The Plight of the Darcy Brothers

by Marsha Altman

Not far down the road, they saw it. It was indeed a horse, shuffling aimlessly about, masterless and not tied to anything. Its saddle and back were covered in blood, obviously not its own.

  “Regimentals,” Elizabeth said, looking at the markings on the saddle.

  “Wickham,” Bingley guessed. “He was here a few months before. I recognize it.”

  “Lydia is inside.”

  “I mean Mr. Wickham. Yes, he was invited, and it's a long story. But—where is Wickham?” He turned to his daughter. “Go back to the house and tell the servants to get Dr. Maddox here at once. And take Geoffrey.”

  “But I want to see!” wailed Geoffrey.

  “Go with her,” Elizabeth said in the sternest possible voice, which was quite stern. “Now!”

  By the time they were off, Bingley had already found the trail of blood. It led down the road towards Pemberley, and they ran to follow it until it curved off the road. There was the obvious spot where the rider had fallen off and then a smaller trail leading into the tall grass. Resting in the foliage was a wounded George Wickham. Bingley stepped forward first and turned him over, which did not rouse him into consciousness. Bingley took the pistol in Wickham's belt and smelled it. “It's been fired.”

  “Oh God. Darcy!”

  “I know.” Fortunately, people were arriving, and Bingley slapped Wickham until he woke. “Where's Darcy?”

  “Darcy… what?”

  Elizabeth took the pistol from Bingley's hand and cocked it at Wickham's head, so that there could be no mistake about her intentions. “Where is Mr. Darcy, Wickham?”

  “Oh.” He put a bloodied hand to his head. “Yard. Graveyard. God, I hope… I haven't killed him.”

  Bingley had to hold Elizabeth back from physically attacking Wickham as Dr. Maddox arrived with Jane and servants. Maddox knelt beside the patient with his bag and pulled open the shirt, but Wickham angrily tore him away. “Get going, you glass-eyed son of a whore!”

  “You need medical attention, Mr. Wickham,” Maddox said sternly.

  “I'm not here for me! I didn't… come all this way… I'm regimental; I know wounds. Forget me, and find Darcy and his pet monk before they both die!” He cried out as if something inside was bothering him and turned over to hack blood into the grass.

  “Doctor,” Bingley said. “He's telling you to go.” He turned to a servant. “Horses! We need horses! And a carriage for Elizabeth! Now, man!”

  “George!” Lydia Wickham had finally caught up with them. “Dr. Maddox—”

  “Let the doctor… go about… his business,” Wickham coughed. “I'm no loss to you, anyway.”

  It was only three miles to Pemberley. They left Wickham with his wife and the many servants of Chatton to help him back to the house, but he would not be carried inside. A strange sense of dignity presided over him as he asked to see Georgiana Darcy, and with Mr. Bennet giving him a stern glance, she was brought forth, having been unaware of the proceedings so far. “Mr. Wickham!”

  “Georgiana!” he reached out, but his hands were unable to catch anything. He had lost all coordination. “I'm so… I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have… I did love you, but not… Thank God, not as a woman. Just a little girl that I loved.” She finally offered him her hand, and he kissed it. “Sister.”

  “Darcy isn't here to say it, so I shall,” Mr. Bennet said. “Don't bother this poor woman any longer.”

  “I'm not… I wasn't told…” he closed his eyes and then opened them again. “All this time… I was a Darcy. I should have…” He leaned over and coughed on the ground before straightening up again and leaning on the front steps. “I should have acted… like one. Forgive me.” He swallowed. “Please forgive me.”

  “I—forgive you,” Georgiana was confused but not ignorant. She already had one bastard brother, so a second was not terribly hard to imagine. And he seemed so sincere. “George.”

  He smiled. “Go to your brother… the one who acted like one.”

  With Mr. Bennet's nod of approval, she called for a carriage and was off to Pemberley, but not before granting Wickham a kiss on his forehead. As she disappeared down the road, he slumped further onto the steps and refused offers to be carried inside.

