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

by Ginger Monette

  “I crossed back to Tipper and ripped open my bloody trouser leg. Blood was oozing from a gash in my shin. Tipper’s wound was about the same. But he was scared. He kept eyeing a boot protruding from the fetid water. It was a grim reminder of our predecessor’s fate. We had hours to wait until nightfall when it would be dark enough for stretcher-bearers to venture that far out into No-Man’s land. My greatest fear was that a shrapnel shard or Germans would finish us off before our own boys picked us up.

  “Bursting shells and gunfire showered us with dirt and mud most of the day. But all we could do was sit and wait. And stare at Fritz. And try not to smell that stinking water.” He closed his eyes, shuddering at the putrid smell and iridescent slime shimmering on the puddle.

  You never shot the German?

  “No. And I could be tried for treason if my superiors learnt of my cowardice. But trenches full of faceless Germans a hundred yards across No-Man’s land are easy to hate and kill. But face to face....” Darcy shook his head. “He was so young. With hopes and dreams like the rest of us. If I’d killed him, looking at his lifeless body would have been a constant reminder that I’d extinguished his hopes and dreams. I just couldn’t do it.”

  Darcy sighed. “Eventually the whole thing turned absurd. Tipper took a swig of water, and Fritz looked on like a dejected puppy. Tipper pitched him the water bottle. After a few gulps, he lobbed it back and held up a package of cigarettes. Then they exchanged matches. Suddenly two Tommies and a Fritz were like a merry little band sharing tea and crumpets, serenaded by a symphony of artillery shells and gunfire.”

  But you’re tormented over not killing German?

  “Yes—and no. By then we knew the offensive had been an abysmal failure. Late in the afternoon, the enemy’s guns quieted, and I peered over the edge of the crater. Germans were pouring over their walls and wriggling under the tangle of barbed wire coiled in front of their trenches. They were counter-attacking. And Tipper and I would be sitting ducks when they passed by. Fritz knew it too. I ordered Tipper to play dead, but he was shaking like a leaf. The chatter of our boys’ machine guns started up against the advancing Germans, and the artillery assault escalated to full throttle. I could hear German soldiers calling out to one another in the near distance over the gunfire and exploding shells. Tipper begged mercy from Fritz, then asked me to finish him off if the Germans poked him full of holes. I told him if Fritz didn’t give us away and we put on a good show playing dead, we’d have a fair chance of surviving.”

  What happened?

  “When the Germans came closer, I rolled onto my stomach and concentrated on appearing dead. A minute later two thuds hit the crater, and a pair of Huns exchanged impassioned words with Fritz. I knew they were talking about us. My heart pounded, wondering if Fritz would give us away. One of the Huns rammed me with the butt of his rifle. I’m sure I moaned, but Fritz cried out and must have made a plea on my behalf. After another verbal exchange, the Huns scrambled out of the hole and continued on their way.”

  Darcy released a heavy breath. “Everything in me went limp. I just lay against the crater wall sucking air, trying to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest. Tipper was blubbering like a baby. Eventually I managed a nod of thanks to Fritz.”

  If you’d killed Fritz, other two would’ve killed you.

  Darcy nodded. “By disobeying, I saved myself.”

  Your mercy saved you.

  “But that’s not how the army would see it.”

  But army never found out.

  “No.”

  What became of Fritz?

  “Our bearers picked him up. I suppose he’s a prisoner now.”

  And you were sent to Boulogne to recover.

  “Yes. How did you know I was sent to Boulogne?”

  She shifted beside him. Weren’t most casualties from Somme sent to Boulogne?

  He chuckled. “There were enough casualties that day to fill every hospital on the French coast.”

  Her sudden movement opened the space between them, removing her warm comfort.

  You’ve worked hard this morning. Rest?

  He nodded with a sigh. “Yes. I think so.”

  I’ll throw stick for Spero.

  Darcy stretched out on the blanket and laced his fingers behind his head. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. A heaviness he didn’t know he was carrying seemed to fall away.

