40. Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

D arcy steadied himself against the doorframe as he left Elizabeth's room, his heart still thudding from the fervent embrace they had shared. He could scarcely believe that in the span of only a few days, his entire world had tilted on its axis. The thought of Elizabeth, her lips on his, the warmth of her touch—it brought a rush of strength he had not felt in weeks. But as he stepped into the hall, he came face to face with Mr Bennet.

Mr Bennet arched a brow, taking in Darcy's dishevelled appearance, a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. "Up and about are we, Mr Darcy?" His tone was dry, but there was a note of genuine concern beneath the surface.

Darcy hesitated under the weight of the man's scrutiny. He considered offering some excuse, but what point was there? They both knew what he had been doing, and he could not bring himself to regret it. "Yes, Mr Bennet," he said, inclining his head. "I—" He stopped, feeling a surge of dizziness. "I understand Doctor Pembroke is awaiting me in my room."

"Ah. Then I shall not keep you, sir. My very best wishes for a promising outcome."

Darcy dipped his head and began to walk on, but then paused. "Mr Bennet? I wonder if you might… sit in on the examination? My memory, you see, has been unreliable. Elizabeth will want a full accounting, and I fear I might… not remember everything."

Mr Bennet's eyes softened, and he gave a slight nod. "Of course, Mr Darcy. I am not much for medical jargon, but I dare say I can manage a faithful recounting. Lead the way."

Darcy felt a swell of gratitude. Despite his cynicism and sharp tongue, Mr Bennet had shown himself to be yet another soul in whom he could trust. Together, they entered the room, where Doctor Pembroke was already waiting.

"Mr Darcy," Pembroke greeted him, rising from his chair with a measured nod .

"I am." Darcy inclined his head politely, then gestured to Mr Bennet and Giles, who had walked in behind them. "This is Mr Bennet, my future father-in-law, and Giles, my valet. I desire for them both to sit in on the examination."

"Of course, sir." Pembroke dipped a slight bow to Mr Bennet. "And may I offer my felicitations on the happy event? I hope I will be able to provide you with a promising report, sir."

"So do I. I trust you have been apprised of my condition?"

Pembroke's eyes still flicked between the two men, his expression thoughtful. "I have reviewed the notes and correspondence from your previous physicians. I confess, I have some concerns. I hope to restore you to the lady waiting for you, Mr Darcy, but we must be candid about your situation."

Darcy nodded, his throat tightening as he took a seat. He braced himself for the examination, knowing this might be the moment that sealed his fate. Doctor Pembroke began by asking a series of pointed questions, his tone clinical yet compassionate. "Have your headaches been consistent, or do they come in waves? Is there any recent trauma you can recall that might have precipitated these episodes?"

Darcy rubbed his temple, feeling the familiar throbbing beneath his fingers. "The headaches have been persistent," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes they dull to a manageable level, but they often return with a vengeance. As for trauma… there was a fall, some months back, from a young horse. I did not think much of it at the time."

Pembroke's brow furrowed. "A fall, you say? And you struck your head?"

Darcy nodded. "Yes, though I did not lose consciousness. At least… not immediately. And the headaches did not commence for some while after that, so I did not believe there was a connection."

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, jotting notes in his ledger. "And the seizures—how frequent have they been?"

"More frequent of late," Darcy admitted, his voice tightening. "They come without warning, and… leave me disoriented."

Pembroke moved closer, peering into Darcy's eyes, checking his pupils for any signs of irregularity. "Any changes in your vision? Blurring, double vision?"

Darcy hesitated. "There have been moments. Flickers at the edge of my sight. And sometimes, I see spots of light. "

Pembroke's face remained impassive, but his eyes sharpened with a new intensity. "Mr Darcy," he said carefully, "from what you describe, there is a possibility—indeed, a strong one—that you are suffering from a subdural haematoma rather than a tumour."

Darcy's breath caught. "A… a what?"

"A blood clot, Mr Darcy. Inside the skull and within the outer layer of the brain. A rather serious one, I fear. Given your symptoms and the history of trauma, it is likely that the blood has been accumulating slowly, causing increasing pressure on your brain. This could account for the headaches, the seizures, and the fluctuations in your condition."

Darcy's brow furrowed as he considered the doctor's words. "Why do you suspect a subdural hematoma rather than a tumour?" he asked, his voice steady, though an undercurrent of anxiety rippled through him. "The other physicians I consulted were quite certain it was a tumour."

