Chapter 16
Darcy was knotting his cravat when Bates entered with the fresh coat over one arm and an expression of unusual deliberation.
Bates had been with him long enough to know that Darcy disliked unnecessary speech before breakfast and long enough to ignore the preference when duty required it.
He was a steady man in his middle thirties, born near Lambton, with the sort of quiet competence Darcy valued more than polish.
He could brush a coat, mend a glove, manage a trunk, and discover more of a household’s true state in one hour below-stairs than most gentlemen learned in a month above it.
This morning, he closed the door with care.
Darcy’s hands paused. “What is it?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought you ought to know that Miss Bennet is in the house.”
Darcy turned from the glass. “Miss Bennet? Which one?”
“The eldest Miss Bennet, sir. She dined here yesterday evening, was caught in the rain coming from Longbourn, and took ill after dinner. She was given a chamber for the night.”
Darcy frowned. “I heard nothing of it.”
“No, sir. That appears to have been intentional.” Bates’s expression remained properly blank, but only just. “Mrs. Nicholls thought it best someone tell you. She said the Netherfield servants were instructed not to trouble Mr. Bingley with the matter, on Miss Bingley’s orders.”
Darcy stared at him for one silent moment.
Miss Bennet ill in the house, and Bingley not informed.
“Has an apothecary been called?”
“I could not say, sir. Mrs. Nicholls did not think so.”
Darcy’s irritation sharpened into something nearer anger.
He had known Miss Bingley to be selfish, vain, and much too certain of her own consequence, but there was a difference between coldness of manner and neglect of a guest. Miss Bennet was Bingley’s guest. More than that, she was the sister of a woman Darcy had already injured.
To allow her to suffer through the night without proper attendance, merely because her illness inconvenienced Miss Bingley’s comfort, was inexcusable.
“Thank you, Bates,” he said evenly. “You did right to tell me.”
“Yes, sir.” Bates helped him into his coat, then brushed an invisible speck from the sleeve. “Mrs. Nicholls also wished it understood that the owner of the house expects guests to be treated properly, whoever they may be.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened despite himself. “I am beginning to like the mysterious unknown owner of Netherfield exceedingly well.”
Bates’s face did not change, but Darcy suspected the remark would find its way to Mrs. Nicholls before noon.
When Darcy went down to breakfast, Bingley was already at table, bright despite the early hour and entirely ignorant of the fact that the lady he most admired lay ill somewhere above them.
Miss Bingley sat with her coffee, dressed with her usual elegance and wearing the faintly satisfied air of a woman who believed the morning arranged to her liking.
Mrs. Hurst looked sleepy; Hurst looked as though breakfast was the only reason Providence had invented mornings.
Darcy took his seat, accepted coffee, and waited until the servant withdrew.
Then he said, as though merely continuing some known subject, “How does Miss Bennet do this morning, Bingley? Did she pass a comfortable night?”
Bingley looked at him blankly. “Miss Bennet?”
Miss Bingley made a small sound and lifted one hand to her eyes, as though troubled by a sudden ache. The gesture was too theatrical to be believed.
Darcy said nothing.
Bingley set down his cup. “What of Miss Bennet?”
Miss Bingley lowered her hand and forced a bright, unconvincing laugh. “Oh, Charles, did the servants not tell you? How very strange. They certainly should have done.”
Bingley’s expression altered. “Tell me what?”
“Only that Miss Bennet was so unfortunate as to be caught in yesterday’s rain on her way here. She felt unwell after dinner, and we insisted she remain the night. It is quite a trifling cold, I am sure.”
“You insisted she remain,” Bingley repeated. “And no one told me?”
“I did not wish to disturb you. There was nothing to be done.”
“Was the apothecary sent for?”
“Of course,” Miss Bingley said, with a touch too much impatience.
Darcy looked at her. Bingley did as well.
Miss Bingley’s color rose very slightly.
Bingley rose and crossed to the bellpull. “Then we shall send another message to Mr. Jones, for I should like to know when he may be expected.”
“Charles, truly, there is no need for such alarm. Ladies take colds. It is hardly a matter for the whole household.”
“If Miss Bennet is ill under my roof, it is very much a matter for my household.” Bingley rang the bell, then returned to his place with more firmness than Darcy had often seen in him. “Mrs. Nicholls will see to it.”
