Darcy sent Mr. Anders on his way. Lizzy climbed into the carriage to check on Phillips, who remained unconscious but whose wound was no longer bleeding even when she loosened the tourniquet.

“Elizabeth?” Darcy was at the doorway, love and desperate concern allowed to nakedly wash over his face. He reached for her bloodstained hands, enfolding them with his warm ones. “Are you well, beloved? You are very pale and trembling still.”

“I am fine. Just worried about Phillips. We must hurry, William.”

He searched her face, greatly discomfited by what he saw there but unable to delve into the cause at the present time. “Very well. I will drive as speedily as feasible. Keep the window open and call for me if you need.” He cupped one cheek, drawing her in for a brief kiss. “I love you.”

She smiled wanly, lips quivering and eyes blinking, and shakily whispered, “I love you, too.”

“I managed to remove the bullet from his leg,” the physician said to Darcy and Lizzy while washing bloody hands in a basin. “It hit the bone but does not appear to have broken it. He is most fortunate in that regard. Unfortunately, he has lost a tremendous amount of blood and the risk of infection is severe. On the plus side, he is healthy and very strong, so should mend well with careful nursing. Your intervention, Mrs. Darcy, was fortuitous. I have no doubt he would have bled to death without the tourniquet.” He smiled at Lizzy, and Darcy squeezed her hand in pride.

Turning to Darcy, the surgeon resumed, “Your servant will need to stay here for a while, Mr. Darcy. A week or two at the very least, depending on the course of the infection.”

“Of course,” Darcy said. “We want him to receive the best care possible. However, whenever you deem it safe, we would like him transported to Pemberley. His family is there and it is home.”

The physician nodded, glancing at a silent Lizzy. “Naturally, Mr. Darcy. If I may have a word in private?” The two men drew apart, Lizzy barely noticing.

They were in Staveley. Clowne's lone physician was attending to another emergency involving a young boy, so they had been informed, forcing them to drive five miles further. Dr. Welles in Staveley dwelt in a modest home with an attached miniature hospital of sorts. He seemed highly competent with a staff of three nurses. A discriminating Darcy had carefully peered about the place and instantly recognized an efficient facility. For an hour, he and Lizzy had waited inside the small antechamber while the doctor tended to Phillips, cries intermittently erupting from behind the closed door.

Darcy's concern for Phillips was negligible compared to the growing panic regarding his wife. Lizzy had said few words since arriving, refused to meet his eyes, frequently quivered and clenched her fists in her lap, and avoided physical contact as much as possible. Darcy sat close, watching and worrying, but any attempt to engage her in conversation was met with monosyllables or silence. He must have asked her if she was well a hundred times but she kept repeating she was “fine.” This alone was proof that she most assuredly was not fine because his Lizzy would have snapped at him long ago for his persistent questioning.

She shivered and felt cold despite the heat of the late afternoon. He placed his jacket about her shoulders, but she did not seem to notice and continued to tremble.

His fear for her mental state was threatening to overwhelm him, but he did not know how to deal with her withdrawal. Now, the physician was questioning him about Mrs. Darcy's obvious shock, but Darcy had no answer. Dr. Welles suggested he take her someplace calm and comforting. “She most probably needs sleep more than anything,” he advised.

Lizzy was in a daze. As long as she had Phillips to fixate on, the horror nipping at her consciousness was kept at bay. She was truly concerned for the footman, Phillips being a frequent companion since Darcy insisted the burliest footman in his employ guarded her whenever she ventured beyond Pemberley Manor. Nonetheless, honest solicitude notwithstanding, a small portion of her brain recognized what she was doing. She absolutely forbade her thoughts to stray beyond the man hurting behind the door. This willful regulation had carried her through the agonizing carriage ride and for the first thirty minutes at the hospital, but the discipline was slipping rapidly.

The periodic pains to her abdomen, which she knew on some level were ominous, continued. Her tailbone ached, feet throbbed, and legs hurt. The vision of her heart's existence with a gun pointed at his body repeatedly danced before her eyes. The images of sightless eyes staring in violent death with blood pooling refused to go away.

Primarily, though, it was him.

Victor.

His leering face. His insinuating words. His touch.

She hung her head, eyes closing in misery. She could still feel him, smell him, hear him. His blood and some other unmentionable bodily fluids stained her dress. Filthy, that is how she felt, but not from the mess all over her body.

She stared at her hands. Darcy had cleaned them thoroughly and tenderly, displaying his love through even that simple task. She had watched him in silence, the emptiness of her finger glaring at her accusingly. Then he had kissed her palms and started to say something, but she jerked away, leaving him standing by the basin in anxious perplexity.

She knew it was wrong. Foolish even. Yet she was plagued with the revolting sensations. She felt violated. He had touched her. Her skin crawled and goose pimples rose. The memory was repulsive and she bit her lip to prevent a whine from escaping. For the thousandth time, she shuddered, breathing deeply to avoid bursting into sobs, and wrenched her thoughts to Phillips.

Coherency was no longer an option. She walked in a cloud of pain and misery. Vaguely she heard voices: something about Phillips sleeping now and then about departing for the Sitwell mansion where she could bathe and rest. Darcy was there, naturally, lovingly guiding her to the carriage, but it was all a blur. Strangely, she noted that the carriage was immaculate. No evidence of Phillips's blood or the dirt from the ground. She remembered sitting here on the interminable ride into Staveley and staring with rapt interest at several leaves and pebbles which had fallen onto the seat and floor. Now they were gone and her mind experienced a leap of panic wondering what she would now focus her attention on.

She looked through a long tunnel with no light at the end. Weariness and physical discomfort ruled her, with perception distorted and sounds muted. Meaning was skewed, rationality altered. Someone was talking to her, but she could not recognize the voice. It was a man and now he held her hands, caressing gently with soft fingers and warm strength. It was pleasant but faintly disturbing as images flashed in her mind of hands touching her. Hands very different from these, rough and dirty with blunt fingers. Hands that took instead of giving. Hands that demanded and caressed with false intent. Hands that robbed her of something precious and vital to her heart and soul. Hands that stole her rings.

Her rings! She needed her rings! They were important to her, although she could not readily grasp why. And now here they were; golden glints of metal and sparkles of diamond and blue sapphire slipping over her knuckles. Large boned fingers that fluctuated from long and elegant to stubby and grimy touching her slender fingers and assaulting her precious rings.

“No!” she screamed, jerking away from the clawing hands of the thief and clutching her rings, the cool metal and hard gems digging into her palms. “You cannot take them! They are mine and I need them! No! No! No!”

“Elizabeth! Stop! Listen to me!” Darcy grabbed at her flailing arms but she screamed louder. Words now tumbled disjointedly from raving lips, her body nearly convulsing in a combined attempt to attack him and withdraw as far as possible. He had read somewhere that the cure for hysteria was to slap the person very hard, but he could not slap his wife. Instead, he fell to his knees before her thrashing body, moving in, heedless to the scratches she bestowed, and clamped her face firmly between his palms, wrenching her glazed eyes to his.

“Elizabeth, look at me,” he commanded in the coldest, most authoritative tone he could muster. She whined, fighting to withdraw but was no match for his strength. “Elizabeth Darcy, open your eyes and look at me!”

Tears were streaming down her face; the fight abruptly halting as all energy drained and she slumped, as if boneless, with a whimper. “Please,” she moaned and sobbed, “Please do not take my rings. Please do not touch me. Please do not hurt him, you cannot… hurt him… I need him, please. I… need… William, my… husband… I… need…”