Mr. Darcy did not know how he knew that the sound he heard was Elizabeth's scream. It was distant and he had never heard her cry out before, but he knew, without question, that it was her. He felt himself freeze for a moment while the muscles in his body contracted in fear. His heart beat loudly, madly, for a few interminable seconds, before he found himself running in the direction of the cry. Thoughts flew so rapidly that he could not make sense of them. He ran down the lane for what seemed like an eternity, desperately scanning for something, anything that would tell him where she was, though he knew not at all what that might be.
Periodically he would call out her name, his voice seemed hoarse and disembodied, and with each lack of response he grew more desperate. He was quite near his starting point, the gate over which he had passed her the blasted letter, when he noticed a dirt walk branching out from the main path. He ran down it, and even after it ended continued running, hoping more than believing that she might be there. He was about to return to the lane when he noticed a fluttering ahead-a piece of letter-paper. He snatched the page and called out her name again, louder and with more purpose this time. He half-expected a response and when one did not come he resumed running. He found his path becoming less even, until he was at the top of a steep, rocky little hill, staring several feet below at a seemingly lifeless Elizabeth Bennet.
"No." He stumbled back from the ledge, reeling at the sight of her pale, unmoving body, the small, dark pool around her head and two pages waving in a limp fist. It could not be true; it was impossible that the lively woman with bright eyes and fiery wit, the woman who held him completely in her power, who disarmed him with a simple arch look, the woman who not an hour ago he was resolving to rid himself of, could be—gone. Not her. He climbed quickly down the hill, stumbling in his haste. Kneeling beside her head, he shook as he placed two fingers on the side of her neck. He prayed for a pulse.
She should feel warmer, he thought. He had imagined caressing her skin many times, but always there was warmth, always a pleasant reaction to his touch. He could not feel more removed from those visions now, when she was pale and unresponsive, and his fingers, pressed against her neck, felt clinical, like a medical tool that did not belong to him.
At first, he wasn't sure if the beat he felt was hers or his own, as blood seemed to be pounding in his ears, through his fingers, nearly out of his chest. After a moment of dreadful stillness, he felt it. It was faint, but it meant there was hope.
His relief came and went sharply, as he realized he needed to get her to help immediately. Gingerly, he lifted her head to assess the wound. It did not seem very deep, but was bleeding profusely. He clawed at his cravat until it came loose and pressed the makeshift bandage to the back of her head, willing the pressure of his hand to stop the bleeding. He stowed the pages of the letter and took her in his arms, careful to keep pressure on the bandage on her head. Despite the initial struggle of lifting her, which indeed was no simple task, he found himself able to manage.
The quickest way back was up the rocky hill, which seemed as impossible to climb as a mountain with Elizabeth in his arms. He suddenly remembered coming here as a boy with Richard and pretending to do just that. The miniature mountaineers would race up the craggy slope, and when they failed would traipse through a narrow path back to the servant's entrance of Rosings, where they were sure to avoid Aunt Catherine and would often be met with some treat in the kitchen.
Remembering the direction, he strode as fast as was safe to do whilst avoiding brambles and low branches, not wanting to risk any further injury to Elizabeth. He paused only to move his fingers from their hold back to her neck, checking every few moments for the faint beat of hope that let him know he still had time. After a few moments on the overgrown path, he found himself in a familiar open space, and could clearly see the great house. Darcy's breathing was labored by the time he reached the front door, and between gasps of breath he shouted at the startled footman to fetch a doctor immediately. The young man ran off and what seemed like the entire household staff poured forth, drawn in by the commotion. Mrs. Worthington, the housekeeper, came forward and immediately set about tasks. She ordered two of the younger footmen to relieve Mr. Darcy of his burden, which he vehemently refused. "A room. Any room with a bed and a fire. Lead me there." Darcy managed to bark out whilst fending off the attempts at help.
Mrs. Worthington did not think her Ladyship would approve of this sight at all, what with Master Darcy, the supposed future husband to Lady Anne, so indecorously clutching this limp bloody little woman. It seemed very un-respectable. She wondered if this creature in his arms was even a gentlewoman, and would probably have led Master Darcy to the servant's quarters had it not been for the desperate, wild look on his features. She determined that of the two, she would rather handle Lady Catherine's wrath, and without more than a moment's hesitation for these thoughts to pass, she was in motion.
As she parted the crowd of servants, Mrs. Worthington ordered one of the younger maids, her face pale and mouth agape with shock, to run ahead and start a fire in the Blue room. Another more composed young woman was told to remove the counterpane and fetch towels and water. She barked out for someone to bring both clear alcohol and brandy and for one of the footmen to fetch Mr. Darcy's valet. "Everyone else is to resume their duties at once. Her Ladyship is breakfasting with Master Fitzwilliam and she will not be notified of this event before I deem the situation stable." She knew it would be impossible to care for the girl with Lady Catherine hovering about, and she thought it would be best not to have both the Lady and Master Darcy in the same room.