Doctor Pembroke regarded him carefully, weighing his words before he spoke. "Your symptoms, Mr Darcy, provide crucial clues. A brain tumour typically presents with a gradual onset of symptoms, worsening over months or even years. The symptoms you describe—your persistent headaches, occasional vision disturbances, and seizures—are indeed common with a tumour, but there are inconsistencies. A tumour would likely cause progressive, consistent neurological deficits. You would be experiencing a steady decline rather than the fluctuating nature of your episodes."

He paused, then continued, his tone more measured. "Moreover, you mentioned experiencing a head injury some months ago, which the other doctors may not have fully considered. A subdural hematoma can develop slowly following trauma, particularly if the bleeding is gradual. This would explain the waxing and waning of your symptoms. The moments of clarity interspersed with sudden seizures and worsening headaches—these are more indicative of a clot than a tumour. The acute episodes, the confusion that comes and goes… they point to pressure building intermittently rather than a constant, growing mass."

Darcy nodded slowly, absorbing this new perspective. "So, you believe my condition could be due to a clot pressing on my brain?"

Pembroke inclined his head. "Precisely. And if that is the case, there is a chance—however slim—that we could alleviate your suffering through surgery. The procedure would relieve the pressure and potentially offer you some relief. It is not without risks, as I have said, but if it is indeed a clot, the surgery might offer you more hope than if we were dealing with a tumour. "

Darcy's heart pounded. "What manner of surgery?"

Pembroke drew in a deep breath. "Trepanation. It is an ancient practice, but we have perfected it somewhat in recent years. We would bore a small hole into your skull to relieve the pressure. However, Mr Darcy, I must caution you: you may well have waited too long. The procedure itself is dangerous—there is a significant risk that you could die on the table."

"And if we do nothing?"

Pembroke cleared his throat. "Sir, with the increasing severity of your symptoms, I should say your time is… rather limited at best."

Mr Bennet shifted beside him, his face a mask of concern. Darcy glanced at him, then back at Pembroke, his resolve firm. "I will take that risk, Doctor. I would rather die trying to live than linger in this… half-state, in which I will die, anyway. Let us proceed."

Pembroke nodded, his expression grave. "Very well. We shall prepare at once. I will have you taken to my surgery."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. The decision was made, and there was yet hope—hope for a life, a future that had all but been snatched from him, and the prospect of a new tomorrow with the woman he loved. For Elizabeth… yes, it was worth the chance. Worth risking the terror of perishing this very hour rather than lingering into a slowly sinking abyss with her helplessly looking on.

When he opened his eyes, he found Mr Bennet staring at him, his gaze steady. "Tell Elizabeth… tell her I am doing this for us."

Mr Bennet nodded, his hand resting on Darcy's shoulder. "I will, lad. She will understand."

Darcy managed a faint smile, a flicker of hope lighting his weary eyes. "I pray that she does."

E lizabeth paced the length of her small room in the inn, her hands twisting the fabric of her gown, her mind consumed with dread. Each step was a torture, each tick of the clock on the mantel a cruel reminder of the time passing. She could not bear to sit, not when the vision of Darcy lying on a surgeon's table played endlessly in her mind. The thought of him never waking, of his eyes never opening again to meet hers, sent a fresh wave of terror through her. She had known fear before, but nothing like this.

He had come to her just before leaving for the surgery, his face pale but determined. He had taken her hands, brought them to his lips, and kissed her with a tenderness that left her breathless. It could be the last time, she realised, as a cold shiver ran down her spine. The last time she would ever feel his touch, hear his voice, see the soft light in his eyes when he looked at her. Her breath hitched, and she sank to her knees beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in prayer.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, God, do not take him from me. Not now. Not when we have only just begun." Tears streamed down her face, and she pressed her forehead to the mattress, her body trembling with silent sobs. All the other troubles—the flooding in Meryton, Wickham's threats, Sir Anthony's schemes, Charlotte's despair, and even the irritation of Mr Collins looming as a future brother-in-law—all of them seemed so small, so insignificant, compared to the thought of losing Darcy.

The hours dragged on with excruciating slowness. She tried to distract herself, picking up her embroidery only to put it down moments later, her hands too shaky to hold the needle steady. She poured herself a cup of tea, but the mere thought of swallowing made her stomach twist. Pacing had become her only solace, her only way to keep from descending into utter panic.

A knock sounded at the door, and she flew to it, her heart pounding. She flung it open to find her father standing there, looking worn and weary. She searched his face desperately, trying to read any sign of what news he had brought. "Papa?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Is he…?"

Mr Bennet stepped inside, his face lined with exhaustion, his hat in his hand. He moved slowly, his fingers working the buttons of his greatcoat, which he tossed onto the bed before sinking heavily into a chair. "Elizabeth," he began, his voice thick with fatigue. "Sit down, my dear."

