18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

N ot… Again.

Darcy woke to a pounding in his skull, the megrim gripping his head with merciless intensity. Pain shot through his temples, each throb taunting him whenever he tried to blink. He groaned as waves of nausea rolled over him. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to sit up, the room spinning wildly around him.

The morning light filtered through the heavy drapes—too bright, too harsh. Darcy squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to subside. But it only deepened, relentlessly drilling into his brain. He pressed his palms against his temples as if he could physically push the agony away.

It had been ten days since Westing had uttered those hideous words. A tumour . The words haunted him, a grim reality he had tried to ignore or disprove. He could not be dying! He had too much left to do!

There was the new planting system he meant to implement at Pemberley and the east wing repairs he had ordered for spring after the weather improved. There was that shipping company he had just invested in and Georgiana's come-out to prepare for… not that he would be much material help there, but Georgie needed him, and he meant to frighten off any unworthy suitors with a firm glare. And there was still Bingley, with all the ventures for which he had sought Darcy's advice, and Richard… what if something happened to Richard? What if they were both just… gone? Who would there be to pick up the pieces?

Darcy curled himself into a ball, piling the pillows over his head to block out the light and muffle the sounds of his sobs. He, a grown man, reduced to tears over a headache!

But now, the unrelenting pain shattered his fragile illusions. He could no longer deny or claim that it was merely a passing pain. The agony was a living thing, a growing thing, that occasionally gave him glimpses of doubt, then roared back with all the certainty of promise .

He was dying.

The idea devoured him, a dark spectre he could neither escape nor fully confront. This thing, whatever it was inside his head, was stealing his future—moments snatched away in agony and moments never to be lived. How much was to be taken from him? All the things he would leave unfinished… and the one thing he had yet to even begin.

There would be no more Darcys at Pemberley after him.

That notion ought to have struck a chord of grief in him. The despair of knowing he could have, should have, if he had only not frittered away the time that was given him. His father had not led a long life, but his impact was still felt. How had he the right to do any less?

As it was, even if Darcy found a woman to marry this very day—and there was one he could not cease thinking of—there was no guarantee he would be able to produce an heir. In fact, the notion was laughable. The odds that he could get a wife with child, and that that child could be a son, and that the wife he would leave behind might have the wisdom and integrity to raise the next Darcy on her own…

No. There would be no last-minute wedding, no urgent attempts to get a child or desperate hope that all would carry on jolly well without him. There was just… not enough time. And frankly, not enough hope even to provoke sorrow. There was only this prevailing sense of numbness.

Darcy's breath hitched, and he rolled toward the edge of the bed. There was a smear of drool on the pillow, under where his cheek had been—and he had never even felt it. He groaned and staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost for support.

His reflection in the mirror was a ghostly visage, pale and drawn, eyes shadowed with sleepless nights and ceaseless worry. The man staring back at him seemed a stranger, so far removed from the assured, commanding figure he had always known himself to be.

There were dark circles under his eyes every morning lately. Surely, someone would start to notice them and realise something was very much amiss. Heavens, Elizabeth Bennet already had , and she barely knew him! And when was the last time his valet had cut his hair? He scraped a hand through the unruly tangle, tugging at the unfamiliar length of it. Had Giles not recently suggested a bit of grooming? He usually did, for he kept a rather tight routine… but for the life of him, Darcy could not remember the last time the subject had come up .

This would not do. He stumbled to the window, pushing it open to let in the crisp morning air. It bit at his skin, a brief reprieve from the heat in his skull. Leaning heavily against the sill, Darcy closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.

It was precious little reprieve. The sounds of Netherfield, still strange to him, grated on his frayed nerves. The house— Wickham's house —felt stifling, its unfamiliar walls closing in with the weight of guilt and confusion. What was he even doing here?

He had told himself it was all about Bingley, seeing that his friend was not deceived. But now… what was it? He could probably think of it if that blasted gong stopped clanging inside his head.

Why should he care anymore about Wickham's activities? What did it matter to him that Wickham had somehow stumbled into a fortune? He ought to be pleased… his father would have wanted that for George… he might even be relieved and delighted himself if… oh, hang it all. What was the problem in the first place?

The money. That was right, the money. Odd, that. A swift fortune, to be sure, but Wickham would not be the first man to have his living made by the death of a stranger.

A soft knock interrupted his spiralling thoughts. Darcy turned, wincing at the movement, and saw his valet, Giles, standing at the door.

"Sir, are you well?" Giles asked.

Darcy tried to keep his face composed, his headache raging at the intrusion of light from the hallway. "Quite well, Giles," he lied, his voice strained. "The light... it is somewhat harsh this morning. A bit too much brandy last evening. Could you close the door, please?"

Giles quickly complied, stepping inside and gently shutting the door behind him. "Would you like a shave, sir?"

