Although they made on fast, the ride to Pemberley seemed like an eternity. Urging them ever faster, Mr. Darcy’s incessant beating the roof of the coach with his walking stick further exacerbated everyone’s shattered nerves.

He had climbed into the repaired carriage with Elizabeth in his arms and wrapped his jacket about her. The other three women sat across aghast. Hannah could not clearly see Elizabeth’s bruised and scratched face, but her feet were bare and bleeding. She spread the lap rug over them.

Georgiana dared bid, “Pray, is she all right?”

He shook off her questions, keeping Elizabeth’s face to his neck. One of her arms was about him, the other gripped tightly to his lapel. Although he kissed her gently upon the forehead and whispered reassurances to her as they strove headlong for Pemberley, no one else uttered a word.

They broke post but once, the horses exchanged in less than a minute. Thus when they finally reached the courtyard of home, even the new team was in shivering exhaustion. Howbeit no man was more solicitous of his horses, Darcy took no notice of their near collapse. He had no thought but to get Elizabeth into the house.

Though several footmen ran to open it, he kicked back the coach door before one could. As the master was not of a mind to have his door opened for him, not one suggested they help him carry his wife. She protested she could walk, yet he would not put her down. Lest she be attacked before reaching the safety of Pemberley’s walls, he made a dash with her to the house, taking the steps two at a time.

Without being told, Hannah knew to prepare Elizabeth her bath and ran ahead calling loudly for hot water. She slowed a step, realising she had broken the absolute rule of never raising a voice in Pemberley and expected reproach. There was none, for Mrs. Reynolds trailed Darcy as he took the stairs with Elizabeth still in his arms. Two candle-wielding servants hustling to light the way overtook both.

Once to their bed, Elizabeth finally released her hold upon him. Nevertheless, he waited until they were alone to unfurl her from his coat. He could see the swollen bruises upon the side of her face and scratches upon her neck. Her lip was swollen and bore a deep cut. Taking out his pocket square, he dabbed at the blood on her lip. She winced.

He called for Mrs. Reynolds hovering at the door and issued orders for the physician to be called.

“No,” Elizabeth interrupted, “No.”

He told her she must be seen.

She repeated, “No. I will not be seen.”

Tears welled in her eyes, hence, he did not have the wherewithal to insist.

The notion of a doctor deflected, she attempted to rise, insisting, “I must bathe.”

Understanding that compulsion full well, he, however, endeavoured to keep her still, assuring her it was being drawn even then. That reminded her others were about, and, if she did not want the doctor to inspect her injuries, she most certainly did not want to see anxious faces darting inquiring looks in her direction. Indeed, she bid him tell Hannah to take leave once her bath was in ready. That was done expeditiously, for he thought that it was just as well if Hannah did not tend her lady.

He could sponge Elizabeth himself and inspect her injuries both thoroughly and in private. He withdrew his waistcoat, wadded it in a loose ball and threw it toward the corner. Then returning to fetch her, he rolled up his sleeves as if preparing for a particularly difficult duty. Which it would be. He knew if she was able to bear it to happen, he must be strong enough to witness the result.

When he sat her in the tub, she gasped, the hot water stinging the long red scratching welts that streaked her thighs. It was just with the sternest of wills that he could bring himself to look at them. Hence, whilst murmuring words of love to her, he silently tortured himself with recriminations.

As a man with considerable conceit of his own understanding of humanity’s shortcomings, he was incredulous that he had been duped by such scurrilous trickery. How could he have kept the brother of a man he beat from service still in his employ? Of course, there would be bad blood. Mr. Rhymes should have dismissed them both. Had he allowed his overseer or the bailiff to see to the matter, as he should have in the first place, instead of taking it upon himself to…

He made himself cease. Self-recriminations were of no particular help to her reparation that he knew. Hence, he denied himself additional mea culpas. His mission was to see to his wife.

Not noting a wound that needed binding, he dried and gowned her, then carried her to the bed, covering her with the bedclothes. Outwardly, she appeared but to be bruised. He sat heavily upon the bed, his head in his hands, awash with relief.

But quickly, relief that her body was not mortally wounded was replaced by the memory at just what outrage had been perpetrated against her.

