Mrs. Wickham helped him slowly sip from the cup of water without having to sit up.
The broken ribs ached, the wound hurt and hurt, gnawing into his brain, and often when he took a breath there was a sharp pain.
When he’d drunk the water, Mrs. Wickham put a cold hand on his forehead, and she nodded. “Not too high—I’ll return in half a second. Stay here, George, and don’t bother Mr. Darcy.”
Mrs. Wickham quickly walked out of the room.
Darcy’s eyes involuntarily followed the swaying of her dress around her legs and her easy stride. She had a light and pleasing figure, with excellent eyes. It was pleasant to think about something besides the pain.
It surprised Darcy that a gaping wound in his chest, laudanum, and that Mrs. Wickham was serving as his nurse were not all sufficient to prevent his strong awareness of how profoundly appealing she was as a woman.
It showed the depths of his depravity, to think of the beauty of a woman whose husband he had murdered in hot blood.
As soon as Mrs. Wickham left the room the little boy smiled at him. His expression painfully reminded Darcy of the face of Mr. Wickham when they had both been young and dear friends. “Mama said it was my father who pinked you.”
“Pinked me? Oh, you mean who shot me.” Darcy looked at the boy’s cheerful countenance. It was not his place to tell him, if he did not yet understand, but Darcy had to ask. “Do you realize that it was your father whom I killed?”
“Oh, yes. I know. We saw him at the church. The hole was much bigger on his back than in the front. Did you know that guns did that?”
“I did.”
“I don’t mind that you popped him. I can now tell the fellows thatmypapa got killed in a duel. And that he pinked his man. They’ll all be envious that I sawbothwounds. He stood the line, didn’t he?”
Good God, I must have hit him.Wickham’s voice from across the clearing. The look in his eyes as Darcy raised the pistol and took the second to properly sight the pistol before shooting.
“He was not a coward,” Darcy replied. He found himself suddenly on the edge of tears.
“That’s even better than actually having a papa.”
Perhaps perceiving Darcy’s confusion, the young boy added, his eyes wide and sincere and painfully like Wickham’s, “No one will make fun of me forthat.”
Darcy could not reply.
Wickham had been a sweet child. Spoiled but full of authentic delight in cookies and running and games and laughter. When had he become the man who would call the girl whose virtue he had just taken a slut in front of her horrified brother?
“Tell me how you did for him! Tell me, please!”
“You can hardly wish to hear that tale.”
The boy stuck his tongue out. “Was it like this?” George tapped his chest and moaned ‘Ohhhhh’. He pretended to fall towards the floor and then grimaced and forced himself to stand up. He made a gun with his fingers and pulled back the thumb like it was the cock of the pistol before pulling the imaginary trigger and making a vaguely gunshot like sound.
“No,” Darcy replied. “I was staggered but never near falling. I only perceived the pain after I made my shot.”
“Woah.”
Mrs. Wickham returned carrying a tray with a collection of wet bandages with steam lightly rising from them. They had a pleasant smell ofchamomile. There also was another bowl of the broth that the doctor had said was all that he could eat for at least two weeks.
“A poultice of chamomile and comfrey this time.” Mrs. Wickham said, “And now let me see.”
She undid the tie on the bandages and removed them. The pile of linen was soaked through with fresh blood, and a yellowish fluid.
“Not too bad. It’s already entered the inflammatory stage. We’ll hopefully see the beginnings of a laudable pus tomorrow. How do you feel?”
“Feverish and it hurts, just a little,” Darcy replied.
Mrs. Wickham laughed at that.
“You speak like a doctor,” Darcy added.
