“Was Fitzwilliam a suitor?” Darcy wondered ever so fleetingly, thereupon dismissed it.
Certainly, such esteem was not returned. Unsuitable suitors, or unrequited love— neither were what he would have chosen for her. Sequentially, he began to chew upon a particularly tough nut. For he had to admit to himself that if he was so blind as to not recognise his sister’s regard for Fitzwilliam, he could not truly account for Fitzwilliam, either. It was all too confounding.
In the face of life and death, Darcy’s pragmatic mind put the impracticality of romance aside and concentrated upon something more in his control. A waggon.
When the war erupted, Georgiana and the corps d’elite of nurses were unceremoniously dumped into a semi-demolished house. Thereupon, they were influenced to ready themselves for work. As soldiers were hauling branches to fashion cots and litters, Georgiana tore bandages and continually stole looks at the gate to the courtyard, consumed with fear for what she would soon see come through it. She relaxed her guard somewhat when their first patient was a soldier who had no more complaint than a belly-ache from being reconnoitred beneath a heavily burdened crab-apple tree.
As she sat ripping cloth into narrow strips, it dawned upon her just how far from Derbyshire she was. And the entire endeavour had begun with a very sudden scheme. She had toyed with the idea upon overhearing the raging discussion in her brother’s library. But she did not believe it feasible until she saw John Christie stalking angrily away from Pemberley. He did not tell her, and she dared not inquire, what had angered him into leaving. His demeanour suggested some sort of bad blood.
When she saw it took no more effort from him than to simply walk down the road to go, she suddenly heard herself calling out to him to wait. Not surprisingly, John had been disinclined of her company, so she resorted to the bribery of expeditious transportation. The decision to take her life upon her own course was made in that good time.
The magnitude of the change in her circumstances was apparent to her from that first night. As someone who drifted off to sleep upon the comfort of silk sheets and by the tinkling of a music box, Georgiana was kept awake as much by the clamouring noise that accompanied their accommodations as the smell. She lay her shawl daintily atop the batting cot and reminded herself such accommodations might be the best she enjoyed for some time. Thus, she practised not noticing the noise or the lumpy bed. Of lice, she dared not ponder.
Had it not been for John’s friendship and his coincidental decision to take leave of Pemberley, she was certain she would not have had the courage to do what she had. Getting to Portsmouth had been relatively simple. Getting to the continent had been difficult, but hardly the severest obstacle she faced.
Forthwith, the whimsical start to her nursing career was hastily forgotten. That soldier with the collywobbles was soon usurped by scores of others. These were grievously wounded. Thus, he was remanded into service as an orderly by Georgiana. Now that she had not the time, she handed him a stack of fabric with the admonition to start tearing bandages. For having been the recipient of barked orders from the onset, Georgiana had mindlessly found a stronger voice herself. And mindlessness would be her only retreat.
Field nurses were desperately needed, but that did not keep the overworked doctors from overworking the ones they had, perchance knowing there was nowhere for them to flee from service. That they were in such need was fortunate for Georgiana, who could diagnose the croup but, at first, had no notion as to how to mend gunshot victims.
Fortuitously, she found a medical niche. It was one of her gifts. She had always needled delicate, lovely screens. All her life, everyone had told her she handled a needle with greater finesse than did any other lady. Hence, the surgeons learnt to call upon Georgiana when it was time to sew wounds together. The needles were similar in curvature to her embroidery ones, but heavier. She had only to alter her technique slightly to accommodate the weight of the catgut through skin. Her stitches were universally admired, when there was time. But ordinarily there was not and she soon abandoned her small, neat stitch for a longer one that embraced speed.
The sight and smell of blood eventually became mundane. It was a very specific moment in time when she realised that as fact. It came the minute of the hour of the day when she, with no qualm, put her knee in the back of a struggling man to still him so she could sew his oozing cheek—his oozing gluteus maximus cheek—she knew it was all routine. She also understood fully why she had to claim to be a wife to have this duty, for whatever their need of assistance, as an innocent she would never be given leave to witness the intimacy of the soldiers’ bodies.
