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

by Ginger Monette

  “I’ll only be with him for two weeks. I’m not sure how much I can teach him in that short time—especially if he remains sedated.”

  The doctor nodded. “Do what you can. We’ll cross the two-week bridge when it gets here.”

  

  Darcy jolted awake. Hot liquid spread across his chest and he twisted aside, but pain knifing his ribs stopped him short. Several hands landed on his chest, dabbing at his shirt. He contracted his muscles and raised weak hands to fend off the beating. “Please!” he gasped.

  The activity ceased, but then a flood of dots and dashes assaulted his hands. His pulse was pounding, his head hammering, and waves of pain radiated from his core through his limbs. The frantic tapping on both hands only added to the blurry haze. “Please...one at a time.”

  The tapping halted. A moment later it began again on his left hand. So sorry. Spilt tea. Brought breakfast. Would....

  The telegraphist was unskilled, and what followed was garbled. He guessed it was an invitation to eat something.

  Though adrenaline still coursed through him from the disruption, he was exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Perhaps some nourishment would help—if he had the strength to eat. “I’ll try.”

  He closed his eyes, willing the pain that surged through him with each heartbeat to subside. Something touched his lips. He opened his mouth, but not before a bit of watery gruel dribbled down his chin. Instantly a napkin dabbed the spill. How humiliating to be fed like an invalid. Would he be forced to depend on others the rest of his life? Without sight, how could he be of any use to Pemberley—or Georgiana? Would she be better off without him?

  The spoon teased his lips again. He opened and swallowed, the process awkward. After four more bites, he could take no more. “Enough,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

  Morphine? The hand of the more skilled telegraphist had returned.

  “Mmm.”

  The pill touched his lips. He sipped water and swallowed.

  Clean shirt, then rest.

  Feminine hands worked the buttons on his pyjama shirt, then spread the fabric and gently drew his arm through the hole. Pain shot through his ribs and he moaned. She slowed in apology.

  This woman’s hands were gentle—like Elizabeth’s. As the morphine dulled his pain, he closed his eyes and recalled her standing over him a year ago changing the bandages on his shoulder. That first meeting at The Ritz had been full of icy tension, but in the end.... He smiled. Feeling comfortably drowsy, he replayed their last moments on the dock in Boulogne: her eyes glistening with tears, tendrils of her dark hair blowing in the ocean breeze, and an aura of lavender about her. Her words washed over him, Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. Would he ever see her again—even in a photograph—or would he be confined to this silent darkness forever?

  The gentle hands were at his chest, fastening the new shirt.

  “How long...until I know...if my sight...?”

  Her fingers moved to his hand. Unknown. Could be several weeks.

  He winced.

  “My hearing?”

  Hear something within few days. Full healing, two months or so.

  Two months. Could he hold on that long?

  Be patient, don’t lose heart. Dum spiro spero. She squeezed his hand, then draped the bedclothes over him.

  Yes. Dum spiro spero, while I breathe, I hope.

  Relaxing into the sheets, slumber overtook him. Dum spiro spero. Dum spiro spero....

  

  Elizabeth dropped into the bedside chair, exhausted. What a disastrous morning. Sarah had good intentions, but it was clear her VAD experience didn’t extend to working with severely wounded patients or bedside feeding. Poor Fitzwilliam. The last thing he needed was a dousing of hot tea and gruel dribbled down his chin. From now on she would insist he be given foods he could feed himself. At least she’d managed to change his shirt before he fell asleep—but not before she’d made the mistake of tapping dum spiro spero on his arm. She cringed. Fitzwilliam had introduced the Latin phrase at The Ritz in Belgium. The odds of a nurse in England using it were slim to none. Had Fitzwilliam noticed her gaffe?

  Minutes later Margaret crossed the threshold with a tray. “I heard about the mishap. I thought you might like something to eat.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry. Thank you.”

  After a short chat, Elizabeth’s gaze followed Margaret as she exited the room. Like Elizabeth, Margaret had also lost both of her parents. Was that what made her melancholy, or was it something else? Margaret had never spoken of a beau, but Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder if the young woman had lost a love—in the war perhaps.

