“You may lower your arm now, Mr Darcy. And once you have dressed, please walk to the drawing-room, where we shall await you.”
Elizabeth longed to protest, but reason told her Mr Robertson was right. The bullet was not lodged near his heart, poised to end his life in an instant. And yet—what if he was mistaken?
“I am not mistaken, madam, I assure you,” the surgeon said, smiling faintly at the questions so plainly written upon her face.
They seated themselves in the drawing-room, and the wait was not long. When Darcy appeared, he was immaculately attired, just as she had always known him to be, just as she had first seen him at the Meryton assembly. Yet now, when he looked at her, there was only love in his gaze.
At that moment, she wished to throw herself into his arms, kiss the surgeon, embrace the colonel and then the entire world.
“One moment,” she said and sent for Georgiana.
The girl arrived, pale as a ghost, and turned even paler at seeing her brother, standing—formally dressed—beside the sofa where Elizabeth sat.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.
“I am well,” he reassured her, opening his arms to embrace her. “Do not cry,” he teased, though her face bore only astonishment.
“To bring this difficult moment to an end,” Mr Robertson interjected, prompting them all to take their seats—except for Darcy, who stood beside Elizabeth’s sofa and took her hand in his. “The bullet was fired from below and, I believe, ricocheted off the ribs before settling beneath the arm. It touched nothing vital—”
“But there was so much blood,” Georgiana murmured.
“It struck something, yes, but not fatally,” the surgeon clarified.
“And he was unconscious,” the colonel added, forcing himself not to recall the dreadful sight that had met him upon his return after he had delivered the assailant into custody.
“Not from the wound,” Mr Robertson corrected. “Mr Darcy struck his head. Likely in the chaos of stopping the bleeding, no one noticed. The impact must have been severe, but there was no external wound.”
“My head ached for weeks,” Darcy admitted.
Elizabeth tightened her grip on his hand in quiet reproach—for he had never spoken of this, not to her nor to anyone.
“The head injury was far more dangerous than the bullet,” the surgeon said. “But it has left no lasting effects. The swelling has receded almost entirely, and there is no longer any danger now, three months later.”
“And the bullet?” Elizabeth asked.
“It may remain where it is. To attempt its removal would be far more perilous than leaving the body to manage it as it will.”
“I have spent three months in bed,” Darcy muttered, sinking onto the sofa beside Elizabeth. “Two of them sleeping nearly upright!”
He did not know whether to laugh or weep—for the enforced stillness had been insufferable, so oppressive that, at times, he had thought of death with a strange, quiet acceptance.
“Now, let us not rush to conclusions,” Mr Robertson cautioned. “I believe it was well that you remained in bed, avoiding excessive movement, especially for the blow to the head. The duration may have been prolonged—had I been consulted, I would have prescribed three to four weeks of rest. That said, I would not advise you to jump straight onto a horse. You must move about, certainly—but slowly. Long walks. No carriages,” he added with a chuckle.
“But when may I travel?” Darcy asked, turning to the surgeon—for he could not conceive of life without Pemberley.
“Let us wait another two months. By late August, I dare say you will be fit for travel.”
And the happiness that had been absent for so long returned to the Darcys’ house.
Chapter 32
Before she realised what was happening, Elizabeth and Darcy were alone. The colonel left in haste, forgetting to bid them farewell, for his entire family awaited him at home, along with the Duke and Duchess of Nantwich, eager to hear what the surgeon had said. Georgiana excused herself hurriedly and rushed off to the library to write messages, having promised Jane, Mr Bingley, and the Gardiners that she would inform them of the news. Then, with tears in her eyes, she wrote to Mr Bennet, conveying the joyful tidings and expressing her gratitude for his steadfast support during the most difficult moments of their lives.
Just across from the library it took Darcy only a few seconds to transform from a man awaiting his doom into the man he had always been—yet somehow different, for now, just a few steps away, stood Elizabeth, his wife. His heart raced with overwhelming relief, uncontainable joy, and a hint ofnervousness, unsure how she would respond to that sudden change in their plans.
With a single stride, Darcy was beside her, enveloping her in his arms. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he lifted her off the ground and spun her around, eliciting a shriek from Elizabeth. “Put me down, you madman!”
When he did not heed her, she spoke again, more determined, “Or you will sleep alone for a month— Two weeks,” she corrected swiftly, although he had already set her down, laughing at how miraculously the sentence had been reduced in mere seconds—for the woman in his arms desired him just as much as he desired her.
