utter ruin if he had succeeded in killing Grissholm in his own home. They also knew that in the unlikely event Miss Bennet dared to make the incident public, she had no hope of holding a man of his rank and standing accountable for the atrocity.
“Grissholm must pay for this outrage. Will Darcy challenge?”
“He already has,” Richard said quietly. “It was the last thing he said to Grissholm, and the man was glad for it. I am to make arrangements with Grissholm's second in the morning.”
“Darcy will prevail in the duel, surely. I have never seen a better shot.”
“You are assuming Grissholm will choose pistols, but he is no fool. I expect swords will be his choice. Darcy is good, but Grissholm is better – even with what Darcy did to him tonight. This is a bad business, my friend.”
Bingley sat in contemplative silence before shaking his head in disbelief. “I am stunned. Grissholm has always seemed a gentleman. Somewhat aloof, I admit; but still I would never have thought him as bad as this. What do you suppose set him off?”
“This has been a long time coming,” sighed Richard. “It started with that sordid business back at Cambridge. Wickham was doing the devil's bidding even then. He had Grissholm absolutely convinced that Darcy was responsible for the girl's disappearance.”
“Disappearance? What girl?”
“Oh, yes, you were not at university yet, were you? Grissholm fell hopelessly in love with a girl he met at one of Lady Middleton's soirees. He had been seeing her for some time when she suddenly disappeared. Nobody knew what happened. Some said she died, but nothing was ever substantiated. Grissholm was beside himself with grief – he apparently spent an entire year looking for her and found nothing but an orphaned younger sister. He took the girl in as his ward, though he uses another name for her. An attempt to shield her from the scandal, I daresay. The missing woman's name was Catherine…Morley or Munson or – ”
“Monroe?” Bingley asked in shocked surprise.
“Yes, I believe you are right. Catherine Monroe,” Richard replied, completely missing Bingley's thoughtful expression. “At any rate, Grissholm has held a bitter grudge against Darcy ever since. It has been festering these ten years and now this whole affair with Miss Bennet has finally forced their resentment into the open. It was only a matter of time before they walked the fields together.”
“But this Catherine Monroe, what if – ”
Darcy's entrance ended the conversation as Richard's attention was immediately focused on his cousin's drawn and haggard face. Most of the blood had been wiped away, but his shirt and neckcloth still bore the signs of the brutal conflict and Miss Bennet's injuries. Richard's watched him anxiously. There was no mask of reserve to hide Darcy's true feelings. There was only deep sorrow and agony – and something else. Richard's gut wrenched as Darcy wordlessly fell into a chair and buried his face in his cut and swollen hands.
“Were we too late?”
“Too late?” Darcy's hands dropped dejectedly to his lap, his strained and brittle voice barely audible in the silent room. “I cannot say. I thought I could hear her breathing, ever so faintly; but she did not make the smallest sound when I laid her down. The doctor would not even venture an opinion until he made his examination.” Darcy's eyes were filled with a desperate anguish that hardened into cold, unyielding hatred. “If she dies, I shall never forgive myself or him! I should have insisted she go to her uncle's house. I should have never let her go back!”
“How could you know Grissholm would assault her? He had proposed to her for heaven's sake!”
“I know, I know!” Darcy growled. “But I also knew what Grissholm was capable of. I should have done more!”
“You did your best,” Bingley insisted. “No one could have done better.”
“I could have! I should have! She asked for my help. The first time she truly depended upon me – trusted me – and I failed her.”
Darcy turned away from the others and dropped his face into his hands once more to conceal his agony. His friend and cousin both meant well, he knew, but their words of comfort were meaningless when Elizabeth – his dearest, loveliest Elizabeth – was lying upstairs, hovering so precariously between life and death. His memories of their excursion into Grissholm's house were a constant anguish, playing endlessly over and over again in an exquisite, inescapable torture.
He could still feel the cold steel of the door latch under his hand – right before that terrible, heartrending sound had filled his ears. The sound of Elizabeth's cry! He
rushed through the door into a room that was dark, nearly black, and stumbled blindly, searching for her. Then came another cry, fainter than the first, but still saturated with pain. Turning to the sound, his eyes had beheld a horrifying silhouette of bodies against the ebbing glow of a tiny fire. Elizabeth lay prostrate, the white lines of her bare shoulders reflecting the faint light. The outline of Grissholm over her, his bare muscles flexing as one arm drew her close and the other stroked her.