  Elizabeth bit into a slice of apple but immediately set her plate aside as clomping footsteps accompanied by shuffles and bumps sounded in the hallway. Two orderlies side-stepped through the door carrying a wing chair.

  “Where would you like it, Miss Thomas?”

  Elizabeth wiped her mouth. “I suppose right there—with its back towards the door.”

  They lowered the chair to the floor with a reverberating thud. Fitzwilliam startled with a sharp, wincing intake of breath.

  Elizabeth immediately took his hand, then smoothed her thumb over his knuckles and tapped, Just a chair.

  His eyes slowly closed.

  “Please,” she addressed the orderlies, “the captain’s injuries are more severe than what we’ve been accustomed to here. He needs his rest. Might we wait until he is fully awake before the other furniture is delivered?”

  “Certainly. But he can’t hear the noise.”

  “No, but he can feel the floor shake like an earthquake.” She glared at them with an arched brow.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  The orderlies took their leave, and Elizabeth sank into the comfortable chair. After finishing her breakfast, she closed her eyes.

  “How is our patient this morning?”

  Elizabeth flinched at Mrs. Knightley’s voice.

  The matriarch approached the bed and reached for Fitzwilliam’s hand. He stirred. Did this woman have no manners? Couldn’t she let the injured man sleep?

  “Mother?” Fitzwilliam muttered.

  His great-aunt dropped his hand and stepped back. “Well,” she chuckled, “that’s the first time I’ve been mistaken for the deceased.”

  Elizabeth tapped on Fitzwilliam’s arm, Aunt Eliza.

  His head slowly angled in Elizabeth’s direction, and he breathed, “What does she want?”

  Elizabeth bit her lip.

  The matron drew back, affronted. “To ask after him, of course. That’s what family is for.”

  “Is that all you’d like me to tell him?” Elizabeth fought the urge to bore her gaze into the insolent woman.

  “For now.”

  Elizabeth spelled out family on his arm.

  With a barely perceptible nod, his brows drew together in a grimace, and he closed his eyes.

  “Perhaps he’ll be more enthused to see Sarah. Tell him she’ll be by later.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, she’s already been in to see him, and the captain is in much pain. Might we allow him to rest?”

  “So this is the Red Room.” George Knightley, Donwell’s master, strode in. “Hello, Mother.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Ah, Miss Thomas, I’d heard you were tending to William. Thank you. How is he today?”

  Elizabeth nodded to the middle-aged man balding on top.

  “He’s had quite a few interruptions this morning.” It was all Elizabeth could do not to glare at Mrs. Knightley. “But he’s stable at the moment, though still in pain.”

  Mr. Knightley squinted closer at Darcy’s bruised and swollen face. “He’s taken quite a blow. But he’s a strong man. Served his country well. I’m glad Robert had him sent here so we can look after him.” The man shook his head. “Poor chap, deaf and blind. How’s he to get on in life?”

  “Don’t be daft, George,” the matriarch raised her ha
ughty chin. “The solution is simple. He must marry Sarah. I’ve been telling you for years they would make an excellent match.”

  Mr. Knightley frowned. “Yes, and William has heard it for years and never expressed the slightest interest.”

  She patted her son’s arm. “Give him some time. He’s a sensible man. He’ll develop interest once he realises she’s the only person capable of communicating with him. A few weeks shut away in silent darkness—he’ll come around.”

  “But Dr. Scott said there was a chance he would regain his senses.”

  “Yes, there is a chance. But until then, if I know men, William has one sense fully intact. And Sarah’s got spunk and passion. I expect she could make him forget he was deaf and blind—at night anyway.”

  “Mother, please!” Mr. Knightley drew back, affronted. “We should let William rest.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Let us know if he needs anything—anything at all.”

  Elizabeth pasted on a smile and nodded. Mrs. Knightley had no shame!

  As the pair crossed the threshold, the matriarch turned to her son. “We just need to keep this quiet from Catherine or she’ll be here demanding he be sent to Kent and arrange a match with that sickly daughter of hers. Two invalids at Pemberley would hardly....”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and shook her head. Gentry had ridiculed her mother for marital scheming!

