Later that evening a knock sounded at Darcy’s office door. “It’s open.”
“Hello, Darcy.” Robert crossed to the desk. We missed you at supper tonight.”
Darcy grunted a reply.
“Say, I’ve just seen to a boy from Kent—apparently he knows you. Goes by the name Tipper.”
“He’s here? Now?” Darcy pushed to his feet.
“I’m afraid the news isn’t good. Multiple shrapnel wounds in one leg. To save his life, the limb must come off, but he’s refusing. Says his brother lost a leg last year, and one amputee in the family is enough. Frazier’s become a crack shot at this sort of thing, but short of forcing the boy onto the table, there’s nothing more to be done for it. Even if the leg came off, he might not survive.”
“Mmm.” Darcy slowly resumed his seat. He and Tipper shared the hellish opening day of the Somme, and both had scars to remind them of it.
“He’s requested to see you after the nurse has him cleaned up—probably sooner than later, if you know what I mean.”
Darcy shifted in his chair. Sit at the bedside of a dying soldier? No. Particularly not that one. It infringed on his vow to maintain a comfortable distance from others.
“Sir?” Robert ducked to meet his eyes.
“Sorry, what’s that you were saying?”
“What’s this I hear about your refusal to join in the cricket match? I thought you loved the game. The boys from the school and I were counting on you. We need you on our team. I expect it will be a cracking good time.”
“You heard correctly. I have no intention of wasting my time on silly games.”
Robert narrowed his brow. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Darcy? You’ve been cold as ice ever since our arrival here.”
“I’m here to do my duty, not fraternise or make friends.”
“What about your duty as a leader to build morale? You know all too well that a soldier’s bonds with his comrades is the one thing that keeps us all from going mad. What kind of example are you setting that you won’t even join in a game of cricket?”
“I have work to do!” Darcy bellowed. “Between running this hospital and satisfying Richard’s mandates, I haven’t time for childish games and picnics.” He slapped the papers on his desk.
“Fine.” Robert shot back. “Then don’t expect the men to give you anything more than their obedi—.”
“Mind your tone, Lieutenant.”
“Forgive me, sir. I thought I was speaking as your friend.” He snapped an exaggerated salute, then disappeared.
Darcy closed his eyes, grimacing as the door banged shut. What about your duty to build morale? ...we need you. ...Good Lord, Darcy, you’re in love with her! He massaged his brow. Over the last year he’d performed his duty and resisted sentimental attachments—fairly well, anyway. But now things seemed to be unravelling, his indifference only hanging on by a thread. The line separating duty and emotional investment no longer seemed as clear as it once had.
“Sir.” Elizabeth tapped on his partially closed door an hour later for the second time. “Tipper is calling for you again. Sister McAdams thinks he hasn’t much longer. Please....”
“I’ll be there when I can,” he mumbled, returning his attention to his desk.
“Sir! No man is an island. Just because your men died at the Somme, doesn’t give you an excuse to shut yourself off from the living who need you.”
Darcy whipped his head around and barked, “And just because your father let you down doesn’t mean every other man would.”
She took a half step back, her face crumpling in pain as if he’d struck her.
He released a repentant sigh. “I-I’m sorry.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Tell Tipper I’ll be along directly.”
Darcy tipped back the silver flask and let the whiskey burn down his throat. The alcohol spread through him like a soothing balm. To perform his duty with Tipper would require all the fortitude he could muster coupled with a gentle hand. He’d summoned courage at the Somme to save the boy; now he needed the mettle to watch him die.
He whispered a prayer and rose to his feet. Could he convince Tipper to allow the doctor to remove his leg? Was it too late?
“Captain.” The glassy eyes of Tipper smiled up at Darcy as he lowered himself onto the bedside chair. “Thank you for coming,” he slurred. “Looks,” he swallowed hard, “like this is the end of the line for me. I wanted you to know...I appreciate what you did for me last year.” He paused for several breaths. “In the hospital last year...not far from Hunsford...gave Mother a last chance with me.”
Darcy swallowed the lump in his throat. “There’s a chance you could see her again if you would consent to the surgery.”
“No.... One lame son is enough. It’s better this way. Will you write to Mother? ... Tell her I love her? Just don’t let her know the truth. Do that...for me, sir? She’d believe anything you say.”
“Ye—.” Darcy cleared his throat and shook his head. “If Dr. Frazier will work on your leg—to try to save it—would you allow it?”
A glimmer of hope sparked in the boy’s eyes.
“I can’t promise the doctor will even consent—he told you before it was hopeless. But would you try?”
“Dying on the surgeon’s table couldn’t be worse than this. Dum spiro spero.” The boy curved a weak smile.