Darcy waved off the suggestion, his mind too clouded with pain to consider grooming. "No, Giles. Tell me, are Bingley and Wickham down at breakfast?"

Giles hesitated, clearing his throat. "They were called out early, sir. Some trouble in the village. They left their apologies and their direction in case you desired to join them later."

Relief washed over Darcy, a small respite from his larger torment. "Very well. I shall remain in my room for another hour. Do not alert the household."

Giles nodded and began to withdraw but then stopped, recalling something. "Sir, I have a letter for you. From Dr Westing in London."

Darcy's stomach tightened as he took the letter with trembling hands. "Thank you, Giles. You may go. "

Left alone, Darcy stared at the page, his vision blurring with the effort. He sank onto the bed, ripping open the letter, his heart pounding. The words swam before his eyes, the pain making it impossible to focus. He let the letter slip from his fingers, collapsing back onto the bed, his mind and body too exhausted to fight any longer. He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep off more of the megrim, but knowing that rest was a fleeting comfort in the face of such relentless agony.

D arcy woke to the muted sounds of voices outside his door, the once quiet hallway now alive with the daily noises of the maids. Groggily, he pushed himself upright, the megrim still pounding mercilessly in his skull. He had no sense of time—hours could have passed or mere minutes. His body felt heavy, his mind sluggish, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Giles was nowhere to be seen. Heavens, everyone would know he had been languishing abed all day! He struggled to his feet and gripped the bedpost until the room quit spinning. Perhaps it was not too late to salvage all appearances… He fumbled through the process of dressing himself, the simple act of finding his clothes feeling like a trek in the rocky Peaks. He tugged off his nightshirt, the cool air of the room biting at his bare skin and reached for his breeches.

As he tried to tug the fitted buckskin over his thighs and fasten the fall, his fingers trembled, his coordination failing him. In his haste, he noticed the letter he had dropped earlier, half-hidden beneath the edge of the bed. With a wince, he bent to retrieve it, the pain in his head surging with the movement. He sat back on the bed, the letter clutched in his hand, his breath shallow as he opened it once more.

This time, his eyes could focus, and he forced himself to read Doctor Westing's words.

My dear Mr Darcy,

It is with the deepest regret that I read of your continued symptoms. You asked for recommendations to provide some comfort, but I note nothing we have not already tried. You may certainly speak with an apothecary to obtain morphine or laudanum, but I cannot promise any enduring relief. I fear you must indeed be afflicted with a tumour or perhaps another malignancy such as cerebral congestion.

Mr Darcy, I certainly advise you to seek a second or perhaps even a third opinion from someone learned enough to provide reliable counsel. However, I fear their diagnosis may be much the same. I entreat you to prepare yourself for the possibility that your time may be limited. Please know that I remain at your service and shall endeavour to provide whatever palliative care is within my power. My heartiest condolences, sir.

Yours most sincerely,

Dr Edward Westing

Darcy's hands shook, the stark finality of the words sinking into him. The diagnosis he had been denying now loomed undeniable, each word a nail sealing his fate. He closed his eyes, swallowing against the rising tide of despair. How could it have come to this? He, who had always prided himself on his strength and resilience, was now reduced to this frail, suffering shell.

The voices outside grew louder, a reminder that life continued beyond his private torment. With a deep breath, Darcy forced himself to stand, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to pull him back down. He needed to present a composed front, to hide his weakness until he could return to his own turf—London, at least, or preferably, Pemberley. Slowly, methodically, he finished dressing, each motion a small victory over the debilitating pain.

Fully clothed at last, he took a moment to steady himself, clutching the bedpost for support. He could not afford to let anyone see him falter. He straightened, folding the letter and tucking it into his coat pocket. It seemed that he would have to decide, rather quickly, how to spend what time remained to him.

E lizabeth had paced the drawing room all evening as Jane sat rigidly on the sofa. The clock ticked loudly in the silence, each passing minute amplifying the tension of waiting. Mama and the rest of their sisters had long since gone to bed, but Jane and Elizabeth had been waiting for hours, the long shadows of their evening candles stretching across the floor.

Finally, the sound of the front door creaking open broke the stillness. Mr Bennet and Mr Collins stepped inside, their clothes muddied and their expressions weary.

"Mr Bennet, I must insist, had we only followed my suggestion to divert the stream—" Mr Collins began, his voice quivering, "—the matter might have been resolved in mere moments, and we would not have been so put out over the effort."

Mr Bennet rolled his eyes, a deep sigh escaping him. "Mr Collins, if you would kindly keep your suggestions to yourself. We did all that was possible under the circumstances."

"But Mr Bennet," Collins persisted, "if we had constructed a temporary dam or even used sandbags—"

"Mr Collins, your theories are endless, but none were practical today. The stream's force was beyond anything sandbags could contain."

"And what about my idea to reinforce the barn? Surely, that would have saved some of the hay and grain."

