Dr. Penaflor flashed another dazzling smile. “As you say, George.” His voice was rich with a heavy accent, his enunciation of “George” so altered as to be nearly indistinguishable.
Darcy stepped forward, exerting his authority as the Master of the manor to extend all the proper introductions. Mr. Daniels, with a last glance and nod to Mary, finally escaped. The rest retreated to the parlor, Dr. Darcy's robust timbre frequently ringing out with a witticism or comment. Lizzy understood why Darcy said his uncle reminded him of Richard Fitzwilliam. The two did have a similar easy humor and irreverence about them at odds with the seriousness of their professions. The comparable traits between Darcy and his uncle were as striking as their contradictory characteristics. Despite the aforementioned minor physical differences, there was no doubt to Lizzy she was catching an arcane vision of her husband in twenty years. Like his nephew, George Darcy missed nothing. His hawk-eyed gaze was piercing and showed his supreme intelligence, and his brows arched intensely, as did Darcy's, but with a profound softness at the edges, undoubtedly a result of ultimate empathy and daily dealing with suffering. Both men were quick witted, but George Darcy seemed utterly indifferent to the nuances of propriety and clever phrasing. He spoke eloquently but bluntly, not purposely offensive yet unconcerned with coddling one's sensibilities. Lizzy found it refreshing and liked him immensely.
Dr. Penaflor, in contrast, was reticent. When he spoke it was meaningful and succinct. Nonetheless, he sat in gentle repose with an amused lilt to his mouth, obviously highly entertained by his friend's banter and family felicity. When Darcy eventually submitted to an examination by his uncle, Lizzy hovering in nervous interest, Dr. Penaflor trailed along with clear professional curiosity.
Darcy related the event while Lizzy assisted the removal of his jackets and shirt. All traces of humor disappeared as Dr. Darcy and Dr. Penaflor bent over Darcy's left side. No words were spoken as George carefully palpated the chest and rib cage. He asked a few brief questions as he prodded, glancing frequently into Darcy's face.
“The bones are intact, although there is internal bruising of the cartilage over the print itself. I am surprised your breathing has not been affected. The bruising is as expected. Did you bring any leeches with you, Raul?”
“Leeches!” Lizzy exclaimed in horror.
Dr. Penaflor answered them both, “Unfortunately, no, George. Leeches reduce the bleeding and swelling, Mrs. Darcy, and inject substances that coagulate the blood and aid absorption. We do not know why, yet it works.”
George had moved on to the left hand, testing each finger and Darcy's grip strength before feeling the pulses and then probing along each ligament and muscle as he traveled upward. Darcy displayed no ill effect until the upper arm and shoulder were touched. He winced and recoiled instinctively. George pursed his lips, gingerly proceeding with his inspection in miniscule increments, not overlooking an inch. He gently but purposefully rotated and lifted the arm in all directions, gauging the injury's intensity by the expressions of discomfort crossing Darcy's face as sweat beaded. Lizzy sat at his side and clutched his right hand, dabbing at teary eyes with his handkerchief still in her possession, bravely enduring his crushing grip.
Finally, Dr. Darcy ceased his examination. Lizzy wiped Darcy's perspiring, pale forehead while he offered the diagnosis. “As you figured, William, the muscles were torn a bit. Also, you have developed a nasty inflammation to the bursae. That, Mrs. Darcy, is not as horrid as it sounds.”
Dr. Penaflor was already rummaging through his trunk of medical supplies, extracting several glass jars while George continued. “The bursae are the fluid pouches found in the joints and ends of muscles. With a serious tearing as you have suffered, William, those areas are damaged and become inflamed. Anyway, enough medical gibberish. Your treatment is twofold. We have several ointments which will decrease the inflammation and swelling, menthol and camphor primarily, so the odor will not be pleasant. Mrs. Darcy, you will need to massage a generous amount in each night, deeply into the tissue, as firmly as William can handle it. Keep the area wrapped and immobilized. Raul is very good at constructing comfortable straps if you have any extra fabric about, my dear, and will demonstrate how it must be. William, you are required to be a complacent patient and do all I say. Once the swelling is reduced adequately—as I deem it, not you—then I will show you some exercises to strengthen the muscles.”
“How long?” Darcy asked.
“A week, perhaps two. If you comply, the recovery will be swift. Loving care is the key, and I think you have that in abundance,” he finished with an affectionate smile to Lizzy, who had yet to relinquish Darcy's hand.
Lizzy accepted her nursing responsibilities seriously. Dr. Penaflor mixed the foul-smelling unguent and concocted several cushiony arm slings, instructing an avidly absorbed Lizzy in their use. Darcy, now recovered from his uncle's exploration, observed his wife's anxious study with a fond smile. Fortunately, his adoration was immense, because Lizzy so intensely enforced her duties she burst in on the gentlemen's revelry much later that evening, declaring with a firm voice and tapping foot that it was time for her husband to retire for his medicine. The three of them were more than slightly intoxicated, George winking broadly at Lizzy as he sent Darcy on his way with several observations about henpecked spouses.
Darcy submitted blearily to the massage, essentially feeling little pain. This mild anesthesia was to Lizzy's advantage, since she pressed harshly with strong hands, kneading deeply as instructed, the only deterrent to her treatment being the need to constantly slap her husband's seeking right hand. However, by the time she had him slathered and wrapped as a mummy, he gratefully sank onto the pillows and fell immediately asleep.
Lizzy lovingly observed his restful face for a time, eventually curling up alone on the far side of the bed. The combination of his pungent aroma and rumbling snores, activated, as always, when he imbibed excessively, precluded any snuggling—for this night at least.
Chapter Fifteen
A Soiree of Surprises
Darcy woke late, confused and with heart pounding from a troublesome dream: He was bound to a post with thick ropes, unable to control any of his limbs, and having extreme difficulty inhaling deeply, with spasms pounding through his head and entire left side blazing. Meanwhile, his luscious wife performed an erotic, disrobing dance far across the room. His dream self was obscenely aroused, throbbing in agony with the need to join with her, yet he could not move and any effort to do so caused her to slip further away. The mingled torments of frustration, desire, and physical pain jolted him awake.
He was alone in their bed, sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtained window, marked physical arousal evident while his bound shoulder and arm weighed him down. “Elizabeth?” His voice cracked oddly with a note of hysteria, the unsettling dream still lingering about the edges of his consciousness and the combined pains a reality. “Elizabeth!” he called again, attempting awkwardly to rise without success. During the night, the carefully wrapped bandage had constricted further, preventing even the slightest mobility.
“Beloved, I am here,” she replied, her voice floating through the sitting room door mere moments before she entered bearing a coffee-laden tray. “Stay still, love. I will help you up.” Then she laughed at his appearance. “Apparently I was mistaken. You obviously need no assistance from me as you appear fairly ‘up’ already.”
“Most amusing, Mrs. Darcy. Suffering from grievous injuries and hideous nightmares, yet she teases me. What happened to the doctor's prescribed tender loving care?”