Fitzwilliam and Mr Elkins stepped out of the cabin to a transformed world.
There was a tent being set up on a spot that had not even been cleared when they entered to attend Miss Bennet, three fires were going, and Simpson handed him what turned out to be an excellent stew—and by that, he meant excellent in absolute standards, not just for an army man, where merely having food that did not move was enough to make it above average.
"Simpson, you are a wonder," he said jovially.
He wondered about the man. His cousin Darcy promoted him on the spot after talking for all of two minutes, while the colonel had earlier chosen him from the rabble of stable hands, though he did not really know why. Perhaps, it was just the sort of things that a master or an officer, who were not all that different when you got right down to it (except for having fewer people shooting at the former) needed to be skilled at. Perhaps, he was just the first man fool enough to stick his head out of the hole when the shooting started. Either way, he seemed a good choice.
Simpson proved the evaluation immediately.
"I deserve no such praise, colonel," he said with a bit of a drawl. "You can thank Mrs Collins for the food and the use of young Cecil, and Mr Darcy's valet for the tent and most of the other accommodations. I have no idea where he found it all."
"Neither do I. A good estate the size of Rosings would have several tents for festivals, but —"
"Say no more," Simpson said with a laugh, since both men knew that anything that smacked of the mixing of classes was anathema to Lady Catherine.
"My batman might have been useful, but he might one day be half as skilled as old Scriven. He will be put out that I gave him leave for this trip, so he missed all the excitement."
The men chuckled together as one does, and all three tucked in. The stew was accompanied by fresh bread and a very good pie.
Simpson observed wryly, "If one look at Mr Collins did not verify the top priority at the parsonage, this meal would do the trick."
The colonel laughed along, but vaguely suspected that a well-chastised Darcy would have set to work redeeming the hapless parson already. It was the sort of thing he was good at when he could be bothered, and with his newfound knowledge of Miss Elizabeth's bad opinion, he would do all he could to redeem himself in the eyes of everyone the lady held dear.
Once they finished, Elkins spoke. "We need to stitch up a gash on Miss Bennet's side, and I believe we should do it before Nott arrives."
"I always thought it best to do all the unpleasant things at once, since it gave you the best chance of passing out and missing all the fun."
"Possibly, but she will thrash around enough when we set the leg to break it open again. I want it well-stitched if we have any chance of preventing infection and leaving a not-too-terrible scar; not to mention I would prefer to avoid having a patient bleeding in two places at once. We will give Nott another hour, and proceed with the leg if he is not here."
With a sigh, they decided that putting it off would accomplish nothing, and entered the shack to get on with the gruesome business.
They gently woke the lady. When she came to, it became obvious her lucidity was not in top form. Her words were slurred, her eyes were glassy, and she had trouble understanding simple instructions. However, since Elkins had explained what was required before supper, he already had her permission.
He handed Fitzwilliam a thick leather strap, along with a bottle of what looked like gin. "Rectified spirits, something like gin but twice as strong—almost pure alcohol. You might refrain from drinking it."
The colonel understood the message well enough. Infection killed far more men in battlefield hospitals than the wounds themselves. The best surgeons were fanatical about cleanliness, though nobody had any idea why it helped. Somebody had taken the old cleanliness is next to godliness mantra literally and noticed it worked. Unfortunately, adherence to the concept was uneven, with Fitzwilliam's experience indicating it was probably only about a third or half at best, and even worse in the heat of battle. He had seen the same saw used on five different men by the same surgeon in the space of an hour one horrible day in Portugal. At that rate, cleaning the instruments fell entirely by the wayside.
As Mr Elkins cleaned an all-too-familiar curved needle and catgut suture with the same spirits, he spoke as calmly and soothingly as he could.
"Forgive my language, but this will hurt like the devil, Miss Bennet. You should bite on that strap in your very back teeth and hold it tightly. The colonel's job is to ensure it stays put and try to distract you. The strap helps a bit with the pain and keeps you from biting your tongue. Do you understand?"
She answered a bit woozily but seemed ready to proceed. It was impossible to determine how much of her fugue was due to the laudanum and how much to her fever, which was still climbing.
With a fervent wish for forgiveness, the colonel put the leather strap into her mouth, gripped her hands tightly, and looked into her eyes, which were worryingly glassy and red, with dilated pupils.
"Talk to her, colonel," the apothecary said, as the needle made its first jab.
The colonel was a man who typically had no more trouble generating words than Lady Catherine, though he preferred to believe his made more sense. The first few stitches left him tongue tied, but he eventually managed to persevere. He kept his grip on her hands, wondered if he needed to keep her from wobbling around, and did his best to talk of the things they had previously discussed in his aunt's drawing room: namely places she might travel they had not been able to canvass, a new book Darcy might drone on endlessly about if given half a chance, the beauty of the peaks, the lakes and the moors, the new music Georgiana was practicing that he liked very much (though it sounded much like the old music to his tin ear).