Telling her he should not be gone but a moment, he rose to seek the solitude of his own dressing room. There, suddenly very weary, he splashed water upon his face in vain attempt to restore his flagging strength. Before that day, the only death he had ever witnessed was the gentle passing of his father. Never had he seen a man killed. From that day forward, he would have to live with the knowledge that he had taken three lives. He had slain them without remorse.

That had not been a thought until he looked down at the water in the basin. It was tinged pink. He gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving it was not Elizabeth’s blood he washed from his person.

Looking at himself in the pier glass, he felt not a twinge of regret. Awash yet with rage, his singular wish was that there were three more to kill.

He sank heavily onto a bench, hoping to find enough energy to remove his blood-bedecked shirt, whereupon he heard Goodwin at the door. (Thenceforward of his inopportune intrusion, Goodwin knocked before entering Mr. Darcy’s dressing room.) Drawing his shirt off over his head, he hastily wiped his face and neck clean of any remnants of spattered blood with it.

Thereupon, he thrust the garment into Goodwin’s hands through a mere crack in the door and silently motioned him away. Appalled at the state of the shirt and affronted to have it unceremoniously dumped in his hands, Goodwin looked with repugnance upon it, for he reckoned whose blood it was. Hence, he held the vile garment from his person with a thumb and forefinger and carried it off. Darcy tugged off his own boots, donned a fresh shirt, and then went back to Elizabeth. However, before he lay down upon the bed next to her, he released the tasselled rope cord holding back the baldachin that draped from the canopy. The soft folds of glistening fabric encapsulated their bed.

He was uncertain what she might need of him just then. He would have done anything, gone anywhere, brought her anything. He simply did not know the extent of her discomposure. She had allowed him to help her bathe, but otherwise she refused to be attended. A denial of the physician’s ministrations was not unexpected. But refusing Hannah’s was unprecedented.

He thought that if she would but allow him to hold her safely in his arms, he would be unable ever to let her go.

She had been lying upon her back, her arm across her face but she removed it as he sat beside her. Afraid to touch her face, he finally reached out and stroked her neck with the back of his fingers.

“Pray, if I take care, may I hold you?”

She nodded her head and pressed her face against his chest as he kissed the top of her head.

His lips imbedded amidst her tresses, he beseeched her, “How can you ever forgive me? I know I shall never be able to forgive myself for allowing this to happen…”

Reaching out, she pressed her fingertips to his lips, effectively shushing such entreaties.

“Where in this is your part? The fault is not with you—no one could have known that danger was about.”

“But Lizzy, I should never have left you.”

Telling him what she knew he feared but dare not ask, she said, “He did not defile me and my bruises shall heal. It was you, husband, who rescued me from them.”

The serrying of her body against his relieved him of the necessity of hiding his relief. True, he had not wanted to inquire if Reed had penetrated her (the ogre’s intentions were flagrantly exposed), lest she believe if the man had, her husband would find his own insult. He hoped himself most concerned for the degradation she, alone would feel. Nevertheless, when she told him that she had not been violated, he could not say unequivocally that the relief he felt was for her alone.

In time, he thought he might consider why it should be that the woman absorbs the assault and the husband somehow believes himself the affronted party.

He started to speak again, but held his tongue and stroked her hair instead. Her shoulders began to shake and he knew she was crying.

“Do not think of it,” he bid her, knowing even then that was not possible.

Putting his fingers under her chin, he endeavoured to get her to look at him, but she hid her face as if ashamed.

“But shall you ever desire me again?”

“Lizzy, how could you even suggest…” he was speechless.

She hesitated, then spoke, not looking at him yet, “I fear each time you look upon me you will recollect…what you saw.”

It was true that vision was seared now and forevermore into his memory, however, it just made him want to hold her more dearly. Softly, he took her face in his hand and turned it back to his.

“Every time I look upon you, I shall see my beautiful, intrepid Elizabeth and nothing more.”

“Perhaps we are both beyond reason at this moment.”

Then, as if in reassurance of that, she bid the astounding.

She did not cry again, but her voice began to quaver as she said, “I want you. I want you inside me. I want that man erased from me…I want you in me now.”