  Maybe talking about his dream and that haunting day on the Somme had helped. What made it so easy for him to tell Miss Thomas? Was it the comfortable familiarity between them, or just that he couldn’t see her? He’d had a similar connection to Elizabeth—when they’d finally worked out their differences. Once his heart healed, maybe he could love again. Someone like Juliet.

  He dozed off, his mind slipping into a twilight of pleasant images of a dark-haired woman, poetry, and soft feminine laughter.

  Suddenly Darcy bolted upright as a blaring train whistle echoed through the air, then faded away. His pulse pounding, hopeful anticipation sparked inside him. Had he heard something, or was he just dreaming? He angled his ear, listening. A chugging clackity-clack pulsed in the distance. He sprang to his feet, moving towards the sound.

  The whistle wailed again—louder. Grass swished against his legs. And laughter rang in his ears. It sounded a little different, but it was his voice, his laughter! He quickened his pace. “I can hear, I can—!” The ground fell out beneath him, plunging him into the chilly pond.

  Shock and panic coursed through him as he flailed with sputtering gasps. With stumbling and staggering he found his footing, then pushed himself upright. His heart was hammering as he swiped the droplets from his face, teetering to maintain his balance in the churning, waist-high water.

  “Fitzwilliam!”

  He turned in the direction of the feminine voice and nearly fell backwards when her body slammed into him. Spero barked on the bank as he floundered with Juliet in a tangle of arms and legs. Each grasped the shoulders and arms of the other in a clumsy attempt to remain upright. Working to steady themselves, Juliet stiffened. “No! Sper—!”

  Splash.

  Darcy planted his feet, tightening his grip on Miss Thomas as a curtain of water swept over him.

  Just as they regained their bearings in the sloshing water, Spero paddled between them.

  Still grasping each other, a simultaneous awareness of the comedy of errors launched them into spontaneous peals of laughter.

  Throwing his head back, Darcy released a rumbling chuckle from deep within. Adding a whoop, he shouted, “I’ve fallen into a pond with a woman and a dog, but I can hear!”

  With her tinkling chimes ringing with his, he swept her up and spun her around in a swirl of water. “Did you hear me? I can hear! Say something!” He set her down, gripping her forearms.

  “Fitzwilliam?” The word flowed out on a teary breath.

  She’d said his name. He heard it.

  Tears sprang to his eyes, and he enveloped her in his arms.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she murmured against his chest, clinging to him.

  Darcy blinked away the moisture in his eyes. It was a moment he’d never forget. He could hear, and he was sharing the moment with someone who cared about him—not his position, not his money or his estate, but him.

  Tightening his arms around her, a deep satisfaction welled inside—at the pleasure of holding a woman and a renewed sense of hope in his future.

  He’d breathed.

  He’d hoped.

  And now he heard.

  ~THIRTY-THREE~

  Later that afternoon

  “Our congratulations again, William. We’ll leave you to rest.”

  “Thank you.” Darcy shook George’s hand. “I’ll never take my hearing for granted again.”

  Sarah touched his arm. “We’re so happy for you. And glad you’ll no longer have to endure my poor telegraphy.”

  “Ah! Dr. Scott.” Donwell’s master called out as he moved towards the
door.

  “So it is true! Wonderful news.” Scott’s booted footfalls crossed the floor amidst the hubbub of the family’s departure.

  The doctor clapped him on the shoulder. “Heard you took a little swim.” He chuckled. “I told you it might take an obscure event to unplug your ears.”

  “Unplugged indeed. I never noticed life was so full of shuffles and thumps.”

  “Any trouble with volume? Or high or low-pitched sounds?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be, but I’ve only been able to hear for an hour or so. The only obvious difference is that my own voice doesn’t sound quite the same.”

  “What about the voices of others? Do I sound the same or different?”

  “Somewhat different. And things like footsteps aren’t quite the same, but I still know they’re footsteps.”

  “A small concession.” Scott shifted. “Speaking of concessions, I believe your aunt apprised you of the forthcoming dinner party and concert?”

