Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion

by Ginger Monette

  A moment later the lorry pulled to a stop, and the two jumped out. “Privates Thornton and Burland, sir.” He saluted to the doctor bandaging a head wound in the kitchen. “We’ve brought a lorry to evacuate your wounded.”

  “Excellent. Are you driving?” The doctor’s eyes flicked to him.

  “I can, sir.”

  “Then load them up! As many as you can.”

  Thornton supported a moaning boy whose thigh was wrapped in bandages, then helped him into the back of the truck. Turning around, he glanced up at the smokestack just in time to see a shell carry off a chunk of its top. Panic seized him. Had it hit Captain Darcy? It couldn’t have been more than a minute since the captain dropped the flag.

  “Hurry up, Thornton!” his partner shouted, waiting at one end of a stretcher.

  He jogged over, and the two delivered the groaning patient to the lorry, but his mind remained fixed on the smokestack and his captain. One of his duties as batman was to serve as the man’s bodyguard.

  A loud explosion snapped his attention back to the smokestack. A direct hit. He froze. There was no way the captain could have climbed all the way down that fast.

  “Thornton!” the private bellowed. “Now’s not the time to get windy nerves. Lend a hand!”

  “Captain Darcy was up there. I’ve got to help him!”

  Thornton ran back to the kitchen and addressed the doctor. “Permission to aid my captain, sir.”

  “Your captain?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Darcy climbed the smokestack to signal a message, and it’s been hit.”

  “If it’s been hit, the chances of him surviving are slim to none.”

  “Please sir, I’m his batman. I could never live with myself if—”

  “All right. Go! There may still be a horse around here somewhere.”

  A minute later, Thornton was galloping towards the chimney, ignoring the flaming city and cannonade overhead. Some two years before he’d concluded that his situation with Margaret was hopeless and let her go—a decision he’d regretted every day since then. He wouldn’t give up so easily on Captain Darcy.

  He swung down in the factory yard and sprinted inside. “Captain!” his voice echoed in the hollow space over the muffled booms and thuds outside. “Captain?” He jogged through a sea of scattered rubble and dust. Just ahead the chimney rose above a mound of masonry wreckage. He stopped dead. Had he heard something? He angled his ear. Yes! A delicate melody—like a harp—no, a music box. He scrambled up the pile of toppled masonry, then frantically tossed aside chunks of bricks and mortar, honing in on the sound.

  The captain’s head appeared—eyes closed and motionless, face bloodied and ashen with a coating of soot and grey dust. Thornton sat back on his heels and swallowed hard. Had he really thought someone could survive free falling in an avalanche of masonry? Thornton stared down at his captain. This was the man he’d served for the last five months, and for six months the year before. A man he respected—and who respected him in return. Captain Darcy had given his life to communicate one message. The least Thornton could do was give him a proper burial.

  Flecks of dust floated in the air, illumined by the tunnel of light from above. The slowing music box melody stopped, like an ethereal winding down of a life passing into eternity.

  Thornton sighed and pushed the debris from the captain’s chest. He lifted the tiny silver box, blew off the dust, and examined it in the light. Until now, he didn’t know what tune it played, only that it was important to the captain. It hadn’t left his person for the last five months. And neither had the photograph. He reached for the picture, wiped away the dust, and looked at it for the first time. The captain stood gazing down on a young woman whose image was marred by masonry scratches. Judging by the uncharacteristic smile on the captain’s face, he must have cared deeply for her. His chest tightened. He carried a photograph of his own—of the woman he had loved...and lost.

  Thornton lifted the flap of the captain’s breast pocket and pushed the items back inside. A thin shower of mortar grit rained onto the captain’s arm. Thornton froze. Had the body just moved? Thornton flicked his eyes to the captain’s face, and peered closer. The man’s lips weren’t blue and tiny puffs of dust pulsed above his nose. He was alive! “Captain?” Thornton gently nudged his shoulder. No response. Thornton whipped out his water bottle, then doused his handkerchief and touched it to the captain’s mouth. His lips twitched! Thornton chuckled over a half sob, then tossed aside the remaining rubble covering him. He examined each limb. Numerous cuts bled through rips in the captain’s uniform greyed with a coating of mortar dust, but otherwise the man appeared uninjured.