  At noon, Elizabeth assisted Fitzwilliam with some sliced apple and cheese. She’d hardly cleared away the luncheon tray when Sarah’s voice echoed in the hallway. “...he’s just in here.”

  A moment later a young woman dressed in a stylish blue day dress and white lace gloves appeared in the doorway. Georgiana. Elizabeth recognised her immediately. Although her hair was blonde, her high cheekbones and blue eyes were just like Fitzwilliam’s.

  “Juliet,” Sarah clutched the arm of the wide-eyed woman beside her, “Miss Darcy has come to see her brother.”

  Elizabeth rose and smiled. “Hello, Miss Darcy. I’m sure he’ll be glad you’re here.”

  Georgiana’s fearful eyes held hers an extra moment before tentatively crossing the threshold. When she saw her brother’s face, her hands flew to her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes.

  Fitzwilliam lay perfectly still, his head circled in white bandages, his face swollen, black and blue.

  “It’s all right.” Elizabeth held out a welcoming hand. “Shall I tell him you are here?”

  The girl nodded.

  Georgiana’s here, Elizabeth tapped on Darcy’s arm.

  His heavy eyelids parted, and he raised his chin, slowly angling his head. “Ana?” he rasped, his sightless eyes searching for her.

  She gently grasped his hand and erupted into tears. “Oh Fitzwilliam, please don’t die! I need you. What would I do without you? You’re all I have left. Please don’t go. Please get well.” She drew his hand to her cheek, her tears bathing his fingers.

  Tears pricked Elizabeth’s eyes at the wrenching scene.

  Although Fitzwilliam could neither see nor hear his sister, it was clear he understood her sentiments. He slid his trembling palm up her cheek, then curled his fingers behind her neck and drew her head down onto his shoulder.

  His sister clung to him and wept.

  Elizabeth wept too.

  

  An hour later

  “Would you like this more comfortable chair?” Elizabeth spoke across Fitzwilliam’s bed to Georgiana, who sat in the hard chair, staring at her sleeping brother. Her hand firmly grasping his, Georgiana hadn’t moved an inch in the last half an hour.

  “N-no, thank you.” The young woman emerged from her daze. “I just wish I could do more for him.”

  “He knows you are here and that you love him. That’s what matters.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. He and my cousin Richard mean everything to me. Do you have family?”

  “My parents died a few years ago, but I have a dear sister.”

  “I always wished I had a sister. Over the years Sarah has become my dearest friend—almost like a sister. She’s been someone I could share secrets and...girl things with.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Not all sisters get on as well as I did with J— my sister.”

  Their conversation drifted from sisters, to fashion, and other girl things.

  An hour later Dr. Scott arrived to relieve Elizabeth for the afternoon. As she lay on her bed in her small room upstairs, her thoughts settled on Georgiana. Elizabeth liked her as much as Fitzwilliam thought she would. Elizabeth wished they could have been sisters too.

  But wishes didn’t always come true.

  ~NINETEEN~

  Late that night

  The air pulsed with explosions. Nervous anticipation hung over his men crammed shoulder to shoulder in the muddy trench. Darcy laid a calming hand on Tipper beside him as the company chant broke out, “Dum spiro spero! Dum spiro spero!” Others joined in, “Dum spiro spero!” louder and louder until it drowned out the reverberating boom of bursting shells.

  The shrill of the signalling whistle pierced the air. Darcy joined his voice to the chorus, “Dum spiro spero! Dum spiro spero!” Power and courage flared inside him like an inferno bursting to life. He gripped the ladder’s wooden rungs and scaled the earthen trench wall.

  Raining gunfire joined the percussive explosions and roar of men’s voices. Sucking in a deep breath, he lowered his head and forced his boots into the firestorm.

  The men in front of him toppled like a row of dominoes as machine gun fire swept over them. He stepped over two bodies and pressed on across the barren wasteland of No Man’s Land. “Stay the course, men!”

  A shell ruptured on his right and another on his left, sending two bodies and chalky mud catapulting into the air. “Steady on!” he called through a haze of smoke.