In a single heartbeat, he reached them, tearing Grissholm from her and driving his fist into the man's surprised face with unbridled fury. The blow had staggered Grissholm, but did not fell him.
Grissholm had lunged forward in retaliation, succeeding in making a connection of his own, followed by a second powerful blow to Darcy's jaw. The next hit had brought a warm, salty taste of blood to his mouth, igniting something deep within.
An emotional powder keg filled with years of resentment, jealousy, fear, and fury exploded within Darcy, driving him mercilessly into his hated enemy. He had become possessed with a single all-consuming need to kill the man. Over and over again, his fists collided with Grissholm's body. He did not stop when blood gushed from Grissholm's nose, nor when he heard a crack as his knuckles found Grissholm's mouth. Without any thought to the answering blows, he pursued Grissholm relentlessly until he had driven him to the ground. But that was not enough.
He had continued, driving the breath from Grissholm. Driving, driving.
And then Richard's voice had filtered through the blinding rage.
“Darcy, enough!”
But he had ignored it. He could not stop – would not stop, until he saw Grissholm dead. He had raised his fist again, ready to drive it into that hated face when Richard's voice returned with urgency.
“Darcy! Miss Bennet needs help – now!”
Those devastating words had finally broken through the passion of his enraged mind. The thought of Elizabeth had stayed his hand. Her well-being was paramount. In spite of his fervent desire to see Grissholm dead, he knew he had to help Elizabeth first. With great reluctance he had let go and turned to the object of his heart, leaving Grissholm dazed and bleeding behind him.
Coming next to Richard and seeing Elizabeth's motionless form lying on the floor, it was with even greater reluctance that he had resisted the urge to return to Grissholm and finish the job. Richard had covered her with his coat, but it could not hide all of Grissholm's villainy.
“She cannot move without considerable pain, so I suspect it is a rib at the very least,” Richard had informed him. “There is a real danger of other internal injuries as well; but the wound on her head is of greatest concern. Judging from her confused state, it may be very serious.”
Darcy had bent to gather Elizabeth carefully into his arms, fighting back a fresh wave of seething rage. Her only response had been a soft, fading whimper that wrenched his very soul. Gently, he pressed his lips to the top of her head, urgently whispering in her ear.
“Dear God, no! Miss Bennet…Elizabeth…stay with me. Please, stay with me!”
Richard had moved to help, but Darcy stubbornly refused to give her up, motioning instead for Richard to lead the way. Once they reached the hallway near the kitchens and the door they had entered, Molly appeared, holding Elizabeth's things. Their progress out of Grissholm's house and down the streets had been accomplished with all the haste Elizabeth's condition would allow. By the time they reached the carriage and were on their way, it was clear their original plan was out of the question.
Even if Elizabeth were conscious enough to give directions, it would have been impossible to make the treacherous journey to her uncle's house. As it was, the short journey back to Portman Square had been unbearable; every jolt of the carriage drawing an agonized cry from her lips, and all his efforts to shield her from the worst of London's cobbled streets had not been enough. By the time Harrison reined in at Burnham House, her cries had ceased. Darcy emerged from the carriage with great trepidation for Elizabeth had grown completely still and was very, very pale.
* * * *
Raking his fingers through his hair, Darcy offered up a silent, impassioned prayer for the hundredth time. Please do not let her die! Please let her live! He had been pacing in his bedchamber for hours, his thoughts steadfastly turned towards Elizabeth's room like a needle pointing north. He was as close as propriety and the doctor would allow, but as the hours dragged by, the short distance had become an insufferable barrier. He needed to see her, to know that she would be all right.
Despite his frequent inquiries earlier in the evening, the doctor had been unable to give him any assurances. “Head injuries are not well understood,” he had told Darcy evasively. “We can only wait and see. In the meantime, there is nothing to be gained by holding a vigil! Go and get some sleep, young man.”
Sleep? Impossible! Nothing mattered as long as Elizabeth remained in danger. All through that first night and into the next day, he had walked the hall outside her room, pestering his own servants that hurried in and out until even his housekeeper, Mrs. Adams, had looked at him askance.
