Chapter 17
E lizabeth stood frozen in the chaos of the servants’ quarters, the distant commands of Mrs. Nicholls barely registering in her mind. The housekeeper’s firm, authoritative tone echoed in the background as she directed the butler and maid, but Elizabeth felt as though she were underwater, unable to fully grasp the situation. It wasn’t until the older woman laid a hand on her arm to draw her away that she came to her senses.
“Come now, child,” the housekeeper said firmly, stepping forward and reaching for Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re in no state to be running about like this. Sit down in the kitchen and let me fetch you something warm. You need to collect yourself.”
The warmth of Mrs. Nicholls’s touch— which had clearly meant to offer comfort— jolted Elizabeth back into awareness. Shaking her head violently, she pulled herself free of the woman’s grasp. Her voice broke as she cried out, “No, I have to see Jane! I have to—!”
“Miss Elizabeth, please!” Mrs. Nicholls called frantically after her, but Elizabeth was already dashing back up the stairs, her skirts dragging heavily with the weight of water and grime.
She could barely feel her legs as she ran, her thoughts focused on reaching her sister. The only thought in her mind was her sister, her beloved Jane, lying unconscious and vulnerable, and the housekeeper’s calls to slow down barely registered in her ears.
Her breath hitched as another image intruded—a tall, dark-haired man lying crumpled on the floor of the drawing room.
Darcy.
Her heart clenched painfully at the thought of his still form. She had hidden her growing feelings for him behind layers of denial and propriety, but in this moment, the fear of losing him surged forward, raw and undeniable.
Elizabeth reached the drawing room and flung the door open, skidding to a halt beside the settee where her sister lay with her face down in Bingley’s lap. Dropping to her knees, heedless of the puddles forming from her soaked clothes, Elizabeth grasped Jane’s limp hand. Her sister’s face was serene, her lashes resting gently against her cheeks as though she were simply asleep. But the unnatural stillness of her chest sent a wave of terror through Elizabeth.
“Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, then louder, “Jane! Wake up, please!” Her voice cracked, and tears began to blur her vision. “You have to wake up! Please, Jane!”
Behind her, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Mrs. Nicholls’s arrival. “Miss Elizabeth!” the housekeeper exclaimed, her breath coming in short gasps. “You mustn’t—”
Elizabeth barely registered the words. She shook Jane’s shoulder gently at first, then with increasing desperation. “Jane, please, open your eyes!” she begged. But her sister remained still, unresponsive to her touch.
Strong hands grasped Elizabeth’s shoulders, trying to pull her back, but she fought against the grip with everything she had. “No!” she cried, her voice rising in anguish. “Let me go! I have to help her!”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said firmly, her voice calm but resolute. “You’ll do her no good like this. Come away before you harm yourself or her any further.”
“I can’t leave her like this!”
“You must,” Mrs. Nicholls insisted, her voice steady. “You’re exhausted and mostly likely becoming ill. You’ll do neither her nor yourself any good in this state.”
Elizabeth struggled for a moment longer before her strength gave out. She collapsed against Mrs. Nicholls, her tears soaking the woman’s apron as sobs wracked her body. “She has to wake up,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice muffled by the fabric. “She has to.”
Mrs. Nicholls held her tightly, her arms strong and steady despite her age. “We’ll do everything we can for her, child,” she said gently. “But you must let us help.”
Elizabeth felt the warmth of Mrs. Nicholls’s strong arms wrapping around her, the grip firm but comforting as the older woman whispered words of reassurance into Elizabeth’s ear. Over the woman’s shoulders, however, Elizabeth could see the prone forms of the other members of their tea party. One face, in particular, sharpened into focus: Darcy’s.
A wave of dread filled her. What if he doesn’t awaken? What if he’s dead? What will happen to poor Andrew? To Georgiana?
A lump formed in her throat as she wondered if he was in pain, if he dreamed of Georgiana, if he would ever wake. She attempted to rise to her feet. “Please,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice trembling. “I need to see Mr. Darcy. I need to know he’s—”
But her pleas went unheeded as Mrs. Nicholls’s arms tightened. “Wait until Mr. Jones comes, miss.”
