Chapter Sixteen
Thomas had imagined seeing Caroline again so many times that he ought to have been prepared for it.
He had imagined returning to Scarborough and finding her upon the beach where they had first met, standing beside the broad flat rock with the wind pulling at her skirts as though only an afternoon or two had passed.
He had imagined coming upon her by chance in London, surrounded by fashionable people who would know nothing of the girl she had once been.
Of her catching his eye in a crowd and running to him—propriety be damned.
At other times, when hope had been harder to sustain, he had imagined her looking directly at him and turning her face away, disgusted that she had ever considered a man so thoroughly beneath her.
He had never imagined her standing in the entrance hall of a strange house in Hertfordshire, staring at him as though he had risen from the dead.
Caroline. His own dear Caroline.
The name struck through him with such force that for a long heartbeat, he forgot why he was there.
Caroline looked nothing like the polished young woman he had expected her to become.
Her gown was badly crumpled, as though she had slept in it or not slept at all.
Her dark hair had fallen almost entirely from its pins and hung loose about her shoulders, tangled in places and curling wildly around her face.
There were deep smudges beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.
Thomas had never seen anything so beautiful.
She was no longer the uncertain girl who had sat crying upon the beach, though he could still see her beneath the exhaustion.
She was older, her face finer and more sharply formed, but her eyes were unchanged.
Those dark, expressive eyes remained fixed upon him with such naked disbelief that the hall and everyone within it seemed to disappear.
His hand tightened around the handle of his case.
He wanted to cross the hall and take her face between his hands.
He wanted to ask whether she had thought of him or whether she had received the small parcels he had wrapped and sent with such care.
More than anything, he wanted to touch her and discover that she was real.
Then Mr Darcy spoke. "Mr Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst, this is Dr Parodi."
The words returned Thomas sharply to himself. There was a young woman above stairs who was gravely ill and a family who had spent the night fearing for her life. Whatever questions had remained unanswered for almost five years must continue to wait.
Thomas inclined his head, forcing his attention towards the fair-haired gentleman who had stepped forwards. "Mr Bingley."
"Thank God you are here." Mr Bingley crossed the remaining distance and caught Thomas' hand between both of his.
His cravat was missing and his coat badly creased, while the redness around his eyes suggested he had slept very little.
"Miss Bennet collapsed during dinner. She has not regained consciousness, and Jones, the apothecary, believes the illness has spread to her lungs. "
Thomas forced his gaze from Caroline and looked towards the staircase. "Take me to her."
Mr Bingley turned at once. Thomas followed, aware of Caroline moving behind him before he heard the soft rustle of her crumpled skirts.
Every part of him strained to turn and look at her again.
He kept his gaze fixed upon the stairs and tightened his hold upon the case until the familiar pressure of the handle steadied him.
There would be time enough to discover what remained between them.
At the top of the stairs, Mr Bingley hurried along the passage and opened the door to a bedchamber near the front of the house. Thomas entered behind him, with Caroline close at his back, and stopped just inside.
The room had already been close and crowded before the arrival of Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley, Caroline and the woman Thomas presumed to be her sister turned it into a veritable crush.
An older gentleman stood beside the fire with one hand resting upon the shoulder of a distraught woman, while a dark-haired young lady sat at the edge of the bed holding the patient's hand.
At the centre of them all lay a fair-haired woman, motionless against the pillows.
Her face was flushed with fever and each breath came shallowly, accompanied by a faint rasp Thomas could hear from the other side of the room.
He crossed to the nearest table and set down his case. When he spoke, his voice was clear and firm. "There are too many people in here. She requires quiet, and I shall need room to examine her."
The older woman looked up sharply. "I am her mother. I will not be sent away while Jane lies in such a state."
Before Thomas could answer, Mrs Hurst came forwards and took her gently by the arm.
"No one is sending you away, Mrs Bennet.
I shall take you and Mr Bennet to chambers nearby, where you may rest and have something warm brought up.