  “George,” said Lydia, the only one now at his side, at least closely. “What have you been up to?”

  “Terrible… unforgivable things. But… I have been forgiven… by the most wounded person of all.” His grim smile faded, and he leaned into his wife. In her embrace, George Wickham died.

  Darcy's first impression back in reality was the uncomfortable notion of being wet. Cold and wet. Where were his manservant and his properly heated bath?

  But the discomfort did the job of waking him admirably.

  “Darcy,” Elizabeth said desperately, wiping his face. “Can you hear me?”

  The ground that he had found so comfortable was now hard and uninviting, yet he could not find the strength to move. In fact, he could barely open his eyes and focus on the two figures in front of his face, the sky behind them. One was his lovely Elizabeth; the other had the easily recognizable spectacled face of Dr. Maddox.

  “Mr. Darcy,” he said, “if you can, I need to you to lift up your arms and your legs. It does not have to be all at once or very much, but I need to see you move before we attempt to get you on a cot. Do you understand?”

  He did try desperately to say yes, but it came out incomprehensibly, between his limited ability to speak and his parched throat. He did succeed in barely lifting his limbs, which was enough for the doctor to have him moved. Elizabeth kept whispering things to him, but what he heard seemed to go right through him. Only when he was back on a bed in Pemberley, and properly given food and drink, did he become aware of the pain, specifically when Maddox unwound the blood-soaked bandage around his hand. “Ow!”

  “You're going to need stitches, but I think I can save the hand,” the doctor said, turning it over and looking at the still-bleeding exit wound. “The bottle, please. On your left.”

  Someone, somewhere, was helping him. Were they asking Darcy questions? He wasn't entirely aware. He managed to ask, after his own mouthful of horribly tasting medicine, “My brother—”

  “Grégoire is patched and will be sewn shortly, but he is comatose.”

  “He was—he was shot,” Darcy said.

  “Then it didn't hit. You might have heard a shot, but his injury is head trauma from landing against a tombstone.”

  “Will he wake?”

  “I don't know, Mr. Darcy. Now take some deep breaths, and try to relax.”

  Relax? Yes, he could manage that. After all, wasn't he dead and this was purgatory?

  It was late in the night when Dr. Maddox was finished with both of his patients. Aside from the servants, no one bothered him. Elizabeth held Darcy's other hand, but he was largely unresponsive, and what details they managed to glean from him of the events that occurred earlier in the day were contradictory. The real story, obviously, would not come forth until someone recovered.

  Around midnight, a sobbing Georgiana Darcy and a teary Lydia Wickham arrived with the news that Wickham had passed on to the next world and that arrangements were being made, but there was some question as to where he would be buried.

  “Elizabeth,” Georgiana said. “You can decide this as Mistress of Pemberley.”

  “If it can possibly wait until Darcy wakes and we have the whole story, or he can make the decision himself, then it will,” she announced, and everyone heeded her decision.

  “Why didn't someone tell me?” Georgiana said, giving no explanation as to what she was alluding to. It was too obvious.

  “Because—because Darcy was waiting for the right time.”

  “And he thought this was the right time?”

  Elizabeth, exhausted from a long night of worry, could only manage, “Your brother is not perfect, Georgiana. Do you wish to hear the latest from the doctor? Because I do.”

  A tired Maddox was taking tea in the sitting room.
He rose and bowed to the Darcys. “Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy.”

  “Doctor, please don't trouble yourself. How are they?”

  “I can't quite decide who is the more complicated case,” Maddox said. Elizabeth noticed that his usually steady surgeon's hands were shaking as he held the teacup. “Brother Grégoire—excuse me, this is going to be graphic, if you want the whole of it.”

  Elizabeth gave a nod to Georgiana, who replied with obvious frustration, “I am sick of being left out of everything! To think, this could have all been prevented in the first place if Brother had said where he was going, or who Wickham was, or we had been told by Papa…” she broke off. “I want to know everything. Please, Doctor.”

  Maddox swallowed and continued. “Brother Grégoire is comatose.”

