A little later
The tick-tock of the clock in the nurses’ dining room hammered the silence. Elizabeth set down her coffee cup and closed the newspaper with a sigh. A prominent Wiltshire family had been forced to sell their country home for a mere pittance amidst rumours of secret communications with the Germans. And that ridiculous picture of Cowart served as a daily reminder of the bullseye on her own back. One wrong move and the sale of Pemberley could be gracing the headlines. At least there was no mention of Lydia’s defection or clearing station spies.
She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She was leaving for Dover the day after tomorrow, but her excitement about leaving was overshadowed by thoughts of Fitzwilliam. He’s not your concern. No matter how much she tried to console herself that her letter would soon inform him that Elizabeth was alive, all she could think about was him lying in a London hospital bed. Alone. Despondent. And shut off from the world.
What if she could show him that Elizabeth was alive? She closed her eyes and pictured herself delivering the news. His face bloomed into a smile, and then he crushed her to himself while uttering declarations of relief, love, and affection.
“Miss Thomas, here you are.” Her eyes popped open to find Dr. Scott crossing the threshold. “We meet again.” He pinched his lips, and his gaze sheepishly roamed the space around her.
“Is there something I can do for you?” She hastily returned her glasses to her nose.
He exhaled, then targeted her with pleading eyes. “I need your help—” he held up a placating hand “—just for today, I promise. Thornton is scheduled to leave within the hour, the captain has a horrendous headache, and Knightley has taken to bed with the flu. Would you come to Donwell and sit with Captain Darcy? I give you my word, it will only be for today. I’ve spoken with Mrs. Knightley, and we’re working to have him transported to London’s Second General tomorrow.”
Her chest imploded as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Fitzwilliam would be leaving tomorrow. It would likely be the last time she ever saw him. She sighed. “All right. I’ll do it.”

The scone between Darcy’s fingers crumbled, sending jam-laden pastry chunks cascading down his pyjama shirt. He cursed and picked his way through his lap to retrieve the sticky morsels. Breakfast wasn’t even over, and already the morning had him snarly as a rabid dog.
Aunt Eliza was partially responsible, paying a call far earlier than good manners should allow. Of course she couldn’t leave without obliging Thornton to convey a monologue of Sarah’s virtues—spelled out one letter at a time. How embarrassing. Even a blind man could recognise her marital scheming. And this blasted headache—.”
Thornton’s large hand cuffed his arm. My time has come.
So has mine, Darcy thought to himself. “I hope you’ve allowed a few minutes to see a certain woman before you leave.”
I have.
“I wish you well. Keep your head down, and be thankful you have a fine woman to come home to.” My fine woman is gone, Darcy thought as he held out his hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
Thornton shook his hand and tapped, Dum spiro spero. With a final grip, his batman was gone.
Dum Spiro Spero. How trite. He wished he’d never introduced the silly platitude.
A moment later Scott patted his shoulder and Miss Thomas’ familiar hand landed on his arm.
“So, Scott, you’ve coerced Miss Thomas to be my interpreter again.”
Only for today. I’ve been called for service abroad.
“My congratulations.”
Thank you. Doc’s here to explain your situation.
A pause ensued before her hand returned. Sarah has flu. With no other interpreters, only option is London’s 2nd General.
Darcy huffed. “I know they accommodate the blind there, but how am I to get on without hearing?” Maybe it didn’t matter. He’d be home with Elizabeth as soon as he could figure out how.
Orderly there knows telegraphy.
“One orderly who works one shift. Perhaps my blindness and deafness will go off-duty when he does.”
It’s best we can do for now. Expect your hearing will return sooner than later.
Darcy made no reply.
Dr. Scott patted his shoulder in farewell.
A moment later Miss Thomas’ hand returned. Time to get up. Clean pyjamas, short stroll.
“I’d prefer morphine and sleep.”
Up first, then sleep.
