The message was brief. The colonel was bringing the surgeon Elizabeth had requested on the morrow after breakfast.
“Come back to me,” he urged, but Elizabeth settled onto the sofa beside his chair.
“Be patient,” she said. “This is crucial.”
“Elizabeth, I have been patient for endless, excruciating days. Now, I want you beside me.”
But she smiled, unmoved.
“I asked the colonel to bring a surgeon—”
“No, absolutely not!” he cried out forcefully. He saw in her gesture nothing but an attempt to dissuade him from his plan—the only one that mattered to him now. The only one that could bring him happiness—a final fulfilment to his life.
“Be patient,” she repeated, her voice so sweet that his anger melted, dissolved in the depths of her green eyes, still clouded with the passion that had passed between them.
“Nothing will change my mind. You could bring a hundred surgeons,” he told her, and she smiled at his stubbornness.
“I am merely seeking another opinion—that of someone who has seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of cases like yours.”
And her words took hold. He quieted, gazing at her with curiosity, for there was sense in what she said. The physicians who had examined him had admitted they had little experience with such cases.
“And where does one find such a surgeon?” he asked.
“From the front,” she answered, and he burst into laughter.
“Mrs Darcy would take a surgeon from poor wounded soldiers and bring him to me?” he exclaimed. “You are ruthless, madam, when it comes to your husband.” Yet his tone was far from reproachful—it was delighted.
“Hush! You are mad! How can you think such a thing of me?” she retorted, joining him in the playful dialogue that eased the tension between them, keeping them in that fragile realm of happiness where he would not feel frustrated or disheartened.
“The colonel will bring a surgeon who recently returned from the front.”
“And what do you think this surgeon can do?”
Elizabeth hesitated before answering. She dared not give him hope, though deep within her, a seed of it had taken root after her discussions with Reverend Buxton. Even though she did not know what the surgeon might do, the reverend had told her to have faith—for often, things were not as they seemed.
“Do you believe he will grant us permission to consummate our marriage[JA5]?” Darcy asked in the same teasing tone. “Do I require a surgeon’s consent? Did you not see for yourself that you can make me ready for love, and nothing terrible happens to me?”
She closed her eyes, for the hand that had caressed him was burning, and the memory of that touch made her lose all composure.
“Speak, madam, do not close your eyes on me!”
“All I ask is that he comes tomorrow, that we speak with him—”
“And no matter what he says, you will be in my bedroom tomorrow night, ready to be mine.”
“Yes, I shall,” she said simply. And he fell silent before the unexpected victory, which he had ceased to hope for since she had insisted on seeing the surgeon.
A hush settled between them, and when he looked at her, he saw that she had fallen asleep. Her breath was soft, like a child’s. He longed to wake her, but overcome with tenderness, he realised—perhaps for the first time—how difficult these past weeks had been for her. How much he had demanded of her without once considering that she too might grow weary, that the despair so often etched upon her face was a trial she endured at every moment beside him.
At last, he was grateful that she slept, ready to guard her slumber, content simply to watch her—peaceful, beautiful as an angel with her eyes closed.
And the stillness lasted for a time, letting him see how tired she was. Suddenly, her face twisted in anguish, and she cried, “No! Please, no!” Tears slipped from her closed eyes, and he was confident that the dream was about him.
Desperate, Darcy rose and shook her gently. “My love, you are having a bad dream. Wake up, I am here,” he murmured beside her.
When she opened her eyes, she found him standing, leaning over her, and for a moment, she could not tell which was the dream—the vision in which he had died or this one, where he stood upright before her, as she had not seen him do in months.
She blinked, again and again, until the warmth of his hands caressing her face, wiping the tears, assured her that he was real, alive, standing next to the sofa. And yet, reality terrified her even more. She sprang up, staring at him.
