A/N: Couple of things. You've no doubt noticed it took me a full week to get this one out, which is unusual. I had a tough time with this chapter, and in fact, I did something I've never done before. I wrote the first maybe 1500 words of 3 different versions before settling on this one. I was trying to convey a part of the story for both sides (it's the same Darcy after all), and I even did one where I covered the same ground in Green before finally deciding on Red. At any rate, here it is.
A couple of people have pointed out that the Earl's behavior is a bit erratic and inconsistent. You can blame it on dementia, or the fact that he obviously doesn't have much sense to begin with, but the truth is either that his role changed as the story evolved, or sloppy writing. Take your pick. Some of you who pointed it out also suggested possible logical explanations, everything from he's not actually sick and he just manipulated Darcy into rescuing Richard, to he's doing better than expected.
It's not unusual for my stories to have some logical inconsistencies, since you're reading a WIP and about half the time I have no idea where I'm going when I start. If I ever publish, I'll clean those up, and sometimes I go back and clean them up anyway. I do appreciate all the feedback cause half the time the inconsistency is just because I forgot what I said before.
You've all been begging for Red Darcy, so let's see how things are turning out for our favorite lunkhead.
Wade
1 January 1812
HMS Manilla, Near Dover
Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy,
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Madam,
I feel a need to apologize for the harsh words we exchanged in our last discussion. The routing for this letter is very uncertain, so I cannot be explicit, but please accept that I have listened to your words and given them their due consideration. From this distance, I cannot say what is true and what is not, but I can say that the evidence suggests I am wildly in error, and I probably owe you more than one apology, along with the appropriate restitution. I believe your point that I may not have acted like a gentleman may well be correct, but I will show you that I can do better.
I now believe that we were both reluctant participants in that joint endeavor we performed in the 23rd of December, but reluctant or not, we did both speak the words. My word is my bond, and I will not go back on it. I believe that we need to find a way to live by the words we spoke.
I hope that you are comfortable in your new home, and that with some time and reflection we may find a good way forward past our present difficulties. Once again, I cannot be explicit, but I have reason to believe things may turn out better than either of us expected during our last meeting.
I shall endeavor to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands within the month and look forward to seeing you again when my duties are complete. I will only add, God bless you.
"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
– –
Darcy really believed the letter, as short as it was, might have some effect on softening his wife's anger at least a little bit and would give them as good of a chance at reconciling as he was likely to get.
It was a good plan, and probably would have worked if the letter did not go down with Captain Seymore when the Manilla was wrecked off the coast of Texel on the 28th of January, just over a fortnight after they handed off a rather peaked looking Darcy to a French ship for the last few hours of his journey.
HMS Manilla – All the way back in Chapter 27 – Red
RED
"Monsieur Darcy – Monsieur Darcy – Êtes-vous réveillé ? Pouvez-vous m'entendre?"
Fitzwilliam Darcy tried his best to swat away the annoying voice that was nattering away at him through a pounding headache, but it just kept droning on and on and on and on. It took some time for the gentleman to work out that he was either addled, or the fly that was buzzing about his head was possibly not actually speaking the English language. It was all very confusing, and distressing, and confusing, and distressing – and – and –
He had just managed to work out in his mind that he was going around in circles, or possibly going mad, when another voice interrupted.
"Darcy!... Darcy!... Wake up old man! I can tell you from experience that you do not want to be on our Babette's bad side, and she seems to be losing patience."
With a mighty effort, Darcy managed to pry open the eye that hurt less than the other one, though his addled brain would be hard pressed to say which one it was and looked around, which in retrospect turned out to be a mistake.
"Vous allez bien? Vous souvenez-vous de moi?"
Darcy shook his head in confusion. He thought the language was French, which he possessed a reasonable knowledge of, but he could make no sense of her words at all.
The deep voice from a moment previously said, "She is asking if you remember her, old man. I assumed if you still live you must. She is a hard one to forget – our Babette – hard as nails, but pretty as the day is long."
Darcy looked up, and did have to admit that 'Babette', whoever she was, would easily pass as a beautiful woman in any situation. She was not especially tall, but otherwise looked more Scandinavian than French. She had blonde hair, neatly done up in a bun and covered by a neatly starched cap. She was dressed in a simple dress in a solid pattern, thought he would be hard pressed to guess the color since his eyes would have trouble distinguishing pink from black at that moment. She had a neat, white, starched apron over the top of the dress. Combined with the fact that he felt as if he had been run over by horses, he made the leap that she was a nurse, and therefore, he must be very ill indeed.
