Every Way Horrible
The world made itself known by increments. The indistinct rumble of male voices. Light, silhouetting blurred shapes. Soft warmth beneath him, terrible thirst within. A desolate ache in the vicinity of his heart. Darcy’s first conscious thought was of Elizabeth, and that he had lost her.
“About time, man. I have grown decidedly weary of watching you grow a beard in your sleep.”
Darcy blinked until the smudge of colour looming over him materialised into his cousin Fitzwilliam.
“Is he awake?” Another face appeared above him. Ladbroke? It must be serious if his eldest cousin had bestirred himself to keep vigil also.
“His eyes are open,” Fitzwilliam replied. “But I am not convinced he iscompos mentis. Darcy, can you hear us?”
“Of course I can. You are shouting in my face.”
Both brothers frowned and in unison stood away from the bed. “He is still unable to speak.”
“Hmm. Farnham, what make you of this?”
“If you would allow me to examine the patient?—”
“Perhaps he just needs a drink. Morby? Fetch some wine, there’s a fellow.”
“If I may, my lord, perhaps boiled water would be more advisable.”
Darcy closed his eyes again. Being an invalid had been far more enjoyable when there had been but one much calmer, far sweeter, and eminently prettier person attending him. Where was she at present? His last memory was of the harrowed expression in her eyes as he divulged the truth about Wickham. The need to know what had transpired since then was suffocating. He opened his eyes and fixed them on the nearest person—his manservant. Good. He held up a hand and indicated with the inward curl of his fingers that he required assistance. Morby, ever astute, gave his arm directly, and with gritted teeth, Darcy gripped it and hauled himself to sit upright.
“Hell’s bells, what are you doing, man?”
“That is unwise, Mr Morby. Mr Darcy ought not to be upright.”
“Darcy, for God’s sake, lie back down!”
When the room ceased spinning, Darcy exchanged a knowing look with his man then indicated with a glance the carafe on the nightstand. He held up a hand to forestall his cousins’ continued remonstrations and the austere edicts of the man he now recognised as the family’s physician, Mr Farnham. He would be able to answer none of their questions until he had quenched his unbearable thirst.
It was not until he had drunk more than half of what Morby poured for him that it occurred to Darcy with what ease he had swallowed it. He lowered the glass to his lap and took a cautious but deep breath—and suffered not the slightestdiscomfort. He braced himself for pain and deliberately coughed. It made an odd sound, not one readily recognisable as a cough, but it hurt less than expected. He raised a hand to his throat. It was bandaged still, and a careful attempt to move his head from side to side was quickly curtailed by the discovery that it was yet exceedingly tender. Less than it had been, though.
A ripple of anticipation passed through him at the prospect of being recovered enough to speak. He turned to Fitzwilliam and said the first thing that came to mind. “Where is Elizabeth?”
Blast it!He did not choke on it, as he had done on every other utterance since the accident, but neither did he produce anything even closely resembling speech, only a whispery sort of exhalation.
“What was that?” Fitzwilliam replied. “Can you say it more slowly?”
Darcy sighed.Back to this then, he thought ruefully. He finished the remainder of his drink, handed the glass to Morby, and signalled for a pen and paper. Whilst that was being found, he submitted to, and apparently passed, a cursory examination by Farnham.
“Your pulse and temperature are perfectly regular, Mr Darcy. And your pallor has improved significantly over the last few days.”
“Few days?” He had some hazy recollections, now that it was mentioned—of these walls, and this bed, and other people who were not Elizabeth fussing around him with spoons of this and ladles of that. None of it struck him with any peculiar clarity, however.
“You have been up to your nose hairs with laudanum since Monday evening,” Ladbroke informed him from where hestood regarding proceedings from the window. “Today is Thursday.”
“Fever?” Darcy guessed.
“Nay, sir,” Farnham answered. “You were exceedingly fortunate in that regard. Your wound took no infection at all.”
“What then?”
“Farnham here thinks you were just hungry,” Fitzwilliam said with evident glee.
“Oh, ah, in addition to a probable concussion,” the physician himself added hastily. “And undernourishment is not to be taken lightly. I understand your injury meant that you ate and drank but little the whole time you were in that place, Mr Darcy. Any significant wound takes a vast toll on the body. One requires sustenance to recover. Excessive thirst in particular can cause severe disorientation such as your…acquaintancedescribed.”