And as mundane as blood had become, so had men’s bodies. After she had seen the first one, she saw no reason for all the mystery. Were they not all, more or less, the same? What silliness, she had thought, society thinking that it must protect women from this intelligence. She certainly did not feel tainted by the sight of a man’s body, just the sight of what another man’s weapon had done to it. The glory of war was certainly lost to her.
Indifference to the gore was one understanding, indifference to death was quite another matter. Regardless how familiar the premortal gasp became to her, she could not witness the quietus with any degree of froideur.
Death was ghastly. However, not dying was occasionally worse.
The one area of service she avoided was the area near an opening in a wall where the amputations were committed. The screams of the wounded held nothing to those who had to be held down to have a limb severed. (Those surgeons most appreciated were ones whose expertise with the saw made their amputation most brief. One gentleman was so adept, he could sever a leg with six strokes in less than half a minute.) It was understandable, therefore, when a surgeon called to her to aid them with a delirious soldier in that area, she hesitated. But only for a moment. There was but one way to do what she had to do. That was to do it. She went thither with no more contemplation.
A soldier lay upon a cot, his eyes bandaged, his leg mangled. The surgeons intended to amputate, but the man was struggling with such vociferous insistence, he could not be reasoned with. Before she had a chance to learn the surgeon’s bidding, she recognised her cousin’s voice.
He was repeating, “You shan’t take my leg. You shall not take my bloody leg!” She stopped at the end of Fitzwilliam’s bed and told the others there, “I know this man.”
In only those few words, Fitzwilliam, far more lucid than they had supposed, recognised her voice. Automatically, he reverted to his drawing room tone, “Georgiana? Georgiana. Forgive me, I thought we were yet in France.”
So relieved did he sound, Georgiana abhorred having to tell him he was not home. But again, as she had become accustomed, she did what had to be done.
“Yes, Fitzwilliam, ’tis I, but you are yet in France. Fear not, you are not alone anymore,” and took his hand reassuringly.
The surgeon interrupted, “You know this man? Tell him his leg must come off now. We have not time for this.”
Georgiana stood and told him, “Pray, can you not take the time? For there are many others here who await your knife.”
The man turned away in frustration and Georgiana gave her attention back to Fitzwilliam.
“Can you see?”
He said, “The light causes fierce pain. I am not certain I can see. My eyes have been covered for days. But that will heal or not. They must not take my leg! It is imperative, Georgiana!”
She lifted the bloody muslin from his wound. It had begun to fester and redden, a very bad sign. She sighed. There was no time for the niceties.
“I see no alternative. If they do not take your leg, you will surely die. They do not need your permission. They shall do it without it, for they think you delirious.”
“Delirious? Delirious? My denial of their taking my leg is proof enough of my lucidity, is it not?”
Evidently, he was not delirious. However, she could see he was fighting for consciousness. A bit of blood had dried on his ears, but not mu
ch. Perhaps it was from a percussion.
Hesitantly, she let her eyes light upon the pile of mis-mated and thus useless boots lying in the corner. All had been culled from severed feet and legs. There simply were no words of comfort for such an ordeal. She allowed herself to rest her cheek lightly against his shoulder. Her breath wafted softly against his. Sensing it, he reached out and stroked her face once. But he let his fingers tarry.
“Georgiana,” he implored, “you must not let them take my leg. I am a cavalryman. It is not what I do. It is who I am. I will not be who I am if they take my leg.”
His voice had weakened and she could barely hear his last words as he drifted off. His fingers dropped away from her face.
Terror-stricken that he would not reawaken, she was grateful too for what peace he found. If they were to take his leg, they best do it, for his sake, whilst unconscious. If they were to take it. She wondered if Fitzwilliam understood the magnitude of what he asked of her. How could she assign him death? But how could she let them take his leg and his will from him? The surgeon was returning with two other men again with a determined look upon his face.
