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He shrugged, and she understood. What did it matter? The house was likely open in readiness for the couple. If they said Mr and Mrs Bingley had directed them there, if she were bold enough and self-assured enough, perhaps it would work. Certainly, it might buy them time for Bingley and Jane to arrive. And if it did not…they would find a nearby inn and await the advent of the Bingleys.
“James, Mr Frost, I am certain you, also, must gather your belongings if you mean to take this journey with us to Brighton—or so I hope. Please go quickly to obtain what you will need. If it is possible that you are also able to gather Mr Darcy’s necessities, it would be much appreciated.”
“The master’s things be packed, still, and his trunks here in the loft since Ramsgate,” Frost replied. “I didn’t trust any at the Lodge, nor that Stimple fellow none, what with the master’s travel roll within it besides. Decided they may as well be kept for him when next he needed ’em.”
Then amazingly—to her, at least—they swiftly obeyed her directives, disappearing, one into the house and the other to his rooms above the stables. She gingerly sat beside Mr Darcy, lending him the support of her body, just as she had on that night—was it only a few nights past? It seemed years ago. And when he took her hand within his larger one, she experienced a thrill that had nothing to do with fleeing Lady Catherine and her henchman, and everything to do with her own reckless affection.
Here was a man who, horribly wounded, nevertheless refused to wait abed for feckless fate and foolish family to make his choices for him. He would live as he chose, or he would die trying. How could she not admire him?
He dropped her hand when James returned, Mr Frost right behind him. But where was Georgiana? Surely she would not be dawdling over her belongings, deciding which dresses she ought to bring? But the mystery was quickly unfolded when Bertie, the footman on duty, appeared in the stables, leading a horse.
Mr Darcy leant out and, taking one look at the beast, swore—and not, she thought, unintentionally. When the boy was close enough, he, Frost, and James exchanged a few words. One of the stable lads took the horse. Bertie ran back to the house, and the two men approached.
“It be the colonel’s mount, as ye see,” Frost said.
Mr Darcy nodded.
“Miss Darcy told Bertie to tell ye to leave at once. She said she’d stall as long as she could and have her cousin take her to the earl to await your recovery once yer away. Ye must go, and quickly, else let the colonel decide what’s to be done.”
Lizzy saw the agonised expression on Mr Darcy’s face but also his resignation. Georgiana’s cousin…this must be the earl’s son, the one who had returned to his regiment rather than abide by his father’s plans to marry. Such actions did not seem as though he were in league with Matlock, but neither had he helped Mr Darcy.
“Can you trust him?” she asked.
He shrugged again, wincing at the effort. He was apparently unwilling to take the risk. “Must…press on.”
He had not heard, of course, of the earl’s threats to force a wedding; Georgiana now showed a willingness to sacrifice everything to save Mr Darcy. Mercilessly, Lizzy quelled her concern. The girl’s best chance for freedom was the restoration of her brother’s health. This colonel had evaded matrimony once, and it was to be hoped he could continue to do so.
She looked to James. “Did you tell Mrs Taylor where we are headed?”
He shook his head in the negative.
No one in the house would know their direction, then. She took a deep breath. “Well, gentlemen, let us be on our way, as Mr Darcy has ordered.”
She had assumed James would seat himself beside Mr Darcy, and she moved to sit across from him, but he only put up the step and shut the door. She felt the tilt of the vehicle as he climbed to sit beside the coachman.
And then they were away.
* * *
The carriage had cushions of velvet, the most luxurious, spacious vehicle Lizzy had ever travelled within. Nevertheless, Mr Darcy could not be comfortable. He leant forward, probably trying to avoid putting pressure on his wounds. He had not bothered with cravat or waistcoat but had thrown a heavy long coat over shirt and trousers. The pressure of the dense wool upon his wounds must be agonising.
“Shall I help you remove this?” she asked, now heedless of propriety, reaching over to pluck lightly at the fabric.
He nodded once, curtly, and she carefully tugged it off; he made a weak effort to help, but his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. Lizzy gasped. The white linen of his shirt was smeared in bloody blotches, turning the fabric bright red.
And yet all she could do was close the shades so no one might glance within and see. It was still early, but as soon as they departed the quiet neighbourhood, they would be in the thick of London traffic.
As they plodded along, Mr Darcy held his head in his hands, elbows braced upon his knees, teetering unsteadily, clearly miserable and possibly holding onto consciousness or the contents of his belly by sheer will. How to make him comfortable—or as comfortable as possible—in a coach suddenly grown too small? He should have the whole seat…but could he lie down with his back so torn?
The coach hit a hole in the road, jouncing them both—but throwing the off-balance Mr Darcy against the wall of the carriage, and he let out a cry, quickly cut short, as if he stopped himself from screaming.
She must try to help. Moving off her seat, she wedged herself as close to the carriage wall as possible. “Lie on your side, Mr Darcy.”
He turned to watch her, meeting her eyes. His were fathomless dark pools of agony.
She pushed gently on the front of his left shoulder. “Use me as a cushion,” she instructed. “I will do my best to keep your back from touching.”
For several moments, he only looked at her, and she realised how much he hated this weakness, this inability to be whole and healthy, being forced to accept her aid. He might refuse, she thought. He might choose to suffer instead.
