“I am keeping him alive,” she said, though she knew it made little sense. They had reached Netherfield in a blur of panicked haste, commandeering Sir William Lucas’s carriage when they encountered him on the road from Oakham Mount. Now Darcy lay pale and still on a settee in Bingley’s drawing room, blood pooling beneath him, staining the expensive fabric.
“Elizabeth.” Jane’s gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Let the surgeon attend to Mr. Darcy.”
Staring at the sticky substance covering her, Elizabeth backed away from Darcy, allowing the surgeon to bend over the wounded gentleman.
Her sister tried to lead her out of the drawing room, but she remained rooted, unable to look away as the surgeon cut away Darcy’s bloodied jacket and shirt to expose the wound beneath.
The room spun around her. Darcy’s blood. So much blood. The memory of Wickham’s pistol firing before the handkerchief fell kept replaying in her mind with sickening clarity.
Jane caught her before she collapsed. “Come, Lizzy. Let the surgeon work.”
The surgeon’s examination continued in grim silence. Elizabeth watched with horrified fascination as he probed the wound. Finally, he straightened.
“The ball has lodged in the shoulder, near the collarbone. I must extract it immediately.”
“Will he live?” The question tore from Elizabeth’s throat.
The surgeon’s eyes met hers, his expression guarded. “If infection does not set in, he has a chance. But I make no promises. He has lost a great deal of blood.”
Elizabeth swayed on her feet. If Darcy died, the fault would be hers as surely as if she had fired the shot herself. Her indiscretion had started this chain of events—her thoughtless sharing of his proposal with Wickham, her wounded pride demanding validation at the expense of Darcy’s confidence.
“Miss Elizabeth should retire to clean herself,” Caroline Bingley’s voice cut through the room. She had appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of horror. “She is… distressingly disheveled.”
“I will not leave him,” Elizabeth said, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Surely in your… condition, such stress is ill-advised,” Caroline continued, her eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.
“My condition?” Elizabeth stared at her blankly. “It is Mr. Darcy who has been shot.”
“Let Mr. Johnson operate,” Bingley said with unusual firmness. “Might I suggest we adjourn to the blue parlor while the surgeon works?”
Jane guided Elizabeth to the blue parlor, where half of Meryton gathered.
“As I was saying…” Sir William’s voice dominated the room. “When that young captain pounded on my door requesting a carriage for the wounded gentleman, I scarcely believed it was Mr. Darcy.”
“Oh, look, it’s Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Long exclaimed. “My dear, are you quite well?”
“How can she be well in her condition?” Caroline sniffed. “Miss Elizabeth, you are entirely disheveled. Let me call my lady’s maid?—”
She was cut off by Mrs. Bennet barging into the parlor. Her cap was askew, her face contorted in distress.
“My Lizzy!” she cried, rushing forward to grasp her daughter’s bloodied hands. “Oh! Is it your blood? Are you injured? We heard the most dreadful reports.”
“It is not my blood, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “It’s Mr. Darcy’s.”
“Mr. Darcy? Whatever happened?” Mrs. Bennet pressed as Mrs. Lucas fluttered to her side.
“Oh, Mrs. Bennet, there was a duel,” Mrs. Lucas explained breathlessly. “Both men were fighting for Miss Elizabeth’s honor, and poor Mr. Darcy was shot.”
“Wickham cheated,” Elizabeth declared. “He fired before the signal was given.”
“But why would Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy fight over my dear Elizabeth unless…” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes lit with matrimonial fervor. “Then it is true. Mr. Darcy proposed to my dear Lizzy, and Mr. Wickham wished to challenge him. How gallant, although, Lizzy, you must not refuse ten thousand a year for an officer without a commission.”
“Mama, it’s not like that,” Elizabeth started to explain, but her mother was unsteady on her feet, as if swooning.
“Mrs. Bennet, perhaps you should take a seat,” Mrs. Lucas said.
“And you, too, dear Eliza,” Caroline added, handing Elizabeth a damp towel. “You must not faint from the strain. There is, after all, another life to consider.”
