Prologue

Fitzwilliam Darcy stared in anger across his desk at his old friend, George Wickham. They were in the study at Pemberley, which was still the same in appearance as it had been when Mr. Darcy, Sr. had been the master. Only instead of two young boys sitting next to each other across the desk, it was now young Master Darcy who was in the large

"What on earth makes you could come back here and ask for the living at Kympton? You rejected it three years ago in favor of three thousand pounds - to study the law, I believe you claimed."

"Yes, well, I found the law to a most unprofitable endeavor. Surely your father could not have wished for me to live in poverty, slaving away like a drudge for the rest of my life. I have learned my lesson."

"So you have taken orders, then?"

Wickham colored slightly. "I have not."

"Then even if I wished it - which I most definitely do not - I couldn't. Livings are granted to those who have been ordained."

"Technically, you could give it to me, and I could just not serve as the clergyman until I finished my studies."

Darcy frowned. "Then who would see to the needs of the parish?"

Wickham waved an unconcerned hand. "Oh, a curate could be hired for a minimal amount. Pemberley would hardly notice the difference."

Sighing, Darcy rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Wickham, even if I hadn't already paid you an exorbitant amount for the value of the living, I wouldn't give you its preferment. Your vicious propensities and lack of principle do not make you the ideal person to lead this community on the path of righteousness."

"Oh, don't be such a prude, Darcy," Wickham sneered. "There are plenty of younger sons across England who enjoy the income of

"But they are sons of gentlemen. Your father was a steward, and your only claim to anything from my estate is that my father was your godfather."

Wickham shot to his feet, face red with anger. "Just as proud and conceited as always, Fitzy."

Darcy also rose. "And you are just as quick to anger as ever, Georgie," he replied coolly.

Taking a few deep breaths, Wickham calmed down and said, "You're right. My apologies. It's just -" his voice grew pleading, desperate. "I'm in trouble, Darcy. Real trouble. I had a good hand, I know I did. He must have bilked me, it's the only way. I know that ace had already been played, but then he had it!"

"Stop rambling, Wickham. How much do you owe?"

Wickham gulped, his face pale, "I had taken out a loan, you see. Not… not from a bank."

"From a usurer? You idiot! How much?"

"The initial amount was only three hundred pounds. But now - with the interest, which was only twenty a week, you see; better than the fifty he usually charges -"

"How much?" Darcy growled.

"About two thousand," Wickham whispered.

Darcy's eyes widened. "You owe two thousand pounds? And you thought taking a living would keep you safe? Good Lord, man! The Kympton living pays out about four hundred a year, and that's quite high compared to most."

Wickham cast his eyes down, and understanding lit Darcy's features. "Ah, it wasn't about the money, was it? You thought that having the title of parson would protect you. That if you wore the cleric's robes and passed yourself off as a man of God, the moneylenders wouldn't break your legs, or worse."

Not waiting for a reply, Darcy walked around the desk. "Well, my old friend, I'm sorry, but you cannot hide out at Kympton. You will just have to find another way to pay back your debts."

"But Darcy, they'll kill me!"

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," Darcy replied coolly. "I have been cleaning up your messes for almost a decade. No, Wickham, you're on your own this time."

He reached out to pull the bell to ring for a servant, but just as he yanked down, Wickham's rage finally let loose. He shoved Darcy as hard as he could, roaring in anger. "You owe me, Darcy! You have everything, and I have nothing!"

Darcy, who was already off-balance from pulling the cord, fell backwards. His foot caught on the edge of the hearth, and his tall frame tumbled between the marble pillars framing the fireplace. He crashed directly onto the grate where the hot coals of the fire lay, causing it to collapse.

Wickham's anger turned to shock as Darcy's pants burst into flames from the heat. Darcy howled in pain and managed to launch himself out of the fireplace by placing his hands on the hot steel and shoving with all his might. He landed on his side, ht cinders trailing behind him in the air, and a large piece landed directly on his left cheek. He bellowed, one hand covering his face, the other attempting to remove his pants.

The door opened to admit a footman answering the call from the bell-pull. He gaped the sight of his master, who was rolling around on the floor, screaming in agony. Another servant rushed in, but this one was more resourceful than his friend. He rushed forward and grabbed the teapot- now cold, fortunately - and threw it over his master, before removing his coat and beating at the remaining flames.

This caused the first footman to leap into action as well. He began shouting for help, then joined in helping put out the fire. Darcy lay groaning on the floor, and Wickham took advantage of the distraction to rush out the door.

He would rather face the moneylender than be hung for Darcy's death.

Fire! He was on fire!