  Blood pumping, he trudged on, ignoring the hailstorm of flying lead and metal. Dum spiro spero. Dum spiro spero—while I breathe, I hope.

  Another burst of gunfire swept over them. He glanced over his shoulder. Tipper dropped. Turning back, his own legs failed, plunging him down, down, into a shell hole filled with a sea of Germans brandishing bayonets. He flailed to escape. “Tipper!” but no sound emerged. Enveloped in darkness, a thousand knives stabbed his chest and arms. “TIPPER!” he forced louder.

  - - -

  Elizabeth bolted from the chair. “Fitzwilliam, wake up!” She nudged his arm in the darkened room, but he continued writhing with great heaving breaths. “Captain!” She squeezed his hand, but he pulled it away, whimpering.

  On impulse, she slid her arms under his shoulders and held him close. Instantly his thrashing ceased.

  Gently rocking him, she massaged the unbandaged hair at his temple and whispered against his cheek, “It’s all right. Just a dream.”

  He breathing slowed, but his body remained tense. “My ribs...hurt.”

  She lowered him back to the pillow, then tapped on his hand, Try to relax. All right now?

  “Mmm.... Water. And morphine.”

  She squeezed his hand and poured water into the hospital cup. She touched the pill to his lips then offered the porcelain straw.

  He swallowed. “Who are you?”

  Elizabeth froze and closed her eyes. How she longed to tell him the truth, then brush a kiss on his lips, assure him of her love, and promise to stay by his side.

  She took his hand and spelled, Miss Thomas.

  “Thank you...Miss Thomas.”

  Elizabeth sank into the wing chair and released a heavy breath. Could she bear to be so close and yet so far away from Fitzwilliam?

  Thirteen days. Just thirteen days until her VAD interview, and then she’d be gone. It was safest that way—for both of them.

  

  The next day

  Elizabeth bit her lip, wincing as Fitzwilliam shifted restlessly in the bed. If only she could do more for him! He’d awoken this morning complaining of a splitting headache, but he wasn’t due for another dose of morphine for another hour. Dr
. Scott’s morning exam had revealed nothing, but she feared he could have an unseen internal injury or swelling in the brain. Even morphine failed to bring complete relief. And the parade of visitors hadn’t helped....

  Sarah had arrived with breakfast and insisted on feeding him, but the process was clumsy. In spite of his pounding headache, he’d remained polite, but Elizabeth sensed his frustration.

  Georgiana arrived next. She merely sat and held his hand, but he seemed to feel obliged to be strong for her.

  Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Eliza made an appearance just before luncheon, and shortly thereafter, orderlies gave Fitzwilliam a blanket bath.

  Now it was mid-afternoon. And although both she and Georgiana were only sitting quietly beside him, Fitzwilliam appeared to be at a breaking point.

  Footsteps drew the women’s attention to the door, and Dr. Scott strode in. “How is he?”

  “He’s in quite a bit of pain and isn’t due for another pill for a few minutes yet.”

  The doctor glanced at his restless patient. “Give him the pill. And tell him I’m here.”

  Elizabeth relayed the message, and as soon as Fitzwilliam swallowed the pill, he pressed his lips together and forced a controlled voice, “A word, Scott. Alone. Please....”

  Elizabeth exchanged glances with Georgiana.

  Dr. Scott nodded to them. “Give us a moment. But don’t go far, Miss Thomas. I may need you to speak to him for me.”

  Once outside, Georgiana closed the door and turned to Elizabeth. “I’m afraid Fitzwilliam’s angry.”

  Elizabeth placed a hand on her arm. “Hosting visitors—even from bed—can be quite taxing when one is in such pain.”

  Georgiana sighed. “I suppose so. The men at Lambton’s convalescent hospital are generally thrilled to have visitors, but they are nearly well.”

  Sarah emerged from the back hallway. “What brings the two of you out here? Are the orderlies giving William a bath?”

  “They’ve already been here. I think my brother is rather frustrated with all the visitors. He’s asked Dr. Scott for a word—alone.”