Mrs. Worthington led Mr. Darcy to the base of the great marble staircase and without waiting for the stubborn man to oppose her, she reached for the girl's legs to assist with the climb.
When they reached the landing, each of them quite out of breath, Mrs. Worthington allowed Mr. Darcy to resume the carriage of his charge and led him to the Blue Room. It was the smallest guest room, and so ornately decorated that it felt suffocating. The counterpane had been stripped from the bed and Darcy finally, gently released Elizabeth by laying her onto it.
Once relieved of his burden, Darcy nearly fell from the sheer emotional and physical exhaustion he had endured, but caught himself on a bed post. He now did not know what to do. His mission had been to get Elizabeth to safety, and with that done, he could not think of how to justify staying in her presence. Mrs. Worthington seemed to be of the same opinion, for almost as soon as Elizabeth had been laid down, she started shooing Darcy out of the room.
"It will not do, Master Darcy, for you to be seen in a woman's chambers." Sensing that he would not move she changed tactics. "Do you know her name, sir?"
"Elizabeth." He said hoarsely, instinctively looking past the housekeeper into the room they had just quitted. Mrs. Worthington fixed a stern gaze on Mr. Darcy until he remembered himself and the duty he owed Elizabeth, though a lady's reputation seemed a ridiculous thing to fixate on in this dire moment. His voice hardened. "Bennet. Her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
Mrs. Worthington snapped to look at the girl on the bed who had so often been a guest at Rosings. She had not recognized her at first under the blood, and immediately felt sorry that such a lively young thing should have come to so much harm. At her questioning look, he continued. "I was walking this morning and heard a cry. I found her in the park, she must have fallen from a steep hill and hit her head on a rock. I carried her here."
"I see. You have done your duty as a gentleman," She stressed this word as if to remind him of the demands of propriety "and now we will do ours. Go rest now." As if on cue, a footman came into view carrying two bottles, closely followed by Darcy's valet, Mr. Williams. Mrs. Worthington took the brandy bottle from the boy and pressed it into the valet's hands. "Four fingers worth, I think, for shock. Lucas, give me the gin and follow Mr. Williams. He may need help with Master Darcy." Darcy felt himself trapped. He had no desire to have Elizabeth out of his sight, but he could see that staying would only gratify his own wishes and do nothing for her actual well-being. If she awoke, no, when she awoke, she would desire her reputation intact. He allowed himself to be led away by the sure hand of his valet, his mind reeling, his body thoroughly exhausted, and feeling as though he might begin sobbing or yelling at the slightest provocation.
Not a moment later, the composed maid rushed by, towels and a pitcher of water stacked in her arms. "Jane, get inside, and start cleaning her head with the water. We'll use the gin once we get a clear look at the injury." Mrs. Worthington's orders brought Darcy to a halt. He exclaimed, "Jane Bennet!" Confused, the footman Lucas provided, "Sir, that is Jane Catwright."
"Jane Bennet is Miss Elizabeth's Bennet's sister. Her family will need to be notified. And Mrs. Collins, the parson's wife. Mrs. Collins should be here. Fetch her at once, but do not alarm her husband." And with that, Lucas was off to the parsonage.
Mr. Williams continued walking and Mr. Darcy followed. "Perhaps, sir, it would be best to wait until the doctor has visited before notifying the lady's family. That way you will have something more substantial to report. It would not do to worry them unnecessarily." Mr. Williams said this with as much gentleness and encouragement as he thought Mr. Darcy could bear. He was a perceptive older man. He understood that this woman was the reason his master had been acting so strange lately and that he was suffering more than he was able to let on. Mr. Williams had been there when the late Master Darcy passed, and had watched in awe how the younger man bore the responsibilities as well as his grief. Then Williams had been impressed with Darcy's composure. Now he was quite sure the young man had reached a breaking point.
"Yes, I think you are right Williams." Darcy could not register what was happening. He was near delirium. He allowed his valet to lead him into his room and strip him of his outer clothes, which he only then realized were spotted with blood. When hanging the coat, Williams found three crumpled pages of letter paper and with a great degree of professionalism, placed them on a side table. Upon seeing them, Darcy inexplicably burst out laughing. It seemed entirely absurd that not a few hours ago the contents of those pages had been his greatest concern. He stayed up most of the night to write the damned thing and here they were, simply a few bits of crumpled paper. He laughed with a more sickening force at his own arrogance in assuming he would be better off without her. How bitterly did he regret every uncharitable thought he had towards her! How insignificant did her mother's mercenary tactics or her father's disinterest in parenting seem now! Had not his inflated pride demanded he write these excuses onto parchment, had he not given them to her, she never would have strayed from her familiar grove.
Naturally, as happens when passionate feelings are tightly repressed and when the barriers holding those feelings are broken down due to a combination of exhaustion and trauma, the laughter turned to sobs. Williams, ever the professional, poured a hearty four fingers of brandy and quietly left the room.