Darcy frantically tried to beat at his legs, tearing at the pants that had burst into flames from the hot coals in the grate he had landed on.

But his arms were being held back. Wickham! It must be him! He had shoved Darcy into the chimney-piece and was now holding him down, wanting him burned alive.

Thrashing about with all his might, fighting to free himself, Darcy struggled. His legs throbbed with an intense agony he'd never before endured, not even when his arm had broken from a fall off a horse has a child.

"No, Mr. Darcy! Just hold still!"

Wait, why would Wickham be calling him Mister?

Fighting against the blackness crowding his vision, Darcy forced his eyes open and looked around. He wasn't in his study, but in his chambers.

Mrs. Reynolds was there. She was the one who had spoken.

There was sudden pressure on his leg, and the blinding pain caused him to lurch forward and vomit over the side of the bed.

"Don't let him up!"

He felt several pairs of strong hands grip his wrists and ankles, and he bucked and flailed.

"It's no use. We must sedate him."

No!

But there was nothing he could do. Darcy felt his mouth forced open, then bitter drops of liquid fell over his tongue and down his throat. Choking and sputtering, he tried to reject the foul potion, but it was too late. Within moments, darkness once more overtook him.

Mrs. Reynolds looked helplessly at her master, now peacefully lying unconscious on his bed. Turning to the apothecary who had been summoned from Lambton, she asked, "What now?"

He shook his head and began packing his medical bag. "I'm afraid there's not much I can do for him. Now that I've been able to removed all of the burned bits of trouser from his skin, it's clear this is now in the Lord's hands. You're better off to call a priest than a surgeon."

She gasped. "Surely there must be something to help him, Mr. Muddleford?"

"I suppose I could remove the dead skin and pack the burns with a poultice," he said, pausing. "Mind you, it will be quite painful for him, and the risk of infection is quite high. The burns cover the majority of his backside and legs. I doubt he'll survive, so why put him through the pain of it all?"

"But at least he'll have a chance," she insisted.

"Oh, very well, then," he said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "But I don't like it, Mrs. Reynolds. It'll be torturing the poor man, and for no reason."

"It still should be done," she stated firmly. "I'll write to his uncle, Lord Matlock, in the meantime. I imagine he'll be here by tonight."

As Matlock was situated in the same county, the earl arrived only hours after Mrs. Reynolds sent her message, along with his second son, Colonel Fitzwilliam. He took one look at his nephew and immediately sat down to write an express to Sir James Earle, a colleague who was a surgeon at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London.

"Get this idiot out of here," his lordship demanded when Mr. Muddleford once again insisted that Darcy would most likely die. "And send for the apothecary at Ashford-in-the-Water. He did something with burns for one the servants last year."

"Uncle?"

Georgiana Darcy came into her brother's room. She had been kept away by her companion, Mrs. Younge, but when she heard the voice of Lord Matlock, she pushed through her usual reserve and left her chambers.

"Oh!" Upon seeing her brother's leathery, blackened skin, Georgiana cried out. The sight and smell, which had been ignored by all in the room, was too much for a sheltered young girl of just thirteen years. She collapsed in a faint, causing her cousin to rush to her side.

"You there," the colonel snapped at a footman, "take Miss Darcy to her room immediately. Have a maid sit with her, and send someone to fetch me when she awakens."

The girl was carried away, and Colonel Fitzwilliam turned his attention back to his cousin. "Let me call my batman. He tended more burns while we were on the continent than any apothecary would here."

Lord Matlock nodded his permission. His son stuck his head out the door and gave two sharp whistles that echoed throughout the house. Within moments, a rough-looking man in his thirties barreled through the door.

"Yes, sir!" The batman saluted Colonel Fitzwilliam sharply, then stood at attention, his eyes fixed on his commanding officer.

"At ease, Bates," Fitzwilliam said with a wry smile. "We're on leave."

"Of course, sir," Bates replied without moving a muscle.

Gesturing towards the bed, Fitzwilliam said, "Darcy's been burned - badly. The apothecary is useless, and it will be days before a doctor can come from London - if one even does. What can you do? We can't let him die."

Bates turned his attention towards the prone man on the bed and winced at the dry, leathery skin that was such a dark red, it appeared nearly black.

"Right, well, let's not dilly-dally," he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "I'll need both hot and cold water - and soap for washing - a sharp knife, the strongest brandy you've got, and lots of clean towels."

"Go, girl!" Mrs. Reynolds snapped her fingers at a maid in the corner, who rushed out of the room.

"I'll also need some eggs, vinegar, and as much Turner's cerate as you can find. But if there's not much vinegar, then limewater and oil will have to do."

