“But now thou’rt cold to me, Robin Adair. And I no more shall see, Robin Adair. Yet he I lov’d so well. Still in my heart shall dwell, Oh! I can ne’er forget, Robin Adair.”
Darcy wiped at his eyes.
When Mrs. Wickham stopped singing Darcy opened his eyes, and said, “You must feel that strongly to sing it so.”
“No.” She looked at the window, then shook her head. “I did once. That is why it is what I always sang to Emily to put her to sleep. But hardly…maybe again. Maybe again. He is dead, and I hardly know. But I think he has already left my heart.”
“Might you sing again?” Darcy asked, “But not Robin Adair, I do not think my heart could bear to hear it again.
Mrs. Wickham held her daughter in her arms, and she lightly swayed back and forth. “Now that I have sung Emily to sleep, I must sing you to sleep as well? Miss Darcy, can you play Bluebells?”
Georgiana’s fingers immediately began the tune, and Darcy closed his eyes.
“O where and O where does your highland laddie dwell; He dwells in merry Scotland where the bluebells sweetly smell, and it’s oh, in my heart I loved my laddie well.”
After she finished, Emily started fidgeting in her sleep, and Mrs. Wickham started to sing Hush-a-bye baby, and as the cradle fell and came down, baby and all, Darcy fell asleep.
Chapter Four
Darcy’s dreams were vivid, mixed with the pain in his chest, and memories of the look on Wickham’s face as he fell. When he was lightly shaken awake, for a time he had no sense of where, or even what, he was.
Mrs. Wickham’s hair glowed softly in the dim candlelight. “I must change your bandages once more.”
There was no one else in the room.
She undid the knot for the bandage and pulled him slightly up so that she could remove the bandage out from under his back. The young woman was startlingly strong.
The roll of bandages that she removed from his chest was infused with a dark substance that Darcy could not see clearly due to the dim light.
She said, “I will be using vinegar again this time.”
There was a sharp pain when the astringent liquid was pressed onto the wound. Every other sensation was crowded away by the pain. Darcy had readied himself for the sensation this time. He did not hiss in pain, and Darcy thought there was little sign of discomfort in his expression. He struggled to keep his breathing slow and even.
“You know,” Mrs. Wickham said conversationally as she wrapped the long piece of linen around him several times, “It is quite like the habits of a savage to think that not showing any sign of pain is a valorous thing.”
Each time she pulled the line of linen under him, she had to press her hand against his naked side and chest in a quite intimate manner.
Her hand was cold on his fevered skin.
“You mean to say that I am a savage,” Darcy said, “and that this is of a piece with murdering your husband.”
“No matter what those who oppose the practice say, a fair duel is not the same as murder—itwasa fair duel? All snug. Now remain this way, and I shall feed you the broth. And if you eat it all, I will be magnanimous and permit you a few dry crackers to accompany the broth.”
Darcy laughed and then hissed with pain from how his ribs bent.
“No, no. No laughing—you are not permitted to laugh.” Her smile made things better.
“You must be the favorite of all your patients.”
She laughed. “I make an effort.”
They smiled at each other. Then Darcy said, “Yououghtto despise me.”
“Youdespise yourself sufficiently for both of us.”
“I do not only despise myself,” Darcy replied, darkly. “Though it is contrary to my principles, and what I think I owe religion, I also have a deep satisfaction in knowing that I killed a man for a cause that every gentleman will agree was just. Yet, I did wrong.”
“Am I now your confessor?” Mrs. Wickham asked as she gave him a spoonful of broth. It had an ample seasoning of salt. “But even if you delight a little in the memory and consequences, you far more strongly wish that it had never happened.”