Darcy jerked the sheets aside and grunted as pain gripped his ribs. “Let’s get it over with.”
Shall you unbutton your pyjama shirt or shall I?
A chill swept over him. Elizabeth had used that exact phrase a year ago on their first encounter at The Ritz. “I will.” He forced the words past the knot in his throat.
I’ll step out. Call when dressed. Clean pyjamas here. She took his hand and placed it on a pile of fabric beside him.
Warmth tingled down his spine at her touch. Her words, her touch—it was all such a déjà-vu of Elizabeth.
Mechanically working each button through its hole, his mind trailed back to that first encounter with Elizabeth in Belgium last year. Even when she’d despised him, he’d been drawn to her. And when she’d stood over him that day, surrounding him with her aura of lavender, it was all he could do not to draw her to himself.
He slid the silky shirt from his shoulders, recalling her fingers soothing salve over his cuts that day, and then months later her arms wrapped around him, begging him to come home to her. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He’d planned to marry that woman. Envisioned her walking through life with him and bearing his children. But that woman had vanished, taking the hopes of his future with her.
He reached for the clean pyjamas. Wrestling with the shirt, the trousers slid to the floor. He pushed his arms through the shirt’s sleeves, then fingered the buttons and holes. Something was wrong. The buttons were on the wrong side. Blast it! He’d put it on inside out. He jerked it off and turned it around. Dressing without sight was so frustrating!
He hastily buttoned the refitted shirt and reached the top only to find one side higher than the other. Darcy growled. Now he’d misbuttoned it! He ripped the buttons open and began again, finally closing the shirt.
He bent over scrabbling for the trousers. Once in hand, he snatched them up, smacking his head on the bedside table. Pain shivered down his spine while water splashed his hands and feet. “Arrr!” He pressed his hand over the throbbing knot rising on his head. He couldn’t even button his shirt or pick up his trousers! Why hadn’t Thornton just let him die? He stepped towards the bed and winced at a jab in his foot. He leaned down. Glass. It was a piece of glass. He rose, gently fingering its jagged edges. Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes, a plan forming in his mind.
Don’t move. Miss Thomas’ hand gripped his arm. Vase—broken glass.
As she lowered herself to the floor, he slipped the glass fragment into his breast pocket.
A moment later she rose and routed him to the bed. I’ll clean it up.
After fluttering at his feet and dabbing his legs with a towel, she disappeared.
He managed to change pyjama trousers without incident, then returned to the bed. Maybe Miss Thomas had forgotten about walking.
Walking. What was the point of having two legs if you still had to be led about? Blindness was a cursed sentence to solitary confinement. And he was deaf. He’d rather be dead. With Elizabeth. His hand started towards his breast pocket when Miss Thomas tapped, Time to walk the hall.
Ambling along, he counted the steps. Four steps from the carpet to the floor, another six to the hallway. With one hand on her shoulder and the other outstretched, he must look ridiculous.
...four, five, six. His hand met the doorframe; they turned right. Carpeting again. He made his way down the hallway counting to each landmark—table, fireplace, doorway. When they reached the bannister at the top of the stairs, they turned and retraced the
ir steps.
Once in his room he dropped onto the bed and swiped the perspiration beading on his forehead.
Well done! Getting stronger!
He swung his legs onto the bed. “Now may I have morphine and be left to myself?”
Your pain doesn’t warrant morphine.
“I’d like it anyway.”
Sorry.
“You’re impossible.”
Only protecting you. Dum sp—
“Don’t patronise me! Just leave me alone.” He turned away and closed his eyes. With the way things were going today, he was likely to have that bloody nightmare while taking a nap! The nightmare that forced him to relive that hellish day on the Somme over and over—at least until the part where he and Tipper were mowed down.
