Page 11

Darcy stared at her, a cold, hollow ache blooming in the centre of his chest.

I know how men of your station operate.

She still believed he was a tyrant. Despite his polite behaviour, despite the lengths he was going to assist her family in this crisis, she still viewed him as an unfeeling monster who would throw a boy into the streets over a spilled jug of lemonade.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense register meant only for her ears.

“You think poorly of me, Miss Elizabeth. You always have.” He watched her swallow hard, her eyes darting away for a fraction of a second before returning to meet his. “Bates is the eldest son of a tenant who has farmed Pemberley land for three generations. His family suffered a poor harvest last autumn. He is clumsy, untrained, and he is a danger to my porcelain.”

Darcy paused, letting the silence stretch between them. “But he is Pemberley. And at Pemberley, our tenants are considered family. I would no more cast that boy out to starve than I would throw my own sister into the snow. He will remain employed here, clumsiness and all, for as long as he requires the wages. Do you understand me?”

The defensive fire left Miss Elizabeth’s eyes, a faint blush staining her cheeks. She looked away, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown.

“I—I apologise, sir.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I spoke in haste. I misjudged you.”

Before Darcy could assure her that he would gladly spend the rest of his life proving her misjudgements wrong, the sitting-room door opened.

Georgiana hovered on the threshold, her blue eyes wide with alarm. She took in the sight of the gentleman on the settee, the distressed ladies, and her brother’s dishevelled state.

“Fitzwilliam? The servants are saying there was an attack on the lawn.” She entered hesitantly, her hands clasped tightly before her.

Darcy gentled his tone, moving to his sister’s side. “No attack, Georgiana. A collision. May I present Mr and Mrs Gardiner, and their niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet. This is my sister, Miss Darcy.”

Miss Elizabeth executed a graceful curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Darcy. Though I regret the nature of our introduction.”

Georgiana returned the curtsy, her natural shyness overshadowed by concern. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Elizabeth. I only wish we were welcoming you under happier circumstances. Can we offer you anything? Blankets? Brandy?”

The click-clack of claws on the floor announced the return of the true culprits. Apollo and Diana trotted into the sitting-room, their tongues lolling happily, unbothered by the mess they had orchestrated.

Mrs Gardiner gasped, stepping behind her niece.

The hounds ignored the women, moving directly to the settee. Apollo nudged Mr Gardiner’s dangling left hand with a wet, inquisitive nose, while Diana rested her chin on the edge of the cushions, staring up at the injured man with soulful, unapologetic brown eyes.

Mr Gardiner, despite his pale complexion and obvious pain, released a weak chuckle. He reached down, scratching Apollo behind the ears. “Well, you are a pair of handsome devils, aren’t you? Though you possess the road manners of a runaway mail coach.”

Darcy felt a wave of relief wash over him. Mr Gardiner was not only sensible and well-mannered; he was good-natured.

Mrs Reynolds bustled into the room, followed by a maid carrying a tray—thankfully devoid of lemonade. The housekeeper took charge of the situation, ordering the maid to pour strong tea for the ladies while she expertly wrapped a block of ice in a linen towel.

“This will help with the swelling, sir,” Mrs Reynolds said, gently placing the cold compress on Mr Gardiner’s ankle. “Mr Donelson is an excellent apothecary. He will set you right in no time.”

The wait for the medical man stretched into an agonising forty-five minutes. Darcy retreated to the corner, allowing Fletcher to button his shirt and force him into an appropriate coat, refusing to leave to change properly. He needed to remain near Miss Elizabeth. He needed to ensure she did not bolt the moment the apothecary rendered his verdict.

Mr Donelson arrived, a brisk, no-nonsense man smelling of camphor and dried herbs. He examined the ankle with deft, probing fingers, ignoring Mr Gardiner’s sharp intakes of breath.

“It is a severe sprain, sir,” Mr Donelson announced, closing his medical bag. “The ligaments are badly wrenched, but there is no fracture. However, you must not bear weight on this foot under any circumstances.”

“For how long?” Mr Gardiner asked, his face tight.

“A week, at the minimum.” Mr Donelson adjusted his spectacles. “Ten days would be preferable. Complete rest, elevation, and cold compresses. If you attempt to walk on this before the swelling subsides, you will do permanent damage to the joint.”

The apothecary offered his instructions to Mrs Reynolds, bowed to the room, and departed as briskly as he had arrived.

Mr Gardiner sighed, running a hand over his face. “Well. This is a disaster. My dear Mr Darcy, you must summon our phaeton. Might I borrow one of your coachmen to drive us back to Lambton? He could bring it to the terrace doors. With some assistance, I believe I can manage the steps.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Darcy’s voice left no room for debate. He regarded Mr Gardiner, projecting every ounce of authority he possessed. “You heard the apothecary, sir. You are not to bear weight on that ankle. The journey back to Lambton, even in a well-sprung carriage, would be painful and detrimental to your recovery.”