He tried to croak out something, but just managed to let out a strangled, pathetic sounding cough, so the nurse called out to a man at the other end of a long room for assistance. With the man's help, they lifted him to a sitting position, and gave him a drink of water, waited a minute, and gave him a bit more, all the time hammering away at him in French, and occasionally slapping his back if he started coughing.
When he was unable to answer, the deep voice he had heard earlier said, "She seems right put out by your reluctance to answer her, old boy. Can you not understand her?"
Darcy groaned. "I recognize it as French, but it is too fast for me to follow."
The man spoke in French for a moment to, 'Babette', who threw up her hands, yelled, "Mierde!" and stomped off, while the orderly helped him gently back to the bed.
"Looks like you get a short reprieve."
Darcy looked around, and noticed he was in a long, narrow room, in a modest but rock-solid looking bed. His chatty companion turned out to be a man of around forty years, laying in the next bed over, with one leg obviously missing below the knee and heavily bandaged on the parts he could see above the covers. The room was cold. A couple of fires cut down the chill, but it was obviously not anywhere near summer.
His companion continued, "You had best not try to talk too much. Babette – she will not tell anyone her surname – will no doubt get Nurse Dashwood. She is half English, half French and speaks better English than I do. You apparently speak adequate French, but it seems you may have forgotten it."
Darcy croaked out. "And you are?"
"Ah, sorry, old man. Sargent Ralston, at your service."
Darcy was nearly exhausted. "Where are we?"
"Ah, apparently you forget. They were concerned about your memory. They speak quite openly, probably assuming my French is as bad as yours, or perhaps my bringing you into the fold is part of their plan. Apparently, losing some or all of your memories, at least temporarily is a common occurrence for a man with your affliction. I have only been here a week, maybe ten days. I have to say I thought you would be feeding the worms half a dozen times. They were practically ready to drop you down the well to cool you down a few days ago, your fever was so bad. I gather you've been in and out of fever for some time. Not sure why they don't just give up on you, which would be an awful lot easier – no offense."
"None taken," Darcy managed to croak out.
"Yes, well apparently this is your second or maybe third journey down the fever tunnel. I think Babette mostly keeps you alive as a personal challenge because it would offend her pride to lose you after putting so much work into your sorry carcass – no offense."
Darcy chuckled, which led to a cough and did not feel a need to not take offense again. He asked, "And you?"
That was all he had the strength to say, though he had at least a dozen questions.
"I'll report what I can, though it is sketchy at best. You appear to be some sort of significant personage, or at least, they seem disinclined to let you die. You are in Hospital La Grave in Toulouse. Been here for centuries. It was right popular during the plague years in the 17th century, although one time every single inhabitant died, which I suppose is not ideal. At any rate, I only know that because there was a corporal here who liked to natter on for hours."
Darcy coughed, and tried to get a bit more water, but he did not have the strength, so he gave up.
"Might want to go easy on the food and water, old boy. Don't worry – our Babette will keep you alive, and she will no doubt bring Miss Dashwood when she feels like it. You know Toulouse?"
Darcy managed to just shake his head, which was a mistake, but it was at least clearing a bit.
"We are about seven or eight hundred km south of Paris the way they measure things. 400 miles for you and me. We are about 100 miles North of the Spanish border. No idea how you got here."
"How did you –" was about all he could get out without a coughing fit.
"Ah yes! Right – you see, the French take care of fighters from either side during wartime – right civilized of them, if you ask me. Maybe Napoleon is not all bad. I was with a small cavalry company doing reconnaissance, and we got into a spot of bother. The rest got away, but my leg was shot up too bad. They hauled me here – we were maybe fifty miles away just North of the Pyrenees at the time, and I suppose they wanted to practice on me for whatever is coming up. There is certain to be something. Napoleon is preparing to invade Russia."
Darcy gasped. "Russia!" but that was about all he could do.
"Yes, who would have thought, but it is fine with me. He called up 120,000 conscripts end of December, and to my mind, I'd rather have them fighting Russians than Englishmen, but maybe I am just getting lazy in my old age."
