“Mary, come quick! Papa! Oh, Papa!” Kitty was screaming. Mary reached the bottom of the stairs to see her father being half-carried into the house by Wickham and Mr. Hill. Mr. Bennet’s face was ashen, his eyes half closed.
Mary felt her knees weaken, and she clutched the railing for support. “What has happened?” she asked.
“An accident,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “Wickham’s gun discharged and hit me.”
Kitty wailed even louder, and no one seemed to be taking charge of the dire situation. Mary drew on a strength she did not know she had. “Put him on the settee in the morning room,” she ordered Mr. Hill. “Then run for the doctor—at once!” She turned to Mrs. Hill. “Is there hot water? Bring it, and Kitty—get the good linen rags we use for bandages. Go!”
Kitty flew up the stairs to obey. Lydia was cowering in a corner, holding both boys tight to her skirt, her eyes trained not on their injured father, but on her husband, who stood off to one side. Mary caught a glimpse of her countenance and was puzzled; she could not quite make it out—shock, perhaps?
Mary ran ahead of Wickham and Mr. Hill into the morning room, arranging the pillows at one end. The two men eased him onto the settee where Mary gently removed his coat. She could see dark blood had soaked her father’s shirt on his left shoulder, but it did not seem like an excessive amount. Not life-threatening she hoped, but she was not a doctor. She helped him lie down, biting her lip in dismay as he cried out in pain. She had a fleeting thought of how annoyed her mother would be about the blood on the settee before remembering her mother was dead. And now this. Good Lord, was she to become an orphan tonight?
“Papa, we are sending for the doctor. Are you in much pain?”
She saw him grit his teeth. “A bit, yes. I suddenly have a sense of empathy for those grouse we shot earlier. But I believe I shall live.” He smiled briefly before gasping in pain and clutching her hand.
Mary turned her attention to Wickham, still standing nearby. “How did this happen?”
“Oh…well, you see…it was like this. Your father was up on the stile about to cross into the next field. I was not far behind him when my gun just…discharged. It was an accident—I swear.” Mary caught a brief expression of desperation on Wickham’s face before it altered into his usual confident arrogance. “I confess, I have not been hunting much of late and seem to have forgotten some of the more elemental safety rules. Can you ever forgive me, sir?”
“Good thing I lost my balance at the top of the stile and veered to the right just as the gun went off—eh, Wickham?” Mr. Bennet asked between gasps. “Else I would have taken the shot full in the back.”
Mary gasped, and her eyes cut over to Wickham as he gave a weak laugh and agreed. He seemed to have broken out in a sweat. Mary spotted a sheen on his upper lip. Odd.
“Oh, where is the doctor?” Mary fretted as Mrs. Hill and Kitty returned with the hot water and bandages.
***
Two hours later, Mary and Kitty were effusively thanking the doctor, Mr. Mills, as he prepared to leave Longbourn. Wickham had taken Lydia and the boys out for a walk in order, he said, to reduce the chaos in the house by a small percentage.
“Your father is a lucky man,” Mr. Mills said. “But he should fully recover in due time. I shall ask Mr. Jones, the apothecary, to send over some medication for pain. And I shall return in two days time to change the bandages and inspect the wounds. We do not want infection setting in. Merry Christmas to you both.”
When he was gone, a teary-eyed Kitty turned to Mary. “I swear I would not give three straws whether I receive any presents this Christmas. I only want Papa to live.”
Not one to be demonstrative, Mary found herself embracing her sister. “Which Mr. Mills believes he shall, Kitty. Have no fear, all will be well, I am certain of it. Why do you not see whether Papa needs anything just now?”
Kitty sniffed once and proceeded upstairs to their father’s bedroom where he had been moved.
Mary turned to clean up the morning room, when a ring of the bell at the front door gave her a start. Since she was so close, she opened it to find Mr. Yarby.
“Miss Bennet, I am terribly sorry if I am imposing, and if I am, please tell me at once and send me home, but I happened to see Mr. Mills departing Longbourn just now and wished to know whether all was well here.”
Mary stared into Yarby’s face a moment before covering her mouth with her hands and crumpling into the tears she had kept at bay since seeing her father carried into the house.
Mr. Yarby hesitated a moment before stepping forward and enveloping Mary in his arms.
“Oh, Miss Bennet, please tell me—what has happened? Has someone taken seriously ill? How may I assist?” he asked as he guided her into the library. He sat her down and joined her, keeping one arm on her shoulder as he tried to calm her down.
Finally, Mary governed herself enough to be able to speak and related the story of the accidental shooting.
“This is dreadful!” said Mr. Yarby. “But what does the doctor say?”
“Papa will recover, he is certain.” Mary pulled away, embarrassed by her outburst, and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Forgive my unseemly display of emotions. But you understand, the shock of seeing him so weakened…and all that blood. It quite overcame me, I am afraid.”
“It would anyone, to be sure. But it seems to me that you handled things quite well, Mary. I would expect nothing less. You are so capable. Always so dependable.”
“Am I?” she whispered, looking up at him. She had never been so close to the rector before—not even when they danced.
“You are. I am very, very proud of you,” he said in a low voice. His head began to lean closer towards her. Mary held her breath and fixed her gaze on his. Oh, heavens! Was he going to kiss her—the moment she had dreamt of and longed for finally here? She tilted her chin ever so slightly up towards him.