He dearly hoped Miss Elizabeth was either at least mildly entertained or annoyed. Since her muffled screams were not as common as he expected, he thought he might have done well enough.
After what seemed some time, but was probably less than a quarter-hour, he dared to look at Elkins' handiwork and removed the strap from her mouth as her breath finally evened out.
To his relief, she said, "Thank you, gentlemen," then seemed to fall into a somewhat peaceful sleep. He had no idea if it was true sleep or passed out, and suspected he never would.
"Well done, colonel. If you ever decide to leave the army, I could offer you employment as a nurse."
"I suspect you could fit into the drawing room yourself, Mr Elkins. My sister would kill to have stitches that good in her embroidery."
While he said it jokingly, he did see that the stitches were clean and tight, and while the man had cleaned the wound with alcohol that probably felt like fire to Miss Bennet, he had taken the time to ensure that the skin lined up nicely. It was first-rate work and would have been seen as such even by a man who was accustomed to better than the usual army doctor patch-ups.
With their patient asleep, and barely a half-hour gone by since their supper, they returned outside to rest for a moment with coffee, while thanking the fates for Mrs Collins, her cook, and apparently young Cecil who had been scrambling up and down the cliffside for hours.
Outside the cabin, they found Dr Nott waiting, so Elkins performed introductions.
Dr Nott said, "Well met, colonel. Mr Simpson appraised me of the work you were doing, and I did not wisht to disturb."
"More like you smelled Mrs Collins' coffee," Elkins replied good naturedly.
They all chuckled, and Nott replied, "May I introduce Mrs Buxton who shall serve as nurse," and they noticed a matron of about forty walking their way, having apparently been engaged with Simpson and Cecil.
Fitzwilliam smiled and bowed. "A pleasure, and if you do not take offense, may I say I am inordinately pleased to see you, and even more impressed you managed that cliff at night. My hat is off to you, ma'am."
"It is my pleasure, though I would not repeat my experience on the cliff if you do not mind. Mr Simpson's men lit it up with four carriage lamps, and young Cecil guided me every step of the way, but it was still terrifying."
"Even more impressive," Elkins added.
"All credit to young Cecil who chattered like a magpie but kept my nerves at bay. I may just take the lad home with me," she added good naturedly, and they did their best not to laugh when Cecil turned red as a beet while smiling happily at the praise.
Mrs Buxton straightened and turned to business.
"Gentlemen, give me a quarter-hour to do the things that require a woman's touch. Which side is the bed on?"
The colonel pointed to the left and the nurse nodded and walked away. "Come, Cecil. Bring those things, but your eyes point that way."
They all chuckled at young Cecil's enthusiasm for the job as he trotted over with another bag of what they assumed were some sort of medical supplies.
Dr Nott explained, "Mrs Buxton was an army wife, but her husband caught a bullet some years back. I daresay she has seen a great deal. Your charge is in good hands."
They spent the next quarter-hour explaining the patient's condition in detail, along with Elkins' evaluation of what was finished and what remained. Elkins asked Nott to examine the rest of his handiwork and make suggestions for improvement, showing a conscientiousness Fitzwilliam appreciated, and found all too rare in his own life.
When Mrs Buxton called, they went with trepidation and the colonel with slight confusion. Dr Nott seemed to be a bit of an enigma, and thinking about such trivialities was a good way to pass the time as the medical men prepared their materials. The colonel's time in the army gave him the ability to nail down just about any man's place of origin and station in life with half a dozen words, but Nott failed to conveniently fit himself into any category he could name.
The man seemed to be from the south based on his accent. He was a skilled surgeon of about forty. In the upside-down world of social position, a surgeon was not usually considered a gentleman which made no sense. A physician spent years studying medicine at Oxford or Cambridge but rarely did anything, save speak politely to the upper circles, take their money, and instruct an apothecary or surgeon to do what the men already knew. Medical professions were not considered acceptable for the younger son of a gentleman, but the colonel detected an upper-class accent that would fit right in at Almacs, mixed with occasional digressions that were more appropriate for a navy dockside bar. Of course, he also knew that things were changing slowly, and more surgeons were taking the title of doctor, ignoring grumbling from the old guard.
The medical men were cleaning their instruments, laying out steel splints that looked better than his sword gathering rust in the corner, piles of padding and wrappings, pots of salve, and who know what else.
Nott interrupted his musings with a rather impertinent query. "Shall I put you out of your misery, colonel, or continue enjoying my sport."