A clean shirt for Darcy was all Denham had managed to accomplish before what little tolerance there was for such things was spent, and the valet's subtle suggestions for getting some rest or taking some food were soon silenced with a brusque dismissal.
His distress over Elizabeth's fragile hold on life had made everything else an insufferable imposition. After the doctor banished him from the hall, Darcy had withdrawn to his rooms, leaving the door open so that he would hear any news at once. He now paused in his pacing and leaned against the window, absently contemplating the brilliant, star-filled sky. His once fixed and orderly life had been wholly and unexpectedly turned upside down by a beautiful, spirited young woman from Hertfordshire. To imagine his life without her was impossible. He heaved an anguished sigh. Please, dear God, she cannot die, she cannot! I was proud and arrogant, and a fool to ever think myself above her. But I have changed, you know my heart; you know I have, and if I could but have the chance, I would show her. I would love her and protect her the rest of my life, no matter what. I failed her with Grissholm, but it shall never happen again. I swear on my life, never again! Please let her live and I shall find a way to make it up to her. I will find a way, even if – Darcy's pleas were interrupted by a sudden cry down the hallway.
“Doctor! Come quickly, oh, please, come at once! It's Miss Bennet!”
The night maid's sudden, urgent cry at Dr. Lawrence's door rang down the hallway and struck Darcy like a thunderbolt. A cold terror swept through him, and even before the echoes faded he was already charging into the hall towards Elizabeth's room, aware of nothing except the desperate need to reach her.
Bursting through the door, he went straight to her side, staring anxiously at the bruised, motionless form before him, afraid of what he would find. Grissholm's handiwork stood out in stark contrast on her pale, creamy complexion and Darcy stifled a growl at the four large bruises marring the delicate line of her neck. Reluctantly, he let his gaze slide further down, his tortured mind not wanting to consider the unthinkable. He did not know how he would go on without her.
* * * *
A strange noise filtered into Elizabeth's mind, slowly pulling her up from a deep, unsettled sleep. It came again, grating against her nerves. The peculiar heaviness that gripped her mind and body made it nearly impossible to think. What was it? The offending sound came once more and she finally recognized the quiet scraping of iron against stone.
Forcing her heavy eyes open, she searched the room and found the source. A maid – one she did not recognize – was bent over the hearth, carefully stirring the fire before adding another chunk of coal. The flames jumped in flickering bursts of light that illuminated the room and Elizabeth started. This was not her room! What had Lord Grissholm done? She searched her memory for an explanation only to find fragmented bits that she could not pull together.
A new, louder sound of metal on metal as
the poker was returned to its stand sent a painful ache flaring through Elizabeth's head. She shifted, trying to ease the queasiness and escape the general discomfort which was now growing with every waking moment. Immediately, a crushing pang shot through her side, arresting any further movement and bringing another stomach-churning throb to her head.
“Uhhh,” she groaned softly.
The unfamiliar girl jerked back and took a hesitant step toward the bed. “Miss Bennet?”
“Where is Molly?” Elizabeth managed to get out before another spate of nausea silenced her.
Eyes wide, the maid turned and darted out of the room without a word, leaving a miserable, confused Elizabeth in her wake. Her hushed, frantic voice floated in from the hallway.
“The doctor, where is the doctor ?!”
“Down on the end, the blue room,” a deep voice answered.
“Yes, of course.” A few retreating steps were heard, and then “Oh, and I think you should tell the master! He will want to know.”
Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. The master? Lord Grissholm was coming! How much time did she have? The painful haze in her head was muddling her thoughts. Think, Elizabeth, think! She would have to hurry. If she missed meeting Mr. Darcy, all her carefully laid plans would be for nothing. Oh, where is Molly?
Pushing the covers aside, she tried to sit up, but as soon as she began to rise, her head exploded in a blinding pain. She took several bracing gulps of air and then tried again, only to have the same results with the added torture of an intense, prolonged pain in her side. After a third time, she had to stop and wait until her strength returned for another try.
She reached for her blankets, only to stop mid-way and stare at her arm in astonishment. The thin linen sleeve of her nightgown had slipped down, revealing an alarming array of scrapes and bruises along the length of her arm. Slowly raising the other one, she sucked in her breath at the sight of more black and blue marks. Reaching up to her head and then to her chest, she felt bandages wrapped around each one. What in heaven's name happened? Did I fall? Was there an accident?