Chapter 12
Darcy sat alone once more in the breakfast room at Netherfield, a modest fire warding off the morning chill. Bingley and his sisters were still unaccustomed to country hours, though Darcy himself had always preferred the early mornings, even in London.
A half-eaten plate of poached eggs rested at his elbow, long since gone cold. He had been absently stirring his tea for several minutes, his eyes fixed on the neat bundle of letters that had just been delivered.
Most of the post was of little interest—his steward had forwarded a note about horses, and his solicitor had enclosed a draft of a lease agreement he had already read twice. But one letter, sealed with a thick crest of blue wax, bore a hand he recognized at once.
His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Knowing his aunt’s personality, Darcy had chosen to read hers last. Letters from Lady Catherine de Bourgh were unpredictable things.
He turned the envelope over in his fingers, knowing it could contain directives as imperious as a general’s orders—you must dismiss that man at once, or I require you in Kent before Whitsun—or it could be strangely tender, full of inquiries after Georgiana and gentle reminiscences of her own girlhood, before life’s tragedies had hardened her speech.
He had grown used to the inconsistency. There was affection in her, even if she had never learned to deliver it sweetly.
He broke the seal and unfolded the thick paper.
It was a good day.
The tone was brisk, of course—Lady Catherine could not help being brisk—but it was not overbearing.
She had received his last letter with pleasure, was glad to hear of Georgiana’s continued improvement, and hoped he would remember to speak with her music master about correcting her fingering technique in the Italian sonatas.
Then, inevitably, came the usual update on Anne.
Your step-cousin is in good health, she wrote, and has taken tea in the east drawing room twice this week, which is a marked improvement.
I continue to encourage her to sit upon the terrace in the afternoons, for the air would benefit her, but she declines with unshakable obstinacy. She claims the gravel is too loud.
Darcy smiled faintly despite himself.
Poor Anne.
She had never possessed a robust constitution, even as a girl.
He remembered her sitting quietly during his childhood visits to Rosings—always in the same low-backed chair near the window, wrapped in shawls and speaking rarely.
She had grown little since then. At eight-and-twenty, she was still pale, still withdrawn, and still refused to step beyond the walls of the house.
Her stepmother called it delicacy. Others called it nerves.
But Darcy had seen, in the few attempts made to coax her into the gardens or onto the carriage path, how violently her body resisted the change.
Her hands would tremble. Her breathing would increase in speed until she was gasping for breath as though drowning.
The fear was real—and rooted, he knew, in tragedy.
Sir Lewis de Bourgh had died scarcely a year after his marriage to Lady Catherine, struck by lightning while inspecting drainage channels on the Rosings grounds.
The story had the ring of some pagan warning—lightning from a clear sky, a man reduced to ash in moments.
Lady Catherine rarely spoke of it, except to insist it had left them both with much to bear.
Ten-year-old Anne, left an orphan under the care of her stepmother who was virtually a stranger to her, had borne it inwards. She had been timid and fearful before, but after witnessing her father’s shocking death, she refused to step a foot out of doors since.
Darcy folded the letter slowly and set it aside.
He did not blame his aunt for her stepdaughter’s struggles.
Indeed, he had begun, in recent years, to admire her persistence.
Catherine Fitzwilliam de Bourgh had been raised to command large households and rural parishes—not to nurture a fragile child.
And yet she tried. Every spring, she spoke of fresh air and gentle hills, of hiring new companions or finding sturdier shoes.
Anne never budged. But Lady Catherine never stopped trying.
And when she was not issuing declarations about proper management of estates or the deficiencies of other people's governesses, she had begun, in her way, to express something not unlike maternal care.
Your sister is fortunate to have you, she had written at the end of this letter. I do not know that I would have borne such trials with as steady a hand. I am glad George left you prepared. Tell her I have sent the lavender sachets, as promised.
Darcy stared at the line for a long time.
Yes. It was a good day. He folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, just as the breakfast room door creaked open.
One of the footmen hovered in the doorway, looking slightly perplexed. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the young man said, “but there is a young lady at the door… asking for a Miss Bennet?”
Darcy looked up, confused. “Miss Bennet? Not Miss Bingley?”