"What do you mean," Fitzwilliam asked, though he knew the answer.
"Trying to work out if I am fish or fowl?"
"The thought has crossed my mind."
"Let me give you a clue. You and I share a certain trait that might explain a few things."
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhh… Fitzwilliam said," with some of the pieces falling into place. "Second son… third… fourth?"
"Second."
"I assume to a gentleman of some standing, whom I speculate offered you the usual professions of law, clergy, or army, to find himself somewhat… ah… displeased with your choice."
Nott chuckled. "You have a rare talent for understatement. Somewhat disappointed does not come within a league of his reaction."
They were of course continuing with their business, while Mrs Buxton was wiping down Miss Elizabeth with vinegar to help her fever.
"Would he have been happier if you became a physician? That just barely passes muster for the son of a gentleman."
"Not the son of a duke," the man said, which brought a deep laugh from Fitzwilliam, though he stifled it immediately at a stern look from Mrs Buxton.
"If he is anything like my father, I assume he thought you taking up a surgeon's trade …" he began, putting the usual upper-circles sneer on the last word. "… was met with some resistance."
"It was, but since he was in Kent while I was on the continent the first five years, his grumbling had little effect."
Fitzwilliam laughed. The son of a duke becoming an army surgeon was far worse than becoming a pirate. At least there was money in the latter.
"I see you are back. Have you reconciled,"
"Not by half." the man laughed, indicating there was more to the story.
"I am on pins and needles."
Everyone could see that the time to get on with it was fast approaching. Everything they needed was laid out in good order, clean, tidy, and ready for action.
"I married a woman of such low status as to nearly give my father and elder brother simultaneous apoplexies. Imagine it, if you can—I married a penniless daughter, one of three mind you, who was seven and twenty at the time, and her father had an entailed estate that earned a mere pittance of three thousand a year!"
Everyone was caught off guard when Miss Elizabeth burst out laughing, and they became alarmed when it started sounding somewhat hysterical. Both medical men felt bad about allowing the distraction, which had been mainly to allow them to prepare for the work to be done, but it was up to the colonel to soothe the lady as he had earlier in the day, and then explain to the men exactly what was so funny, as their patient giggled softly.
"Let us proceed," Nott said, and they got to work.
Fitzwilliam manned the strap as he had before, and similarly took her hands, while the doctors started the gruesome task of reduction.
He was convinced the name was designed specifically to make the process seem less than it was. Both doctors started by feeling the bones carefully, then they had to manipulate them into place, all while not doing any more damage to the muscles and tissues. If Miss Bennet's screams were any indication, it hurt like nothing else possibly could. All three kept hoping she might eventually pass out, but there was no such luck. There was only so much laudanum could do, and even though Mrs Buxton had supplemented it with a bit of brandy, it was still extremely painful.
The whole operation seemed to drag on forever, though in the end, Fitzwilliam realized the worst was probably around a half-hour. Once the reduction was complete, and the bones were as good as they were likely to get, they began splinting. The leg was wrapped in soft cotton, the steel splints were attached, and the whole thing was wrapped in bandages.
Finally, at long last, it was done, and to everyone's satisfaction, Miss Bennet finally fell asleep.
With a last check of the injuries, they put the tools of the trade back in order and set up a rotation. Mrs Buxton took the first watch, then each medical man scheduled their own.
Both men knew the colonel would be busy the next day, and they did not want the lady watched with untrained eyes during that first critical day, so they rather sternly banished the colonel to the tent, telling him to get some sleep.
He accepted gratefully. When he arrived at the tent, he found Darcy's valet had wash water ready and it was even warm. Young Cecil hung off the man's every word, and Fitzwilliam wondered if Mrs Collins would rue the day that she sent the lad down. In the end, he suspected Darcy would steal the boy away, replace him with an older and more skilled man and surreptitiously pay the additional wages. He had seen it happen more than once.
Scriven naturally had his riding clothes, cleaned, of course, and ready for the morning. He knew his uniform would be ready as well.
With a grunt, he looked at his watch. He had endured consequential days before, and likely would again, but with a chuckle he reflected that none of the previous ones left him engaged. He idly wondered how things would work out with the elder sister, and hoped Bingley had only thrown her over because he was an idiot (as seemed likely). He doubly hoped Darcy could manage to redeem himself, and he had some reasonable faith that the man could grovel with the best of them if it came down to it.
He reflected that he pulled Simpson out of the group the previous evening at five outside the parsonage gates, and less than ten hours later, everything had changed.
He was curious to see if it had changed for the better or worse. Over the next few days, it was likely to be worse, but he had some faith that in time it would be very much to the better.