The war was like that nightmare. An endless cycle of carnage and suffering, dragging on and on. Like an angry monster with an insatiable appetite for lives, hopes, and dreams, it stalked and consumed year after year, differing only in whom it devoured. On the Somme alone, it had swallowed the lives of more than a third of his company. Now it had taken Elizabeth, his sight, and his hearing. He couldn’t even properly feed himself! He was shut off. Living in a silent and dark world. He was alone. Lonely. Angry, bitter, hopeless, useless, bored.
And tired.
Tired of all of it.
But he had a weapon.
A little shard of glass in his pocket....

Darcy’s fitful nap swam in images of Elizabeth, artillery shells, and a sinister presence.
A distinct scent stirred him awake. He shifted. Gingerbread. And roast beef. Luncheon.
Rousing himself, he padded to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. A final cleansing before his final meal. Would anyone miss him? Georgiana might—for a time. If he had any reservations about his plan, it was for her sake. But blind and deaf he was unfit to be a guardian. He would only be a burden on her. Richard would take care of her.
If he could see, he would write her a letter. A last letter. But he couldn’t see, so the letter in his Dorothy bag penned before the offensive a month ago would have to do. It was meant for her in the event of his death. He just hadn’t planned to die this way.
The aroma of gingerbread approached, and he returned to the bed, allowing Miss Thomas to place the tray across his lap.
Hungry? Smells delicious.
Grunting, Darcy leaned over the tray and proceeded through the familiar ritual: determine contents, note location, feel for heat, drape napkin, locate fork.
After delivering a bite of carrots to his mouth, he skewered a roast potato. Biting into it, blistering heat scorched his mouth. He choked it out. “Aahh!” Sweeping his forearm across the tray, he flung its contents away. “Get out. Just get out and leave me alone.” He shoved the tray aside.
His heart pounding, he anticipated her hand and a tapped reply.
There was none.
Had she gone? What now, pull out the shard of glass and get it over with?
Moments elapsed. Time suspended like smoke hovering in the air.
Her hand landed on his arm, and dots and dashes hammered in staccatoed beats, Ready to clean it up?
He jerked away. “Clean it up? How am I supposed to clean it up?”
Her hand swept up his wrist with an iron grip. With your hands and nose.
“You’re treating me like a child.”
You’re acting like a child.
“Do you have no sympathy that I can neither see nor hear?”
It’s because I have sympathy I will not coddle and pity, or treat you like an invalid unable to care for himself.
“I’m not able to care for myself.”
Not at present, but you are fully capable of learning—if you want to. And I intend to help you want to.
Darcy huffed. “You’re impossible.”
No more than you. You want to be led around on leading strings rest of your life, or use that brilliant mind of yours and carry on as master of your estate? You decide. In meantime, we’ll leave food on floor ‘til you’re ready to clean it up.
“Fine.”
Fine.
“Good.”
Good. Let me know when you decide. I’ll be next door. Her hand jerked away, and a second later the room shook with the vibration of a slammed door.
Fuming, he rammed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the shard of glass.
~TWENTY-NINE~
The walls shook with the slamming door. Elizabeth clenched her fists and stomped into the room. He was so stubborn! If he thought she would let him get away with this childish, arrogant behaviour, he had another think coming. She would insist the mess stay on the floor until he cleaned it up—even if it had to sit for three days!
Three days.... In three days she would be on her way to Egypt. And Fitzwilliam would be in London. Alone.
With no one.
Her shoulders slumped. ...I intend to help you want to. Her words to him suggested she’d committed to stay by his side and use her training to give him a future and hope.
Could she really leave him in this condition? Her feet padded back to the door. She turned the knob and peered in at him. Her eyes riveted on his fingers gripping a sliver of glass poised above his outstretched neck. Panic seized her, and she flew across the room and snatched the glass from his hand. Her breaths came in great gulping gasps. He was going to kill himself. Fitzwilliam was going to KILL himself!
She squeezed his hand and caressed his face, then took his hand in hers again. His despondency was far more grave than they realised.
