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“You were perfect,” Lizzy said. “Not arousing her suspicion was of the utmost importance. Mr Sharp will be sent away. Mr Darcy has a few hours of respite.”
“Yes,” Georgiana agreed.
“But only a few. We must get your brother away from here,” Lizzy said.
“To where, though?”
At that moment, James, looking very solemn and slightly green, exited the sickroom and took his place just beyond the door. Lizzy looked at Georgiana meaningfully then at the door to the nursery.
Georgiana straightened and made for the door. “We will see my brother,” she said firmly.
“Ah, miss, ’tis not fit for you to see,” James began.
For the first time, Lizzy saw a resemblance to her brother in Georgiana’s aristocratic—some would say, stubborn—expression. “I will see Fitzwilliam,” she demanded.
When the footman reluctantly opened the door, Georgiana took Lizzy’s hand, and they both entered.
He lay on his belly, motionless. The bedsheets had been changed, and he had been washed and redressed; his hair curled damply. He needed a shave, the shadow of his beard only thinly disguising the purpling bruises—the sole colour on his face.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana whispered, going to him, laying a hand upon his cheek. A tear fell, then another. She looked at Lizzy, then at Mrs Taylor, who appeared white-faced and grim.
“Do you have any means of reaching my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam? Footmen who have couriered messages to him before on my brother’s behalf? I have no idea if he is in London, but we must attempt it.”
“I can try, miss.”
“The earl could stop her. Unfortunately, he is doubtless at his country seat. Even an express will take a day or two to reach him.”
“We do not have days,” Lizzy said. “I do not know if Mr Darcy can survive one more night of Donavan’s ‘treatments’. We must stop them.” She turned to Mrs Taylor. “You do not know me, I know, but I believe I can help. Please, may I have the use of your stillroom?”
Mrs Taylor’s brows rose, but it was Georgiana who protested.
“Lizzy, my aunt will never allow you to treat Fitzwilliam instead of her doctor, as much as I wish she would. She will order you from the house if you try!”
But Lizzy had ceased listening; instead, she began examining the many bottles, pots, and decanters in the doctor’s medical case. Most were helpfully labelled. The ones that were not, she opened lids and sniffed. After withdrawing several items, she looked up at her audience. “She cannot order anyone to do anything if she is soundly sleeping.”
* * *
The extent of Mr Darcy’s wounds had, evidently, extinguished any possible objections the housekeeper’s might have offered to Lizzy’s ideas, and she—with a bit of encouragement from Georgiana—had mercifully agreed to Lizzy’s ‘plan’. It was rather simple—although she was not quite so confident in its success as she pretended. If Lady Catherine were of the same stature as Mrs Bennet, she would know exactly how much of the concoction she must ingest in order to achieve several hours of uninterrupted slumber. However, Mrs Bennet was much smaller, and what was more, she willingly swallowed any of Lizzy’s concoctions and asked for more. Lizzy could not force her ladyship to take the potion, nor could she risk giving her too much and causing illness.
“I have noticed your aunt’s fondness for sweetmeats. We will serve her these”—she pointed to a tray of small, prettily decorated marchpane cakes—“which have been infused with ingredients to encourage a deep slumber. Sharp did not question Mr Frost’s assertion that he is no longer needed, and as it is the Sabbath, Mrs Taylor hopes Donavan will not come—but we cannot take the chance. If he arrives, Mrs Taylor is going to inform him that Lady Catherine requires him to honour the day of rest and perform no work. It is my guess that he will welcome more sleep—he does not appear as one who customarily sacrifices so much for his patients.”
Georgiana made an unladylike noise of agreement.
“In the meantime, we will hope that Mrs Taylor’s messages reach your cousin while keeping your aunt, um, well rested. And we are certain your express to your uncle will bring results eventually.”
It was not an ideal plan on several counts. The Fitzwilliams had not proven to have Mr Darcy’s best interests at heart either—but at least they would not murder him. She had no notion of whether Colonel Fitzwilliam could be discovered or whether he would be any more helpful than his father had proven, if he was found. Mr Donavan might return early Monday morning and even try to insist upon resuming treatments—with or without Lady Catherine’s awareness. She had thought of asking for an express to be sent to the Bingleys in Brighton—they might have arrived there by now—but doubted whether it would do any good. Bingley could not stand against an earl, who had already been sent for. How long would it take Lord Matlock to receive the message and travel to London? A week? Did they have time?
* * *
The sweetmeats were served at tea. For once, instead of the ceaseless boredom such moments with Lady Catherine usually inspired, Georgiana, Lizzy, and even Mrs Taylor were transfixed by her every word. Well, at least upon her mouth as she swallowed. She was ignoring Lizzy’s cakes, however, in favour of biscuits.
Why did they put anything else out?Lizzy wondered. To her surprise, it was Georgiana who intervened.
With a look of desperation upon her face, Georgiana raised one of the small cakes to her mouth, taking a tiny nibble. “Oh, Mrs Taylor,” she enthused in an unnaturally shrill voice, “if this is not the most delicious marchpane I have ever tasted. Y-you must send my compliments to Cook.”
It accomplished her purpose. Lady Catherine’s eye fell upon the little cakes, snatching up a piece with alacrity.
“These are acceptably pleasant,” she noted after her fourth helping. “Mrs Taylor, you will provide the receipt for my cook.”