“Yes, sir. Said she was inquiring after Miss Bennet. The master is still asleep, as is his sister…”
The footman’s voice trailed off. Darcy’s brow furrowed. “Could she be a visitor to the area and have arrived at the wrong estate?” he wondered aloud.
Noting the footman’s bemused expression, Darcy sighed internally. “Very well, send her in. I will deal with the matter.”
The footman nodded with relief and quickly left. Darcy slowly rose to his feet, awaiting the visitor. It made no sense for someone to call for Miss Bennet here. Either the name was wrong or the location.
He was not left waiting long; the door soon opened once more, and Elizabeth Bennet appeared.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and bonnet was slightly askew.
Her dark curls had been tugged loose by the breeze, and a faint sheen of moisture clung to her lashes and pelisse.
She looked windblown and bright-eyed and far too striking for someone who ought to be anywhere but here.
Darcy frowned at her, now thoroughly confused. “Miss Elizabeth?”
She curtsied and gave him a warm smile. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed automatically, then stared at her in open astonishment as he straightened. “Good morning… Forgive me—what… what brings you to Netherfield?”
Her brow furrowed. “I came to inquire after my sister.”
Darcy blinked. “Your sister?”
“Yes. Jane. She came to dine here yesterday evening, did she not?”
“I—” He paused, stunned. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I had no idea she was here.”
Elizabeth’s confusion now matched his. “She left Longbourn on horseback yesterday afternoon, invited by Miss Bingley. We received a note from her early this morning that she had taken ill. I came at once.”
Darcy’s confusion turned to something sharper. “Taken ill?”
She nodded, the color draining slightly from her cheeks. “She was caught in the rain on the way here. We knew she would most likely remain the night, but the note this morning said she had taken a chill. No other details were given. We… we were alarmed.”
“I knew nothing of this,” he said, his voice suddenly taut. “Please—come in and be seated. I shall send for the housekeeper.”
He led her quickly toward the chair nearest the fire, gesturing for a footman to fetch Mrs. Nicholls at once. Elizabeth sat, her spine straight, her gloved hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Darcy could feel the heat rising in his chest. How could Jane Bennet have been under this roof, unwell, and neither he nor Bingley be told?
Mrs. Nicholls appeared with brisk steps and a worried expression. “Mr. Darcy, sir. You asked for me?”
Darcy gestured toward Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth has just informed me her sister is here. I had no knowledge of it. Is this true?”
Mrs. Nicholls nodded. “Yes, sir. Miss Bennet arrived in the late afternoon. She was soaked through from the rain. Miss Bingley greeted her and showed her into dinner. I’m—” the woman hesitated, then straightened her shoulders and looked directly in front of her at nothing.
“I’m afraid nothing was offered to Miss Bennet, so when it was time for her to take her leave, I took it upon myself to set up a room for her and provide a clean nightgown from one of the servants so she could sleep in something dry. ”
Elizabeth made a strangled sound, part outrage, part disbelief. “You mean she sat in her wet gown all throughout dinner?”
Mrs. Nicholls’ lips pressed tightly together.
“Yes, miss. She developed a fever before the evening was out, so I had a scullery maid sit with her. She awoke with a sore throat and cough early this morning, so I gave her some willow bark tea. I then took the liberty of sending a note to Longbourn and to the apothecary as well.”
“You mean to tell me,” Darcy’s voice rose in anger, “that Miss Bingley gave no orders for dry clothes? Not even a fire to be laid or a room for the night?”
“She was not offered anything, sir.”
Elizabeth stood abruptly, her entire frame trembling. “How could Miss Bingley—how could anyone—receive a guest in such a state and leave her alone?”
Sparks flew from her eyes, and Darcy could see her anger burning brightly in them.
“Miss Elizabeth, I give you my word—I had no knowledge of your sister’s condition, and I believe I can speak for my friend and state that he, too, was not even aware of her presence here.
Had either of us known, we would have seen to her comfort ourselves. ”
Elizabeth’s eyes, stormy with indignation, met his, and he could feel her taking in his measure, weighing his words and judging their validity. After several moments, she took a deep breath, and her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I… I believe you.”
“Mrs. Nicholls will show you to your sister, and I will speak with Bingley.”