Mr. & Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy: Two Shall Become One

Oddly, Darcy was not the least bit surprised. He had not knowingly linked the blood on his shirt with the possibility of a miscarriage, but it suddenly fit. “No… that is, we had not discussed the possibility, but it had occurred to me. She is… was… three weeks or so late for her cycle, and,” he sighed deeply and closed his eyes as the turmoil of the past days abruptly crashed over him. “She had said nothing to me, but she has been extremely irritable lately, although I do not know if that means anything.”

“Oh yes, it certainly can. My wife was horr…” the doctor paused and flushed slightly and Darcy laughed faintly, surprised at the strange humor of the situation.

“Well, that is good to know, I suppose,” he whispered. “So, she has… lost… the baby?”

The physician frowned, “The truth, Mr. Darcy, is that I cannot be sure. She bled, a great deal, but not as much as normally seen with a miscarriage. However, if she was very early in her pregnancy, that may be why. I do not wish to submit her to an examination of that nature at this time. My gentle palpations proved nothing. The bleeding has mostly stopped, also unusual in a miscarriage. I have instructed Mrs. Reynolds in what to watch for. We can pursue the matter in a few weeks when she is fully recovered. In the meantime,” he rose, and Darcy rose as well, “the women will care for her needs. I shall return in the morning. You must rest and attend to your own health, Mr. Darcy. Your wife needs you so you cannot allow yourself to become ill.”

Darcy returned to their bedchamber where Mrs. Reynolds was covering Elizabeth with a blanket. Everyone had left for the time being except the two of them.

“Mrs. Reynolds, thank you for… Well, for everything.”

“Of course, Mr. Darcy. I will leave you two alone for now. Samuel is drawing your bath, sir. I will send a tray up later.”

“Thank you. Will you talk to Miss Darcy? She must be frantic. I will see her as soon as I can.”

Darcy knew there was so much to say, so much to do, but he could not focus on anything other than his wife. Finally alone, he knelt at the side of the bed, too weary to move a chair, and took her hand. Aside from the bandage over the right side of her head, a marked pallor, and a few lingering drops of mud in her plaited hair, she was beautiful and merely appeared asleep.

The women had lovingly cleaned her head to toe, dressed her in a warm white flannel gown, changed the bed linens, and positioned her body comfortably. Darcy tenderly ran his fingers over her cherished face, whispered her name, ultimately giving in to his crushing agony. His head fell to her bosom and he was wracked with convulsing sobs felt in every fiber of his body.

He must have fallen asleep or into a stupor. He returned to awareness at a light touch on his shoulder and a gentle whisper. “Brother?”

He groggily gazed up at the teary, sympathetic face of his sister. “Georgie,” he murmured and held his arms open as she fell into his embrace there by the bed. More tears were shed by both of them, but it was cleansing and nourishing to Darcy to feel his sister’s love and share his grief and anxiety with her. They talked in soft tones, prayed together, and eventually Darcy was encouraged to leave to bathe while Georgiana maintained a vigil at Elizabeth’s side.

For three days they would take turns as companion to the unconscious Elizabeth. Darcy rarely left, primarily only when forced by his bodily needs. He ate little and slept only when his mind betrayed him by slipping into a fitful doze. Georgiana worried as much for her brother as she did for her sister. They all attempted to reason with him, but he refused to listen, the infamous Darcy stubbornness at full capacity, so they surrendered.

The physician came three times each day. Throughout the first and second day he expressed little concern over Mrs. Darcy’s continued unconsciousness. He declared her heart stronger, her breathing regular, her pupils reactive to light, her wounds healing as they should, and her bleeding stopped. She seemed in no outward discomfort. He left a bottle of laudanum, for if she did waken, he assumed that she would be in pain and need relief. This unsettled Darcy but he did not argue. Lord Matlock had sent for his personal physician from London by express messenger; however, it would still take two to three days for him to arrive.

