The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

Every eye in the square turned toward the altercation, and a few people hurried in Darcy’s direction. The thief’s eyes went wild with panic as he twisted his hand in Darcy’s grasp, but Darcy would not let go. Before he could blink, the would-be thief produced a knife and sliced into the skin on the back of Darcy’s hand.

The shock of pain loosened Darcy’s grip, and the man pulled his wrist free with a wrenching twist. With amazing speed and dexterity, the thief dodged around an approaching merchant and disappeared down a narrow alley. Darcy considered giving chase, but his hand required immediate attention. The gash was long and shallow, and it bled profusely. Bright red drops splashed the cobblestones at his feet. Darcy swore—being careful to do so in French—and pulled his handkerchief from a pocket, wrapping it around his injured hand, where it immediately became drenched in blood.

The plump fruit seller hurried to his side, tutting in disapproval. “I have seen that scoundrel before, but I do not know him. He is not from Saint-Malo, that much is certain!” Several of the other merchants nodded in agreement. “This war is no good for the youth of France. It corrupts their morals and turns them into criminals. Trying to steal the purse of a good hardworking man. He should be ashamed!” Several of the bystanders muttered about Napoleon under their breath.

She offered a length of linen—clean enough for the purpose—and bound up his hand while maintaining a soliloquy on the state of Saint-Malo, France, and the world in general. “It is all the fault of that man who calls himself our emperor!” People in the growing crowd grumbled agreement, and several uttered Napoleon’s name scornfully before spitting on the ground. Richard had said Brittany and Normandy tended to be more sympathetic to the royalist cause than Napoleon’s, and here was proof. But Darcy was a bit mystified as to how his encounter with a thief was Napoleon’s responsibility.

“You do not support the emperor?” Darcy asked, surprised she offered her opinion so freely to a stranger.

“Bah!” She rejected the idea with a flip of her hand. “Since Napoleon, the youth have no morals, every Sunday the pews are emptier, drought makes the crops wither, and cows give half as much milk.” Again, many onlookers nodded.

Darcy suppressed a smile.

She scowled at him. “I hope you are not a supporter of the ‘emperor.’”

“Not at all.” Darcy managed to keep a straight face.

Someone in the crowd murmured words about reporting the attempted theft to the gendarmes, and Darcy stiffened; he had no desire to attract the attention of the police.

A burly man beside Darcy laughed bitterly. “The gendarmes are worse than useless.”

“Yes, there is no point in filing a report,” his shorter companion agreed.

The fruit seller knotted the linen tightly around Darcy’s hand. “That will do for the moment, but you must have it stitched up.”

Darcy cursed inwardly, but he knew she was right. Such a long wound was unlikely to stop bleeding on its own accord. “I am new in town,” he said. “Where is there a doctor?”

By now the small crowd contained at least thirty people. Most likely this was the most interesting event Saint-Malo had witnessed in weeks. I have been in the country for a handful of hours, and already I am the center of attention, Darcy mused. I am indeed fortunate that I do not rely on my talents at espionage for my livelihood.

“You’ll be wanting Mr. Martin,” the fruit seller said without hesitation.

“Is he the best doctor in town?”

Her brows rose. “He is the only doctor in town. But he will fix you up right, and he won’t charge too much either. Just tell him Celeste sent you.”

After receiving directions, Darcy hurried from the square, uninterested in creating additional spectacle. With the fingers of his right hand pressing on the wounded left, he twisted his way through narrow cobblestoned streets.

Each step took him closer to the seaside and homes that were notably older and larger than those he had seen earlier. Finally, he arrived at his destination: King Street. While many houses were four- and five-story townhouses, Mr. Martin’s house was detached, although it crowded quite close to its neighbors. It was built of stone; two stories of windows were ornamented by blindingly white shutters, and a third story boasted dormer windows. Given its location in the older quarter of the city and its appearance, Darcy guesse

d it was at least three hundred years old.

He regarded it from across the street. Would it be a mistake to visit the doctor? He might ask questions that Darcy could not adequately answer. Or something about Darcy’s demeanor might alert his suspicions—even his accent. It was good, but Darcy had not planned to converse at length with anyone, particularly not a wealthy and educated citizen who might be on friendlier terms with the gendarmes than the merchants.

However, the linen wrapped around his hand was turning red at an alarming rate, and the wound ached abominably. Darcy was unlikely to find someone else trustworthy to stitch it, and the doctor might have valuable information. Darcy would only need to be careful in the man’s presence.

With a sigh, Darcy crossed the street and knocked on the door. It was opened quickly by a thin, ruddy-faced woman who admitted him and bade him wait after he explained his errand. As he waited, Darcy admired the furnishings. The front hall was decorated with an intricate inlaid wood floor, and a gleaming mahogany staircase led to the second floor. The house was not spacious compared to a Mayfair townhouse, but everything suggested the doctor was prosperous and meticulous.

Within a few minutes the man himself descended the stairs. He was tall and slender with a craggy face and gray, thinning hair. He gave Darcy an amiable smile. “I am Robert Martin. What is the problem?”

Some of the tension in Darcy’s shoulders unwound at this friendly greeting. As Darcy explained the problem, all the doctor’s attention focused on his hand. He led Darcy to an examining room where he gently unwrapped the linen, shaking his head at the sight of the wound. “This will require some stitches, I am afraid.”

Darcy nodded. “Whatever is necessary.”

The doctor busied himself pulling supplies out of the copious drawers in a wide white cabinet against one wall. The door opened, and a tall woman with a severe hairstyle and careworn face slipped into the room. Without looking up, Martin gestured to her. “This is my wife, Marguerite. And this is—” He peered closely at Darcy. “I am afraid I do not know your name, monsieur.”

“D’Arcy,” Darcy replied. “Guillaume D’Arcy.”

“Very good, Mr. D’Arcy. Rest your hand here,” the doctor instructed, inviting Darcy to sit at a small table. He began the delicate process of closing the gash in Darcy’s hand while his wife handed him supplies as needed.