Again, she did what had to be done. She pointed to a location on the far side of the ward.
“This man will be moved.”
The beleaguered surgeon said, “Madam, you said you know this man. If this true, you must know that he is not just any colonel. I shall not be held responsible for his death when he could be saved.”
“My good doctor, I am this man’s family. I shall sign any paper you might want. I shall bear responsibility to the others in his family.”
Her resolve was somewhat humbled, but held steadfast as the doctor looked at her suspiciously, for this was not what she had claimed as her circumstance.
“My name is Georgiana Darcy.”
The doctor blinked several times.
“I came here to see to this man. My name is Georgiana Darcy,” she repeated.
“Of the Pemberley Darcys?” The doctor spoke more a statement than a query.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
They left to find Fitzwilliam room against the far wall, and Georgiana leaned down next to him again to wait. Endeavouring with all her might not to cry, she took his hand and held it to her face. Thinking him yet unconscious, he surprised her when he took her hand and pressed the back of it to his lips.
It was with a sizeable sigh of deliverance that Darcy approached Roux’s house and saw it had been neither abandoned nor ransacked. A half dozen horses milled about in a paddock. Twilight approached, and he could see a glow through the windows announcing the house had been lit for the evening.
It occurred to him to dismount away from the house and walk up. His pride was mortified by having to hand the reins of his disreputable ride to a groom. The man did look oddly at him. Of this, Darcy took notice and admitted his vanity should be ignored. If his mount lent him ridicule, his person fared him little better. He suspected his figure presented quite the spectacle. Even in a time and country of only sporadic baths. His face and hands were but the only parts of his body to be acquainted with water for better than a fortnight. His costume fared yet little better. Whilst in Brussels, he simply bought new shirts as they were needed (for not only did he refuse to wash his own laundry, it was an affront to have to locate a laundress). By the time he reached Roux’s, this persistence of station reckoned him only one change of shirt in his saddlebag and that one had more grime from the road than the one he wore.
However ignoble his attire, his arrival was lauded exuberantly as Roux came rushing onto the portico to greet him. Not questioning whence he came or why, Roux immediately clapped his hands and shouted, thereby sending servants scurrying to see to Mr. Darcy.
But Darcy impatiently waved their ministrations aside. He turned to Roux and, in his anxiety, well-nigh grasped the man’s lapel, keeping from it only by reason of an inborn, and thus unshakeable, sense of propriety. Collected, he made enquiry in his most sedate comme il faut voice (and quite incongruous to the disrepute of his aspect).
“Viscount, could I possibly impose upon you for the use of a waggon?”
Having no further need for French, Darcy spoke in English. When Roux assured him that was no bother, Darcy asked to be shown to it immediately.
“Now?” Roux asked, in English as well. “Surely you do not mean to take leave again at once? Crepuscule is upon us. You are tired. You must eat and rest. I insist you must. Nothing can be accomplished this evening. I insist.”
With that, Roux hastened his servants again and Darcy did not protest more, for night was quickly descending. By the time the waggon was hitched, it would be totally dark and a sky endowed with only an old crescent moon would render it unsafe not to wait until morning. Hence, he acquiesced to Roux’s exhortations. It would be an insult if he did not allow him to be a generous host. Nevertheless, he felt a prickly irritation overtaking him. He was so precipitously near to rescuing Georgiana, only to have darkness confine him.
Surrendering to his better judgement, he reluctantly followed a servant up the spiralling staircase. Once in the sumptuous chamber, he threw his dusty bedroll in a chair and sat heavily upon the embroidered bedcover whilst fleetingly wondering if his soiled breeches would stain it. Not truly a salient issue at that point, he set his full attention to tugging off his boots. (Under the best of circumstance, this duty was a difficult manoeuvre, made even more labourious, as it happened, by the fact they had not been removed for the better part of a week.) Accepting a footman’s presented backside, he placed his foot thence, allowing himself help in divesting one tall boot. That effort sapped the last bit of vigour he possessed, and with success of only the one, he lay back upon the bed.
