Sharon Lathan - The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Darcy nodded, wincing with the pain felt from numerous parts of his body. With necessary assistance from each man, he was gingerly lifted to his feet. Richard held on to Darcy’s arm to ensure stability and handed him his handkerchief.

“Your head is bleeding. Are you sure you are all right?”

“I will be fine.” He blotted the back of his head but was already unsteadily moving toward the parlor. “Alexander?” he asked, glancing at the trailing Richard.

“He is with Artois in the bedchamber. He is still drugged but apparently undamaged.”

Darcy felt torn, but the need to touch Elizabeth was calling him. He crossed the threshold, his eyes only for his wife. But, his peripheral vision did note that the Marquis sported a number of fresh cuts and bruises, and was trammeled and gagged in a far corner with two burly guards watching him. He was thrashing maniacally, his muffled voice raving and face bleeding and red as a beet with eyes bulging scarily. He appeared near to an apoplectic seizure, foam and spittle soaking through the muzzling rag. The unfazed warriors stood nonchalantly a foot away, passing a cigar back and forth for several puffs before roughly dragging the insane man out of the room.

Darcy spared scant thought to Orman’s condition. He assigned immediate and total attention to his wife. Richard had positioned her body comfortably on the sofa, head resting on the pillow, and a blanket obtained from somewhere covering her lower body modestly. He had removed the rope bonds from around her wrists and ankles. She looked peaceful and beautiful, except for the snarls in her disheveled hair and the angry red marks on her cheeks that filled Darcy with fresh anger. Upon closer inspection he noted four circular pressure bruises the size of a man’s fingertip on one cheek, and raw burns on her dainty nostrils. He dropped to his knees, clasping her hands and brushing kisses over her face, not aware that tears were falling from his eyes.

“Elizabeth, sweet, precious Elizabeth. Wake up! Look at me, dearest. You are safe. Alexander is safe. I am here and no further harm will come to you. Please! Elizabeth, open your eyes!” His alarm grew when she showed no sign of responding. Not a moan or sigh. He touched his fingertips to her forehead, recognizing what his frantic lips had not sensed. “Richard! She is feverish! Why?” He turned questioning, anxious eyes to his hovering cousin. “Does vitriol do this?”

Richard shook his head slowly. His face was naked with concern as he too touched gentle fingertips to Lizzy’s forehead. “I do not know, Darcy. I have no experience with the drug.”

Darcy withdrew, blinking the moisture from his eyes to commence a detailed examination of his wife. First off he noted the rope burns to her wrists, fingering them lovingly, and sending a silent thankful prayer heavenward that her delicate skin was only mildly abraded and not bleeding. He kissed each wrist before moving his tender touch to the ivory, unmarked flesh of her neck. If he had seen evidence of Wickham applying filthy hands to his wife’s throat, he may have returned to the body lying twisted at the bottom of the stairs for a few well-deserved kicks!

He rested his palm over her heart, relieved to feel the steady beat. But, it was then that he became aware of the areas of patchy wetness and dried milk staining over the front of her apron covered gown. Additionally, and far more alarming, was the hard lumpiness of her breasts. He gasped, reaching to discreetly peel the fabric away from her chest. Richard, he noted in his periphery, turned away, leaving Darcy in relative privacy to examine his wife. He did not completely expose her, would not have in any case, but it was not necessary. The erythema spread in a fist-sized blemish over the top of her left breast. Carefully palpating, with tears stinging his eyes and fury freshly rising, Darcy felt the warmth and swelling of the starkly demarcated patch, the engorged milk pockets like little rocks.

“Richard, Elizabeth needs a physician.”

“Very well. I shall send Helt to Oxshott…”

“No. Search for a carriage. Surely there must be one since Orman could not possibly sit a horse. We must return to London immediately.”

“But…”

“No argument. No one will touch my wife but my uncle.” He looked up at the anxious face of his cousin. “Hurry, please. The nicest carriage, if we have a choice, with the fastest horses. Cushions and blankets. She cannot be jostled more than necessary. Quickly!”

Richard moved to administer orders that were carried out hastily. Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, covering her completely before leaning to kiss her feverish lips.

“Do not fear, my love. All will be well. I love you and will not leave you.”

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Papa!”

Darcy jerked at the overlapping voices, his eyes alighting on Alexander, who practically catapulted out of Artois’s arms into the open embrace of his father. Alexander buried his tiny face into his father’s neck, tears falling in waves, and arms and hands gripping adamantly as his little body shook. Darcy savored the sensations, his own body shaking with contained sobs as he clutched the vibrant life to his chest.

