Darcy nodded and spurred toward the bridge. A knot of men stood at the deer path entry with others spaced along the edge. There was no new information. Darcy nodded solemnly with jaw tightly clenched as he heeled Parsifal into the forest. He questioned every searcher he found as he made his way further along the trail. Several men gathered where the path met up with the ravine rim, carefully examining for any sign and shining their lamps into the deep shadows of the ditch. Suddenly the clear trill of a whistle sounded from further up the path. Darcy dashed to the site of some ten men grouped in a knot and was off Parsifal and over the brink so rapidly it was a miracle he did not break a leg.
Elizabeth’s body lay pressed against a fallen log at the edge of the creek. A stable man was gingerly turning her onto her back when Darcy fell to his knees in the mud next to her. “She is alive, sir,” he said, gazing at Darcy with watery eyes. “I am so sorry, Mr. Darcy. We passed this spot three times, but the darkness and her position camouflaged her presence. It was only Stan spying her shoe caught above that finally alerted us.”
Darcy nodded, unable to speak, as he bent to examine his unconscious wife. He could easily understand why the searchers had not seen her. The log, which had fortuitously prevented her from landing in the water, had also effectively blended with her dark hair and dress, rendering her nearly invisible. Most of her hair had come unpinned during her frantic run and tumble down the twenty-foot slope, and her dress ripped in a dozen places.
Darcy managed to croak out an order for more light and to send for the physician, duties that were hastily executed. Darcy was no stranger to death and maiming. Managing an estate as vast as Pemberley unfortunately included the occasional catastrophe, such as what had occurred at the shearing shed today when a hoist had broken, crushing two men under the plummeting bales of wool. Of course, none of those previous disasters had involved someone precious to him. Horror clutched in his soul—fear tormented—and only years of stringent self-possession and a steely backbone kept him thinking rationally.
He noted first a gash above her right temple where blood had caked with the mud, forming an ugly mess in her hair, but the wound did not appear to be actively oozing. Her skin was cold, the pulse in her neck rapid and thready, but her respirations regular and unlabored. Her bare right foot was swollen and bruised at the ankle. He did not palpate any obvious broken bones or other lacerations. In fact, the primary damage seemed to be to her head. She was wet and shivering, so he called for a blanket. Lifting her carefully into his arms, he navigated, with assistance, up the slippery slope and onto his horse, returning to Pemberley Manor slowly.
The house was a flurry of activity and blazing lights. Darcy carried Elizabeth to their bedchamber, in retrospect a time-consuming inconvenience, but it only seemed fitting. He was firmly but gently pushed away as Mrs. Reynolds and Marguerite took over. He retreated to the foot of the great bed, clasping one pillar for support and watching the women begin the task of cleaning and examining his wife. It was several minutes before he marked the splotch of blood staining the front of his shirt. He puzzled over it for a bit, inventorying his person for a wound of some kind, when his befuddled and agonized mind grasped that it had come from Elizabeth. He must have articulated an exclamation of some sort because all eyes turned to him, Mrs. Reynolds’s face grim as she nodded.
Darcy was confused and suddenly felt weak. The outer door opened as the physician and maids with fresh water buckets came in. Voices erupted with inquiries and explanations. Darcy heard “unconscious” and “ankle” and “bleeding” and more, but it all seemed to come from far away and through a fog. He vaguely heard his name called but as if from a million miles away. The room started to spin, his vision blurring as he tightened his grip on the bedpost.
“Master Fitzwilliam!” It was Mrs. Reynolds’s authoritative snap, calling him by a title he had not worn since a young boy, that partially restored his clarity. She was right before him, face stern but loving. “Mr. Darcy, you must sit down.” She took his elbow and guided him unresistingly to the chair by the fire.
“But…” he began.
“Listen to me! We must attend to Mrs. Darcy. We cannot afford to have another patient on our hands! Do you understand? Stay here and put your head between your legs.” She patted his head affectionately, gestured to Samuel who hovered at the door, and returned to the bed. In seconds Samuel was by Darcy’s side, pressing a glass of brandy into his slack fingers and ordering him to drink.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting with only sporadic glimpses of Elizabeth, but was in fact only an hour, the doctor approached Darcy where he sat slumped in the chair. He jerked to his feet, swaying slightly, face creased with misery and entire body filthy with dried mud and blood.
“Mr. Darcy, let us speak in the sitting room.”
The two men sat facing each other, Darcy deliberately sitting where he could espy his wife through the open door.
“As you undoubtedly noted, your wife suffered a blow to the head, perhaps several as she fell, but one of which lacerated her right temple. The wound itself is superficial, only requiring six stitches. We cleaned it thoroughly so it should not fester. Luckily, it is well into her hairline and will not leave a visible scar. As for the head trauma, sir, the truth is I simply do not know.
“At this early juncture, her unconsciousness is actually a good thing. She would likely be in a great deal of pain, and sleeping through all this allows her body to deal with it and protects her mind. We have found that these states of suspended awareness generally reap no lasting damage if they persist for a few days. Since we have no way of seeing inside her head, I cannot say with any certainty if there is injury internally.”
“Can you hazard a guess?” Darcy asked.
The doctor spread his hands. “I hate to do that, Mr. Darcy, as there is so much we do not comprehend about how the brain functions. However, considering her relatively good condition overall for falling down what I am told was a twenty-foot, mud-soaked, and rocky embankment, and recognizing her youth and perfect health in general, my guess, and it is only a guess, would be that she would recuperate without deficiency.”
Darcy nodded, “Thank you, sir.”
The physician continued, “There is more, Mr. Darcy. Mrs. Darcy suffered a sprained ankle. It is not broken, and the muscles and tendons feel to be intact. I have wrapped it and instructed the women to keep it elevated. It should heal nicely, although when she does waken, she will need to stay off it for two weeks at the very least. I have examined her thoroughly and, although bruised and scraped, she has no broken bones or cuts that will scar or likely fester.”
He cleared his throat and glanced away briefly, alarming Darcy, before he continued, “The next matter is of a personal, sensitive nature, and I apologize ahead of time…”
Darcy laughed harshly without humor. “In light of all this,” he waved his hand vaguely toward his bedchamber, “I rather doubt you could offend me. Speak frankly.”
“Had you or Mrs. Darcy suspected that she might be with child?”
Oddly, Darcy was not the least bit surprised. He had not knowingly linked the blood on his shirt with the possibility of a miscarriage, but it suddenly fit. “No… that is, we had not discussed the possibility, but it had occurred to me. She is… was… three weeks or so late for her cycle, and,” he sighed deeply and closed his eyes as the turmoil of the past days abruptly crashed over him. “She had said nothing to me, but she has been extremely irritable lately, although I do not know if that means anything.”
“Oh yes, it certainly can. My wife was horr…” the doctor paused and flushed slightly and Darcy laughed faintly, surprised at the strange humor of the situation.