She couldn't stand the suspense. "No, tell me!" she cried, her hands wringing together. "Tell me the worst, even if I cannot bear it. "

He looked up at her, his eyes softening. "He is still alive," he said quietly.

Elizabeth's knees buckled with relief, and she collapsed into the chair opposite him, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. "Oh, thank God," she breathed, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her racing heart. "But… but how is he? What did the doctor say?"

Mr Bennet rubbed his temples, looking as though he had aged a decade in the last few hours. "It was a most horrifying procedure," he admitted, his voice low. "I was permitted to witness from the back of the room, though I would not wish such a sight on my worst enemy. The surgeon, Pembroke, was thorough and meticulous. He knew what he was about. He believes he found the clot and relieved the pressure on Darcy's brain."

Elizabeth's heart ached at the thought of Darcy enduring such an ordeal. "And now?" she pressed. "Is he in pain? Can he be moved? What is his condition?"

Mr Bennet sighed, his eyes meeting hers with a grim expression. "Darcy is in a great deal of pain, yes. They have given him laudanum to ease it, but the bleeding was severe, and he is weak. Pembroke says he must remain at the surgery for several days, perhaps a week, before he can be moved anywhere safely. They have to be certain there are no further complications, no new bleeding or infection. It is a delicate recovery, and any false move could prove fatal."

Elizabeth felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over her. "But he will recover? Truly recover?"

Her father hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Pembroke believes he has a chance. A good chance. But he must rest, and we must be vigilant. It will take time, and there are no guarantees. But for now, he is alive, and that is more than I dared to hope for this morning."

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes, and she covered her face with her hands, overwhelmed with relief. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered. "Thank you for staying with him."

Mr Bennet reached across the space between them, taking her hand in his. "Before they began the procedure," he said softly, "Darcy asked me to write to his cousin, a colonel stationed in Chatham. He wanted to make certain that his affairs were in order, particularly where you and his sister were concerned, just in case…"

Elizabeth's breath caught at the thought of Darcy preparing for his own death, and she squeezed her father's hand tightly. "Will you write to him?"

Mr Bennet nodded. "I will. But let us hope that by the time the letter arrives, it is unnecessary. "

She moved to embrace him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, feeling the solid comfort of his presence. He kissed her cheek, his expression softening. "Heaven has smiled on you, my dear," he murmured. "It gave you a good man and, perhaps, a way to keep him a little while longer."

Elizabeth clung to his words, her heart filling with a fragile hope. Anything could still happen—that much was true. But for now, Darcy was alive. And that was enough.

D arcy drifted in and out of a fog, his mind tangling with the sensation of pain that pulsed through his head in waves. Awareness came slowly, inching into his consciousness like a creeping dawn. He blinked, his vision blurry and unfocused, the dim light of the room doing little to ease the pounding in his skull. His throat felt raw and dry, each breath scraping painfully through his lungs. As the haze began to clear, he saw a figure seated nearby, a familiar form hunched over a book.

"Mr Bennet?" His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper. The effort of speaking sent another sharp pang through his temples, and he winced, his hand instinctively moving to his head.

Mr Bennet barely looked up from his book, his expression as placid as ever. "Ah, you are awake, Mr Darcy. Took you long enough," he remarked dryly, though his tone held a note of relief.

"How…" He swallowed against the scratchiness of his throat. "How long?"

"Three days, unless you count the deluded episodes when you opened your eyes, staring about the room but did not speak. I daresay your poor valet is worn to a skeleton keeping watch over you, so I volunteered to take my turn."

"El…" He swallowed again. "Elizabeth?"

"Yes, yes, Lizzy is well and impatiently waiting to speak with you as soon as you are up and about." With that, he calmly closed his book, stood, and made his way to the door. "I shall fetch Pembroke," he added, not bothering to wait for a response before exiting the room.

Darcy let his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried to manage the pain. It was worse than ever, a relentless throbbing that seemed to echo with every beat of his heart. Yet, as he focused on the sensations running through his body, he noticed something else—the tingling in his arm and hand, the cursed twitching of his face, had vanished. A small victory, he thought, his mind struggling to stay focused amidst the pain.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Darcy opened his eyes to see Doctor Pembroke entering the room, Mr Bennet just behind him. Pembroke approached the bedside, his gaze assessing as he took in Darcy's condition. "Awake at last, I see," he said with a nod. "How do you feel, Mr Darcy?"

Darcy's lips twisted into a wry smile. "Like I have been trampled by a carriage," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "What… did you do?"

