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Elizabeth looked up to the house, panic seizing her throat. This was no longer a polite, awkward visit. This was a disaster.

Uncle Edward released a shuddering groan, his head falling back on the damp grass. “Madeline, my dear. I am afraid I cannot walk.”

Chapter Four: Assumptions and Apothecaries

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood before the expansive sash window of his bedchamber, his hands gripping the sill so tightly his knuckles leached of colour. A fresh linen shirt hung open over his chest, the delicate mother-of-pearl buttons ignored. Behind him, Fletcher maintained a steady patter regarding the relative merits of a sapphire-blue waistcoat versus a subdued slate-grey, oblivious to the catastrophe unfolding on the south-eastern lawn.

Darcy watched the disaster happen.

Bates careened around the corner of the terrace, carrying a tray, and then Apollo and Diana, Darcy’s usually obedient wolfhounds, charged after him, abandoning all dignity in favour of a baying pursuit. And then, with a sickening sense of inevitability, he saw Mr Gardiner step bravely into the fray.

The collision was violent enough to be felt through the windowpanes.

When Miss Elizabeth dropped to the grass, her scream—faint and muffled, yet unmistakable—pierced the tranquil air.

“Sir, if you would extend your left arm—” Fletcher held the slate-grey waistcoat aloft.

Darcy abandoned the window and ran. He threw open the door, ignoring his valet’s startled yelp, and took the staircase three steps at a time. His boots hammered on the marble floors, his unbuttoned shirt billowing behind him.

He burst through the terrace doors and sprinted across the lawn. The scene was a medley of crushed biscuits, lemonade, and panic. Miss Elizabeth knelt in the grass, her yellow gown soaking up the spilt refreshment. Mr Gardiner lay flat on his back, his face an ashen grey, his breathing shallow and tight with agony.

Bates sat uninjured amidst the wreckage, staring at the shattered crystal jug with horror. The wolfhounds, possessing the attention spans of gnats, had abandoned the biscuits and were running to the treeline in joyous pursuit of a startled pheasant.

Darcy kneeled beside Miss Elizabeth, his attention fixed on the trembling woman beside him and the injured man on the ground.

“Mr Gardiner.” Darcy kept his voice low, projecting a calm authority he did not feel. He carefully examined the unnatural angle of the older man’s right boot. “Do not attempt to move the leg, sir. The ankle is badly twisted.”

“It was the dogs, sir.” Bates scrambled backwards, his voice cracking into a high-pitched whine. “The dogs and the tray, and the gentleman stepped into the path of destruction!”

Darcy shot the footman a look of such freezing fury that Bates snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clicking together audibly.

Footsteps sounded and Fletcher arrived, his chest heaving, his own cravat askew from his sprint. He took one look at Darcy’s half-dressed state, the injured gentleman, and the ruin of the tray, and adopted an expression of acute professional crisis.

“Fletcher. Bates.” Darcy rose to his feet, gesturing to Mr Gardiner. “We must move him indoors. Take his left side. I shall take the right. Support his weight; he must not put an ounce of pressure on that foot.”

Between the three of them, they managed to hoist the groaning man upright. Mr Gardiner was a substantial gentleman, and the journey across the lawn and up the terrace steps was a torturous, halting procession. Miss Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner followed closely behind, their faces etched with mirroring lines of worry.

Darcy guided them into the informal sitting-room, bypassing the grander, less comfortable state rooms. They lowered Mr Gardiner onto a long settee upholstered in green silk. The man sank into the cushions with a long exhale, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Darcy carefully eased the boot from Mr Gardiner’s right foot, taking care not to jostle the injured ankle.

“Send for Mr Donelson in Lambton,” Darcy snapped at a passing housemaid, who gaped at his unbuttoned shirt before dropping a curtsy and scurrying away. “And have someone saddle Orion for the errand. A gig will be too slow.”

The atmosphere was thick with tension and the coppery scent of fear.

Bates hovered near the doorway, his livery stained. “I am ruined. I shall throw myself into the lake. I am a menace to polite society. Forgive me, sir! Forgive me, madam! The hounds were monstrous, and my feet were treacherous!”

The incessant, whimpering apologies grated at Darcy’s frayed nerves.

“Bates.” His voice cracked like a whip in the quiet room. “You have done quite enough for one afternoon. Remove yourself from my sight this instant. Go to the kitchens and remain there until you are summoned.”

The footman flinched, his lower lip trembling before he executed a jerky bow and fled into the passage.

Darcy ran a hand through his hair, turning to assess Miss Elizabeth. She was standing by the fireplace, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. The vulnerability he had witnessed outside was now a wall of defensive fury.

“It was an accident, Mr Darcy.” Her voice was quiet, but it had an edge sharp enough to slice through solid oak. “My uncle stepped into his path. The boy was frightened by those beasts. You cannot discard him for a misfortune.”

Darcy frowned, bewildered by the attack. “I have sent him to the kitchens, Miss Elizabeth.”

“For now.” She lifted her chin, the movement a stark reminder of the parlour at Hunsford. “But when our carriage departs, you will cast him out. I know how men of your station operate. A servant proves inconvenient, and they are dismissed without a thought to their survival. You will not send him away without a proper character. I will not have my uncle’s accident be the cause of that boy’s ruin.”