Her decision was made. She would stay. And if her identity was revealed, so be it. She was willing to risk the gamble—even if it cost her life and his future. But what should she do—or say—right now? Dr Scott! She sprang from the bedside and rang for a footman.
Crossing back to his bed, her foot skidded. She looked down. Smeared carrots trailed behind her. Tears filled her eyes and a bubble of laughter rose in her throat. The mess now seemed insignificant. A sob burst forth on a wave of sympathy. He’d thrown the food not as an expression of obstinate anger but of frustration and pain. Deep pain.
She returned to Fitzwilliam lying limp in the bed, defeat etched on his face. She brushed her hand across his cheek then tapped, Your life has value. I won’t leave you. I will care for you.
“You rang, ma’am?”
She turned to the liveried footman at the door. “Summon Dr. Scott—immediately!”
“This just arrived for the captain.” He thrust a letter into her hand, then dashed away.
It was from Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Her shaking fingers slit the envelope open. If it contained anything dispiriting, she wouldn’t read it to Fitzwilliam. His condition was too fragile to endure discouraging news.
Her eyes darted across the colonel’s words, and her tears fell again.
Darcy,
Cousin Anne told me of your despair. Hang on, my friend, and be patient.
Just recently I was recalling how your trials in Belgium seemed insurmountable for a time, but through them, you found Elizabeth. Don’t lose heart. Providence saw you through it, and He will again, even if I have to work by your side to help run that estate of yours.
You’re a strong man and many depend on you—including me. You know I couldn’t endure Easter at Aunt Catherine’s without you.
Give yourself a chance, Darcy. Better days are yet to come. As soon as I’m granted leave, I assure you Donwell will be my first stop.
My prayers are with you,
~Richard
Bless Colonel Fitzwilliam!
Elizabeth took her beloved’s hand. Letter from Col F. Read it?
His chin dipped in a barely-perceptible nod.
She tapped the words on his arm, glancing now and again at his face. By the time she finished, his pinched lips and misty eyes told her he was deeply moved by his cousin’s words.
She refolded the letter and placed it in his hand. Your cousin’s a true
friend. He and many others care deeply for you. She squeezed his arm.
“Miss Thomas! What is it?” Dr. Scott strode to the bedside and gripped Darcy’s shoulder, his eyes surveying his patient.
“He—!”
“Might I be alone for a bit?” Fitzwilliam sniffed and tightened his fingers around the letter, crinkling it in his hand.
The doctor’s head snapped to Elizabeth, his brows slashing downward in confusion.
Elizabeth expelled a heavy breath. “Perhaps we should give him a few minutes.”
“All right.” His tone betrayed his bewilderment.
We’ll be in next room. Squeezing Fitzwilliam’s hand, she rose.
As they crossed to the adjacent room, Dr. Scott warily glanced at the food strewn across the floor.
With an eye on Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth relayed the details of the food incident, their argument, and then the scare with the glass. “But the footman brought an encouraging letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam. It seemed to help. I’d just finished reading it when you arrived.”
The doctor released a heavy breath. “His situation is grave indeed. If only I could do something to restore his sight....”
“I’ve decided to stay—just until other arrangements can be made or his hearing returns.”
The physician’s eyes flicked to her. “Are you sure?”
“I just can’t leave him like this. The thought of him in London, all alone....”
“Well,” he chuckled, “I’m delighted, to say the least.”
“Ma’am?” A voice drifted in from the other room.
Elizabeth peeked around the corner. The footman standing at Fitzwilliam’s door extended a silver tray in her direction. “A telegram—for the captain.”
Elizabeth held the servant’s gaze a moment before crossing the room and reaching for the envelope. Please, not bad news. “Thank you.” She nodded in dismissal, then braced herself and unfolded the missive.
Body in Liverpool identified. Not your Elizabeth.
~THIRTY~
That night
Body in Liverpool identified. Not your Elizabeth. The words of the telegram echoed through Darcy’s mind for the hundredth time. Elizabeth wasn’t dead.
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 18