  Thornton gently slid one arm under the captain’s head, his other under his knees, then heaved the captain up. Slipping and sliding over the shifting rubble with his heavy load, Thornton made his way onto solid ground. What now? Would he have to throw him over the horse? The captain may not have any visible wounds, but he likely had internal injuries, a concussion, or worse.

  Thornton emerged outside, the shelling and artillery fire assaulting his ears. Squinting into the setting sun, he chuckled aloud. Not ten feet away stood a mare harnessed to a wagon. Glancing heavenward, he smiled. If they could get out of artillery range, the captain might have a chance.

  A minute later he slid the captain onto the wagon bed, ploughing a trail through a layer of mortar dust. Just as he tied his mount to the back of the wagon, a screeching shell whistled overhead. Thornton dove onto the wagon bed, tenting himself over the captain. The explosion pelted them with shrapnel and a cloud of swirling dust.

  His heart pounding, he leapt onto the wagon seat. After what his captain had endured, Thornton wasn’t about to allow a stray shard of shrapnel to finish him off.

  He touched the reins to the horse’s back, and the wagon jolted forward. Thornton pushed the mare as fast as he dared, occasionally glancing back at his injured passenger.

  Pulling into the farmhouse yard, three ambulances disappeared down the poplar-lined road. Blast it! Captain Darcy needed to be in one of them. Whatever the man’s injuries, they required more than antiseptic and bandages.

  As he jumped from the wagon seat, stabbing pain shot through his shoulder and neck. He grabbed his shoulder and staggered until his light-headedness disappeared. Wiping the blood on his tunic, he jogged to the kitchen and found the doctor bandaging a head wound. “Sir, I’ve brought my captain.”

  “He survived?” The doctor glanced over his shoulder.

  “He’s alive, but unconscious.”

  The man shook his head as he tied off his patient’s head bandage. “Not much I can do.”

  The doctor turned, his gaze trailing to Thornton’s neck. “Looks like you took a hit yourself.”

  “Yes, sir, but my captain—”

  “All right.” The medical officer wiped his hands, then strode out of the door and vaulted into the wagon bed. He looked into the captain’s eyes, then poked and prodded him. The doctor looked up, shaking his head. “Doesn’t look good. A concussion. Probably internal injuries as well. There’s nothing I can do here.”

  “Permission to transport him, sir.”

  The doctor shifted his gaze away and then turned back. “Permission granted—after I bandage you up and you fill the wagon with wounded.”

  

  Richard Fitzwilliam strode down the shadowy cloister and took a deep drag on his cigarette to calm his nerves. He’d been awakened at midnight with a telegram from Robert that Darcy had been severely wounded. Please, Lord, not Darcy. The burden of worrying about Mary had been like a millstone around his neck that only weighed heavier as the war marched on. What would he do if either of them died? Hadn’t he experienced enough death in his lifetime?

  “Colonel!” Robert hastened towards him.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. Besides cracked ribs, he has a concussion and is so bruised and swollen he’s hardly recognisable. There may be internal injuries as well, b
ut we won’t know until he fully awakens.”

  “May I see him? Where is he?”

  Robert laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Richard, there’s something else you need to know.... He’s blind. And deaf.”

  Richard took a step back. “Deaf and blind?”

  Robert nodded. “Both his eardrums are ruptured, and it appears he’s taken a blow to the base of his skull—the area of the brain responsible for vision.”

  “Will he regain his sight?”

  “Hard to know. These kinds of injuries can go either way. Sometimes full or partial sight is restored, but more often the blindness remains permanent.”

  Richard released a heavy breath then took another deep drag on his Gold Flake. “What the bloody hell happened to him?”

  “He climbed up inside a factory smokestack to send a signal. He was on his way down when a shell blasted the chimney. He fell—in an avalanche of bricks and rubble. Probably hit his head. I imagine the reverberation inside the narrow space ruptured his eardrums.”