A sharp knock at the door announced the arrival of the apothecary, whose weathered face paled as his eyes swept over the scene. “Good God in heaven!” he exclaimed, stepping further into the room. “What in the name of all things holy is going on?”
His voice drew Elizabeth’s attention, and she wrenched herself free from Mrs. Nicholls’s embrace, her tear-streaked face turning toward the apothecary.
“Mr. Jones,” she began, her voice trembling, “you must help them. Please—Jane, Mr. Darcy, all of them—they’ve been drugged!”
Behind Mr. Jones, several servants crowded in the doorway, their hushed murmurs growing louder as they took in the scattered bodies. Elizabeth followed their gazes and felt her stomach drop as she realized where they were looking—at Jane and Mr. Bingley, still entangled on the settee in a compromising position.
“Oh, Lord,” Elizabeth groaned, a fresh wave of mortification washing over her. “The gossip!”
Driven by instinct, she scrambled to separate the unconscious couple, but her arms gave out after only a few attempts. Seeing her struggle, Mrs. Nicholls barked at two manservants lingering near the door.
“Don’t just stand there! Get in here and help set this right!” she ordered.
“Just not too much,” Mr. Jones warned. “We have no way of knowing exactly what has happened.”
The men moved quickly, their faces pale but determined. They lifted Jane slightly so her head rested on Bingley’s shoulder, but no more. Mr. Jones turned his full attention to Elizabeth, his frown deepening as he fully took in her state.
“Miss Elizabeth, I insist you sit down immediately,” he said in a firm voice, his professional concern overriding any gentleness he would have used in another situation. “You’re in no condition to remain standing.”
Elizabeth blinked at him, confused, until she caught sight of her disheveled appearance in the reflection of a window, the dark sky causing the glass to act like a mirror. Her dress was torn and stained with dirt, her arms were streaked with blood from deep scratches, and her hair hung in a wild tangle of sticks and leaves. Finally, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair, the weight of the night’s events finally pressing down on her. She stared blankly ahead as Mr. Jones crouched beside her, his hand pressing against her forehead.
“You’re feverish,” he said grimly, turning to Mrs. Nicholls. “She needs dry clothes, a fire, willow bark tea, and rest. At once.”
The housekeeper nodded, taking Elizabeth’s arm with the intent of leading her out of the room. Before they could leave, however, a low groan came from behind them. All eyes turned toward the source as Mr. Darcy stirred, his movements slow and unsteady as he pushed himself up from the floor.
“What the devil?” he rasped, his voice hoarse as he looked around in confusion. His bleary gaze settled on Elizabeth, and his expression shifted from confusion to alarm as he registered her state.
“Elizabeth! What happened? You are injured!” Darcy took an unsteady step toward her, but his legs wobbled, nearly toppling him over.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Jones stepped forward, his hand on Darcy’s arm to steady him. “Mr. Darcy, you’ve all been drugged with laudanum,” the apothecary explained. “Please, sit down before you collapse.”
Darcy’s eyes darted around the room, his concern deepening as he took in the scattered bodies of his companions. When his gaze landed on Georgiana, a strangled cry escaping his lips. He attempted to crawl toward his young sister, but Mr. Jones tightened his grip, his voice firm.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” Mr. Jones said sharply, “take Miss Elizabeth out of here at once. Her fever will worsen if she remains.”
Elizabeth tried to resist, but Mrs. Nicholls’s grip was firm as she gently but insistently led her toward the door. “Come along, dear,” she urged. “You must rest.”
“Go, Elizabeth.” Darcy’s voice was hoarse as he added his voice to theirs.
Only then did Elizabeth allow herself to be led away, but as she stepped into the corridor, she glanced back at the room. Darcy was sitting now, his shoulders hunched as though weighed down by the chaos around him. Her heart twisted at the sight.
For a fleeting moment, she wished she could stay—stay and ensure that Jane was safe, that Darcy recovered, that Georgiana would not wake to a world forever changed. But her body betrayed her, trembling with exhaustion, and she knew she could do no more.
