“Yes, he abandoned it before attempting to flee—a cavalry pistol, converted from flintlock to caplock, most likely stolen from a battlefield in France.”
“Very well. So, you were carried into the house—”
“Unconscious,” Elizabeth interjected, recalling Georgiana’s letter, which had described him as insensible for two days.
“Unconscious?” the surgeon enquired, surprised.
“Yes, I awoke two days later, in unbearable pain.”
“Unbearable pain? Why?” Mr Robertson asked, stepping closer to Darcy for the first time since he had entered.
He had requested that Darcy sit on a stool with no back, and rather than examining his chest, he moved behind him, inspecting his head and neck instead.
“Now that I think of it, the majority of the pain was not in my chest—it was in my head…an excruciating headache,” Darcysaid, reflecting deeply on that day when he had awakened in his bed, remembering nothing.
For the first time, the events seemed to fall into a coherent order, the surgeon’s precise questioning arranging them like pieces of a puzzle.
“The physician who attended me examined me, hoping that the bullet had left my body,” Darcy recounted. “But he saw no wound to show that had taken place.”
“A bullet from a pistol rarely passes cleanly through—it lacks sufficient force, and when fired from below, even less so,” Mr Robertson murmured, speaking almost to himself. Then he added in a clear voice, “Mr Darcy, you lost consciousness because you struck your head. Even now, there is a swelling at the midpoint of your skull[JA6][DO7]—most likely, you hit the iron railing.”
He guided Darcy’s hand to the spot, where he could feel the lingering lump.
“Have you experienced any other pain?”
“My left arm,” Darcy answered without hesitation, for it still ached. “They told me it was likely due to broken ribs, with the pain radiating into my arm.”
“Were you advised to remain still?” the surgeon asked, his tone carefully measured. The three of them immediately perceived the weight of his question.
“Yes, so that the bullet would not shift towards my heart. I slept almost upright for weeks.”
“Indeed, when the bullet’s location is uncertain, that is a reasonable short-term measure—but not a lasting solution. I must examine you thoroughly, every inch of skin on your left side. We shall summon your valet to assist in preparing you, and then we shall proceed.”
∞∞∞
When Elizabeth, accompanied by Mr Robertson and the colonel, returned, they found Darcy awaiting them with his shirt unbuttoned.
Elizabeth had attempted to glean more information from the surgeon, but whilst exceedingly polite, the latter had firmly stated that he would draw his conclusions only after examining the patient.
“I must ask you to remove your shirt,” Mr Robertson said. Standing beside him, Elizabeth assisted with a composed air, striving to appear as natural as possible. She was his wife, after all, and no one but her found the situation remarkable. Yet, it was the first time she had beheld him thus, and once again, she fervently hoped that the frantic beating of her heart would not be heard.
Only Darcy observed her closely as she held his shirt in her hands. “Thank you, my dear,” he murmured. The words were entirely conventional, yet they stood in stark contrast to the amused gleam in his eyes, for he had clearly perceived her discomposure; he suspected the reason, and he was profoundly satisfied by her response.
The surgeon took out a cylindrical instrument of metal and wood, pressing it against Darcy’s chest as he listened intently to his heart beating for several minutes. He then turned his scrutiny to the scar, measuring it, running his fingers repeatedly over its length, tracing upwards to the shoulder. Finally, he studied it for some time through a powerful magnifying glass.
“Raise your left arm, if you please.”
“My arm still pains me,” Darcy admitted.
Elizabeth turned to him with concern, for he had long insisted he felt no discomfort. The colonel stepped forwards to assist, holding the arm aloft while Mr Robertson continued his examination.
“If you would step over here for a moment, Mrs Darcy,” the surgeon said. He pointed to a minor swelling beneath the skin, a lump in the armpit, nearly imperceptible without the magnifying glass.
Elizabeth paled. “My God—it is the bullet,” she breathed.
Mr Robertson gave a slight nod of assent.
“But what is it doing there, nearly beneath his arm?” she asked, her voice frantic, glancing from Darcy to the surgeon.
