"Colonel, you are with me," Mr Elkins, the Hunsford apothecary said as Darcy and Simpson turned and headed back to the ropes at speed. "You gave your friend the better job, I fear."
"Yes… well… he is in unrequited love with your patient so —"
"Say no more. Few things are more disruptive to efficacious treatment than lovers, but the latter may just be worse."
Colonel Fitzwilliam envied his cousin, but not for the reason most assumed. A decade in the cavalry, earning every promotion on merit, had taught him one thing. Having something to do was far better than having to wait, watch, ponder or otherwise be unable to affect the outcome. Army life was brief periods of absolute terror, punctuated by nearly endless spells of boredom. He occasionally envied the logistics men who kept the troops fed and clothed (more or less) because they always had something to do. Darcy was certainly getting the better end of the bargain, but then again, he knew he was a much better man for the job anyway.
Fitzwilliam's relationship with his father and older brother was such that his Uncle Darcy had purchased his Cornet's commission in the cavalry. The Earl desired he follow a path matching the father's ambition more than the son's, while his uncle considered him a grown man capable of his own decisions when he left university.
Mr Darcy senior had offered to buy a higher commission, and subsequently to buy promotions over the years, but nobody ever accused a Fitzwilliam of lack of stubbornness. His cousin Darcy had made similar offers, especially upon the death of Mr Darcy Sr that left him co-guardian to his cousin, Georgiana Darcy.
His cousin never nagged or pleaded, but he had made it known he would be ecstatic to have the soldier well situated, and he certainly had the means; but Fitzwilliam had thus far felt compelled to earn his own way in the world. He spent very little of his wages, preferring when on leave to live off the largess of Darcy, or his own father in a pinch, so his money was well invested and earning a good return (by Darcy, of course). He also had a enough prize money added to the pie that he might be considered modestly well off by a Mr Bennet but poor as a rat by his own relatives.
He wondered if Darcy might eventually have his own way. He knew full well he could get along just fine with Miss Elizabeth. In fact, he had actually given the matter some thought, and given another month he may well have been as in love with her as his hapless cousin. She would do just fine for an old soldier's wife.
He also knew in his bones that Darcy would eventually do the right thing and do it well, probably by way of the elder, supposedly more beautiful and kinder sister.
Perhaps, he thought, there was something to be said for settling down after all. Time would tell.
Elkins interrupted his musing. "It will be dark soon. How is our lighting?"
"Darcy will see to it."
"You have much faith in your cousin."
"He is a disaster with women, or more specifically the only woman he ever gave two straws about—but he is the best estate master in England. He knows what to do."
They opened the door a crack and peeked in to see their patient sleeping, so they decided to remain on the porch and discuss for a few minutes.
Both men could do the arithmetic easily enough. Doctor Nott of Sevenoaks was the better surgeon, but he was five miles away. Darcy and Simpson would not let any grass grow under their feet, but they were also not likely to whip the horses into a frenzy to save a few minutes. The best they could hope for was an hour and a half to have him present, and two or three was more likely; presuming, of course, he was not otherwise occupied or away from home. There was an open question of the efficacy of fast action versus a better surgeon.
"Tell me about our patient. How resilient is she?"
"She refused laudanum just so she could smack me around like a drill sergeant, so I would say more than most men."
Elkins laughed, to Fitzwilliam's confusion. "Only men who have never attended a birth can make such ignorant statements. Women are, on average, far tougher than men. They just do not boast about it."
"A harsh assessment of our sex, sir, and I wish I could dispute with you, but alas, you are probably right."
"Her leg is the most worrying part of her injuries, though she has several things that could easily kill her without us knowing."
"She was coughing blood," Fitzwilliam asserted, as it was something he had always considered a very bad sign.
"She is, but there is little we can do about that. About half the time it is just a cut in her mouth or her nose, and they take care of themselves. Sometimes it is a small internal bleed into her lungs, which she would have to cough out. That is the reason we cannot dose her to the gills with laudanum. She needs the coughs. If she has a bigger bleed into her lungs, they will fill up, and she will drown. There will be nothing we can do about that."
