A Break In Routine

There was nothing at all wrong with a solitary walk.

Solitary walks were quiet. Peaceful. They provided valuable time to think and reflect with no idle chatter or distraction. It was time well and productively spent. That’s what Mary told herself and she wandered along the road to Meryton.

It was a cold day, but sunny, and the wind set the barren branches of the trees clattering like bones. The entire world had turned brown and stark, with neither greenery nor snow to soften it. The perfect sort of day for ascetic meditation.

Really, it was quite providential that she and Mr. Lowell had quarreled. It was much better for her to have time to herself.

She hadn’t seen Mr. Lowell since they had argued. Mary had remained close to the house specifically to avoid such a meeting. She wasn’t sure if her father had spoken with him. She wasn’t even sure if Mr. Lowell was still in Hertfordshire. Nor, Mary firmly told herself, did she care. In truth, she was still quite angry whenever she thought on their last conversation.

The wind was gusting so strongly (and Mary was so busy grumbling to herself) that she only heard hoof beats a matter of seconds before a horse came racing around the turn ahead. She had just enough time to dodge out of the way, landing inelegantly on her backside, as the animal barreled past.

She was halfway back to her feet before the thought caught up with her that the horse had not had a rider.

Mary forgot about brushing off her skirt and set off briskly up the road from wence the horse had come. Where there was a run-away horse with an empty saddle, there was sure to be a rider not far behind who might want to know which direction his mount had gone in.

She didn’t immediately see anyone, and was just starting to wonder how far the horse might have run when she nearly stepped on a sprawled form in the tall grass along the road.

It seemed that Mary and Mr. Lowell were destined to meet again after all.

He wasn’t moving, and a thick ribbon of blood ran down over his forehead.

Mary Bennet was a firm believer in composure and practicality. In remaining calm in the face of crisis. In evaluating a situation and approaching it sensibly.

Good intentions which completely flew out the window when she found herself standing over what might, in fact, be a dead man. Somewhere in the second between her heart jumping up into her throat and then returning to its proper place, Mary found herself crouched down in the grass and shaking Mr. Lowell by the front of his coat, trying to elicit a sign of life by sheer physical force.

She was finally rewarded by a rather pained groan, and Mr. Lowell attempting to push her hands away.

That was enough. Mary scrambled to her feet, gathered up her skirts, and began running back to Longbourn to get help.

She didn’t have to go far at all, as it turned out. Some of the men working in the fields near the house had spotted the spooked horse and come to the same conclusion Mary had, and they met her on the road. In short order, Mr. Lowell had been carried to Longbourn and, at Mr. Bennet’s instruction, straight back to the guest room on the ground floor.

The next few hours were a study in half controlled chaos.

Mrs. Bennet flittered about attempting to help until the excitement became too much for her nerves. She retired to her room with Lizzie to keep an eye on her. Lydia and Kitty hovered in the hallway until it became rather clear that, while a break from monotony, an injured man afforded little amusement. (That and their father sharply ordering them out of the way of the people attempting to get by in the hall.)

Mary found herself trapped in a corner of the guest room with no real idea what to do beyond holding things as they were handed to her, moving things as they got in the way, and relaying requests from Mr. Bennet to the servants. More capable people kept bustling in and out to bring water, to report that the horse had been caught and safely stabled, to announce arrivals. Gibson was ushered in at some point – someone clearly had gone to the Lodge to fetch him. This seemed to calm Mr. Lowell, who was by now half awake, but it was clear that he was rather confused and that his injuries were paining him a great deal.

The doctor arrived and quickly went to work while the others looked on. The wound to Mr. Lowell’s head, while bleeding profusely, was pronounced to be not at all serious. Greater attention was paid to the lower left leg, which, during the intervening hours, had begun to swell and mottle over with bruises. Yet even at this, the doctor eventually nodded in satisfaction and pronounced it, “A good clean break. Once it’s set it should heal without too many difficulties.”

The noise of the bone being set was, frankly, horrible. But the sound that the procedure pulled out of Mr. Lowell made Mary want to run out of the room. She settled for biting the inside of her cheek and leaning back against the wall until the sick feeling passed.

After Mr. Lowell had been given a heavy dose of brandy and the leg had been made as immobile as possible, the doctor asked to speak to Mr. Bennet and Gibson out in the hallway. Mary glanced at Mr. Lowell (eyes closed, but body still tense with pain) and quickly made her escape.