As the door closed behind her, Elizabeth let out a shaky breath, her thoughts racing. She prayed for Jane, for Darcy, for Georgiana. And though she left the chaos of the drawing room behind her, her heart remained heavy with the weight of everything that had happened—and the fear of what was yet to come.
Darcy’s vision blurred as he tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him. His head throbbed, his limbs felt like lead, and a bitter taste lingered in his mouth. Despite the haze clouding his thoughts, one thing stood out starkly in his mind: Elizabeth.
He watched her retreating form as Mrs. Nicholls gently but firmly guided her out of the room. Her gown was torn and filthy, her arms scratched and bleeding, her hair tumbling in wild disarray. She had looked so fragile, yet her determination to care for Jane had been unshakable, a testament to her strength.
A surge of protectiveness swelled in his chest, followed quickly by a sharp pang of guilt. How did this happen? Why is Elizabeth injured while the rest of us lay unconscious?
The questions swirled unanswered as the door clicked shut behind her. He wanted to go to her, to offer some form of comfort or reassurance, but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, he turned his attention to Georgiana, attempting once more to crawl to his sister.
“Miss Elizabeth will be all right,” Mr. Jones said firmly, his voice pulling Darcy back to the present. “She’s a strong one. Mrs. Nicholls will see to her, and I will check on her as soon as I finish here. For now, sir, you need to focus on your own recovery.”
“See to my sister. I am fine.”
The apothecary ignored him, keeping his fingers at Darcy’s wrist and neck. At last he sat back and said, “Your heart rate is steadier now, but I strongly advise you to rest. Whatever you drank has affected you, and the effects may linger.”
Darcy gave a distracted nod, his attention drawn back to his sister. Following his gaze, Mr. Jones said, “I will see to her next, but only if you promise to remain sitting down on this chair.”
Snapping his fingers at two footmen who were at the front of the crowded doorway, Mr. Jones barked. “Help Mr. Darcy to his feet so he can rest here.”
The young men sprang into action, relieved at having an assignment. They each put one of Darcy’s arms around their shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him up into the seat.
“How is Georgiana?” Darcy asked hoarsely.
“She will be just fine,” Mr. Jones replied. “Her heart is a bit slow, but I imagine the drug’s effects are stronger on her, being so slight a creature.”
Across the room, Bingley began to stir, his groggy movements attracting the attention of the maids clustered in the doorway. The faint murmur of their gossip reached Darcy’s ears, irritating him further.
“Bingley,” Darcy rasped, his voice hoarse. “Wake up.”
Bingley groaned, blinking sluggishly as he raised his head. A dreamy smile spread across his face as his gaze landed on Jane, still cradled in his lap. “Jane,” he murmured softly, his tone filled with affection.
Darcy stiffened, his instincts as a gentleman and a friend roaring to life. The scene was scandalous, even if unintentional. The maids tittered behind their hands, their wide eyes fixed on the pair.
Bingley seemed to realize his position at the same moment. He straightened abruptly, causing Jane to slump forward. Jane gasped and woke with a start, her face flushing a deep crimson as she took in her surroundings.
“Oh my goodness!” she cried, sitting upright and pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks. “I—Mr. Bingley—I—” Her words dissolved into a stammered apology as tears welled in her eyes.
“It’s all right, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Jones interjected, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “The tea you all drank was drugged. None of you are to blame for your actions.”
Darcy’s heart clenched as he observed Jane’s mortification. She reminded him so much of Georgiana—gentle, kind, and deeply sensitive. God, please let her live .
He exhaled shakily, then his eyes narrowed. “Where is Miss Bingley?” He looked around the room. “Who could have done this? And why?” His tone was sharp, cutting through the murmurings of the gathered servants.
The question hung in the air like a lead weight. The maids exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them hesitated before stepping forward. “I—I heard Miss Elizabeth say something about Miss Bingley,” she stammered, wringing her hands. “She said she was kidnapped.”
The room erupted into whispers and exclamations, but Darcy remained frozen, the word kidnapped echoing in his mind. “Who could have done this?” he demanded, his voice low but fierce.