Darcy croaked, "You do not look like a man who will be fighting either way."
"No, you may have me there. I suspect they will have me back training the lads before long, or maybe they'll pension me off with a nice pretty wife," which led to the man laughing uproariously as if that was the oddest idea that had ever been thought.
Darcy tried to chuckle along with him but found himself to be lacking humor at that moment.
He was just working his way up to asking something else when Babette, as her name appeared to be, returned leading another, much taller woman of perhaps twenty-five or so.
The woman came up and saw his look of curiosity and confusion. "Ah, Mr. Darcy. Do you remember me this time?"
He scrunched his forehead in thought. "I am afraid you have the advantage of me, madam. I apologize."
She laughed. "No need. It will come back – or at least it has the last two times, but I suppose I should introduce myself and explain, since it will make no sense to you."
"I would appreciate that, madam."
"Your name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. Do you remember that much?"
"Yes."
She nodded. "That is good, I suppose. You are an English gentleman of some wealth and importance from Derbyshire, despite your apparent propensity to cozy up with lazy no-good sergeants."
Ralston laughed loudly enough to set Darcy's teeth on edge, but he tried his best to smile, while what appeared to be a senior nurse carried on.
"I am Nurse Dashwood. As Mr. Ralston has no doubt told you, I boast a French mother and an English father, both sadly dead now. I spent many summers of my youth in England, so I get stuck with all the English patients."
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I hope I have not been too much bother."
"No, not too much – although if you completely recovered, Babette and I would not be disappointed," she said with a smile, then gestured to the other nurse, saying, "and this is Babette. If you ask her surname you will get a different answer every day of the week, depending on her mood, is that not right Babette."
The other nurse stared at her, and Miss Dashwood continued, "She speaks English well enough, but cannot be bothered."
Darcy nodded carefully, "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Babette."
Dashwood continued, "You speak French, Mr. Darcy. You should really make an effort, because Babette will not speak to you otherwise."
"I shall give it my best try."
A young man of around eighteen who was obviously a hospital orderly carried up a chair. Babette gave what looked like a cross between a cringe and a curtsy, and left, apparently to continue her duties, while Nurse Dashwood sat down, pulling a small notebook and a pencil from a pocket hidden somewhere on her dress."
"Now, let us get to business, Mr. Darcy. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"
Darcy thought for some time, his head starting to clear just slightly. "I think I got married – or did I?"
The nurse frowned. "I was hoping for something later, although our physician says it is all a crapshoot. Your wedding was apparently over two months ago. Shall I catch you up?"
"I would be immensely grateful."
"Very well. It is the fifteenth of March, and you have been here since the start of February. You have Typhus, which it looks like you may have contracted sometime in December or early January, thought that is all just guesswork. Are you familiar with the disease?"
Darcy scratched out an answer, and coughed a bit, so Nurse Dashwood lifted him up to a sitting position with the help of the orderly and helped him drink a half-glass of water. She then arranged some pillows behind his back to keep him more upright.
"There, is that better?"
"Yes, my thanks, ma'am."
She smiled. "You are very polite when you want to be, Mr. Darcy. You apparently do not always want to be, so you should work on your constancy."
He chuckled. "I will do my best."
"See to it – and let us get back to the main topic, as I do have other patients. As you may know, Typhus has been around forever. The English name comes from the Greek tûphos, meaning 'hazy mind', which, as you can tell is one of the symptoms. It usually involves a very high and long‑lasting fever, starting a fortnight to a month after exposure. Nobody really knows what the cause is, but it is exacerbated by tight quarters and unclean conditions. Prisons, soldiers and very poor areas are the usual breeding grounds. Gentlemen such as yourself are less susceptible but can catch it from people associated with the sick. For example, you frequently have outbreaks in your courts with judges and the like."
Darcy nodded, finding the explanation tiring.
She continued, "I tell you this because last time you were like a dog with a bone until I explained it all."
He croaked. "Last time?"
"Yes. Let me continue. Typhus manifests as a heavy fever, which lasts about a week to a fortnight. Something like three in ten succumb during the fever. After the fever, it is common to be quite fuzzy in your thinking, and it is also quite common to lose some memories. Some come back and others do not. After that, there is a bit of a nasty rash covering almost your entire body, excepting the face for some reason. Even then you can get fever, delirium, memory loss –" then she laughed a bit. "repeating myself."