Cascades of murmured endearments and promises of safety fell from his lips as he planted dozens of kisses. He stroked over the soft back of his son. His firm hands and sturdy body were ready reminders to Alexander of his father’s strength and devotion. Gradually the weeping and tremors lessened, Alexander finally withdrawing to gaze into his father’s beloved face.

“I knew you come! I miss you and Mama, but I brave boy. I bite bad man, Papa! He got mad, but I not care. Kick him too. Bad, bad man! Bad man Mama not like. I told him you come and get me and he be sorry. Made me smell sweet water that made me sleepy and sick. Sorry, Papa, I try to be brave but I got sick. Nice girl washed my face. I sleepy a lot and my stomach hurt and nose hurt and…”

He spoke in a rush, gasping residual sobs interrupting the rambling dialogue. Darcy smiled through the commentary and brushed his hands and fingers over his son’s body. But the toddler seemed fair enough, all things considered. He kept babbling, the innocence of youth to an extent already beginning to see the whole incident as a great adventure, especially now that his father was holding him safe and secure. He finally glanced away from Darcy’s face and noticed Lizzy lying on the couch.

“Mama! Mama come with you, Papa? She asleep?”

“Yes, Son. She is asleep. We must be quiet and let her sleep for now, understand?”

The boy nodded, his eyes serious as he lifted one finger to his lips and made a shushing sound.

“Indeed,” Darcy lifted his finger as well, whispering. “Very quiet. We will be leaving soon to return to Darcy House where Uncle George and Aunt Georgiana are waiting for you.”

“Nanny and Michael too?”

“Yes, of course. They miss you very much. Nanny will want to hear all about your exciting adventure and how brave you were.”

Alexander brightened, smiling and nodding. “Can I give Mama kiss?”

“Certainly! We can both kiss her, how about that? But gently.”

Darcy leaned, Alexander firm in his grip, both placing soft kisses over Lizzy’s cheeks. She stirred and released a faint sigh.

“Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes! Yes, my dearest! It is I, and Alex…”

“Fitzwilliam will kill you, Mr. Wickham. You know he will. Hunt you down like the animal you are. It is only a matter of time. Only time, time, time.” She shuddered, arching her neck as her eyelids fluttered and opened. But the deep brown that Darcy so adored was glossy, the pupils largely dilated and not focusing. “So thirsty. Please, Mr. Wickham, water please. I need…”

She sighed, her voice dropping lower and her eyelids beginning to slide shut, before suddenly opening widely and looking directly at Darcy. “William. Where is Alexander?”

“Here, Mama!”

“We are here, Elizabeth. Both of us, see?” He was clutching her hand so tightly he knew it must be causing her pain, but she seemed impervious. Then, to his momentary joy, she did fix her gaze on Alexander and smiled faintly.

“I knew you would come. Your father always takes care of us, does he not, sweetie? Always, always.” Her eyes slid to Darcy, the smile waning as the glassiness overtook her eyes once again. “I love you, Fitzwilliam.” She groaned, her eyes closing in obvious pain as she grimaced. Her body shivered and shifted in discomfort, one hand feebly rising to lie on her affected breast. “I hurt, Mr. Wickham! Please, I need my baby! Please, it hurts so. Please, please.”

Tears were falling uncontrollably from Darcy’s eyes. Alexander was sucking his thumb, eyes large with confusion and fear as he looked from one parent to another. Lizzy’s voice trailed off into silence, once again succumbing to the fever and trauma of the past hours.

“Papa,” Alexander spoke in a shaky voice, “Mama be all right?”

Darcy swallowed, closing his eyes for a silent prayer as he pulled his son closer to his body for a tight squeeze. “Of course, my lamb. Your mother will be just fine. As soon as we get home, Uncle George will make her better and she can rest.” He kissed the soft forehead, maintaining a firm embrace, as his voice fell for a whispered supplication. “Please, God, let her be all right. Please.”

Darcy held his febrile and delirious wife during the frightening drive through the dark, poorly maintained country roads leading to London, home, and the supreme medical expertise of Dr. George Darcy. Alexander refused to unclasp his arms from his father’s neck, not that Darcy desired separating from his son for a second, until they were well beyond the “scary house with the bad man.” Even then he loosened his grip only enough to nestle onto Darcy’s lap with his mother’s head comfortingly touching his small thigh.