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“No,” Darcy replied. “My wife and I came upon her afterward.”
“How badly is she injured?”
“A surgeon has been summoned.” Darcy searched for the proper words to convey the gravity of the situation to someone who must hear the news from a stranger. His hesitation must have said enough.
“I am sure you must have noticed her delicate condition,” the gentleman said. “Do you know whether the child survived the fall?”
“It was yet alive when we found her.”
“Did she tell you how the accident occurred?”
“She has not regained her senses since the fall.”
Thunder boomed. A powerful gust of wind caught the umbrella, forcing it inside out. The gentleman swore under his breath and paused to fix it, but the umbrella was beyond repair.
“Damn this deuced thing!” He flung the umbrella into the harbor, then apologized almost immediately. “Forgive me—I am not myself at the moment.”
They resumed walking. They had covered about half the distance to the Harvilles’ cottage, and now advanced with still more rapid strides.
“So she has not spoken?” the gentleman asked. “She ca
“I am afraid not. Though perhaps she has awakened in my absence.”
“Let us hope so. I appreciate your trouble on her behalf. Might I ask to whom I am obliged?”
Startled, Darcy realized that in the urgency of delivering his news and the fury of the weather, he had failed to introduce himself properly. “Fitzwilliam Darcy. My wife is with your friend now, along with Mrs. Harville, to whose house she was taken.”
“I am indebted to you all.”
They had reached the cottage, and Darcy stopped before its door. “Might I, in turn, ask your name?”
The gentleman offered his hand. “It is Elliot. William Elliot.”
Four
Her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death.
Elizabeth helped Mrs. Harville and the maid exchange the patient’s wet dress for a dry bed gown, then followed the servant upstairs to another small bedchamber where she changed into dry clothing herself. Afterward, Mrs. Harville deployed the maid to fetch smelling salts while she herself prepared a plaister for their patient’s head. Elizabeth was assigned to watch over the patient while Caleb was enlisted to light the fire in the hearth. From the efficiency with which the naval captain’s wife took charge, one might have thought it was she who regularly commanded a warship and its crew.
Left alone with the unconscious woman once the fire was lit, Elizabeth covered her with a blanket. “You are in good hands,” she said, hoping that the sound of her voice might penetrate the u
In the relative privacy of the moment, she felt the woman’s abdomen again to check on the dependent being within. It was alarmingly still. But then … a faint kick. Weak, but perceptible. As if to confirm that it had not been merely an illusion of her hopeful imagination, she felt a second movement.
“The surgeon is coming,” she said, unsure whether she spoke the words aloud to reassure the baby, its mother, or herself.
The maid returned with the salts, then went to check on the children. Elizabeth passed the vial of hartshorn beneath the woman’s nose, holding her own breath as she did so. The powerful odor always brought tears to her eyes, and reminded her of her mother’s nervous fits.
The woman’s countenance tightened. With what appeared great effort, her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze appeared unfocused.
Encouraged by this sign of consciousness, Elizabeth leaned closer. “Can you hear me, ma’am? You have suffered a fall.”
“No…” The woman winced.
“I am afraid so—a bad fall, ma’am.”
“Ell—” Her eyes drifted closed, as if she had not sufficient strength to at once hold them open and speak. “Elliot…”
“Is that your name? Elliot?”
She did not respond. Mrs. Elliot—if that were indeed her name—had drifted back out of consciousness. Elizabeth attempted the hartshorn again, but without success.
Mr. Sawyer at last arrived, so familiar with the route to the Harvilles’ home that there had been no need for the officer who had summoned the surgeon to accompany him. Elizabeth somewhat guiltily recalled that Sir Laurence was also to have sent a surgeon, and hoped the second medical man was not wandering the Cobb in the storm wondering where his would-be patient had disappeared to. She supposed that if there were any survivors of the ship explosion, his services would be needed there more than here anyway, now that Mr. Sawyer had come.
He immediately set about examining the patient, assisted by Mrs. Harville. Their communication betokened familiarity, and references to “last time” and “Miss Musgrove” implied that Mrs. Harville’s nursing experience had proved indispensable to him in the past.
Elizabeth described the state in which she and Darcy had found the woman, and the baby kick she had just felt. “She regained consciousness briefly,” Elizabeth finished. “That is a good sign, is it not?”
The surgeon nodded absently as he felt the woman’s ribs and took her pulse. “Unfortunately, she shows other signs that are not as encouraging. Was she able to speak?”
“She was very disoriented, and said only the name ‘Elliot.’”
“Elliot?” Mrs. Harville glanced up from her ministrations. “Are you quite certain?”
“Yes. I assumed that to be her name, though she lost consciousness again before I could confirm it.”
Mrs. Harville returned her attention to the patient. “I wonder whether she is co
Mr. Sawyer determined that leeches must be used to reduce the head swelling. As he prepared for the bloodletting, the maid entered to inform them that Darcy had returned. Elizabeth left the patient with the surgeon and Mrs. Harville, and entered the main room to find a rather wet Darcy with an even more soaked gentleman. He introduced his companion as Mr. Elliot.
“Mr. Elliot! Thank goodness my husband found you. The surgeon is with your wife now.”
An odd expression passed over his countenance. “My wife passed away little more than a year ago.” Despite his rumpled appearance, he stood stiffly.
Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. I assumed—”
“I believe, however, that I am acquainted with the woman Mr. Darcy described to me. Might I see her?”
“Of course.”
She led him into the bedroom, where Mr. Sawyer was applying leeches to the woman’s temple. Mr. Elliot looked at her face, then averted his gaze from the business under way.
“I do know her. This woman is Mrs. Clay.”
Elizabeth was relieved to at last have a name with which to address their patient. “Where might we locate Mr. Clay?”
“Penelope is widowed.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth was not certain who engaged her pity more—the mother left to raise her child alone, or the child who would never know its father. “She is fortunate to have friends at such a time. She asked for you.”
Mr. Elliot started. “She is awake?”
“Not at present, but she woke briefly.”
“What did she say?”
“Only your name: Elliot.”
His features relaxed. “Yes, well … she has been under my protection for the past several months.”