He could not do it.
He could not raise his hand to her—not his little sister, not his mother’s daughter.
Perhaps Elizabeth read his expression, for she said, “We may ask Mrs. Obder. She has experience disciplining both her own children and the tenant school. I know she employs switches on occasion.”
“No.” The colonel’s voice was clear and resolute. “No, I will do it.”
Darcy’s head snapped toward him.
Fitzwilliam straightened in his chair, jaw tight. “I have wielded a whip many times, and for worse offenses. This will be less, and it will mean more if it comes from someone who loves her. She must see it as justice, not punishment from strangers.”
Darcy swallowed hard and gave a shallow nod. “Thank you.”
No one spoke after that.
Not for a long time.
After what seemed like an eternity within a moment, the silence was broken by a knock at the front door, followed moments later by the familiar voice of Mr. Jones. Mr. Bennet rose to greet him, and within moments, the apothecary had been ushered into the drawing room. His keen eyes went straight to Elizabeth’s arm, which still bore the blood-stained handkerchief pressed to the wound.
“Ah, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, frowning as he drew a small case from his bag. “Let us have a look.”
Darcy stood back and moved behind her, watching anxiously as Mr. Jones peeled the cloth away. Elizabeth winced but said nothing.
“Hmph,” Mr. Jones murmured. “Not terribly long, but it is deeper than I would like. A few stitches for safety’s sake. Best to avoid infection.”
He turned to retrieve a small needle and thread from his case, but when he reached for the laudanum bottle, Elizabeth shook her head at once.
“No, thank you.”
“My dear girl—”
“I would rather remain clear-headed,” she said firmly. “Please.”
Darcy clenched his fists as he watched her sit upright and grip the edge of the sofa, pale but determined. Her jaw tightened as the first stitch pierced her skin. Fitzwilliam stood like a statue by the fireplace, his eyes never leaving the scene. Mr. Bennet muttered something about the stubbornness of Bennet women and paced away.
It took a mere few minutes, but to Darcy, it felt like an hour. His eyes never left her face as she bit back her cries, only allowing a small tear trickle down her cheek. Fists clenched at his side, he fought the urge to embrace her, to hold her tight, to press his lips against her hair and whisper in her ear just how incredible he found her.
“There now,” said Mr. Jones said at last, wiping away the last bit of blood. “You have done well. I will leave you with some powders. Have them mixed with water and applied as a paste three times a day.”
He packed up his bag and gave them all a parting nod before taking his leave.
As the door shut behind him, Elizabeth stood slowly, her arm now bandaged in clean linen. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but steady.
“It will not grow easier if we wait, gentlemen. I propose we move upstairs.”
No one argued.
Darcy could scarcely breathe as Mr. Bennet went out the front door. A moment later he returned, holding a slim, flexible switch cut from the birch tree in the back garden—light, whippy, no thicker than a pencil.
Its very simplicity made it more dreadful.
Of course, Darcy had endured a few canings and a few beatings during his time at home and school. There was scarcely a child in all of England who had never felt the sting of a switch or a ruler or a belt on their bare backside.
But it was another thing entirely to do it to the young woman whom he once held in his arms as a babe.
The four of them climbed the stairs together—Elizabeth walking slowly but resolutely. Darcy trailed just behind her, his feet leaden. His gut churned as they reached the top landing of the third floor and turned toward the nursery wing.
They opened the door to see Georgiana curled on her bed, her face buried in the coverlet, her frame trembling. Darcy’s heart twisted at the sight. His baby sister—tall and elegant, yes, but still so painfully young—was crumpled like a discarded doll, weeping into the linens of a room she had deemed beneath her only days before.
