vaguely remembered falling from his horse and being brought to some sort of theme park where the employees all wore old-fashioned costumes.
Turning his head, Darcy looked at his right arm, curious to discover the cause of the itchy, tingling sensation. He was horrified to see three glistening black leeches, each the size of his thumb, greedily sucking at the soft flesh on the inside of his forearm, which was suspended over a porcelain basin containing several more of the engorged nightmare creatures.
Darcy’s scream of terror immediately brought a white-haired gentleman wearing a bloody apron to his bedside. “There, there, sir!” said the startled old gentleman. “Steady now. As your physician I must caution you against any abrupt—”
“What the hell are those
“Sir, you were badly in need of bleeding to reduce the dangerous humours occasioned by your injury,” the doctor patiently explained.
Finding that he was too weak to sit up, Darcy again interrupted the man by screaming, “Get them off of me! Now!” His eyes darted wildly about the room, seeking someone to help him, but he saw that he was alone with the demented old man. “Get them off!” he again ordered.
Obviously distressed by the vehemence of his patient’s outburst the doctor quickly removed the leeches from Darcy’s arm and retreated, muttering, with his horrible basin to the far corner of the room.
At that moment the bedroom door flew open and a handsome, middle-aged man entered. He was wearing a splendid tailcoat of wine-colored velvet over spotless doeskin breeches tucked into a pair of gleaming knee-high boots. Peering through the doorway behind the new arrival Darcy glimpsed Jane, the pretty brunette, and a taller, slightly older blonde woman.
“Everything all right, Hudson?” The man in the velvet coat had a pleasant, cheerful voice and the tenor of his question suggested he might have been asking if the tea was satisfactory.
“No! Everything
Darcy broke off his complaint to take a closer look at the odd assemblage in their long dresses and funny suits. They were all staring at him as if he was mad. “Who are you people anyway?” he demanded.
“Sir, I beg you to remain calm,” said the handsome gentleman in the tailcoat. He stepped forward and bowed slightly at the waist. “My name is Edward Austen,” he continued, “and upon my word as a gentleman, Mr. Hudson is an eminent member of the Royal Academy of Medicine.”
Stepping over to the white-haired man, Edward Austen placed an approving hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Hudson has for years been entrusted with the care of my own dear family and is of the highest repute,” he assured Darcy.
“Your confusion of the moment is understandable for you have suffered a severe blow to the brain, which has temporarily addled you, sir. But for your own welfare you must remain calm.”
Darcy struggled to sit up in the soft featherbed but Mr. Hudson rushed over and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Please, sir!” he cautioned. “The bleeding will have made you quite lightheaded. Now, if you will just lie back quietly while I stitch up your wound with cat’s gut—”
His eyes widening, Darcy feebly pushed the old man away. “Cat’s gut!” he moaned. “Are you insane? Let me up!” He rose a few inches from the pillows, and then fell back, unconscious.
The other occupants of the room gaped as Mr. Hudson walked quickly to a small table and returned with a large, curved sailor’s needle and a length of twisted suture material and began expertly sewing up the large gash in Darcy’s forehead.
“My word!” Edward exclaimed, peering over the doctor’s shoulder. “He is indeed completely out of his head, is he not, Hudson?”
“Not unusual following an injury of this sort, sir,” the elderly gentleman replied as he continued to stitch with swift, practiced movements. “Complete rest and quiet is what he wants now.”
Hudson paused to fish a new piece of cat’s gut from the silk waistcoat beneath his apron. He wet the end with his tongue and threaded it into the needle.
“He’s a lucky fellow,” Hudson chuckled as he resumed his needlework on Darcy’s head. “Fainted
Averting her eyes from the doctor’s gruesome task, Cassandra raised her voice to ask a timid question. “Do you think he will recover, then, Mr. Hudson?”
“Oh, I should think so,” Hudson replied. He bent to bite off the end of the last suture, then crossed the room to dip his bloody hands in a basin of water. “He’s a strong, healthy fellow,” the doctor continued.
He winked at Cassandra. “Someone will have to keep an eye on him, though, lest he decide to go walking. Great care should be taken to keep him abed until the bleeding has stopped.”
“You may rely on it, Hudson,” Edward volunteered, stepping forward. “We have not yet located the friends he mentioned, but the moment Jane told me his name and the place he comes from I knew who this man Darcy was.”
Hudson folded his bloody apron away and raised his bushy white eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed, sir?”
While this conversation was taking place, Darcy, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness, and who was by now more than half-convinced he was trapped in a bizarre nightmare from which he would soon awake, opened his eyes. He touched the freshly sutured gash on his forehead and winced in pain. At the sound of his name he turned to look at the others who were gathered by the door, unaware that he was listening in on them.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy is a wealthy American with a great estate in Virginia,” Edward was telling the doctor. “I know this because my younger brother’s bank, in which I have a considerable personal investment, has, I recall, transacted letters of credit for a client who each year purchases several fine horses from this Darcy’s farm, for use on his own plantation.”
“An American? How extraordinary!” exclaimed the doctor. The old gentleman turned to glance back over at the bed where Darcy lay listening with his eyes tightly shut, so the others would believe him to still be unconscious.
“The man’s being an American would explain his rather odd clothing and that peculiar timepiece he wears on his arm,” Mr. Hudson observed with a chuckle. “I daresay we haven’t been treated to many Yankee fashions since the ingrates rebelled back in 1776.”
Bewildered by this talk of the year 1776, which Hudson’s tone seemed to indicate had been fairly recent, Darcy peered through slitted eyes at his gold wristwatch, which seemed to fascinate these people. Then he covertly scanned the bedroom again, searching for electrical outlets or fixtures, or some other sign of modern times, but could find none. He quickly resumed his unconscious act as footsteps approached the bed.
Edward Austen stopped at the footboard and leaned over for a better look at his helpless guest. “American or not,” he told Hudson, “this fellow Fitzwilliam Darcy is a wealthy and powerful man. And he shall receive nothing but the most considerate treatment at my hands.”
“Commendable, sir,” the doctor harrumphed. “Quite good of you.”
“I should like to move the man to larger, more comfortable accommodations at my manor house as soon as possible,” Edward suggested.
Mr. Hudson frowned at that. “Considering the gentleman’s present state of unconsciousness, I would prefer to wait and see how he fares through the night,” he said.
The physician cast a glance at Jane and Cassandra, who were still hovering near the door. “That is, of course,” he told Edward, “if your sisters do not object to his remaining here until he may be safely moved.”
Without waiting for Edward’s reply, Jane stepped forward. “Certainly we could entertain no thought of turning out a rich and powerful gentleman,” she said, smiling at her brother, “especially one who might possibly become a favored client of our dear brother’s new bank.”
Jane turned to Cassandra for affirmation of her statement. “Could we, Cass?”
Cassandra smiled and shook her head. “Certainly not,” she replied. “Poor Mr. Darcy shall be welcome in our home for as long as need be.”
“Then it is settled,” Jane told the two men. “Cassandra and I will watch over our American guest with the