You will be sent for the moment there is any change, but Dr Parodi must be allowed to work. "
"I could not possibly rest," Mrs Bennet wailed, descending into hiccuping sobs and looking back towards the bed.
"Then you need not sleep," Mrs Hurst said soothingly. "You may sit together somewhere quieter until there is news."
The gentleman beside her looked towards the patient for a long moment, his eyes glassy, before placing his hand over his wife's. "We shall only hinder the good doctor by remaining, my dear."
Mrs Bennet continued to protest, though with less force, and at last allowed Mrs Hurst to guide her towards the door. Mr Bennet followed more slowly, pausing at the threshold to look back at Thomas.
"You will send for us if her condition alters?"
"At once, sir"
He inclined his head and went after his wife. Mrs Hurst was about to follow when she glanced towards Caroline, who had remained near Thomas since entering the room.
"Caro?"
"I shall stay."
"And so shall I," Mr Bingley said from the foot of the bed. His voice was strained but resolute. "I will not leave her."
Mrs Hurst hesitated, plainly reluctant to leave either of her siblings, but there was no sense in adding another person to the already crowded room. At last, she nodded and closed the door behind her, taking the noise of Mrs Bennet's grief into the passage with her.
The room fell quiet, and the young woman's laboured breathing seemed louder in the sudden stillness. Thomas moved towards the bed. The dark-haired lady rose at once to give him her place, though she kept hold of her sister's hand until the final moment.
"This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Mr Bingley said. "Miss Bennet's sister."
Thomas inclined his head briefly. "Miss Elizabeth."
She attempted to return the greeting, but her gaze moved at once to the woman upon the bed. "Mr Jones has gone. He left several hours ago and said he would return in the morning."
Her voice faltered upon the final word. "Please," she said, looking up at him.
The composure she had maintained until then began to crumble, and tears gathered in her eyes.
"Please, you must save her. She was improving only this morning, and now she will not wake.
I cannot..." Her breath caught, and she pressed her lips together before trying again.
"She is the best person I know. You cannot let her die. "
Thomas held her gaze. He had heard such pleas before, though he could not let emotion get in the way of the job he was there to do. "I shall do everything in my power for her," he said simply. "But first I need you to tell me exactly what has been done."
Elizabeth nodded quickly and wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. "Mr Jones gave her a draught for the fever. He also bled her earlier this evening."
Thomas shook his head. He had trained beneath some of the leading physicians in Scotland, men who had begun to question the indiscriminate use of the lancet. Bleeding might be advisable in certain cases of severe inflammation, but too often it did little beyond making a weak patient weaker.
Thomas sat beside the bed and took Jane's wrist between his fingers. Her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath the skin, faint and uneven. "If you wish me to take charge of her case, there will be no more bleeding."
Mr Bingley looked at him. "You are certain it will not help?"
"I am certain that she has no strength to spare."
Thomas released her wrist and bent closer, listening to the shallow rasp of her breathing before placing one hand lightly against her ribs.
Her chest barely rose beneath his palm, and each breath seemed to require more effort than the last. He asked Mr Bingley to bring two additional pillows while Miss Elizabeth supported her sister's shoulders.
Together, they raised her carefully, arranging the pillows beneath her upper back until she no longer lay flat.
The change was slight, but after several breaths the rasping eased enough for Thomas to hear the difference.
"Her gown must be loosened at the throat and chest," he said. "Nothing should hinder her breathing."
Miss Elizabeth reached for the fastenings, but her fingers trembled so badly that she could not manage them. Caroline moved forwards and gently took over, loosening the nightgown before drawing the blankets lower and leaving only a light covering across Miss Bennet's body.
Thomas crossed to the window and opened it by the width of two fingers. A thread of cool night air entered the overheated room.
Mr Bingley looked alarmed. "Will that not worsen the illness?"
"The room is stifling. She requires fresh air, though not a draft." Thomas glanced towards the fire, which had been built high enough to heat the entire first floor. "That must be lowered as well. We shall keep her comfortable, but we will not roast the fever from her."