  “She did. Complete with distinguished guest list and detailed menu.”

  “Did she mention the reason for the occasion?”

  “To celebrate George’s birthday, if I recall. And of course raise money for the hospital while entertaining the patients.”

  “In part, but there’s another reason as well. For some time I’ve been proposing setting aside one of the wings at Hartfield for blinded officers who have other serious non-head wounds as well.”

  “I thought blinded officers were looked after at London’s Second.”

  “They are. But their blindness is secondary to their other wounds, and they are given very little instruction in living with blindness. I believe they would very much benefit from the instruction of braille and other skills as soon as they are well enough—as Miss Thomas has done with you.”

  “You said there was a concession.”

  “The Duke of Norwich has a son at London’s Second General. The boy’s leg is healing, but he’s struggling to get on as a blind man. The Duke is prepared to provide a substantial sum of money to fund a facility he feels is best able to address the wounds of blinded soldiers as well as their loss of sight. Besides Hartfield, he’s also considering a hospital near his home in Essex. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that bringing this to Hartfield would be a feather in my cap.”

  “No doubt a feather for the Knightleys as well.”

  “Indeed. And here’s the concession. You represent a model of what we’d be aiming to replicate, but on a larger scale. And now that you can hear, were you to be among the dinner guests.... Well, let’s just say you could be our trump card.”

  “I hardly feel confident enough in my dining skills to parade them at a dinner party.”

  “I believe you would with a few more weeks of practice with Miss Thomas.”

  Darcy grunted. “You know how I feel about social affairs of this nature, but I’m willing to give it a go for the sake of other wounded officers.”

  Scott released a relieved breath. “I’m very grateful.” The doctor hesitated before continuing. “At the risk of being impertinent, might I make another request and observation?”

  “Go on.”

  “Your aunt is, shall we say, persistent in her petitions to make you more accessible to Sarah. Would you be willing to take meals with the family in the dining room? It would give you the practice you need for the dinner party and appease your aunt.”

  “It would be nice to eat at a proper table.” Darcy nodded. “Yes, and I’d enjoy discussing business with George.”

  “What about Sarah? Your aunt makes no effort to hide her wish that the two of you form an attachment, and it’s not uncommon for nurse and patient to forge such a bond.”

  “Beyond being my cousin and Georgiana’s dearest friend, I have no intentions of a union with Sarah.”

  “But your aunt is right on one account. The choice of a suitable wife will now be more important than ever. You’ll need not only a wife, but a partner. You’ll have a year at St. Dunstan’s but after that, you’ll be on your own. Those who have someone to go home to find the transition much easier.”

  “Georgiana can assist me.”

  “Perhaps, but I know you wouldn’t want her to feel beholden to you for the rest of your life.”

  Reality struck like a shot between the eyes. “My sight’s not coming back, is it?”

  

  That night

  If your sight hasn’t returned by now, chances are it won’t. Darcy rolled over as Scott’s words echoed in his mind. Why had he kidded himself, hoping his sight might return? What was the point of having Miss Thomas teach him braille unless his chances of seeing were slim to none? For a day that had been so triumphant, it ended with a painful blow of truth.

  But it shouldn’t. He closed his eyes and inhaled the lavender sachet on his bedside table and focused his ears on the patter of raindrops on the windowpane. He could hear. Sound. Glorious sound—the creak of the floor, the exhale of his own breath. And voices—the gateway to communication.

  Fitzwilliam. A tingle shimmered down his spine recalling Miss Thomas speaking his name. It wasn’t just her choice of word, but the emotion captured in the way she said it. She truly shared his joy.

  Joy. Yes, he would focus on the joy of hearing and not the sorrow of blindness. Fitzwilliam. He let her voice wash over him.