“….a few weeks, at least,” the doctor was saying to Mr. Bennet and Gibson. “He most certainly shouldn’t be moved before then. A month or more would be preferable. The longer he can be kept still, the better the bone will heal.”

Mr. Bennet nodded. “He must stay here, of course. Both of you,” he added to Gibson.

Gibson, Mary thought, looked even greyer than Mary remembered.

“I’m grateful to you, sir. It’s a great deal to ask of you.”

“Not at all. It’s not only our duty, but our pleasure,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I’ll have one of the men drive you over to the Lodge and help you pack up whatever you’ll need, and we’ll get a sofa moved into the guest room for you. You’re both welcome here for as long as you need.”

“I’ll come by at the end of the week, but send for me if he seems to worsen,” the doctor said. “Some fever is to be expected, but if he seems to be developing poisoning of the blood…”

Gibson nodded.

“I know what to watch for, sir. I've seen any number of broken bones in my day.”

Mary slipped by the men with the intent to go outside to get some air. And to be alone for a bit.

It had been quite an eventful day. And she would much rather have had Mr. Lowell safely away in London so that she could be annoyed with him in peace.

(no subject)

The moon had arced over the sky and set before Mary conceded that she was not going to sleep.

It was quite annoying, really. It had been a long and rather upsetting day. She really had thought that Mr. Lowell was dead for a few moments. Mary had felt thoroughly wrung out by the time the doctor had taken his leave and Gibson had been set up in the guest room, and it hadn’t even been dinner time then. By rights, she should have fallen into bed and into a long and dreamless sleep.

She was tired, Heaven knew. But sleep remained elusive.

Disgusted, Mary threw off her covers and lit her bedside candle. Kitty and Lydia both snuffled and shifted slightly in their sleep, but wouldn’t wake for hours, Mary knew. She got dressed by the thin, wavering light, leaving her hair in its sleep braid, and wrapped up in a shawl. Taking up the candle, she quietly let herself out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs.

She thought she might light the fire in the drawing room. Or perhaps if it were not too cold, go sit on the porch and watch the sun rise. But the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen drew her toward the back of the house.

Gibson was sitting in a chair by the kitchen hearth in his shirtsleeves and a stocking cap, yawning and rubbing his eyes vigorously. The kettle hanging over the fire was just beginning to steam. His head jerked up as Mary stepped into the kitchen.

“Miss Mary.” Gibson started to push himself out of the chair. “Good evening. Or is it morning?”

Mary waved him back into his seat.

“Closer to morning, I believe. Please don’t get up, Gibson.”

Mary pulled one of the low kitchen stools over to the hearth and settled herself on it.

“How does Mr. Lowell fare?”

The old man sighed tiredly.

“He’s having a difficult night of it, I fear. The first day or two is always the worst. After that, even if the pain doesn’t ease a bit, one gets more accustomed to it. At least enough to start to sleep through some of it.”

Mary nodded, wrapping the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. She found her eyes drawn to Gibson’s hand, and the stumps where two of his fingers should have been.

“He’s fortunate to have you to see to his care,” she said.

“Well, I’ve seen my share of war wounds. I know he told you that.” Gibson rubbed his eyes again and leaned forward to poke up the fire a bit. “That boy’s father trusted me to look after him.”

“Mr. Gibson,” Mary said, briskly. “Falls from horses cannot be foreseen. I fail to see how you have betrayed any such trust. Don't be foolish.”

Gibson smiled wearily.

“Quite sensible,” he agreed. “And forgive me. I should not be troubling one of the ladies of the house with my woes.”

Mary had opened her mouth to respond when a bitten-off distressed sound drifted up the hall from the guest room. Gibson started up from his chair, then hesitated, looking back at Mary.

Mary waved him on.

“Go see to him. You’re making tea? I’ll bring it once the kettle boils.”

Gibson nodded and hastened down the darkened hallway. Mary waited until she could hear hushed voices from that vicinity before she got up from the stool and quietly closed the kitchen door.

She wasn't sure why she didn’t think of this before.

Mary rested her hand against the kitchen door for a moment, and, when she opened it again, the End of the Universe waited.

