“Do you want to die?” Elizabeth replied tartly.
The gentleman did not respond.
Elizabeth groaned. “That was a rhetorical question—” she turned to the girl, “Miss… uh, what is your name?”
“Darcy.”
“Miss Darcy!—And then you must be Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. My, my. George had a great deal to say aboutyou. Miss Darcy, bring a pair of scissors.”
The girl ran off to do her bidding, still holding Emily, and Elizabeth frowned at the crusted blood showing through Mr. Darcy’s bandage.
He glowered at her.
“I need a distraction,” Elizabeth said to him. “And I am going to use you. You clearly are not well cared for, and I have had a fair amount of experience treating gunshot wounds.”
Pallor combined with a determined look.
They stared at each other. Elizabeth kept a sweet smile.
He slumped into the sofa with a groan. He hissed as the movement caused additional pain. “Oh, do as you must. I have no right to denyyou.”
Elizabeth put her hand on his forehead.
Fevered already, but not worryingly high.
He breathed shallowly, but she thought that was from pain due to the wounds, and not a more serious cause. The question was whether this was a healing fever that would bring laudable pus or not.
Miss Darcy…Georgiana, that was her Christian name. Mr. Wickham had frequently spoken about the wrongs done to him by the family that he had grown up within.
The girl returned with the scissors and Emily. From the far more alive expression Miss Darcy had adopted, it was clear that her son had been right: Giving Miss Darcy a task to do was exactly what she needed.
Elizabeth sat right next to Mr. Darcy. She ignored the warmth of his body, the attractive shape of his exposed muscles, and the pleasant manly smell that was not disguised by the slight sourness from the bandages.
She cut the bandages open quickly and efficiently.
The wound sat in the middle of his chest, right over his breastbone. It oozed blood.
Miss Darcy whimpered and then stoutly refused to look towards the wound. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth in what looked like nausea.
It was difficult for Elizabeth to repress a smile at that reaction. She had once been disgusted by such things as well.
The injury had a musky smell, and the skin around was swollen red. It was a good sign when wounds quickly began to swell and become hot, rather than waiting many days.
“What did the doctor say about your case?” Elizabeth asked as she looked around for the new roll of bandages.
“The bullet broke two ribs and the breastbone,” the man soberly replied. “It is in deep and was too close to the heart to make any attempt to remove it.”
“You two gentlemen were quite serious about harming each other—Miss Darcy, call to the kitchen. We need vinegar or a strong wine, port or the like, to soak the bandages in before placing them back around.”
“There is no one in the kitchen,” Miss Darcy replied.
“Oh? Why ever not?” Elizabeth rose. “I do hope that the ordinary supplies are available. I suppose I must check myself.”
Miss Darcy pointed with a kind of fascinated horror at the open wound on her brother’s chest.
“Think nothing ofthat,” Elizabeth replied. “It is closed in enough that he’ll not bleed more than is salutary, and after how tightly you bandagedit—it was you? Yes, after that I dare say it will be good for the wound if it can drain freely for a few minutes.”
Another image of Wickham flashed before her. The way he looked as he told her to ignore her father’s refusal of permission.Come to Scotland with me.
