his lips. “Drink slowly, as much as you can. That's it, very good…”
While Lizzy continued in her gentle ministrations to the stricken man, Darcy pulled Mr. Anders aside. “We need to leave this place as soon as possible, Mr. Anders. Phillips requires a physician. Are we closer to Clowne or Whitwell?”
“Clowne is nearest and not as remote, sir. If they do not have a doctor there, Staveley and Eckington are both within a few miles.”
Darcy nodded, thinking. “It is likely unwise to move him, but I do not wish to stay here.” He scanned the area with piercing eyes. “Obviously they were alone, as no others have come to the scene, but I would rather not risk it. Mrs. Darcy must be away from this place.” He paused. “Do you have any rope?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Restrain these two firmly, hog tied and secured to the wagon.” he gestured toward the still unconscious Lou and Clyde. “I will gather the firearms and reload just to be prepared. I will require your assistance placing Phillips into the carriage. Then I want you to take one of the robber's horses and run fast into Clowne. Summon a physician and alert the local constable. We will follow slowly so as not to enhance his injuries.” Mr. Anders jumped to obey his Master.
He glanced at his wife, softly crooning to the servant while daubing his forehead with a water-soaked napkin. He frowned. As thankful as he was at her calm focus, it seemed odd under the circumstances. His heart was yet racing with the frayed edges of panic barely mastered due to years of dealing with tragedy and stressful situations. A large part of him wanted to collapse with her in his arms, and the effort not to do so was enormous. How could she maintain her composure? He paused to observe her, realizing that nursing Phillips was as much a result of primordial instinct and concern as it was a diversion necessary to forestall crushing shock. He would need to carefully watch her. No stranger to the effects of shock, having seen it dozens of times in wives and families of men killed or injured, as well as experiencing it himself, he knew that it would consume her eventually.
Mentally adding it to his list, he turned to the urgent demands. Retrieving and loading the weapons was speedily done, Darcy tossing all but one of them onto the driver's bench alongside the sack containing their stolen property. The extra pistol was given to Mr. Anders so that he now carried two. Darcy glanced to the gruesome sight of Victor's body lying near the coach, but there was no time to shield the scene from his wife. A barely controlled sense of panic and fear impelled him to step quickly and vacate this locale as rapidly as possible.
Moving Phillips was not an easy task. Bodily, he was only two or three inches shorter than Darcy and nearly as broad in the shoulders. Darcy and Mr. Anders together struggled carrying his bulk, not to mention getting him into the carriage. Phillips screamed once when lifted and then abruptly fainted.
Lizzy discovered that her legs had lost all feeling, moving them a quandary. Couple that with the aching bruise to her backside and the intermittent, sharp pains to her lower abdomen which she continued to ignore, and Lizzy was in misery. With tears of pain stinging her eyes, she sluggishly battled to rise. Darcy, fortunately considering the current crisis, did not see her striving to move. By the time she joined him at the carriage, her legs were functioning and the other numerous aches and pains were tightly controlled and hidden.
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.