Mr. Jones looked grim. “All I know is that the tea was laced with laudanum,” he said. “Beyond that, I cannot say. Miss Elizabeth and Mrs. Nicholls may know more.”
A sudden thought struck Darcy. “Where is my son? Please tell me that Andrew is unharmed!”
The question silenced the room. Darcy’s voice, usually measured and calm, now carried a raw edge of desperation that made everyone pause. His chest tightened, his breath coming shallow and quick as the implications hit him. Andrew. His son. How could he not have thought of him sooner?
The maids exchanged glances, their earlier nervousness now replaced with a touch of fear. Finally, one of the younger ones stepped forward, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. “I… I haven’t seen him since this morning, sir,” she stammered. “He was with Rebecca, playing in the nursery.”
Darcy’s chest tightened as the maid stammered her uncertainty about Andrew’s whereabouts. His son—the thought that anything might have happened to him made his vision blur with panic. He shot to his feet, intending to run to the nursery, but as soon as he stood, the room spun violently. He staggered, clutching the back of the chair for support.
“Sir, please sit,” Mr. Jones said sharply, steadying him. “You’re still under the effects of the laudanum. Moving too quickly will only worsen things.”
Darcy clenched his jaw, his heart racing, but reluctantly sank back into the chair. “Then someone—someone must check on Andrew!” His voice cracked with urgency.
Mrs. Nicholls immediately turned to one of the maids, her voice calm but firm. “Emma, go to the nursery. Check on Mr. Andrew and Rebecca. Do not alarm them unless absolutely necessary, but bring me news immediately.”
The young maid, her face pale with fear, curtsied and bolted from the room. Darcy’s fingers gripped the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every second stretched into an eternity as he counted each breath, his thoughts consumed by visions of his son—helpless, alone, or worse.
“I need to know he’s safe,” Darcy muttered, his voice almost a prayer.
In the background, Mr. Jones continued his work. He had moved on to Mrs. Hurst, who lay slumped on the settee. The apothecary bent over her, feeling her pulse and checking her breathing.
“She’s fine,” Mr. Jones announced after a moment, but Darcy scarcely registered the words. His focus remained fixed on the open door, his body tense as he willed the maid to return with news.
Finally, the hurried sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Emma appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath but smiling. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice soothing, “Andrew is unharmed. He’s fast asleep in the nursery. Rebecca is with him, tidying up. She was completely unaware of what’s happened downstairs.”
Darcy exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands as a wave of relief crashed over him. The tension in his chest loosened, and for the first time since waking, he allowed himself to breathe deeply. “Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”
Mrs. Nicholls patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Rebecca will keep him safe, sir,” she said. “You can rest easy on that account.”
Darcy nodded but found little solace in her words. Relief for his son’s safety was overshadowed by the chaos surrounding him. He lifted his head, his gaze shifting to Mr. Jones, who had moved to the still figure of Mr. Hurst.
“What of Hurst?” Darcy asked, his voice steady but laced with dread.
Mr. Jones knelt beside Hurst, his expression grave. He checked for a pulse, moving his fingers to different spots on the man’s neck and wrist. Time seemed to slow as Darcy watched him work, each second dragging like an eternity.
Finally, Mr. Jones sat back on his heels, his face etched with exhaustion and sadness. “Mr. Hurst is dead,” he said quietly.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Darcy closed his eyes, the words ringing in his ears. His relief for Andrew was now replaced by a heavier burden—the realization that this day’s events had claimed a life.
“How?” Darcy asked hoarsely, his throat tight.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “The laudanum was too much for his system,” he explained. “Given his apparent fondness for spirits, his body likely couldn’t handle the combination. He would have gone quickly, at least.”
The weight of the announcement hung in the air like a storm cloud, and Darcy closed his eyes, the enormity of the situation pressing down on him. One life lost, another potentially endangered, and countless questions unanswered.
And Elizabeth—what horrors had she endured to make it back to them? Darcy’s jaw tightened as resolve hardened within him. Whoever had orchestrated this would pay, but first, he had to uncover the truth.