  “What does that mean?” Georgiana asked eagerly.

  “It means he is asleep and cannot wake up, to put it very simply. But if he does not wake in a few days, he will waste away. Not that he was… healthy to begin with.”

  “I know,” Elizabeth said, hoping to spare Georgiana from that at least. In his inspection, Dr. Maddox must have seen what Darcy had said were extensive scars down the monk's back. “Please go on.”

  “The coma is a result of head trauma. Beyond that, there is not much I can say. As for Mr. Darcy…” He took another sip and put the cup away. “The hand is not connected to a lot of major organs, and if it becomes infected, he can afford to lose it, as horrible as that would be. If he escapes infection, he may not fully be able to use the hand again. I tried to do what I could, but so many of the nerves had been cut by the bullet—” He sighed. “There is also the matter of his back.”

  “His back?”

  “He must have been struck, because he is bruised extensively there and, in his moments of lucidity, has complained of pain in his gut. If he has internal injuries, the symptoms will surface in the next few days and drastic measures may have to be taken.”

  “Drastic measures?”

  “With your permission, Mrs. Darcy, an apothecary at Cambridge is the closest place to Derbyshire that I know with the right tools and ingredients, and I will apply for all of them immediately.”

  Elizabeth nodded numbly. Maybe it was the late hour, but she could think of no other response.

  The funeral of George Wickham took place two days hence, when his children could be retrieved from Newcastle for Lydia's sake and comfort. Darcy was awake but still not himself. He was feverish and his mind dulled by pain, but the story they managed to gather from the scattered details in his brain was eventually sorted out. The fight, the revelation, the duel. Things flying out of control—and all within sight of the tombstone of their mutual father.

  Jane was shocked that two brothers had unintentionally married two sisters, whereas Bingley shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. A few days before, many of them would have been openly or secretly glad to see Wickham gone. Even now, the fact that Darcy and Grégoire's lives still hung by a thread did not endear him to them, but he had, to some degree, given his life so that his brothers might be discovered in time, and that, in and of itself, was commendable. Even Elizabeth shed a few tears as she watched from the window of Pemberley as the priest said the final blessings and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

  When the funeral was over, Elizabeth joined her husband, patting him on the shoulder. Darcy had to be carried to the funeral in an armchair and said nothing and, at times, may very well have been unconscious or asleep during the brief service. His request was, of course, honored. He was Master of Pemberley, and he could bury people where he damn well pleased. So, instead of next to the Wickhams in their private corner of the steward section of the cemetery, George Wickham was buried beside his father, Geoffrey Darcy. He retained in death only the last name he had used in life, marked on his grave while the stone was still under preparation. In a moment of silence, they all fell under the spell of wondering about the mixed legacy of George Wickham-Darcy.

  “Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine.”

  Darcy and Elizabeth turned to see Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy shambling up the hill to the grave. His head bandaged, and clad in the white bed robes in which the servants had dressed him, the dazed monk crossed himself. “Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.” (“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.”)

  “Amen,” said Darcy as he crossed himself.

  SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

  THE NEXT DAY, DARCY'S health had not returned. Though his hand was healing, the pains in his body would not relent. He had trouble taking food, and sleep was nearly impossible. He was, however, still Darcy, a man who was affronted when anyone, even his doctor, stormed into his room with a chamber pot. “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “As your physician, Mr. Darcy, I must know all of your— proper functions.” He did not have to say that the chamber pot, which had just been carried out by the manservant, was filled with blood.

  “Do you know… all of the prince's… proper functions?”

  “I know his every venereal disease, yes.”

  Darcy blinked.

  “Now, will you please tell me: is blood coming from anywhere else on your body?”

  “No.”

  “You are including everything?”

  “Yes.” Darcy, at least for the moment, seemed to have his senses about him. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I am trying to… conjecture if an organ has failed.”

  “And if it has?”

  Dr. Maddox passed the pot off and did not respond as he washed his hands. “I need to see the spot again.”