Mrs. Reynolds went to the door and shouted at a footman to fetch more servants, then turned and asked, "Should we fetch ice to make the water colder?"

"You have an ice-house?" Bates asked in surprise. When she gave him a superior raise of an eyebrow, he muttered, "Right, of course you would, a house like this. Yes, ice would be even better."

As everyone rushed to do his bidding, Bates sat down on the bed next to the wounded man, visually inspecting the burned flesh without making contact. The hot water and soap were the first to arrive, and he washed his hands before thoroughly washing the knife as well.

Then, without warning, Bates sliced a strip of burnt, leathery skin from Darcy's buttocks and down his thigh.

Mrs. Reynolds gave a startled cry from the door, and the maid who had been entering behind dropped the vinegar. Lord Matlock shouted in protest. "Ho, now! What in God's name are you doing?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had pressed his lips tightly together when Bates began to work, reached out a hand to keep his father from stepping forward as Bates lifted the knife once more. "Father, it needs to be done. The flesh is too burned to heal. It must be removed, or it will rot."

The earl's eyes bulged, and his face took on a green tinge as Bates removed another section of dark red flesh and dropped it on the floor next to the first.

"We're not on the battlefield, Mr. Bates," Mrs. Reynolds said scornfully, her composure having been restored.

She marched over to the water closet and retrieved an empty chamber pot, then brought it to the bedside. Placing it on the ground next to the shreds of skin and, her gaze not moving from that of Bates, picked them up and placed them in the basin.

"My apologies, ma'am," Bates said with a nod, a glimmer of respect appearing in his eyes.

"Now, what can I do to help?" she asked.

"You aren't squeamish?"

"No, I am not," Mrs. Reynolds replied without hesitation.

"Very well, then. Once we have removed all of the damaged tissue, we will need to lay clean towels soaked in ice water on the burned skin."

"How will that help?" Lord Matlock asked.

"Come feel," Bates replied.

Matlock recoiled at the suggestion, and Bates gave a harsh laugh. "Apologies, m'lord. The heat from the fire stays in the burns. If we don't put it out, it'll keep burning."

"Shouldn't we bleed him, then, to get it out?" his lordship asked.

"No!" Bates practically shouted. "Bleeding's the last thing he needs. Too much blood's already been boiled away."

Lord Matlock gave a grunt of disbelief and turned to his son, but Colonel Fitzwiliiam nodded his head. "It's true, Father. I've seen it myself. The medics would clean the wound and wrap it, only to see more damage the next day. And anyone who was bled just died."

"So after the ice water, then what? What are the eggs for?" Mrs. Reynolds brought the conversation back to point, eager to keep the focus on helping Mr. Darcy.

"Then we'll bathe it in vinegar and brandy. That'll keep it clean."

Gasping, Lord Matlock cried, "The pain alone will kill him!"

"There's no pain, m'lord," Bates said. "The burn's too bad. He won't feel nothin' until we put the Turner's cerate on it and wrap it as tight as we can with bandages. 'Tis the pressure that hurts. We'll need to keep laudanum in him."

"And the eggs?"

"Oh, right. The egg whites can go on the burns with the salve. It'll help them not dry out too bad. Then we wait. We keep changing bandages and cleaning it. And keep him drugged."

"How will he eat?" Mrs. Reynolds asked. "He'll starve to death."

"We'll give him broth in a bottle, like a babe. That, and watered-down spirits. That'll help with the pain as well. All the time, mind. The fire dried all the water out of him, and we need to get as much back in him as we can."

"How do you know so much?" demanded the earl. "Good Lord, you don't have any training at all! We should wait for a surgeon, or for news from London. Or at least the apothecary."

"If we wait for London, he'll be dead," Colonel Fitzwilliam said firmly. "Father, I would trust Bates with my life. He may not have training from a medical school, but he has seen more burn wounds from the battlefield than any apothecary will have seen here."

Matlock shook his head, and the colonel pressed on, "Besides, you heard what Muddleford said: Darcy's as good as dead either way. At least this way, there's a chance."

Bates, who had been continuing to debride the burns throughout the entire conversation, made one last cut and placed the piece of skin in the overflowing chamber pot. "There's, that's done. The burn's gone clean down to the muscle in some spots, but not the bone, thank God Almighty. Now for the vinegar."

He picked up the chamber pot and carried it over to the door. As he passed the earl, Matlock gagged. "I think… I think I will leave you to it," he gasped out before bolting from the room, brushing past the stream of servants who had been coming in and out under the direction of the housekeeper.

Colonel Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "Now, was that necessary?"

