But Elizabeth stopped her. “Before anything else, I must inform my family that I am here. This morning’s departure was rather hasty.”
“I am sorry—” began Miss Darcy, but Elizabeth interrupted her.
“Miss Darcy, I am here because I wish to stand by you and assist however I can. But I must inform my uncle and aunt that I am here. Since there is no time for long messages, I would like to summon my aunt here to explain matters and ask her to write to my parents on my behalf.”
“You may do whatever you wish. You do not need permission. Please…” Georgiana hesitated, uncertain how to convey that she considered Elizabeth part of their family. “Please feel at home. The household is at your disposal. I made that clear from the beginning.”
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, for she was beginning to understand. Miss Darcy wished her to assume some of the household’s burdens. She grasped the young lady’s desire for someone to relieve her of the immense weight she bore alongside her grief, but the situation was exceedingly peculiar. In what capacity could she undertake such a role? But she just did not know how to pose that question, so in the silence that fell, Miss Darcy softly whispered, rousing her from her reverie, “Miss Bennet, how shall we notify your aunt?”
Elizabeth retrieved a note from her purse, one she had hastily written at the inn where they had stopped to change horses. She had explained what had happened in a few short sentences and asked her aunt to come to the Darcys’ house, as there had been no time for a more detailed message.
“I would like to send this,” she said, and shortly thereafter, it was dispatched to Gracechurch Street.
Once more they sat in silence, but that could not continue; the time for explanations, or at least some of them, had finally arrived.
“Miss Darcy, please tell me…how is your brother?” Elizabeth hesitated, for she did not know precisely what answer she expected. He was in a critical state, and she did not knowhow to speak to him or look at him, how to behave in his presence—a man in the antechamber of death.
“I asked the physician to come and meet you,” said Miss Darcy. Elizabeth glanced at her with gratitude, but there was something more in Elizabeth’s gaze, something that made the young girl smile faintly for the first time in days.
“What is it, Miss Bennet? Why do you look at me so?”
“Your brother once told me—what feels like in another life—that we resembled each other.”
“And?”
“I do not know whether I could have managed things as well as you have at sixteen.”
“Oh!” Georgiana exclaimed. “I am grateful for your praise, and the thought that we resemble one another fills me with joy, but I cannot do more than I have done—or am doing. I need help.”
Elizabeth understood the weight of her words. They were not a cry for help cast into the void but a direct plea aimed solely at her, who sat just a few feet away. It was a direct request, and it left her momentarily speechless.
“Fitzwilliam is unchanged,” Georgiana said suddenly, as though trying to muster courage for them both. “He has lost blood, but since the physician managed to stop the bleeding and he woke up, apart from being confined to his bed, motionless, propped up by pillows, you could say he is the same as ever. He is paler but his demeanour is the same… I do not know how he manages this,” she whispered, and a few tears slipped down her cheeks, though her face remained still, like a marble statue. “What must it be like to know you are so close—”
“Georgiana,” Elizabeth gently chastised her, settling beside her on the sofa, silently deciding to use her given name. “We know what his condition is, but to dwell on it at everymoment would paralyse you with sorrow and prevent you from doing what he surely expects of you.”
“He expects the impossible. I cannot be like him. He lies in bed and speaks as though tomorrow he will rise and go to his club or dine with Richard when—”
“That is how he has chosen to face this tragedy,” Elizabeth interrupted her, her heart aching deeply. She knew his flaws well, yet she had scarcely considered his virtues. But looking around at the beautiful, elegantly appointed home, as though it were prepared for a ball—certainly by his orders as he did not want anyone to mourn before the time was due—she remembered how many things he had managed in the past. Pemberley, a place she did not yet know but already loved, imagining its beauty. Then she thought of the incredible lady beside her, so well nurtured by Mr Darcy. All of this was his doing. Their lives had not faltered when their father died, and it was because of him. He had been the force that carried forward the family built with such love by their parents. Arrogant, exasperating, dull at times—Fitzwilliam Darcy was, undeniably, a man to admire.
“Ladies,” said a voice, and both turned abruptly towards the door, so absorbed in their discussion and thoughts that they had not heard the physician enter.
Georgiana introduced him, but she said nothing of Elizabeth beyond her name. What could she have said? She was merely a friend—and until recently, not a close one.
“You will need to repeat everything you have told me,” Georgiana said. “Two days ago, I listened but understood almost nothing of what you said.”
The physician shook his head slightly. It was evident he had not slept, and his expression bore no trace of good news.
“Do you understand how a pistol works?” he asked Elizabeth. She shook her head. She had seen drawings withexplanations but had always harboured an aversion to pistols, rifles, and any kind of weapon capable of wounding or killing. Few knew she had not ridden horses since Sir William had shot one in front of her and Charlotte after it broke a leg.
“Vaguely,” she replied.
“The gun is loaded, usually from the muzzle end, with black powder. Then the lead shot is inserted, a metal ball, often wrapped in paper or cloth, all rammed down with a ramrod. The gunpowder provides a powerful propelling force—”
“And the bullet is discharged,” Elizabeth murmured, horrified.
“Exactly,” the physician said, glancing at them with concern as they grasped the severity of the situation. “I have not seen many gunshot wounds before, but I know that much depends on the composition of the bullet.” He paused, uncertain whether to reveal the whole truth.
“Please continue, Mr Morrison,” said Georgiana with determined composure. Although their demeanours were worried, they were neither panicked nor crumbling under the weight of the terrible news, so the physician decided to continue.
