Sally O'Rourke - The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

The other occupants of the room gaped as Mr. Hudson walked quickly to a small table and returned with a large, curved sailor’s needle and a length of twisted suture material and began expertly sewing up the large gash in Darcy’s forehead.

“My word!” Edward exclaimed, peering over the doctor’s shoulder. “He is indeed completely out of his head, is he not, Hudson?”

“Not unusual following an injury of this sort, sir,” the elderly gentleman replied as he continued to stitch with swift, practiced movements. “Complete rest and quiet is what he wants now.”

Hudson paused to fish a new piece of cat’s gut from the silk waistcoat beneath his apron. He wet the end with his tongue and threaded it into the needle.

“He’s a lucky fellow,” Hudson chuckled as he resumed his needlework on Darcy’s head. “Fainted before I came to the stitching, you see.”

Averting her eyes from the doctor’s gruesome task, Cassandra raised her voice to ask a timid question. “Do you think he will recover, then, Mr. Hudson?”

“Oh, I should think so,” Hudson replied. He bent to bite off the end of the last suture, then crossed the room to dip his bloody hands in a basin of water. “He’s a strong, healthy fellow,” the doctor continued.

He winked at Cassandra. “Someone will have to keep an eye on him, though, lest he decide to go walking. Great care should be taken to keep him abed until the bleeding has stopped.”

“You may rely on it, Hudson,” Edward volunteered, stepping forward. “We have not yet located the friends he mentioned, but the moment Jane told me his name and the place he comes from I knew who this man Darcy was.”

Hudson folded his bloody apron away and raised his bushy white eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed, sir?”

While this conversation was taking place, Darcy, who had been drifting in and out of consciousness, and who was by now more than half-convinced he was trapped in a bizarre nightmare from which he would soon awake, opened his eyes. He touched the freshly sutured gash on his forehead and winced in pain. At the sound of his name he turned to look at the others who were gathered by the door, unaware that he was listening in on them.

“Fitzwilliam Darcy is a wealthy American with a great estate in Virginia,” Edward was telling the doctor. “I know this because my younger brother’s bank, in which I have a considerable personal investment, has, I recall, transacted letters of credit for a client who each year purchases several fine horses from this Darcy’s farm, for use on his own plantation.”

“An American? How extraordinary!” exclaimed the doctor. The old gentleman turned to glance back over at the bed where Darcy lay listening with his eyes tightly shut, so the others would believe him to still be unconscious.

“The man’s being an American would explain his rather odd clothing and that peculiar timepiece he wears on his arm,” Mr. Hudson observed with a chuckle. “I daresay we haven’t been treated to many Yankee fashions since the ingrates rebelled back in 1776.”

Bewildered by this talk of the year 1776, which Hudson’s tone seemed to indicate had been fairly recent, Darcy peered through slitted eyes at his gold wristwatch, which seemed to fascinate these people. Then he covertly scanned the bedroom again, searching for electrical outlets or fixtures, or some other sign of modern times, but could find none. He quickly resumed his unconscious act as footsteps approached the bed.

Edward Austen stopped at the footboard and leaned over for a better look at his helpless guest. “American or not,” he told Hudson, “this fellow Fitzwilliam Darcy is a wealthy and powerful man. And he shall receive nothing but the most considerate treatment at my hands.”

“Commendable, sir,” the doctor harrumphed. “Quite good of you.”

“I should like to move the man to larger, more comfortable accommodations at my manor house as soon as possible,” Edward suggested.

Mr. Hudson frowned at that. “Considering the gentleman’s present state of unconsciousness, I would prefer to wait and see how he fares through the night,” he said.

The physician cast a glance at Jane and Cassandra, who were still hovering near the door. “That is, of course,” he told Edward, “if your sisters do not object to his remaining here until he may be safely moved.”

Without waiting for Edward’s reply, Jane stepped forward. “Certainly we could entertain no thought of turning out a rich and powerful gentleman,” she said, smiling at her brother, “especially one who might possibly become a favored client of our dear brother’s new bank.”

Jane turned to Cassandra for affirmation of her statement. “Could we, Cass?”

Cassandra smiled and shook her head. “Certainly not,” she replied. “Poor Mr. Darcy shall be welcome in our home for as long as need be.”

“Then it is settled,” Jane told the two men. “Cassandra and I will watch over our American guest with the greatest of care.”

“Splendid!” said Mr. Hudson. “I shall come and see him morning and evening until he is better. And of course you must send for me at any hour if his condition changes for the worse.”

Digging into his worn leather satchel, Hudson pressed a small vial into Jane’s hand. “Give him this draught in a little wine if he grows agitated, but just a little, mind, for it is very powerful.”

“We shall take care,” said Jane, closing her palm on the vial of alcohol laced with opium.

“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Hudson.” Edward escorted the elderly doctor to the bedroom door and slipped a gold sovereign into his hand.

“Your servant, sir.” With a broad smile at the unexpectedly large fee, Hudson bowed deeply from the waist and took his leave.

When the doctor had gone Edward kissed Jane on the cheek. “Dear Jane, you are, as always, all kindness and understanding,” he effused.

Turning, he gave Cassandra a kiss as well. “And having a handsome and wealthy invalid to attend may not be without its compensations, eh Cassandra?” he teased.

Cassandra, whose temperament Edward believed tended exclusively toward somberness and melancholy, reacted predictably to his affectionate jibe. “Brother, the way you speak!” she exclaimed, blushing deeply. “Until he is strong enough to be moved we shall look after poor Mr. Darcy with no motives beyond our duty as good Christians.”

Moving to the window, Cassandra pointed down to the front garden where Lord Nelson was tied to the gate, calmly munching on a bunch of daisies. “Pray do however take the gentleman’s horse away to your stables,” she entreated, “before the beast consumes everything in our garden.”

Edward looked out the window at the black horse. “Yes, yes, of course I shall,” he laughed. “My word! What a splendid creature it is.”

Late that night, long after Darcy had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Jane sat at her mirrored vanity table by the fireplace. Removing a sheet of paper from the center drawer, she dipped her pen in the inkpot and began to write, as was her usual occupation each evening.

Hardly had she begun, however, when she was disturbed by the sound of a low murmuring from the bed behind her.

Picking up the single candle by which she worked, Jane got softly to her feet and walked over to look down at Darcy. She saw his lips moving, as if he was speaking, and as she leaned closer she heard him giving orders to some unseen employee.

“We’ll move the horse back to Virginia on the seventeenth,” Darcy was saying, “if you can arrange a flight. We can have him home in five hours by private jet…”

Imagining his nonsensical ramblings to be the result of one of the mysterious fevers that invariably accompanied any open wound, Jane placed a hand on Darcy’s cheek and found it hot.