Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife

by Linda Berdoll

  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 much. Perhaps it was from a percussion.

  Hesitantly, she let her eyes light upon the pile of mismated 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.

  75

  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 pleasant 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.

  This bombardment of Celeste Roux’s romantic arrows was not quieted until she finally relented and put a spoonful of soup in her mouth. The conversational lull was usurped by their other dinner companions. All were French, and all had been politely waiting for their host’s daughter to desist before querying Monsieur D’arcy. He was asked what were the British intentions in light of their rout of Napoleon.

  Not so fluent as Roux, his guests peppered Darcy with rapid French. Having to field questions of a political nature, in a language not his first, certainly did not remove his unease. Had he expected his cousin to shield him in some manner, he would have been disappointed. For it was apparent that the guests were under the misapprehension that Darcy was some sort of government emissary. Roux sat at the head of his table in beaming pride, obviously the producer of this misinformation of his relation’s appointment to government. (Darcy saw he should have been more forthcoming with his reason for being in France.) Another time he would have been amused (or possibly insulted, for though Roux might, Darcy hardly thought the label diplomat an elevation of his own status). This evening’s interrogation was the last thing he would have hoped for and he looked at his wineglass in gratitude.

  Grateful too he would have been to find reprieve with his fork, but the entrée was cochon de lait and he despised pork. Hence, he made great pretence of moving the meat about his plate and imprudently swilled his wine. It was only over it that he took the time or had the inclination to glance down the table at the other guests.

  Across the table, four persons down, sat Juliette Clisson.

  She looked almost exactly as she had upon the walk in front of Harcourt. She did not look at him, listening in apparent raptness as she was to the dinner guest just to her left. Darcy dropped his eyes back to his plate (in such disorder he partook of several bites of pork before he realised his error). He could not stop himself from stealing a glance again just to make certain his eyes had not deceived him.

  Certainly she had recognised
his name, if not his countenance, when he was introduced. But the discretion that she had always exhibited upon his behalf had not abandoned her. That was most probably the reason he once had sought her company solely—her discretion. He knew she would not acknowledge his acquaintance in company. With Juliette Clisson dining with his cousin, Darcy looked about the table taking measure of the other guests. He knew Roux to be married, but after two trips to the continent, he had yet to meet Viscountess Roux. She was absent this night as well. In her place, even with his daughter present, were a number of women who appeared to be filles de joie. He had to wonder, in the light of the chateau’s lack of plunder when all around his were devastated, just what sort of home he had. A demimonde with vacillating politics?

  The dinner companion to Darcy’s left (he did not catch her name, simply understood it as something with many vowels) he knew well, too, was a lady of expansive sensibilities. In his lengthy silences, she and Celeste Roux chose to parry each other’s overtures to him. When the endless dinner ended, neither had truly deflected the other, thus each took possessively of an arm and escorted him into the drawing room. If he thought he would find respite with smoke, cognac, and the company of men in serious query of the most expeditious way to England, he was disappointed. French custom did not divorce the ladies from the gentlemen in after-dinner discourse.

  Whilst demurring, Roux ushered him into the drawing room. Darcy dropped his arms, the motion insisting both women release him, and headed for the fireplace. It had always been his most useful ploy, this keen interest in the fire (the window, his shoes), by which manner he was normally successful in disassociating himself from his company. But not that night. When he reached the mantel, he turned abruptly, causing a chain reaction betwixt the closely ensuing females.