With a strength that defied the extent of beating she had undergone, she gripped his shirt in her fists, cleaving against his chest. Having been frightfully reluctant even to lie next to her, the ferocity of her desire took him especially unawares. That and that she desired him at that moment at all. Had she never wanted to be touched again, he thought he would have understood. It was the first time he had ever had to rise to the occasion, so to speak, for he truly did not feel arousal. He felt exhausted, angry, guilt-ridden, horrified, and, yes, even frightened. Once she was safe, the wrenching fear he had felt for her had overtaken him.

No, he was not aroused. Nevertheless, he could be. He realised that when he felt her hands upon his body, urgently seeking which caress or stroke would bring the fever to his blood. So impelling was her touch, he cast everything else from his mind and he let himself think of nothing but his love of her. She needed his reassurance then, not the next day nor the day after. Then.

It was an unusually warm night, but he would not open the windows nor draw back the heavy drape that surrounded the bed. No breeze reached them. The air was humid and still in the bedchamber. Although there was a slight breeze in the air, they suffered the heat rather than open themselves to the night.

By morning, her gown and his shirt were drenched in shared perspiration, for neither allowed the other to leave their embrace.

Eventually he betook himself from Elizabeth’s side, but it was midday before he did. When he came down, Georgiana was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She had been sitting for hours upon a bench in the corridor waiting to hear his footsteps.

It was not until he saw her that he was reminded what trauma she had endured. Not entirely certain it true, he, nevertheless, answered her anxious enquiry that Elizabeth was well. Georgiana was insistent he heard the entire history of the event.

“What extraordinary bravery! Not only did Elizabeth put herself betwixt us and the highwaymen, she fought them! We were all struck with terror, but Elizabeth would not have it,” she shook her head incredulously.

She wanted to talk more about it, but he could not bear to relive it so soon and shook his head.

“Yes, we were all terrified, Georgiana.”

She looked at him a little quizzically. She had thought it probable, however bravely she behaved, that Elizabeth had been frightened. Not until that moment had she considered that her imperturbable brother was. Thereupon, she ascended the stairs and repaired to her room. No one knew she spent much of the next few days furiously scribbling once again in her journal.

Darcy watched Georgiana take the stairs and closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks that she appeared not to be permanently traumatised by the event. It was at that precise moment that the Derbyshire High Sheriff, accompanied by not just the constable, but the coroner as well, all bearing successively apprehensive countenances, arrived to interview Mr. Darcy, the women, and the servants.

Duelling in the face of a man’s honour was still overlooked by the magistrate, but the killing of three men, even by such an illustrious personage as Mr. Darcy, could not be ignored.

“Mr. Darcy,” began the High Sheriff, before uneasily clearing his throat, “you understand that it is not I, but the King, who demands an accounting of these unhappy events be delivered to the magistrate. It is imperative that we question you and Mrs. Darcy.”

“You may query me. I do not deny my actions. However, under no circumstances shall you speak to Mrs. Darcy. I am quite implacable. I will not have it. She has been distressed enough.”

“You must understand. We cannot compleat an investigation without her testimony of the offence.”

Not remotely interested in entering into a test of wills with Mr. Darcy (who at that moment appeared to be quite ready to bestow a full understanding to the High Sheriff upon what implacability meant), the sheriff shifted about. Upon Elizabeth’s abrupt appearance at the head of the stairs, all discourse ceased. Was there was any doubt of offence, it was cast aside by those witnessing her battered face.

Her descent of the stairs began a little shakily. Darcy took them two at a time, with each step entreating her to return to bed.

“I shall speak with the man in the library,” she announced with firmness of voice not mirrored in her step. “Pray, alone.”

With considerable reluctance, Darcy agreed, but stood sentry outside the door with his arms crossed glowering at the coroner and constable as if daring them to plague his wife. It was but a matter of minutes when the sheriff reappeared.

Ducking his head with even more deference than when he came, he thanked Darcy for his time and apologised for the intrusion upon his privacy.

Darcy went in forthwith to Elizabeth to help her regain the upstairs. He did not ask her what she said to the sheriff.

On the third day after their return, Elizabeth felt strong enough to join Darcy and Georgiana at breakfast. This did not actually elicit the response from them for which she hoped, for she wanted to reassure them she was just fine. They both graciously acknowledged this attempt, but it fell short.