The sound of the copper tub being filled in the next room did not wake him from his sleep.
When a manservant rapped upon his door calling him to supper, Darcy sat up with a start and an unintended expletive. In the darkened room, he needed a moment to remember where he was. When he did, he also was reminded he had not partaken of food since morning. His appetite had returned with a vengeance. Gathering his bearings, he noticed his bedroll where he had tossed it upon the chair and retrieved it.
Laying it upon the bed, he carefully unfurled it, picked up his soiled shirt, and unwrapped that with care as well. Inside the shirt were the two miniatures he had carried with him from England. Elizabeth’s was yet wrapped in the bobbin lace he had impetuously bought for her after seeing it in a window in a Brussels shop. (It was suggested Ville d’Lille had finer, but he was not cooling his heels in that town.)
Unwinding the lace, he gazed at her likeness nestled in the palm of his hand. He stroked it affectionately for a moment and then set it upon the table next to the bed. Only then did he go to the dressing room and plunge his hand into the tub’s water. It was cold, but that was not a barrier to bathing. Gingerly, he slid into the water, gradually acquainting his skin with its temperature until he submerged his head. When he came up, he slung the water from his face.
Before him, he saw a fresh set of clothes and the retrieved bag that had divested them. After months of inhumane existence, Darcy thought it curious how easily his body surrendered to civility.
He was already buttoning his waistcoat when the manservant returned to help him dress. Quite contrite to have been tardy of his task, the man fussed unnecessarily with Darcy’s costume. Darcy waved him away, realising he had become quite used to tending himself.
Hungry as he was, when he entered the hall, the tinkle of forks to china and the murmur of voices in the distance below announced Roux was entertaining other guests. The idea of company almost bade him ask for something to be brought up to partake in the silence of his room. But Roux’s hospitality required more of him. As he intended to ask additional imposition upon his cousin, he tried not to think of the circumstances of Georgiana and Fitzwilliam. It was prudent to attempt to repay his host’s kindness by being, if charming was an impossibility, at least a pleas
ant guest. Preparing a speech of apology of tardiness on the way, he went downstairs.
The doors to the dining-room were flung back with considerable flourish upon his arrival. At the announcement of his presence, all twelve sets of eyes turned uniformly in his direction. To the person, all were grand parure. Their attention was disconcerting. His deshabille in the face of their formal-wear even more off-putting (he was quite happy to have gotten the grime from beneath his fingernails). It had been a monumental misjudgement to think he should join company for dinner. He was far too committed to the room, however, to flee then.
Roux rose and motioned him to a seat of honour. Other than somewhat mumbling his apologies, however, he took the chair evincing all punctilious regard. Albeit he appeared self-possessed, he was not. Notwithstanding the lack of proper costume, it had been a long time since he had entered a room such as this without Elizabeth upon his arm. His unease of society reasserted itself. Regrettably, the distinction of his seating included the company of Roux’s daughter, Celeste, to his right.
With Darcy’s first glance at her, he caught himself in a sharp intake of air. For he glimpsed Roux’s daughter in profile, and she had the same dark hair and round cheek as Elizabeth. The spell was broken when she returned his stare with a little snort of a giggle. She was exceedingly pretty, but her face was narrow, her eyes deep set. And though those eyes batted provocatively at him, they were not like Elizabeth’s. It was a fleeting moment, but it left him unsettled.
Celeste may well have misinterpreted Darcy’s expression, for she embarked upon an assault of flirtation with him that would have been worthy of Lydia Bennet Wickham. Light conversation never came easily to him, but he did not want to offend his host’s daughter (whom he immediately deduced had more hair than sense), thus gave his own understanding of politeness and nodded noncommittally to her comments. His dinner neighbour had no intention of being slighted, and supposing her initial efforts were too modest, she gushed ever more grandly. She induced from Darcy, however, nothing but his infamous monosyllabic replies.
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