Marguerite bathed her, repositioned her frequently with Darcy’s assistance, and washed her hair thoroughly. Mrs. Reynolds regularly provided warm tea and broths, which they fed by careful spoonfuls. Darcy was numb. His mind refused to function beyond his need to be with her. Mr. Keith and Mrs. Reynolds handled everything else.

By the afternoon of the third day, the doctor was evincing some disquiet. Elizabeth’s overall status was improving. Her ankle was substantially less swollen; the head laceration was healing well and definitely not infected; the other bruises and scratches were in their proper stages of regeneration; and her vital signs were strong. However, the fact that she manifested no indications toward arousing did not bode well for her mental and neurological recovery. He confessed that his personal experience as a physician was not abundant in the realm of head trauma, so he could only speak from a textbook point of view. Whatever the case, there was nothing any of them could do but wait.

When Lizzy opened her eyes she saw… darkness. How long she stared with unseeing eyes was impossible to guess. Eventually, however, two facts seeped into her addled mind: she could see a faint light from somewhere vaguely to her left; and she had a blinding headache. Cautiously and incrementally between stabbing pains, she turned her head to the left, recognizing after a grueling period of chaotic scrutiny that the light came from the fireplace in their bedchamber. Her eyes fuzzily drifted about the familiar room while her mind refused to function and the pain threatened to engulf her. She probably fell asleep for a time, because, next she knew, her eyes opened again to a slightly brighter light that she sluggishly realized was twinges of a sunrise peeping in through the windows.

The pain was there as fierce as ever, but she did seem to be more in control of her thoughts and her eyes focused clearly. As cautiously as before, she turned her head to the right, alighting on the dearest sight imaginable. Her William. He was asleep beside her, clothed, and covered with a light blanket rather than under the comforter with her. She frowned, sending throbs through her skull. He looks horrendous. At least three days’ growth of beard, dark circles under his eyes, lips chapped and pale, and hair uncombed. It made no sense and hurt too much to try reasoning it out.

“William,” she said, aware immediately that no sound had actually passed her lips. She closed her eyes, willing the headache away, licked her incredibly dry lips with a tongue equally dry, and tried again. “William.” A vague squeak was all. It took five more whispers to finally rouse him, and then he only stared at her as if paralyzed.

“Elizabeth?” So softly. Am I dreaming? He lifted tremulous fingers to her cheek and then her lips as she continued to stare at him. “Elizabeth?” She smiled against his fingertips and kissed them lightly, snapping him out of his stasis. With a guttural cry he rose onto his elbows and brought his mouth to hers, kissing her as tears fell and he moaned, “Elizabeth! Oh God! I… I love you so much!” He ran fingers over her face, kissed her repeatedly, all the while sobbing as hushed endearments fell in a torrent.

Why is he crying? Nothing made any sense and her head was exploding. She weakly reached her left hand up to his cheek and then into his hair, but the effort to do so was colossal. “William, my head hurts.”

He recoiled as if stung by a wasp. “Oh, my love! Of course it does. Forgive me!” He launched out of the bed, hastily pulled the servant’s cord, and busied himself at something on the bed stand. Before she could manage turning her head fully in his direction, he was beside her on the bed, gently lifting her in his arms to a sitting position. “Here, my love, drink this. It is laudanum. It will ease the pain.”

It tasted horrible and Lizzy had heard stories of opium users, but none of that mattered if the agony in her head and, she now discerned, from her right foot, was relieved. Peripherally she was aware of how marvelous it was to have her husband’s sturdy arms around her and to be reclining against his firm, warm chest. Her memory was hazy, she was incapable of forming a coherent deduction, and she was assailed with lethargy and drowsiness. As the blanket of sleep fell over her, she struggled to look up into his face. He was smiling at her, blue eyes sparkling with joy.

She tried to smile, unsure if she was able to finagle it, whispering as her eyes fell shut, “William, I was frightened by a turkey. Is that not ridiculous?” 

Chapter Eighteen