This would not do. He stumbled to the window, pushing it open to let in the crisp morning air. It bit at his skin, a brief reprieve from the heat in his skull. Leaning heavily against the sill, Darcy closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.
It was precious little reprieve. The sounds of Netherfield, still strange to him, grated on his frayed nerves. The house—Wickham’s house—felt stifling, its unfamiliar walls closing in with the weight of guilt and confusion. What was he even doing here?
He had told himself it was all about Bingley, seeing that his friend was not deceived. But now… what was it? He could probably think of it if that blasted gong stopped clanging inside his head.
Why should he care anymore about Wickham’s activities? What did it matter to him that Wickham had somehow stumbled into a fortune? He ought to be pleased… his father would have wanted that for George… he might even be relieved and delighted himself if… oh, hang it all. What was the problem in the first place?
The money. That was right, the money. Odd, that. A swift fortune, to be sure, but Wickham would not be the first man to have his living made by the death of a stranger.
A soft knock interrupted his spiralling thoughts. Darcy turned, wincing at the movement, and saw his valet, Giles, standing at the door.
“Sir, are you well?” Giles asked.
Darcy tried to keep his face composed, his headache raging at the intrusion of light from the hallway. “Quite well, Giles,” he lied, his voice strained. “The light... it is somewhat harsh this morning. A bit too much brandy last evening. Could you close the door, please?”
Giles quickly complied, stepping inside and gently shutting the door behind him. “Would you like a shave, sir?”
Darcy waved off the suggestion, his mind too clouded with pain to consider grooming. “No, Giles. Tell me, are Bingley and Wickham down at breakfast?”
Giles hesitated, clearing his throat. “They were called out early, sir. Some trouble in the village. They left their apologies and their direction in case you desired to join them later.”
Relief washed over Darcy, a small respite from his larger torment. “Very well. I shall remain in my room for another hour. Do not alert the household.”
Giles nodded and began to withdraw but then stopped, recalling something. “Sir, I have a letter for you. From Dr Westing in London.”
Darcy’s stomach tightened as he took the letter with trembling hands. “Thank you, Giles. You may go.”
Left alone, Darcy stared at the page, his vision blurring with the effort. He sank onto the bed, ripping open the letter, his heart pounding. The words swam before his eyes, the pain making it impossible to focus. He let the letter slip from his fingers, collapsing back onto the bed, his mind and body too exhausted to fight any longer. He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep off more of the megrim, but knowing that rest was a fleeting comfort in the face of such relentless agony.
Darcy woke to themuted sounds of voices outside his door, the once quiet hallway now alive with the daily noises of the maids. Groggily, he pushed himself upright, the megrim still pounding mercilessly in his skull. He had no sense of time—hours could have passed or mere minutes. His body felt heavy, his mind sluggish, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Giles was nowhere to be seen. Heavens, everyone would know he had been languishing abed all day! He struggled to his feet and gripped the bedpost until the room quit spinning. Perhaps it was not too late to salvage all appearances… He fumbled through the process of dressing himself, the simple act of finding his clothes feeling like a trek in the rocky Peaks. He tugged off his nightshirt, the cool air of the room biting at his bare skin and reached for his breeches.
As he tried to tug the fitted buckskin over his thighs and fasten the fall, his fingers trembled, his coordination failing him. In his haste, he noticed the letter he had dropped earlier, half-hidden beneath the edge of the bed. With a wince, he bent to retrieve it, the pain in his head surging with the movement. He sat back on the bed, the letter clutched in his hand, his breath shallow as he opened it once more.
This time, his eyes could focus, and he forced himself to read Doctor Westing’s words.
My dear Mr Darcy,
It is with the deepest regret that I read of your continued symptoms. You asked for recommendations to provide some comfort, but I note nothing we have not already tried.You may certainly speak with an apothecary to obtain morphine or laudanum, but I cannot promise any enduring relief. I fear you must indeed be afflicted with a tumour or perhaps another malignancy such as cerebral congestion.
Mr Darcy, I certainly advise you to seek a second or perhaps even a third opinion from someone learned enough to provide reliable counsel. However, I fear their diagnosis may be much the same. I entreat you to prepare yourself for the possibility that your time may be limited. Please know that I remain at your service and shall endeavour to provide whatever palliative care is within my power. My heartiest condolences, sir.
Yours most sincerely,
Dr Edward Westing
Darcy’s hands shook, the stark finality of the words sinking into him. The diagnosis he had been denying now loomed undeniable, each word a nail sealing his fate. He closed his eyes, swallowing against the rising tide of despair. How could it have come to this? He, who had always prided himself on his strength and resilience, was now reduced to this frail, suffering shell.
The voices outside grew louder, a reminder that life continued beyond his private torment. With a deep breath, Darcy forced himself to stand, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to pull him back down. He needed to present a composed front, to hide his weakness until he could return to his own turf—London, at least, or preferably, Pemberley. Slowly, methodically, he finished dressing, each motion a small victory over the debilitating pain.
Fully clothed at last, he took a moment to steady himself, clutching the bedpost for support. He could not afford to let anyone see him falter. He straightened, folding the letter and tucking it into his coat pocket. It seemed that he would have to decide, rather quickly, how to spend what time remained to him.
Elizabeth had paced thedrawing room all evening as Jane sat rigidly on the sofa. The clock ticked loudly in the silence, each passing minute amplifying the tension of waiting. Mama and the rest of their sisters had long since gone to bed, but Jane and Elizabeth had been waiting for hours, the long shadows of their evening candles stretching across the floor.
Finally, the sound of the front door creaking open broke the stillness. Mr Bennet and Mr Collins stepped inside, their clothes muddied and their expressions weary.
“Mr Bennet, I must insist, had we only followed my suggestion to divert the stream—” Mr Collins began, his voice quivering, “—the matter might have been resolved in mere moments, and we would not have been so put out over the effort.”
