He was a fool for not taking all the laudanum that she had let him take.
Hurt, hurt, hurt.
Be useful.
What mattered was the future, as little of it as there was.
Be useful.
Be useful.
Pain.
Darcy rolled side to side. The air was hot. He briefly closed his eyes, and he vividly saw Wickham again. The blood flowed out of his own chest. There was no sound, and there was no air. Towering oaks heavy with summer leaves. Wickham’s startled expression. A searing pain in his own chest.
Colonel Fitzwilliam shouted, “Shoot him, shoot him.”
The world wavered. He was in the pew of a church as Mrs. Wickham touched him; her hand was startlingly cold. She looked at him with those sparkling, smiling eyes. A few strands of hair fell out of that tight bun that she usually kept it in and tickled his chest. “Mr. Darcy, I believe that you can find something useful to do.”
The gun was hard in his hand. He couldn’t use it. Not this time. Wickham stood across from him. Things had to be different. The gun stayed in his hand, straining to be used.
Then all was disrupted by an earthquake. Someone had put ice on his shoulder. Shouting.
And then suddenly Darcy awoke.
Mrs. Wickham softly shook him, murmuring ‘wake up, wake up’. Her hands were freezing cold.
The dawn light streamed in through the window. Colonel Fitzwilliam had already dressed, and he looked as fresh as if he’d just come in from a parade ground. The doctor stood next to them.
“Arrived early,” he explained. “Thought I should lance your abscess first thing this morning. Has it burst on its own?”
“I doubt it,” Mrs. Wickham said. “It looked pointed but not on the verge of bursting when I changed the bandage during the night.”
“Well, let us see,” the doctor replied.
Probably woken by the noise, Georgiana came into the room, holding Mrs. Wickham’s younger child. “What is the matter!”
“Nothing is amiss,” the doctor said with a genial bow. “It is merely time to lance your brother’s wound. You ought to go to the other room, the sight is quite horrifying.”
Georgiana went pale, but then she got a stubborn and determined expression to her face, and she came close. “No, I must see. At least if it is permitted.”
Mrs. Wickham said, as she finished removing the poultice that had been tied under the bandage, “I think that is a quite decent idea.” She glanced at Colonel Fitzwilliam and said, “It is a part of life, and it is best, I think, for all to be exposed a little.”
“Keeping her too guarded has proven to hardly be of benefit,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied.
Darcy thought that there was rather more respect in his cousin’s voice towards Mrs. Wickham than there had been the previous day.
The doctor stared at the wound from several inches away.
“Very good,” he said after sniffing the wound and standing up. He set his thick black leather bag on the table and took out a long, curved knife. Darcy glanced at Georgiana to see if this was too much for her. Her lips were thin, but her expression was fixed and steady. Darcy felt proud of her.
Mrs. Wickham had taken her daughter back from Georgiana, and she bounced the girl up and down slowly, while studying Darcy’s wound. The expression on her face was serious, but not anxious.
The doctor bent to Darcy’s chest, and then he pierced the surface of the wound with the knife. There was only a little pain. A flood of thick white liquid flowed out, a little bit like when pressing a large pimple after it had been popped. The liquid was strongly admixed with blood, and there was a smell of musty cheese to it.
Darcy almost immediately began to feel less pain and pressure as the pus was soaked up by the linen bandage that had been placed on his stomach for that purpose.
After the flow of pus slowed to just a seep the doctor stood up with a satisfied expression on his face. “A good flow of laudable pus, and though I cannot see underneath it, I do believe that suppuration must have set in. Mr. Darcy, if your fever has not reduced itself by the afternoon call for me, otherwise I shall visit tomorrow morning to see the progress of the wound.”