Pembroke pulled up a chair and sat down, his expression serious. "Well, I daresay you may not recall half of what we said when last you were alert. We performed a trepanation, a procedure to relieve the pressure on your brain caused by a blood clot. It was a delicate operation, but I believe we were successful in removing the clot and reducing the pressure."

Darcy absorbed the information slowly, his thoughts sluggish. "And… my recovery?" he asked, his words slurring slightly. "When… can I leave? When can I stand, walk… get into a carriage?"

Pembroke chuckled softly. "You must be patient, Mr Darcy. I know full well you have ample motive to recover quickly, but your body needs time to heal. The banns have not even been read yet, have they?"

Darcy looked questioningly at Mr Bennet, who stood by the window with a smug grin. "Actually, they have," Mr Bennet said with a hint of satisfaction. "I wrote to Mr Harrison in Meryton to notify him of the engagement. The banns for both you and Elizabeth, and for Jane and Mr Bingley, were published for the first time last Sunday."

Darcy felt a foolish grin spread across his face as he relaxed back on the pillow, calculating in his head. Two more Sundays and Elizabeth would be his. He propped himself up again, his determination flaring. "I have to be recovered by then," he insisted, his voice firmer .

Pembroke smiled, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "I think you will be on your feet by then, though perhaps a bit weak. And I would advise you to consider a wig."

Darcy winced, his hand hesitantly touching the left side of his head. Ah, yes, he remembered that now—Giles had shaved down a considerable thatch of hair before Doctor Pembroke began the surgery. His stomach churned at the thought of touching the wound, but he decided it was a scar he would wear proudly. He had fought for his life and won.

Pembroke nodded approvingly. "I will send in a maid with some broth to strengthen you. Meanwhile, a rather anxious and somewhat belligerent visitor arrived just moments ago, nearly banging down the door in his urgency to see you. Are you well enough for a visitor?"

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Who is it?"

"I daresay a familiar face. He would not heed my reassurances, so perhaps he will appreciate yours." Pembroke moved to the door, opened it slightly, and exchanged a few words with someone outside. A moment later, the door swung open fully, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam strode into the room, his face a mix of concern and relief.

"Darcy!" Richard exclaimed, his voice filled with emotion. "You look like death warmed over, but it is blasted good to see you alive."

Darcy managed a weak chuckle, overjoyed to see his cousin. "Richard," he greeted warmly. "It is good to see you, too." He turned to Mr Bennet, who had closed his book and risen from his seat. "May I introduce Mr Bennet, my future father-in-law?"

Mr Bennet gave a polite bow to Richard, who returned it with a respectful nod. "Ah, so you are Mr Bennet. Jolly glad you wrote to me."

"As am I, Colonel. And now, I believe someone else will be anxious for word of our Mr Darcy's recovery." Mr Bennet excused himself with a brief nod, leaving the room quietly.

As the door closed behind him, Richard took the chair beside Darcy's bed, his gaze moving from Darcy to the door and back again. "Your, eh… future father-in-law, I understand? Anything you want to tell me, Darcy?"

Darcy grinned despite the pain. "There is a great deal you should hear, and I will tell you all in due time. But I will not speak of Elizabeth. The lady will speak for herself."

Richard laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. "That is the best commendation you could give her," he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I am eager to meet her."

Darcy's smile softened. "I am proud that she found me worthy. "

Richard nodded, then leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "But meanwhile, if you are not in too much pain, I would very much like to speak of what happened with Wickham."

Darcy's brow furrowed, his memory still foggy. "I might not recall all the details correctly," he admitted.

Richard waved a hand dismissively. "Mr Bennet's letter did most of that, but have you heard? Wickham is in gaol."

Darcy's eyes widened in surprise, and Richard continued, "Furthermore, ‘Sir Anthony' was really a steward for Lord Wexfield up until about a year ago when he suddenly began living the life of a gentleman. I understand he properly goes by the name of Henry Billings, and he is also in gaol."

Darcy managed a faint nod. "Georgiana will be interested to hear that."

"Eh? What's this about Georgie?"

Darcy closed his eyes in an approximation of a head shake. "It can wait. What else? I do not suppose you have spoken with your father?"

"Not in person, no, but the moment I got Mr Bennet's letter, I sent off an express to him about everything Bennet said. I've no doubt that he will make sure Lord Wexfield is now under investigation for fraud in the House of Lords. He has wanted proof for a long while, and now he ought to have it."

Darcy let his head fall back against the pillow, a deep sigh of relief escaping him. "That is all good news. Not because I sought revenge on Wickham but because I am glad to know that the people of Meryton are safe. Now, all I care about is recovering in time to marry Elizabeth."

Richard grinned. "I think that is a worthy goal, cousin. And with your stubbornness, I have no doubt you will achieve it."