Elizabeth could see the weariness in her father's eyes and decided to intervene. "Mr Collins," she said gently, stepping forward, "Mrs Hill has seen to it that your room is made quite comfortable. A hot bath awaits you, as our honoured guest."

Mr Collins straightened, clearly pleased with the recognition. "Ah, Miss Elizabeth, your family's hospitality is unparalleled. I shall retire, then, to refresh myself after such a taxing day."

Elizabeth nodded, watching as he ascended the stairs. She turned back to her father, who sank into a chair, rubbing his temples.

"Papa," Elizabeth asked softly, "what happened?"

Mr Bennet leaned back, exhaustion cracking deep lines in his face. "The stream rose from last night's rain, washing out the foundations. The house is a total ruin. We've moved the family to the dower house for now."

Jane sat beside him and offered him a cup of tea. "And what of their livestock and possessions? "

Mr Bennet sighed heavily. "We managed to save the cows and pigs, but I am afraid they lost most of their hens. As to their possessions, we carried away what we could, but much was lost. We will have to support them through the winter until repairs can be made."

Elizabeth came to sit on her father's opposite side. "Perhaps we could arrange for some additional shelter for the livestock? The old stable might be made to suffice with a little work."

"That's a sound idea, Lizzy," Mr Bennet agreed. "And perhaps we can spare some of the winter feed from our stores."

Jane added, "We could also collect clothing and blankets from the village. I'm sure everyone would be willing to help."

"Let us hope."

"Oh, I cannot think there would be any doubt," Elizabeth insisted. "Surely Mr Wickham will be the first to offer some help. He has the means and influence."

Mr Bennet stared into his cup of tea, his expression darkening. "Wickham did offer help, but not in the manner you think. He proposed to buy the tenant's farm from Longbourn and make it part of Netherfield."

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. "Buy the farm? But that would leave our tenants at the mercy of Netherfield."

Mr Bennet rubbed his eyes and set his teacup back on its saucer, passing it back to Jane. "Would that be such a terrible thing, Lizzy?"

"Well… Yes, I think…" She shook her head. "Mr Wickham is only the lessor, not the owner of Netherfield. How can he propose to do such a thing?"

Her father shook his head and leaned it on his fist. "I have no idea. But I am inclined to accept if he is able to find some means of making it work."

"But Papa!"

"Think, Lizzy. Longbourn itself is entailed, as well as most of the farmlands, but there is some liberty in the disposal of the tenant farms acquired in my father's lifetime—Harris' farm being one of them, and Rogers' being the other. They are currently held in fee simple and are, in fact, the only inheritance you can look forward to from your dear Papa. However, they are become something more of a liability than an asset, thanks to this sodden ruin of a winter. Mr Wickham has the means to invest in the properties to make them prosperous again. So long as there is no encumbrance—and that will be up to the men who keep books and read laws—if Netherfield can purchase the farm, then Mr Wickham will bear the expense of the house repairs. And we…" He looked up with a weary attempt at a smirk. "We might burden Mr Collins somewhat the less, eh?"

Elizabeth swatted at her father's arm. "Papa! You are incorrigible."

Mr Bennet chuckled softly, but the weariness in his eyes did not fade. "Ah, but there is some truth in that, Lizzy. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I shall retire for the night."

As he stood and made his way toward the stairs, Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a concerned glance. Once their father was out of earshot, Jane turned to her sister. "Lizzy, why do you think Mr Wickham would want just one tenant farm? What could he gain from it?"

Elizabeth frowned. "I am sure he is thinking of becoming a more permanent fixture at Netherfield. Perhaps he is trying to increase his rents, long term. Acquiring more land would certainly give him more standing."

Jane nodded thoughtfully. "That is possible. But do you think it is purely for that? Could there be another motive?"

Elizabeth sighed, shaking her head. "I cannot imagine Mr Wickham having any ulterior motives beyond that. He has always been kind and generous. Maybe he simply wishes to help in any way he can."

Jane's expression remained uncertain. "It seems such a strange proposition, though. To buy one farm when he could just offer assistance. Why go to such lengths?"

Elizabeth looked out the window, her thoughts a swirl of confusion and concern. "Perhaps he sees it as a way to ensure the tenant's security. If the farm becomes part of Netherfield, he might feel he can better protect them from future misfortune. Besides, if he buys it, then he can reap the benefits of his assistance in the long term."

"I think you must be right. There is nothing wrong with looking to one's own interests, so long as the needs of others are met first. I am sure he means to rebuild the farmhouse to something much finer than it was originally. It would be a noble act indeed."

"Yes, let us hope. Mr Wickham has always shown himself to be a good man. I choose to believe in his altruism."

Jane nodded, though her eyes remained clouded with doubt. "We shall see. For now, let us get some rest. I, for one, need a full night's sleep before hearing what Mama has to say about all this tomorrow."

"You worry about Mama, but I tell you, it is Mr Collins I do not look forward to hearing from."