Darcy chuckled grimly. "Perhaps experience has taught you that you have to beat things into my head."
She smiled. "I see your sense of humor is recovering faster this time, Mr. Darcy."
He scrunched his head, and asked, "You keep saying 'this time'?"
"Yes, sir. You went through the fever and the rash, and seemed to be on the mend, but you relapsed back to the fever about a week ago. We thought you were going to die, which would have annoyed Babette to no end, so we are happy you seem to have pulled through."
"Is Babette so fond of me then?"
Ralston laughed. "Sorry, old man – couldn't help myself. I think Babette just does not like to lose. Bit of pride, that one."
"I believe that is correct, Mr. Darcy."
Darcy felt his eyes falling, but right then, he saw the aforementioned Babette coming back down the aisle carrying a tray of what appeared to be soup."
Nurse Dashwood stood up and said, "Speaking of Babette, it appears she has decided to keep you around for a while. She will feed you, and then you need some sleep. We will speak again when you wake up, and hope your mind is clearer."
"Thank you, Nurse Dashwood. Merci, Babette."
Babette gave him a bit of a smile, and then proceeded to spoon feed him like a baby, which he would have strenuously objected to if he could have moved his arms up well enough to do the job properly.
A hacking cough woke Darcy up, along with Ralston and probably everyone else withing a half‑dozen yards.
"You all right there, old boy?"
Darcy managed to get his cough under control just as a bleary‑eyed Babette appeared carrying a small glass on a tray and another bottle beside it, followed by the same young orderly that had assisted her earlier.
The two helped him sit up, and she gave him a small glass of water, but not very much.
Darcy was surprised to realize she had been speaking to him in French for some minutes, and he actually understood it.
"Thank you, I understand you now," he managed to spit out in rough but probably serviceable French.
She smiled and nodded, "You recover faster this time, Mr. Darcy. That is good."
She fluffed the pillows behind his back, and then handed him the cup, still speaking in French, "This is tea with honey, a simple way to help your cough. It may also have some laudanum – you never know."
Not feeling up to arguing, he drank the tea with her assistance, then almost instantly fell back asleep.
The sun was well up when he awoke again, feeling somewhat refreshed.
Nurse Dashwood walked by a few minutes later. "Feeling human again, Mr. Darcy?"
"Do I look more human," he asked with only a bit of a cough.
She came in, put her hand on her forehead to check his temperature, looked into each eye, and much to his embarrassment, opened his shirt to look at his chest. She then closed his shirt and washed her hands in a bowl of water that was on the table, scrubbing with some soap that was sitting with it.
"That is to try to prevent transmission of the disease, since it could well go through contact for all we know. I have no idea if it works or not, but many of the ancients said some equivalent of 'cleanliness is next to godliness', and it cannot hurt."
Darcy asked, "Does anybody have a guess about how the disease transmits?"
"Many guesses, most of them contradictory, half of them unable to stand even the most cursory examination, but in the end, nobody seems to know. Everything from bugs or fleas, to drinking water, to food to contact to 'miasma', which may as well be called 'ghosts' has been proposed, but nobody knows."
Once her hands were clean, she reached into a pocket on her apron. "I have a letter for you, Mr. Darcy. When your fever came down the first time, it took a fortnight to get any real sense out of you. Once you had some intact memories, I suggested you write some of it down. You spent several days writing this. Perhaps, it will help you."
Then she handed him the parchment. "I will return around evening. If you are still awake, I will try to answer any questions you might have, but you did tell me you got most of the important things into the letter.
"Thank you, Nurse Dashwood. I do not believe I have earned your care, but I appreciate it nonetheless, and I will endeavor to find a way to repay you."
"Let us not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Darcy. Your supreme challenge for the next week will be getting to the privy. If you can manage that, then we can discuss other great and noble feats. You are far from recovered and getting your strength back from Typhus usually takes at least two to three months. You will be here a while yet. Good night, sir."
"Good night, ma'am."
Darcy wanted to tear the letter open and read it immediately, but he found the short conversation had exhausted him, so he fell asleep with it clasped in his hand.