  Darcy groaned and turned on his side so the doctor could have a look at the bruise on his back. Not his only one, but the largest, so much so that he had circled it, like a butcher preparing to carve up meat. “So it is that horrible?”

  “I have to ask you this question, Mr. Darcy—Are all of your affairs in order?”

  “That horrible. Yes. What good would I—Ow, stop it!— would I be if I had left for the Continent without doing so?”

  “I'm not even touching you!”

  “Well, it feels as though you are!”

  Maddox was used to stubborn patients, but usually he was able to deal with them by assuming their stubbornness was derived from their medical trials and not their personality. With Darcy, he could not make that assumption. “Do you feel a stabbing pain on your side? Here?”

  “Yes! Now, by God, do something about it!”

  “Darcy,” he said softly. “I am afraid to kill you.”

  “I would prefer your brews to a slow death, Maddox.”

  Dr. Maddox was too flustered to respond.

  Most of the materials Maddox needed he had already sent for or were available in Lambton, so the treatments began.

  “Drink this,” Dr. Maddox said, offering a hazel mixture of something to Darcy, who was barely capable of sitting up.

  “What will it do?”

  “If your kidney is inflamed, it may lower the inflammation and save your life,” the doctor said. “Also, it will make you very ill.” He watched Darcy grimace. “I thought you would prefer not to be surprised.”

  “Is there anything else to be done?”

  “I could bleed you to death,” Maddox said. “That is the conventional wisdom.”

  “You are such an optimist.”

  He pushed the glass into Darcy's hands. “Drink.”

  A cloud of gloom fell over Pemberley, though everyone tried to keep a cheery face for Darcy himself, who managed with his very small bits of strength to give them annoyed looks at their intentions. Fitzwilliam Darcy would not be fooled. Between doses of the various tonics, he spent a long time talking to Bingley with his steward present, and there could be no doubt as to what they were discussing.

  Darcy insisted, despite advice otherwise, to see the others at least sitting up in a chair beside his bed. His son was set in his
lap. “Are you going to die?” But even with Geoffrey's regular lack of tact, his voice was outright terrified.

  “Hopefully not,” Darcy said, playing with Geoffrey's hair. “Ow, don't hug so hard. Please, for Father.”

  “Am I supposed to be Mr. Darcy now?”

  “No. When you're much, much older and I'm a doddering old fool.”

  “Was Mr. Wicked really my uncle?”

  “Mr. Wickham. And yes, he was.”

  “Then why did you hate him?”

  Elizabeth must have seen the look on Darcy's face, the way he slumped in his chair, because she came rushing. “Geoffrey, don't. Your father has been through a lot with Wickham. I'll tell you when you're older. Now, don't wear your father out.”

  “Yes,” Darcy said. “You'd best get ready for bed. Then you can come in and say good night.”

  “All right.” Geoffrey kissed his father on the cheek and then scrambled off to be escorted away by Nurse. The moment he was gone, Darcy sprung up far enough to get to a bucket. All he had drunk all day was barley water and some thin gruel, along with hourly doses of what the doctor said was “nitrate of potass.” Either way, the mixture was making him increasingly ill, and his only comfort was a hot towel placed over his back when he collapsed.

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elizabeth tried to maintain her composure. “I assume Bingley will be responsible for Geoffrey's welfare if anything happens to you?”

  “Yes. I apologize for passing over your father.”

  “It could hardly be expected of him. Bingley is younger, better with money, and in Derbyshire.”

  Georgiana wanted a private audience. She hugged her brother and, between sobs, managed to say, “I'm so sorry.”

  “For what? You've done nothing wrong in your life.”

  “For tearing you and Wickham apart.”

  “Georgiana,” he said, “those seeds were planted before you were born. You were merely a link in the chain. And if anything, you have broken it.”

  She smiled wanly.

  On the next day, Grégoire appeared. He bowed and took his seat. He looked a bit ridiculous with the bandages wrapped around his head, but no more ridiculous than his normal hairstyle, Darcy supposed. Maybe now his hair would grow out. “Do you have any sins you wish to confess?”