  How did she come to call him Fitzwilliam? The Knightleys called him William to differentiate him from his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam. Bingley called him Darcy. And among the army he was addressed as Captain. Using his Christian name was a bit overly personal—though they did share an easy comfort. She was nearly as close to him as a valet. But his valet at Pemberley never took such liberties. Could she be forming an attachment to him? The thought struck him like an electric shock. Scott said it wasn’t uncommon for nurses and patients to form an attachment.... Heat flushed through him as he recalled spinning her around in the water and then embracing her in the poignant moment. Certainly his actions could be seen as taking liberties.

  Then why had he done it? Such behaviour was out of character for him.

  Darcy shifted. He’d have to be on guard that he made no more spontaneous untoward gestures. Perhaps he should distance himself from her. He wouldn’t want to be accused of leading her on.

  He blew out a breath. But she’d be leaving sooner than later anyway, now that his hearing had returned. He would miss her. Miss her familiar comfort. Familiar even though he’d never seen her. And had only heard her voice for the first time today. But was it her that he would miss, or the fleeting reminders of Elizabeth that she represented?

  ~THIRTY-FOUR~

  A week later

  Holding the curtain aside, Elizabeth watched Fitzwilliam cross the yard with Sarah, his arm tucked into hers and Spero trotting by his side.

  It was hard to believe a week had passed since Fitzwilliam’s hearing had returned.

  She’d never forget his exuberance and joy that day. Or his embrace. She closed her eyes, reliving the moment he pulled her to himself. Oh, the sweet torture of being encircled in his arms!

  It had been the culminating moment of a day that had started with a poem whose poignant verses had pricked a place deep inside him. And like the popping of a balloon, his haunting experience at the Somme rushed out. At the time, his trusting her with his secret seemed to bring them together, but now she wasn’t so sure. This past week he seemed...different. Distant and aloof. Similar to how he’d been at the Ritz when he was sheltering his heart. Was their tender moment together a painful reminder of her as Elizabeth? Could he be feeling guilty for embracing another woman, or was it something else?

  She returned her focus to Fitzwilliam and Sarah seated on a garden bench below. He threw a stick, and Spero dashed after it. Sarah leaned over and said something to him, and his face bloomed into a broad smile.

  He didn’t seem aloof with her. In fact, they appeared closer than ever—the perfect picture of a happy couple. Was Sarah the reason he’d distan
ced himself from her?

  Elizabeth groaned. As much as she hated to admit it, she was jealous. Sarah now took him to the stables to see Samson. Sarah read him the morning newspaper and his personal correspondence. Sarah accompanied him to Hartfield to share Spero with the patients there. And last week Sarah arranged for Spero to be allowed indoors. Why hadn’t she thought to suggest it?

  Dropping the curtain, Elizabeth sighed, then crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out her carpetbag. Tomorrow she and Fitzwilliam would be leaving for London. He was looking forward to touring St. Dunstan’s, seeing Georgiana, and staying the night at Darcy House. She was too.

  Then why had she felt so melancholy all afternoon? Because your time is nearly up. She sank onto her mattress as the truth seeped in. Like Cinderella, her clock was striking midnight. She’d committed to stay until his hearing returned and it had. His nightmares had nearly disappeared since revealing his harrowing experience at the Somme. Even his headaches had subsided. He was healthy and whole. The truth was that he no longer needed her.

  Dr. Scott had asked her to help prepare Fitzwilliam for the upcoming dinner party and benefit concert in three weeks, but Fitzwilliam didn’t need her. All he needed was practice. And he now had plenty of opportunities at breakfast and dinner in the dining room with the Knightleys. He was ready to embark on a new chapter of his life—first at St. Dunstan’s, and then at Pemberley as master. All he needed was a good wife.

  Closing her eyes, she touched the envelope hidden behind the tear in her bag’s lining. The words in the letter Fitzwilliam had given to her on the wharf in Boulogne wafted through her mind. My dearest Elizabeth.... I found myself enchanted by you.... These past few days have been the fondest of my life.... Forever yours....

  A lump rose in her throat. Last autumn she had hoped to become that wife. Now her chance was gone.

  Sarah had once voiced adamant disinterest in Fitzwilliam. Two years ago Elizabeth had felt the same way.