The housekeeper appeared so promptly that Darcy suspected she had been near enough to anticipate the summons. She curtsied to Mr. Bingley with perfect composure.
“Mrs. Nicholls,” Bingley said, “send at once to Mr. Jones and ask him to attend Miss Bennet as soon as may be. If a message has already been sent, send another.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Nicholls replied. Her eyes flickered briefly, very briefly, toward Darcy before she added, “I shall see it done immediately.”
“Thank you. And please send someone to inquire after her. She is not alone, is she? Has she been given a breakfast tray?”
“A maid is with her, sir,” Mrs. Nicholls said reassuringly. “I will have a tray sent at once, if one has not already gone up, and that servant will return with news on her condition.”
“Thank you,” Bingley repeated gratefully.
The housekeeper nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and withdrew.
Miss Bingley’s smile had become fixed. “You are very good, Charles. Miss Bennet will be quite overcome by so much concern.”
“I hope she will be recovered,” Bingley said, which was answer enough.
Darcy lowered his eyes to his plate, both to hide his satisfaction and to avoid provoking Miss Bingley into further foolishness.
He was relieved that Bingley had acted at once.
His friend could be led too easily by those he loved, particularly when they spoke with confidence; but when his kindness was engaged, it had more strength than many credited.
For several minutes, breakfast proceeded with an uncomfortable quiet.
Hurst ate steadily. Mrs. Hurst made two attempts at conversation and abandoned both.
Miss Bingley stirred her coffee though she had long since ceased drinking it.
Bingley looked toward the door every few moments, as though expecting news of Miss Bennet to appear there by force of wishing.
Then Miss Bingley glanced toward the window and stiffened.
“Good heavens.”
The words were low, but sharp enough to turn every head at the table.
Bingley looked out. “What is it?”
“It seems we are to be invaded by every Bennet in the county.”
Mrs. Hurst rose slightly to peer toward the lawn. “I see no one.”
“She has crossed past the shrubbery. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Miss Bingley’s tone made the name sound less like a guest and more like an affliction. “Walking, I suppose. Through the fields. How very rustic.”
Bingley’s face brightened at once. “She has come to see her sister. That is a very loving thing to do.”
Miss Bingley opened her mouth, likely to say something unwise, but Bingley continued before she could. “We will be polite, Caroline.”
There was nothing loud in the words, but the firmness of them was unmistakable. He looked directly at his sister as he spoke.
Miss Bingley stared at him, then gave a small, brittle smile. “Of course, Charles. I should never suggest otherwise.”
Mrs. Hurst, perhaps perceiving more danger than usual in her sister’s expression, added smoothly, “Certainly. A good hostess could do nothing less, particularly when Miss Bennet is unwell.”
Her glance toward Miss Bingley held warning enough to be understood.
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “Naturally.”
Darcy said nothing.
He could not have spoken easily if addressed. His entire attention had gone to the door, to the hall beyond it, to the knowledge that Elizabeth Bennet would soon be entering the house. It was extraordinary; she had walked three miles, perhaps more, through damp fields to see her sister.
Of course she had.
The same young woman who had climbed into a hidden cellar beneath Gracechurch Street—of course she would come.
Would she look at him as she had at Lucas Lodge, with caution softened by something he dared not yet name?
Or had the intervening days cooled whatever little forgiveness she had granted him there?
He had thought of her far too often since that evening—of her wit, her music, the arch look she had given him when she spoke of unattended headaches.
More than once, he had caught himself wondering what she was doing at that very moment, whether she walked the fields, read in some sunny corner of Longbourn, teased her sisters, or thought of him at all.
That last possibility was the one he most wished to know the answer to.
The footsteps in the hall drew nearer.
Darcy sat very still, feeling an absurd tightness in his chest as the servant approached the breakfast room door.
∞∞∞
Mrs. Nicholls was in the entrance hall when Elizabeth was admitted to Netherfield, and she crossed the polished floor at once with the air of a woman intercepting disaster before it could be announced incorrectly.
“I will show Miss Elizabeth in,” she said to the footman.
The young man, who had only just opened his mouth to ask where Elizabeth wished to be taken, nodded and resumed his post by the door. Mrs. Nicholls gave him one satisfied glance, then turned down the passage, motioning Elizabeth to follow.
“How is my sister?” Elizabeth asked as soon as they were beyond the footman’s hearing.