Howbeit the swelling had ebbed and the cut upon her lip was healing, she was severely bruised yet.

Hence, breakfast commenced with Georgiana paying the one compliment she could honestly think of, “You do not look half so bad as you did, Elizabeth.”

It was not lost upon Elizabeth how dreadful she looked, for her looking-glass did not lie. Even a generous dusting of powder did not hide the contusion upon the side of her face that had turned a rather royal shade of purple. However, she had been cooped up in her room for three days and she was desperate to breathe some fresh air. She bid her husband to escort her upon a stroll after their breakfast.

He had barely turned to her to assure her he would when her face suddenly drained of colour (save for the bruise). She said she felt dizzy.

Masking his concern, he addressed her in a mild husbandly scold, “You have, no doubt, left your sick bed too hastily, Elizabeth…”

In response, she stood as if to take his advice immediately. Before she took many steps, however, she dropped like a rock. Darcy, already moving in her direction, partially caught her fall. He hastily lifted her into his arms. Mrs. Reynolds and Georgiana were at his side when Mrs. Reynolds saw Georgiana’s gaze alight on the floor with alarm.

When she followed her gaze, she caught Darcy’s attention and said, “Look there!”

There was blood pooled upon the carpet. Horrified, he saw it bespattering Elizabeth’s shoes and stockings. He clutched her tighter to him. Still in a faint, her dangling arms twirled slightly as he made a frantic half circle, uncertain whether to run to the carriage or take her to bed. His decision in favour of immediacy, he swept her up the stairs to their room.

With a great deal of pain (and an untidy mess, both of which Elizabeth disapproved of herself to present to her husband) she miscarried in her bed before the doctor arrived.

Once there, holding Elizabeth’s wrist to take her pulse met Dr. Carothers’ notion of patient examination. Few doctors took the liberty of invading a lady patient’s privacy by actually inspecting their female parts unless a baby’s head was actually protruding. Instead, he donned his spectacles for a close inspection of her bloody bedcloth.

Thereupon he went into the corridor and, with great solemnity, spoke with Mr. Darcy, pronouncing what everyone already knew to be true. Darcy inquired of the doctor if Elizabeth understood she had miscarried.

Nodding his head, Dr. Carothers asked Darcy with as delicate a sensibility as a man of his bluntness could muster, “Pray…does anyone know how Mrs. Darcy obtained her injuries?”

In the mayhem of the new emergency, Darcy had compleatly forgotten about Elizabeth’s bruises. He wrestled fleetingly with having to reveal to the doctor what indignities Elizabeth suffered or have Dr. Carothers think he had beaten her himself.

His decision eventually fell to the simplicity of truth.

“My wife’s party was accosted upon the road from London. Her injuries occurred at the hands of the robbers.”

“I see,” the doctor said. “She was not…eh…violated?”

“No, she said she was not.”

“Thereupon this unhappy event, undoubtedly, owes to that fright,” the good doctor (a man of great science) stated. Taking off his spectacles, he leaned closer to Mr. Darcy and whispered, “Ladies are an excitable lot, are they not Mr. Darcy?”

Glaring at Dr. Carothers, Darcy said, “I cannot speak for all ladies, but as for my wife, she is not ‘excitable.’”

The doctor said, “I see,” but Mr. Darcy did not hear him, for he had turned to go in to his wife and Dr. Carothers found himself staring at a soundly shut door. Darcy walked over to Elizabeth. Howbeit pale, she was sitting upright against some pillows. He began to fluff them unnecessarily, muttering to himself.

Moving aside in mute request that he cease and sit by her, she asked him what the doctor said to cause his consternation. He shook his head, said it was nothing of any use, not wanting to relate the doctor’s exact words. She leaned back against the newly plumped pillow and gave a deep sigh, alarming him.

“’Tis me, is it not?” she said. “I fear I have failed you.”

Darcy, baffled, “How so?”

“I was too stupid to realise I was with child. I thought it was merely the excitement of being in London. Had I been mindful of it, I should not so hastily have come downstairs.”

“It was none of your doing,” he countered. “The physician says it was owing to the fright caused by the attack.”

“If that were so, I believe it should have bechanced when I was frightened, not days later. No,” she insisted, “I did not take care of myself properly. I can fault nothing but my own ignorance. And because of that I fear I have failed you.”