  “Will they heal?”

  “Perforated eardrums generally mend on their own in a few months.”

  “Months? So he has no way to communicate?”

  “Even with ruptured eardrums, he should be able to hear something within the next few days. His voice is unaffected, but for now, the only way to communicate with him is tapping Morse code on his arm. He awoke briefly when Thornton brought him in—long enough for us to realise he could neither see nor hear—but he lapsed back into unconsciousness shortly thereafter. And it’s probably a good thing. Once he fully wakes, I expect he’ll have a blistering headache and, well, feel like he’s been hit by a load of bricks.”

  Richard turned aside and inhaled on the cigarette.

  “At least he’s alive.” Robert cuffed his shoulder.

  “Will he make it?”

  “I won’t lie to you; his condition is critical. His prognosis depends on what might be lurking beneath the surface that we cannot see.”

  “What can you do—what can I do?”

  “I need your help in making a decision.” Robert gestured with his head. “Let me take you to see him, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.” The two fell in step. “Normally, he’d be sent down the line to a stationary hospital in Boulogne or Le Tréport. If he pulled through, he’d be shipped back to England and sent to a London military hospital to recover.”

  “So what’s to decide?” Richard glanced at Robert as they walked.

  “The situation with Miss Bennet already had Darcy on the edge, and obviously this has taken an enormous toll on him. Assuming he doesn’t have fatal internal injuries, his recovery will depend on him. He’ll live because he wants to. So, as soon as he’s stable, I suggest we send him directly to Hartfield—”

  “Hartfield?” Richard stopped in his tracks. “Hartfield’s a convalescent hospital for boys needing nothing more than an aspirin and a pretty VAD to give it to them.”

  “It’s being converted to a full-fledged military hospital. And Matthew Scott is there heading up the transition. Head wounds are Scott’s specialty. You know he’d do anything for Darcy.”

  “What about the distance? It would be at least a day’s journey—and enough jostling to rattle his eye teeth.”

  “The long distance is my primary concern, but I expect Darcy would be unconscious most of the time. Once he arrived, he’d be surrounded by family, which could make all the difference. You know Scott and Aunt Eliza would personally see that he gets the best of care. At a stationary hospital, chances are he’d be left alone for hours at a time. Being unable to see or hear....” Robert shook his head.

  “Hmmm. You may be right. But how would they communicate with him?”

  “Sarah’s there. She knows Morse code. And I hear Dr. Scott has an assistant skilled in telegraphy. It would be ideal if Thornton could take over as his eyes and ears. He knows telegraphy and he knows Darcy. I just took a lump of shrapnel from his shoulder which should get him a Blighty ticket of his own. But it would be highly irregular to have a convalescing private in the same room with a critically wounded officer.”

  “This whole damn war is irregular! If Thornton’s earned a Blighty ticket, let’s use it to our advantage.”

  “If you’ll back me up on it, I’ll make the arrangements. But in all honesty, Richard, Darcy’s skating on thin ice. He may not make it a week, and if he does, he may never see again.”

  

  Darcy shifted, groaning as pain ricocheted through his body. He sank back down into the hazy stupor of slumber.

  His dulled mind floated back to the surface. His head throbbed, pinched as if squeezed in a vice. He reached up, but a bolt of pain seized his chest, freezing his movement. Using every ounce of concentration, he slowly lowered his hand. The haze washed over him again.

  Rhythmic vibrations rumbled beneath him. Was he in a car? No, a train. But it was silent. “Hello?” The words caught in his parched throat. He raked his tongue over his cracked lips and tasted grit and soot.

  “Hello?” he forced louder, but his voice seemed to fail him. Was this a dream? He willed his eyes open, but saw only blackness.

  An internal force pulled him down, down, down into a dark abyss. Was death calling? He was tempted to relax into its promise of relief. He roused himself to fight against the seductive siren.

  Every breath sent slivers of lightening firing through his chest. His head pounded with an excruciating headache, and his body throbbed with pain. Was he already dead? Was this hell?

