Page 4 of Attempted Compromises
“Hold her steady,” Mr. Jones instructed, and Mr. Bennet’s muscles tensed as Mr. Jones took hold of her broken limb.
As Mr. Jones pulled at her wrist, Elizabeth’s entire body went rigid. She let out a muffled scream, biting down so hard on the brush that the wood began to splinter. Tears streamed down her face, and her skin was pale and clammy, the agony overwhelming her senses.
Mr. Bennet’s own cheeks grew wet as he held his daughter, his heart breaking at her pain. “It’s all right, Lizzy,” he whispered, his voice choked. “I’m right here. Just hold on a little longer.”
Elizabeth’s breathing grew rapid, and for a moment, it seemed as if she might be sick from the pain. Mr. Jones worked swiftly to set the bone and with a final, sharp snap, the arm was set in place.
“It’s done,” Mr. Jones said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Elizabeth lay back, her body limp with exhaustion, her face pale and damp with sweat. She looked up at Mr. Bennet, her eyes heavy with pain but filled with relief.
“It’s done, Papa,” she echoed, her voice barely more than a breath.
“Yes, my brave girl,” Mr. Bennet murmured, wiping a tear from his own cheek as he stroked her hair. “It’s finished, and you were so very strong.”
Elizabeth collapsed against her father, her face ashen and her breathing ragged. Mr. Jones dabbed her forehead with a damp cloth, glancing down at her with a look of concern. “Given her unusual tolerance, I’ll administer two more drops to help her rest,” he said, though his voice held a note of reluctance.
He administered the final dose, watching carefully as Elizabeth’s breathing slowed and her eyelids began to droop. The agony in her expression softened, and her body finally relaxed, though she didn’t fall fully asleep. Instead, she drifted in and out of a light doze, murmuring as the laudanum took hold.
As he packed up his bag, Mr. Jones shook his head, glancing over at Mr. Bennet. “Your daughter is quite remarkable, sir,” he said. “I’ve never seen such a tolerance for laudanum in someone so young. Quite unusual, indeed.”
Mr. Bennet managed a faint smile, still holding Elizabeth’s hand as she drifted in her half-conscious state. “Yes, she’s a remarkable child,” he replied, his voice filled with pride and love. “Stubborn as anything and brave to the bone.”
Elizabeth murmured something in her sleep, and Mr. Bennet leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. For tonight, she was safe, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 1
Rosings, 1808
The darkened skies hung heavy over Rosings Park as Fitzwilliam Darcy dismounted his horse, the usually composed gentleman now disheveled and mud-streaked, his black mourning attire marked with dirt from the furious ride. The express he’d received that morning from Lady Catherine had been brief but alarming.
Come to Rosings at once. Anne has been attacked.
Darcy pushed past the footmen at the entrance, ignoring the shocked faces of the household staff as he swept through the hallways. His boots thudded urgently on the polished floors. The grief he had borne for the past six months since his father’s passing, now intermingled with a sickening dread. How could something like this have happened? Lady Catherine had given no detail in her letter—only the desperate command to hurry.
Darcy’s heart pounded as he strode into the drawing room without waiting for the footmen to announce him. His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, paced in front of the fireplace, herface tense, her usual proud countenance dimmed by something that looked startlingly like fear.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, voice laced with a mixture of relief and agitation. “Thank goodness you’re here.”
Darcy took a steadying breath, his mind racing with questions. “What has happened?” he demanded. “Where is Anne?”
“She is resting,” Lady Catherine said, the words brittle. “She was set upon by a… a scoundrel.” Her face twisted with anger and disdain, her hands clenched at her sides. “The brute dared to strike her, all because he wanted… But you will see her soon enough.”
Darcy’s heart clenched, and a grim resolve formed within him. “Who did this?” he asked, his voice low.
Lady Catherine’s face darkened. “George Wickham.”
For a moment, Darcy thought he’d misheard her. “Wickham?” His mind flashed to his late father’s godson, the man who had plagued him for years with his lies and manipulations. “How did he—?”
Lady Catherine cut him off, her tone trembling with a bitterness that Darcy had rarely heard from her. “He accosted Anne on one of her morning drives.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Apparently, he has been lurking on the edges of Rosings for weeks, watching, waiting for an opportunity. The coward seized upon her when she was alone, in her phaeton.” Looking away, her voice became quieter but no less bitter. “He forced himselfupon her, Fitzwilliam. And then he had the audacity to come here, demanding her hand.”
Darcy’s hands clenched into fists, his mind reeling at the sheer brazenness of it. “Demanding—?” He choked out the words, fury and disbelief battling within him. “He thinks he can simply—”
Lady Catherine’s face hardened, her expression fierce. “He claimed that now he has ‘rights,’ that I must allow him to marry her or he would ruin our name, our family’s honor.”
Darcy closed his eyes, the rage within him swelling as he imagined Wickham’s fury and the depths of his desperation. “But… you told him to leave?” he asked, struggling to piece together the sequence of events.
Lady Catherine’s lips curved in a grim smile. “I had him dealt with in the way such scoundrels deserve. Two of my footmen dragged him from my sight and beat him thoroughly. I was about to arrange to have him impressed into the Navy, but the worm escaped along the way to the nearest port.” Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “But he will not return to Rosings. He knows that if he does, he will face the worst of consequences.”