(no subject)

When Mary steps back through the door to Longbourn, no time at all has passed, and she has time to assemble almost everything she needs before the water in the kettle over the fire reaches a boil. Mary pours the hot water into a tea pot, and while the tea steeps, she fishes the bottle of pills out of her pocket.

She shakes one of them out into her hand, and after taking one more moment to examine it, drops it into the wooden mortar. It crushes up easily enough, and Mary makes sure that the powder is as fine as she can possibly make it before she scrapes the medicine into a tea cup.

She pours the tea over top of the white powder, stirring carefully to make sure it all dissolves, then adds a good quantity of milk and sugar to cover the taste as much as possible. She pours a second, undoctored, cup for Gibson, then carefully arranges them on a tray – Gibson’s on the left, Mr. Lowell’s on the right.

It wouldn’t do to get them mixed up.

The guest room is lit by candles and a low fire in the fireplace. Mr. Lowell is half propped up by pillows, which Gibson is adjusting in an attempt to make him more comfortable. An attempt that seems to be failing if Mr. Lowell’s clenched fists on the counterpane are any indication.

Mary sets down the tray and picks up the left cup, walking it over to Mr. Gibson.

“Do sit down, Gibson,” she says, pressing the cup upon him. “You’ve not slept tonight if I’m any judge.”

Gibson looks reluctant, but he takes the cup and sinks down onto the sofa that’s been moved into the guest room for him to sleep on. Mary takes up the right cup, swirling it once to dislodge anything that may have settled to the bottom, and approaches Mr. Lowell.

He looks fairly terrible—eyes shadowed and every muscle in his face drawn tight. His voice is little better.

“Miss Mary," he says. "I hope we’ve not disturbed you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Lowell.” Mary manages to sound quite businesslike, as if she’s always up in the wee small hours dispensing tea. “I’ve made a cup for you as well. Can you manage on your own?”

Mr. Lowell shakes his head slightly. “Thank you, Miss Mary, but I don’t especially feel like tea.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Lowell. This Englishwoman won't tax you for it,” Mary replies, dryly.

It’s hard to tell by candlelight, but she thinks his cheeks go a bit red. But the remark does have its intended effect, which is to subtly shame him into compliance. Mr. Lowell drops his head back against the pillow in something like defeat.

“Far be it from me to argue with a lady.”

Mary just snorts.

Pain, exhaustion, and the knock to the head have left his hands none too steady, and Mary doesn’t want any of Bar’s medicine to be wasted. Just as well that a sick room is one place where propriety is, out of necessity, relaxed. Mary cups one hand around the back of his neck (the skin is hot and dry--a sign of fever, surely enough) and holds the cup while he takes a drink.

Mr. Lowell makes a face. “It tastes strange.”

“That’s just because you don’t feel well. I’m sure all your senses are a bit muddled.” Mary quickly raises the cup again so that he has little choice but to drink the rest or inhale it through his nose.

Mary had had no inkling of how quickly Milliways’ medicine would work, if it would work at all. But to her satisfaction it is only a matter of minutes before Mr. Lowell’s body starts to go loose, as if knots that had been holding his muscles tight had come undone.

“How are you feeling, then, Mr. Lowell?”

Head lolling, eyes beginning to droop, his voice is muzzy when he speaks. “Better. Must be through the worst of it. Sleepy.”

“I think sleep is highly advisable.” Mary takes Gibson’s empty cup and sets it back on the tray. “You too, Gibson," she orders. "You’ll be no good to anyone if you sicken yourself.”

Gibson gives Mary a rather odd look, but just reaches over to adjust the blankets one last time.

“Aye, Miss Mary’s a good nurse, sure enough. Sleep, sir. It’s the best thing for you.”

Mary gathers up her tray and heads for the door. “I’ll be in the drawing room, and Bessie will be up soon to start work in the kitchen,” she adds in a whisper to Gibson. “If anything is needed.”

She uses the cooling water in the kettle to thoroughly rinse out the mortar and the tea cup and then goes and curls up on the drawing room sofa. The banked fire and the slowly brightening windows provide just enough light to see by. Mary fishes the bottle out of her pocket again, shaking it to hear the rattle of the remaining pills. She fists her hand around it for a moment, then tucks it safely back in her pocket.

Minutes later, she’s asleep.