While I breathe, I hope. “Dum spiro spero, indeed.” With misty eyes, Darcy smiled back and pushed up from the chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The lamp on Darcy’s motorcycle pierced the darkness as it bumped along the familiar road from the boys’ school back to The Ritz. The hour was late. The Yank and other officers would be finishing their card games and heading upstairs. Darcy had intentionally avoided the American for the second day in a row, his composure too fragile to endure confirmation of Tipper’s passing.
The image of the kind widow who would soon receive news her son was dead haunted his thoughts. He grunted, shaking his head. He’d done all he could for Tipper. It would have been just as well had the boy died at the Somme. What a waste of a young life.
Darcy slowed the motorcycle beside the stable block and extinguished the engine. He’d promised Tipper he would write to his mother—and he would—just not tonight. He swung his leg off the bike and pulled off his goggles. He’d wait a week until the rawness of it passed and then concoct a condolence letter. He plucked his gloves off one finger at a time. Duty performed with detachment. Done. He slapped the gloves in his palm.
“Captain!” Frazier hailed him from the stable ward in the dim light.
Darcy groaned, bracing as The Yank approached.
“Where have you been hiding? I have news about your boy Tipper. It’s been a close fight, but it looks like he might pull through yet.”
Darcy raised his brows with a surprised smile. “I’m happy for him. Thank you for your effort.” Darcy turned towards the chateau, thankful the boy might go home and relieved not to have to inform yet another mother her son was dead.
The Yank fell in step beside him. “He’s been mumbling some Latin phrase he says he learned from you. I suspect his survival is due only to his sheer will to live. He departs for the hospital train in the morning. Wouldn’t you like to see him?”
“Not particularly. I did what I could for the boy, but the rest was out of my hands. If he made it, he would go home. If not, there’s no use crying over spilt milk.”
“Sir,” the doctor stopped in his tracks, “if I may be so bold—the passing of a friend can hardly be compared to spilt milk.”
“He was merely a tenant on my aunt’s estate.” Darcy resumed his pace.
“Maybe that’s all he is to you, but in his eyes, you’re a hero.”
Darcy grunted, impatient to retreat to his office and close the door.
“Sir!” Frazier grabbed his forearm, forcing him around.
Darcy jerked his arm back, glowering at the insolent American, but was met with eyes of equal fury.
“You aren’t the only one who has lost mates. Boys die on my table every day, but ignoring the living won’t bring back the dead—or make the hurt go away. It only makes you one more casualty of the war.”
He straightened his tunic with a jerk and tramped up the veranda steps, leaving Darcy behind.
Moments later Darcy mounted the veranda steps muttering, “Damn Yankee....Nebraska farmer...who does he think he is?” Darcy strode through the library, ignoring Elizabeth and her employer as he toed Lili aside with more force than usual. Once in his office he slammed the door and fell into his chair.
Ignoring the living won’t bring back the dead.... ...if you’d give Lili your attention.... With a frustrated roll of his eyes he tossed his gloves and goggles onto the desk. Holding himself at bay was his only insulation from sentimental entanglement.
He flipped open a file on the desk and leafed through its contents as a knock sounded at the door. “Captain?” came the sweet voice of the housekeeper. “I’ve brought your supper.”
Darcy was in no mood for pleasantries, but he was hungry. He pushed back from his desk and swung the door open with a swish.
Her startled reaction prompted him to relax his scowl and step aside. “Thank you for the supper.” The gruffness in his voice negated his attempt at civility.
Wide-eyed, she mechanically placed the tray on his desk and retreated without even closing the door.
Darcy poured water into the porcelain washbasin and splashed his face. ...such a dear boy.... ...those who are good as children make good men. He huffed under his breath. She wouldn’t hold that opinion of him now.
He swept a towel across his face. Your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others... He closed his eyes. Elizabeth certainly held a low opinion of him. Since his disastrous proposal he’d learnt to value a man for his character and not merely his station. What did it matter if he held himself detached in the course of his duty? ...intimacy affords the greatest joy in life.... If only he could shut out the voices in his head! He threw down the towel and stalked back to his desk.
For the next hour he attempted to immerse himself in the contents of the file. ...intimacy affords the greatest joy in life.... The words whispered from the recesses of his mind. He dropped his pen with a sigh then massaged his brow, raising his sight to the moonlit garden. Two orderlies chuckled on their way to their quarters over the stables. The boys need you.... What the bloody hell’s wrong with you? Darcy raked his fingers through his hair, gripping its roots. Why did they all want something from him? Couldn’t they all just do their duty and leave him alone? He pressed his hand over a building headache. ...you’re in love with her! ... Ignoring the living won’t make the hurt go away.... No man is an island....
Dum spiro spero.
With a gulp of air he collapsed on the desk in a torrent of emotion, no longer able to withstand the voices pummelling his conscience. It was impossible not to care—not to feel. He had pushed his feelings down and shut the door to trap them deep inside, but the weight had only crushed him.