"It will make it go more quickly without so much commentary," Bates shrugged, picking up a stack of towels.

"You made him ill… on purpose?" Mrs. Reynolds asked, scandalized.

"Bring that ice water over here," he told her, going back to the bed. "Now tell me you haven't done something or th'other to get a toff to get out of your way."

Mrs. Reynolds sniffed and looked away. Bates looked over at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who smothered his laugh with a cough and said in a stern voice, "That's enough, Bates. What can we do?"

The three spent the next half hour soaking towels in ice water and draping them over Darcy's wounds, with the most resilient maids and footmen available to bring fresh linens, ice, and water.

"I cannot believe how quickly the towels become warm," Mrs. Reynolds exclaimed after having to trade out a compress for the third time in ten minutes.

Just as she spoke, Darcy began to shiver violently. "He's too cold!" cried the colonel. "Quick, take the compresses off!"

"No!" barked Bates. "Get some hot broth and brandy. We'll warm him from the inside, but we cannot stop until these wounds stop burning through."

Mrs. Reynolds jerked her head at a footman, who took off running towards the kitchens. The nature of the situation meant no one was bothering with ceremony or propriety. With tear-filled eyes, she gently turned Darcy's face so that she would be able to reach his mouth better to spoon broth into it.

"Good Lord!" she shrieked, jumping back.

Bates and Fitzwilliam shot to their feet. "What is it?" the colonel demanded.

She pointed wordlessly at the pillowcase, too shocked to speak. There, where his cheek had rested against fabric, was a bloody mass of skin and tissue fused with the cloth.

Fitzwilliam swore. "How did we miss that?" he growled.

Bates was already inspecting Darcy's face, wiping at it gently with a clean towel. "It looks as though his cheek burned as well, but not as bad as the rest of him. It must have blistered, then started healing and attached itself to the pillowcase while he lay there on it. When she moved him, the skin just sloughed off."

Mrs. Reynolds covered her hands with her mouth and began to weep. "It's all my fault."

"Nonsense," Bates said brusquely. "I would've done the same thing. None of us knew - we were focused on the part of him that had been on fire. But there's nothing that can be done about it now."

A servant came in with a large cistern of steaming broth, followed by another with warm brandy. "Here, now, Mrs. Reynolds," Colonel Fitzwilliam said firmly, but kindly. "Look, Darcy's still shivering. We need you to feed him while we work on his legs. Then we'll tend to his cheek. Can you do that?"

She took a deep, steadying breath, then nodded firmly. Taking the bowl and spoon from the maid, she placed a towel under Darcy's mouth and began to awkwardly attempt to drip it between his parted lips. As he was still lying on his stomach with his head twisted to the side, gravity was not in her favor, and the process was tedious.

"Once we have his wounds bandaged, we can move him a bit. Then you can use a lambing bottle," Bates said.

The housekeeper dipped her head briefly in acknowledgment but otherwise kept her focus on her master.

It would be another hour before Darcy's trembling subsided. By then, his wounds felt cool to the touch, had been bathed in vinegar, and the two soldiers were finishing applying the egg whites and Turner's cerate.

"Now for the worst part," Bates said with a grimace. "We need to wrap the wounds as tightly as possible to keep the inflammation at bay."

"Shouldn't they be left open, to remain dry?" Mrs. Reynolds asked.

The batman shook his head. "With how much skin he's lost, they'll become putrid. Best keep them covered."

The two men began to wrap the legs, but as the first loop was pulled tight across his left calf, Darcy's eyes flew open. He arched his back and began to scream in agony.

"Hold him!" Bates shouted over the howling. "Don't let him disturb the poultices!"

Several footman came rushing in from the hallway and each grabbed a flailing limb. "The laudanum!" Colonel Fitzwilliam yelled, grabbing the vial and passing it to Mrs. Reynolds. "Three drops - no, four!"

She tried to drip the liquid into his mouth, but he was thrashing his head too forcefully. The colonel passed the foot he was holding to another footman, then grabbed his cousin in a chokehold from behind, doing his best to not grasp the injured cheek or suffocate the injured man.

The move forced Darcy's head to stop moving, and Mrs. Reynolds quickly tipped several drops into his mouth - much more than four. "I'm sorry, sir!" she cried desperately.

"It's alright," he assured her, praying it wouldn't stop Darcy's breathing.

After several long moments, Darcy's eyes rolled back into his head, and he once again slipped into unconsciousness.

"Lord, please don't let us have to do that ever again," Mrs. Reynolds said fervently.

"I don't think we will," Bates assured her.

Unfortunately, he would be very, very wrong.