"So, keep her awake long enough to teach her some proper curse words then?"
"I suspect she already knows the words but refrains from using them, but perhaps you can lead by example."
"An army surgeon would take the leg without a second thought. Have you considered it?" Fitzwilliam asked with forced casualness. "How would that affect her life?"
"An army surgeon has different priorities. For example, we do not have to worry about the twenty or fifty wounded we might have yet to treat today. I can assure you that same army surgeon would think very differently if the wound was a general versus a foot soldier, or peace time versus war."
Fitzwilliam chuckled grimly. "For some generals, they might amputate the head."
Elkins was not impolite enough to laugh, but on another day he might have.
"We shall have to see. Her chances of being fully recovered are not great, but I think she has a reasonable chance of walking again. I would be reluctant to take that away if unnecessary. That said, you should prepare yourself. Some injuries demand an amputation decision immediately, some take a few hours, and some a few days or weeks. We have to watch for infection, gangrene, internal bleeding, and the like."
He sighed and continued thoughtfully. "As for the effect on her life, if a woman loses a leg, but still has a willing partner, she can still probably have children, and raise them as well as the next woman, given sufficient accommodations. To be honest, a gentlewoman is better served by brains than brawn, little do some of them understand it. Loss of a leg need not be a death sentence."
"Let us hope for the best. Shall we get to it."
Just before they turned to go in, they were interrupted with an overly excited, "Sers! Sers!"
They turned to see a gangly and awkward youth of about fourteen or fifteen summers who looked like having regular meals was a recent development. He was carrying a sack that looked bigger than he was but exuded good cheer. He ran up and heaved the sack down to the ground in front of them.
"Ye'd be yon colonel?"
"I am…"
The boy made an awkward bow that was far too deep, causing the colonel to suppress a laugh while wondering where he learned it. "I be Cecil, sers…" he said, though it was barely comprehensible due to his high excitement combined with his low accent.
"Welcome, Cecil," the colonel said jovially.
"I be the man of all work for the parsonage. Mrs Collins, she done send me t' talk to yon Scriven up to the big house…"
"Say no more," the colonel said, and opened the bag to see what treasures it contained, happy to have a good explanation for poor Cecil's overly obsequious manners. Too much Mr Collins and too little Mrs seemed likely.
"Mrs Collins is the local parson's wife, and our patient is her guest. I imagine she got tired of waiting for us to solve all the world's problems, so she acted very sensibly and quickly. Scriven is my cousin's valet. Here we have an argand lamp, so dark will not bother us overly much. Looks like some clothes for Miss Bennet, bandages, an invalid feeder, some bedding, and I imagine the other men will have clean clothing for us before long. Looks like a water pot."
"An'a TRIPOD!" Cecil boasted exuberantly. "Made it m'self."
"Well done, Cecil. Go round back to the woodshed and build a campfire here… you can do that, no?"
"Course… 'twrern't not been brung up fancy," he replied indignantly.
"Of course not," Fitzwilliam agreed jovially. "Pray, excuse my lack of faith. So, bring round some wood, and knock on the door to get a brand. Get a big fire going."
Elkins continued, "I need all the boiled water you can make, son, as fast as you can."
"You will have more pots from Rosings soon, Cecil. For now, get two good fires going and one pot."
"Yesssirr…" the lad said, though he was already tearing around the back of the shack.
He was joined by a good-sized bark from Max, which left Fitzwilliam laughing and cursing, "Where have you been, layabout dandiprat."
Max, naturally, looked quite unrepentant. He was not much of a hunting dog, and his finding Miss Bennet had been more luck than hunting prowess, but Fitzwilliam loved the mutt. If nothing else, his dog at least joined himself and Darcy in despising both his father and aunt.
With a grim chuckle, the men turned to the door to get on with their task.