He paused, then continued, his tone more measured. “Moreover, you mentioned experiencing a head injury some months ago, which the other doctors may not have fully considered. A subdural hematoma can develop slowly following trauma, particularly if the bleeding is gradual. This would explain the waxing and waning of your symptoms. The moments of clarity interspersed with sudden seizures and worsening headaches—these are more indicative of a clot than a tumour. The acute episodes, the confusion that comes and goes… they point to pressure building intermittently rather than a constant, growing mass.”
Darcy nodded slowly, absorbing this new perspective. “So, you believe my condition could be due to a clot pressing on my brain?”
Pembroke inclined his head. “Precisely. And if that is the case, there is a chance—however slim—that we could alleviate your suffering through surgery. The procedure would relieve the pressure and potentially offer you some relief. It is not without risks, as I have said, but if it is indeed a clot, the surgery might offer you more hope than if we were dealing with a tumour.”
Darcy’s heart pounded. “What manner of surgery?”
Pembroke drew in a deep breath. “Trepanation. It is an ancient practice, but we have perfected it somewhat in recent years. We would bore a small hole into your skull to relieve the pressure. However, Mr Darcy, I must caution you: you may well have waited too long. The procedure itself is dangerous—there is a significant risk that you could die on the table.”
“And if we do nothing?”
Pembroke cleared his throat. “Sir, with the increasing severity of your symptoms, I should say your time is… rather limited at best.”
Mr Bennet shifted beside him, his face a mask of concern. Darcy glanced at him, then back at Pembroke, his resolve firm. “I will take that risk, Doctor. I would rather die trying to live than linger in this… half-state, in which I will die, anyway. Let us proceed.”
Pembroke nodded, his expression grave. “Very well. We shall prepare at once. I will have you taken to my surgery.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. The decision was made, and there was yet hope—hope for a life, a future that had all but been snatched from him, and the prospect of a new tomorrow with the woman he loved. For Elizabeth… yes, it was worth the chance. Worth risking the terror of perishing this very hour rather than lingering into a slowly sinking abyss with her helplessly looking on.
When he opened his eyes, he found Mr Bennet staring at him, his gaze steady. “Tell Elizabeth… tell her I am doing this for us.”
Mr Bennet nodded, his hand resting on Darcy’s shoulder. “I will, lad. She will understand.”
Darcy managed a faint smile, a flicker of hope lighting his weary eyes. “I pray that she does.”
Elizabeth paced the lengthof her small room in the inn, her hands twisting the fabric of her gown, her mind consumed with dread. Each step was a torture, each tick of the clock on the mantel a cruel reminder of the time passing. She could not bear to sit, not when the vision of Darcy lying on a surgeon’s table played endlessly in her mind. The thought of him never waking, of his eyes never opening again to meet hers, sent a fresh wave of terror through her. She had known fear before, but nothing like this.
He had come to her just before leaving for the surgery, his face pale but determined. He had taken her hands, brought them to his lips, and kissed her with a tenderness that left her breathless. It could be the last time, she realised, as a cold shiver ran down her spine. The last time she would ever feel his touch, hear his voice, see the soft light in his eyes when he looked at her. Her breath hitched, and she sank to her knees beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in prayer.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, God, do not take him from me. Not now. Not when we have only just begun.” Tears streamed down her face, and she pressed her forehead to the mattress, her body trembling with silent sobs. All the other troubles—the flooding in Meryton, Wickham’s threats, Sir Anthony’s schemes, Charlotte’s despair, and even the irritation of Mr Collins looming as a future brother-in-law—all of them seemed so small, so insignificant, compared to the thought of losing Darcy.
The hours dragged on with excruciating slowness. She tried to distract herself, picking up her embroidery only to put it down moments later, her hands too shaky to hold the needle steady. She poured herself a cup of tea, but the mere thought of swallowing made her stomach twist. Pacing had become her only solace, her only way to keep from descending into utter panic.
A knock sounded at the door, and she flew to it, her heart pounding. She flung it open to find her father standing there, looking worn and weary. She searched his face desperately, trying to read any sign of what news he had brought. “Papa?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “Is he…?”
Mr Bennet stepped inside, his face lined with exhaustion, his hat in his hand. He moved slowly, his fingers working the buttons of his greatcoat, which he tossed onto the bed before sinking heavily into a chair. “Elizabeth,” he began, his voice thick with fatigue. “Sit down, my dear.”
She couldn’t stand the suspense. “No, tell me!” she cried, her hands wringing together. “Tell me the worst, even if I cannot bear it.”
He looked up at her, his eyes softening. “He is still alive,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth’s knees buckled with relief, and she collapsed into the chair opposite him, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her racing heart. “But… but how is he? What did the doctor say?”
Mr Bennet rubbed his temples, looking as though he had aged a decade in the last few hours. “It was a most horrifying procedure,” he admitted, his voice low. “I was permitted to witness from the back of the room, though I would not wish such a sight on my worst enemy. The surgeon, Pembroke, was thorough and meticulous. He knew what he was about. He believes he found the clot and relieved the pressure on Darcy’s brain.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached at the thought of Darcy enduring such an ordeal. “And now?” she pressed. “Is he in pain? Can he be moved? What is his condition?”
Mr Bennet sighed, his eyes meeting hers with a grim expression. “Darcy is in a great deal of pain, yes. They have given him laudanum to ease it, but the bleeding was severe, and he is weak. Pembroke says he must remain at the surgery for several days, perhaps a week, before he can be moved anywhere safely. They have to be certain there are no further complications, no new bleeding or infection. It is a delicate recovery, and any false move could prove fatal.”
Elizabeth felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over her. “But he will recover? Truly recover?”
Her father hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Pembroke believes he has a chance. A good chance. But he must rest, and we must be vigilant. It will take time, and there are no guarantees. But for now, he is alive, and that is more than I dared to hope for this morning.”
Tears welled in Elizabeth’s eyes, and she covered her face with her hands, overwhelmed with relief. “Thank you, Papa,” she whispered. “Thank you for staying with him.”
Mr Bennet reached across the space between them, taking her hand in his. “Before they began the procedure,” he said softly, “Darcy asked me to write to his cousin, a colonel stationed in Chatham. He wanted to make certain that his affairs were in order, particularly where you and his sister were concerned, just in case…”
Elizabeth’s breath caught at the thought of Darcy preparing for his own death, and she squeezed her father’s hand tightly. “Will you write to him?”
