As Elizabeth stepped towards the kitchen, George went over to stand next to the sofa so that he could stare at the open wound on the reclined man’s chest. While Elizabeth of course did not keep the boy with her on those occasions when she had hired out as a sick nurse, he’d been allowed to visit sick rooms often enough that he had little of fear or disgust of such sights.
“Leave Mr. Darcy alone, and come with me,” Elizabeth said.
“But, Mama!”
There was a bite to his tone that promised a tantrum if Elizabeth was not careful.
She did not think he would throw himself on the ground and bang his head against the floor in an unfamiliar house, but she could not be confident that he would not. They were all tired and hungry after the long stagecoach from London.
“We’ll get you a bite in the kitchen.”
“Wanna stay.” George stared in delighted fascination at the wound. He asked Mr. Darcy, “Did you really get shot?”
“George.” Elizabeth’s tone was sharp.
She realized that she half wished to have a fight with her child to relieve her feelings.
Wickham’s soft eyes in the candlelight. The way he touched her the night after they’d sworn their oaths before the blacksmith.
Do not think about that.
George began to walk towards her from the sofa. Thank God he was simply obeying her this time.
“He can stay,” Mr. Darcy said. “I do not mind. Yes, I was shot. What is your name?”
George’s face lit up at being taken so seriously by the gentleman, and he immediately returned to the gentleman’s side.
Well. Well. Well.
Elizabeth went to the kitchen, followed by Miss Darcy, who still held Emily. For her part Emily babbled cheerfully but incoherently at Miss Darcy.
“Why are there so few servants—a financial calamity?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, no. Fitzwilliam dismissed them all when he arrived. He was angry that they had known about Mr. Wickham—but Sally had only been hired two days before, and she did not know anything. He said he’d marry me. You really were married to him?”
“Were. The past tense, now. Yes, Iwasmarried to him.”
Tears are useless.
Elizabeth made herself laugh. “Death did us part—do you know if he has been buried yet?”
Miss Darcy looked at her queerly.
Elizabeth clenched her fist. She only had cause for happiness. Given that she had not actually expected Mr. Wickham to ever resume family relations with her, or to provide any substantial support, this strictly improved her situation, as she now could marry again.
Miss Darcy bounced Emily, “And she is his? She really is? She looks like him.”
The situation was such that Elizabeth forgave Miss Darcy for the questions that could be taken easily as aspersions on her character.
All absurd. Papa would have thought a situation like this, with her changing the bandage of the man who’d killed her husband, to be worthy of a novel. Though Papa would have assumed that any such novel must be a bad one.
The kitchen stunk. A side of rotten beef sat on the counter. The maid who had survived Mr. Darcy’s high dudgeon sat doing nothing amidst the mess of spilled broth, scattered firewood, and broken shards of crockery.
“Do you know where the camphor and spirit of turpentine is?” Elizabeth asked the maid.
“I don’t know anything.”
“Nor do you do very much.”
