“He sees a widow when he is at Matlock,” Darcy replied, shaking his head. “Henry simply enjoys fooling people.”
“To what end?” mused Fitz before sighing and changing the subject. “Let us return to the issue at hand. Miss Bennet.”
Darcy’s cheeks warmed, and he stooped to heap the coals in the fire. Fitz pushed him away and lit the fire himself.
“Well?” Fitz asked with all the subtlety of a military interrogation. “The girl has been ruined, we presume because someone noted your interest or wished you ill. What do you plan to do with her?” The coals began to glow, and Darcy wordlessly lit the candles.
“I wish to God I knew,” he whispered. “I never thought anyone would discover that I . . . Miss Elizabeth herself had no idea.”
Darcy saw that the latter statement surprised his cousin. He carried the candles to a small table near the bed. Elizabeth had not moved, but something caught the flickering light and glistened on her cheeks. He bent over her.
They were tears. She was weeping.
Devil take it. Why did she not simply rip his heart from his chest and toss it under a moving carriage? It could not possibly hurt more.
“Miss Elizabeth?” he murmured.
She did not move. He sat on the edge of the little bed. “We need to do something for her arm,” he said. “The bone feels intact, but there is certainly an injury.”
Fitz nodded. “Could be a fracture. We should splint it.”
“You are a surgeon now?” Darcy asked wryly.
“I am a soldier, cousin,” Fitz replied smugly. “There is no end to my talents. You have used my handkerchief already. Have you one of your sister’s monstrous cloths on your person?”
Darcy disapproved of his cousin’s flippant remark. “Georgiana requires a canvas for her embroidery, and she knows I will not laugh at her.”
“Why must she make them so large?”
At this even Darcy had to smile. He offered the explanation his sister had given to him. "Because it offers more room for her attempts. Why ruin ten handkerchiefs when you can ruin one?" Georgiana was a wonderful musician and a gifted linguist. She even enjoyed painting. But she had little patience for sewing and embroidery. He missed her gentle humor.
“She may as well call it a tablecloth and be done with it.” Fitz pointed at the old log leaning up against the hearth and Darcy held out his hand for Anders’s knife. Fitz fished it out of his pocket and turned it over in his hand. “I rather like this knife,” Fitz told him, as he passed it over. “I think I will keep it. Give Anders a replacement.”
“It was provided as part of the position.” Darcy grumbled as he stripped four long, thin pieces from the log. “Anders will appreciate a new one.” He paused. “You have earned much more from me today.”
“One more,” Fitz said, waving at the log, and Darcy complied. “I will have earned far more than a knife by the time this is over, cousin. But I have never required payment from you, nor you from me.”
Darcy nodded, too overcome to speak. He whittled the wood down so there were no sharp edges and then cut the handkerchief into strips. He gently raised Elizabeth to remove her pelisse, and then, with Fitz’s direction and aid, arranged the splint over the sleeve of her dress so the wood would not rub against her skin. She moaned softly as he tied off the final knot.
His heart leapt. “Miss Elizabeth?” he asked hopefully.
Nothing.
Fitz cleared his throat. “It will take time, Darcy. Waking from laudanum is a bit like being underwater and pushing up towards the surface—and remember we do not know how much she was given.”
There were no more handkerchiefs, so Darcy removed his cravat, folding it into a rectangle, dipping it in the cold water, and applying it to the worst injury on Elizabeth’s face. “So now we wait,” he said glumly, sitting uncomfortably on the floor beside the bed.
There was a scuffling sound as Fitz sat down near the doorway and leaned back against the wall. “Now we wait.”
Elizabeth heard the voices in her dreams. Deep voices, speaking in a cadence that washed over her like a soft rain. Her fingertips grazed a soft mattress and scratchy wool blankets. It was warm. She sighed and straightened her legs, relieved that she could. She opened her eyes briefly, staring up at . . . the world was dark colors all run together, so she closed them again.
Someone took her hand. “Miss Elizabeth?”
She forced her eyes open again and tried to focus on the voice. It was an effort, but she managed it. “Where . . .” she asked, but it was garbled.
“You are safe,” someone informed her.
Her left arm felt heavy. She tried to move it and gasped, a flash of pain waking her. Panicked, she attempted to sit, but there were hands pushing her down.