She produced a weak but knowing smile as if to reassure him that, although culpable, she sought no pity. However, tears welled in her eyes and as they began to creep down her cheeks, she turned her head.

“I think you are mistaken as to who has failed whom, Lizzy.”

“I was with your child and was unawares. Jane knew she was with child for Bingley. Because of my own ignorance, I am no longer with child for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes,” she said stoically, “I know I must give you a child. A son. It is my duty as your wife. My body has failed me and because of that, I have failed Pemberley” (for to her, he and Pemberley were one and the same).

“You have not failed me. Surely you do not wish to have a child just because you think it your duty?”

“No.”

That single admission allowed her to overcome her guilt, and, unable to hold back the tears, she began to cry anew. She abhorred such a display as self-indulgent. Still, she had striven hard to define her own culpability in their loss and, finally able to abandon gathering blame and the resultant satisfaction she received in cleaving it to her bosom, she grieved.

She allowed herself to keen just for the baby that was not to be.

Not entirely certain weeping was an improvement, he soothed her, “We have not yet been married a year. There is ample time for a family without you worrying that you must produce an heir.”

She ceased crying and eventually slept. Her husband, however, could find no peace.

He sat in darkness upon the side of the bed. He was angry beyond words. He was angry with the men who abducted her and angry with himself for allowing it to happen. He was even angry at the position he held if it bade her believe she was useless to him if she did not bear him a son. Never, not once, had he felt impotent. Indeed, potency had ruled his life in one form or another. Yet, a sickening impuissance engulfed him then.

He abandoned her bedside just as far as the carpet. There he paced. He begat a relentless traverse of the length of the unlit room. To and fro, he walked. A brooding man, he repined thereupon with a tempestuousness even he would have not imagined possible. The dismal contemplation of her initial rejection seemed obscenely mild in comparison.

A grimace of outright pain crossed his face as he thought of that. Had he managed to secure her love just to have his own improvidence bring her to draconian disorder? What good were wealth and position if he could not even keep her safe?

Within the month, when Elizabeth was well enough to go outside, Darcy brought her a pistol. (Not his father’s pistol, even he could not bear to look at that, and had locked the weapon of murder away.) The gun he purchased was brought to him all the way from Spain. It was light, yet powerful—easy for a lady to grip.

He went out onto the grounds and taught Elizabeth and Georgiana both how to use it.

Darcy had been undecided how to tell Elizabeth and Georgiana that the stolen jewellery had been returned by the innkeeper, not wanting to remind Elizabeth of that tavern.

The man had arrived at Pemberley alone and Mrs. Reynolds had been called. There upon his outstretched hands sat the Darcy jewellery. Nary a single piece was missing. Indeed, all were daintily wrapped in Elizabeth’s ripped stockings, secured by her torn garters, and tucked inside the single slipper that persevered the fierce struggle upon Reed’s horse.

Wisely, Mrs. Reynolds had the shoe, stockings, and garters burned. If it horrified her to see them and the violation that they represented, she could not imagine Mr. Darcy’s reaction. In fortune, for just the sight of the recovered jewellery sent him into a renewed, if silent, fit of rage.

Because he did not know how, Darcy chose not to explain it to Elizabeth at all. He simply had the jewellery returned to her without accounting. When Elizabeth espied the jewel case mysteriously returned to her dressing table, she, of course, inquired about it. Hannah told her that the pub-keeper had brought it to them of his own volition.

Another servant announced, before Hannah could frown at her, “He said he din’t want cause for Mr. Darcy to spite him.”

Elizabeth thought, indeed, no, he does not.

For Darcy was unreasonably angry yet that not one man at the alehouse had come to her aid when it was obvious that she was captive and her abductors were bent upon her ravishment. Elizabeth, however, did not hold that same sentiment. For she had seen the fear upon the man’s face and could grant his gallantry a little latitude.

Howbeit they had their jewellery and even her shoe and stockings returned, there was one possession that the pub-keeper did not carry to Pemberley. Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth ever returned to that inn to retrieve it.

For there, upon the stone floor, were bloodstains that diligent scrubbing could not remove. And in mute testimony to that day, in infamous honour over the fireplace, hung Mr. Darcy’s sword.