  “Hello!” he shouted, then sucked in a stabbing breath when gentle hands touched his shoulders. “Who’s there?” Why couldn’t he hear himself? Soft fingers stroked his cheek. Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. “Elizabeth?” There was no reply. Why was it so dark? Why wouldn’t she speak?

  Feminine fingers brushed his lips and placed something in his mouth. Instinctively he swallowed. “Water,” he croaked. Had he spoken?

  This was a dream. A terrible dream. He needed to wake up to break the curse so he could see and hear. He concentrated on rising above the foggy waves of fatigue, but his hammering head clouded his thinking.

  A porcelain straw pressed his lips. Cool liquid flooded down his throat.

  Abrupt movement jarred him, and his head exploded with pain. Perception ceased.

  ~SEVENTEEN~

  A few days later

  Elizabeth laid aside her glasses with a sigh and rubbed her eyes. She glanced at the clock, then snapped her attention back to it. Was it already eight o’clock? No wonder she was tired. She’d spent most of the day editing Dr. Scott’s manuscript, but would need several more long days if she hoped to finish before her interview for foreign service just a fortnight away. If the VAD board accepted her, she could be called upon to leave within a week.

  Her two months at Hartfield had been pleasant enough, and she would miss the company of Sarah and Margaret, but it was time to leave. She had fulfilled her commitment, and working amongst Fitzwilliam’s relatives was hardly safe.

  Hartfield’s conversion to a military hospital was now well under way. With no new convalescent patients admitted and the recuperated ones returned to the Front, the need for staff had dwindled. And the past few days had been particularly quiet. Dr. Scott had gone to Manchester to deliver lectures, and Sarah and Margaret managed a few days off to celebrate Easter with Margaret’s aunt in London. All were due back this evening.

  Tidying Dr. Scott’s office, Elizabeth looked up when rapid footsteps approached.

  “Thomas,” the breathless night VAD panted, “is Matron still here? She wasn’t in her office.”

  “It’s after eight. I suppose she’s gone home.”

  “I just found this under a stack of papers on the desk downstairs.” She held up a slip of paper. “It’s a message from Dr. Scott. A red tag patient is arriving on the eight o’clock train. He asked that you and Matron prepare the Red Room and remain until his arrival just after nine.”

  �
�A red tag patient here? We haven’t officially opened as a military hospital. We’re not prepared for critical cases.”

  “Ready or not, it appears one will be arriving any minute. We’d better hurry.”

  Elizabeth pushed to her feet and followed the girl out of the door, her mind whirring. Had a mattress even been moved in there? Was it clean?

  They stepped off the lift on the floor below and started down the hallway. The former nursery was now a labyrinth of rooms including the new operating theatre and Red Room.

  Elizabeth swung open the door and flipped on the light. “At least it has a bed.” Her eyes circled the stark white room with a bedstead, chair, and small side table huddled in the middle of the floor.

  Her partner stepped into the room and ran her finger along a windowsill. “It was painted last week and the mattress looks new, but the floor is filthy. I’ll fetch the mop.” Dusting off her hands, she darted for the door.

  Elizabeth eyed the space, then pushed the iron bed and table against the adjacent wall and set the chair in the corner. Now for linens and the other necessities.

  After dashing about for the items, she hurried back and found her counterpart frantically mopping the floor and the tarry scent of carbolic soap filling the room.

  They made the bed, then settled the blue chequered counterpane over the sheets just as the lift door pinged down the hallway. Clomping boots signalled the arrival of orderlies bearing a stretcher.

  Elizabeth looked up. “I’ll wash my hands. Will you get my apron from my room?”

  Elizabeth rushed across the hall to the bathroom and returned to find two white-smocked bearers sliding their silent load onto the bed. The grey-haired stretcher-bearer turned to her. “He’s all yours now, Miss Thomas. Ambulance driver said they nearly lost him on the way here. I hope he makes it.”

  Elizabeth held the bearer’s gaze for a moment, then bent over the patient and assessed his condition as the bearers exited the room. Pulse—weak. Breathing—laboured. Would they lose their very first patient?