The study.
She did not knock.
She flung the door open and froze.
Mr. Bennet and Stephens were in an embrace, their lips on one another’s. At her entrance, they sprang apart as though theyhad been burned. Her father’s face was pale—then red—and his voice rang out sharper than she had ever heard it.
“Lizzy! What have I always told you? Youmustknock on the door!”
She blinked, too stunned to speak. Her father never shouted. Never.
But the panic returned, sharper than before, and her words tumbled out in a rush. “It’s Mark—he fell—he is hurt—it is really bad—Papa, come quick!”
Mr. Bennet was already moving. “Where is he?”
“Near the old elm by the north wall,” she said breathlessly, turning and running. “Please hurry!”
“Stephens!” her father called as he followed. “Send someone for Mr. Jones. Tell him to bring his son and his splints!”
He kept pace with her easily despite his age, his boots pounding against the packed earth path that led through the orchard. “What happened?” he asked.
“William was shaking the limb,” Elizabeth said. “He was laughing—he said it would be a fun ride—but then the branch broke and Mark fell. He landed funny. His arm—it is hanging all wrong.”
Her voice caught, and she bit her lip hard. She could not cry now. She had to help.
Mr. Bennet’s expression grew grim. William had been surly since returning home for the summer from Westminster, where he had just finished his second year of school. Mr. Bennet hadattributed his behavior to the typical attitude of fourteen-year-old boys.
But this…this was something more than youthful angst.
They found them near the tree—Mark crumpled on the ground, sobbing, Jane kneeling beside him, and William standing a few paces off with his arms folded, face sullen.
Mr. Bennet knelt immediately. “Mark, I have you,” he murmured, carefully lifting the boy into his arms. Mark whimpered in pain, his left arm limp and bent unnaturally.
“William, follow,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “Now.”
William obeyed with a scowl, his hands shoved into his pockets.
Back at the house, Mr. Jones and his son arrived swiftly. The elder Jones looked weary from the ride; the younger, a little older than thirty-five, carried a leather case with practiced ease. They set Mark in the nursery, and the young doctor took over, examining the arm with firm, competent hands.
“A clean break,” he said after some time. “Upper radius. We will need to set the bone and bind it in a splint. He will recover fully, but the pain will be considerable for a few days.”
Mark whimpered again as they worked, his face pale with tears. Jane held his hand tightly. Elizabeth stood at the foot of the bed, fists clenched so hard her fingernails dug into her palms.
The binding was methodical. First, the bones were carefully aligned, and then stiff wooden splints, wrapped in linen and padded with wool, were bound tightly against Mark’s arm. Theyounger Jones checked the fingers, ensuring blood flow had not been cut off, then nodded in satisfaction.
“He is quite fortunate. It could have been much worse.”
When they were gone, Mr. Bennet summoned the remaining three children into the drawing room.
He stood before the fireplace, arms crossed. “Now,” he said, his voice measured, “I want to know what happened.”
William gave a shrug. “It was just an accident.”
Elizabeth stepped forward, fists still clenched. “It was not!”
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“He tried to kill Mark,” she said fiercely.
