“Infection?”
“Perhaps. It is early yet. We caught it quickly.” But Mr. Darcy’s voice held a tension that belied his calm words. “We need to clean it again.”
“Tell me what to do.”
They spent the next hour carefully washing the affected area with water that Cook had boiled and cooled to a bearable temperature. Mr. Darcy applied more salve with meticulous care while Elizabeth held Atlas steady, murmuring reassurances to the horse.
“There,” Mr. Darcy said finally. “That is all we can do for now. We watch him. Keep the perimeter clean. Pray the infection does not spread.”
But by evening, Atlas stood with his head hanging lower, his eyes dull, his breathing labored. The redness surrounding the injury had spread, and despite their best efforts, a thin line of pus had begun to seep from the edges.
“No,” Elizabeth said, pressing her hand to Atlas’s chest. “No, this cannot be happening.”
Sam’s face was dour. “We need to lance the wound, sir. Drain the infection before it spreads further. It will be painful for him, and there is no guarantee?—”
“There is no guarantee it will work.” Mr. Darcy’s voice broke slightly. “But we must try.”
“Yes. We must try,”Elizabeth said.
Mr. Darcy and Sam worked by lamplight, their hands steady despite the strain evident in every line of the men’s bodies. Elizabeth held Atlas’s head, spoke to him constantly, and tried not to flinch when the horse’s muscles tensed with pain. When it was done, the wound drained, cleaned, and dressed with fresh bandages, Mr. Darcy and Sam stood, trembling from exhaustion and fear.
“Will he survive this?” Elizabeth asked hesitantly.
“I do not know.” Mr. Darcy’s honesty was painful but appreciated. “Infection is unpredictable. Sometimes a horse fights it off. Rarely—” He stopped, unable to finish.
“Then we will fight it with him,” Sam said. “We will not give up.”
“No,” Mr. Darcy agreed, his eyes meeting hers. “We will not.”
The daysthat followed tested Elizabeth as she had never imagined. Atlas grew weaker, his legs swaying when he stood, his head hanging low. They drained it twice more, hoping it would be the last, watching with dread as the infection persisted.
Elizabeth cried more than once, pressing her face against Atlas’s neck and begging him not to give up. Eachtime, Mr. Darcy was there—steady, calm, refusing to allow her to spiral into despair.
“He is still drinking,” he would point out. “That is significant. Horses who have given up refuse water. Atlas is still fighting.”
Miss Darcy spoke from behind them. “How much can he endure?”
“More than I think, probably.” Mr. Darcy said, his hand was comforting on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
She desperately wanted to lean into him. Instead, she took the tea tray from his sister’s hand.
Mr. Darcy reassured them, “I know you both are frightened. I am frightened too. But we cannot let Atlas see our fear. He needs to know we believe in him.”
So Elizabeth tried. Tried to be strong when she felt like breaking. Tried to believe when doubt crept in during the long night hours. And through it all, Mr. Darcy remained her anchor—checking the wound with methodical care, adjusting treatments based on Atlas’s response, explaining everything. Hence, she understood what was happening and why.
On the third day, Mr. Darcy waited until his sister returned to the house, then took Elizabeth aside, his expression grave. Not a few minutes prior, Atlas laid down, no longer strong enough to stand.
“Elizabeth, we need to discuss something difficult.”
Her stomach dropped. “What is it?”
“Atlas is in pain. Considerable pain, though he bears it with his usual stoicism. And the infection, despite all our efforts, is not improving as quickly as I had hoped.” He chose his words carefully. “There may come a time—I pray we do not reach it, but there may come a time—when the kindest thing we can do for him is to end his suffering.”
“No.” The word came out fierce, immediate.
“I do not say this lightly.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed his pain. “But I love him too much to let him suffer needlessly. When a horse can no longer stand, can no longer drink, when the pain becomes too great— Elizabeth, continuing to fight at that point is not love. It is selfishness.”
Tears streamed down her face. “But he is still drinking?—”
