Chapter 13
Darcy stood by the hearth in the drawing room, one hand braced against the mantel, the other resting on the cool marble edge. He had only just begun to replay in his mind the conversation with Elizabeth—the fire in her eyes, the measured fury in her voice—when the door opened abruptly.
Bingley entered, half-dressed and wholly disheveled. His cravat hung loosely about his neck, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his hair looked as though he had run his fingers through it three times in different directions.
“What on earth is going on?” he asked, eyes wide with confusion.
Darcy took in his friend’s expression. “I take it your question means you are unaware that Miss Bennet is here?”
Bingley blinked. “Miss Bennet? Jane?” He took a step forward, face brightening. “No, I—what do you mean, here? Where is she?”
“Apparently she stayed the night here at Netherfield after having dinner yesterday evening with your sisters whilst we were out with the officers,” Darcy said. “She took ill after being caught in the rain, and her sister came this morning to inquire after her.”
Bingley’s expression clouded. “But why did no one tell me?”
Darcy pressed his lips together. “I wondered the same thing myself. Your sister said nothing to you of this?”
“No, she did not.” Bingley paused, his brow furrowing. “I had no idea she came to dine, let alone that she was still here. Did she tell you?”
“It was Mrs. Nicholls who explained the situation,” Darcy replied. “She said Miss Bennet had not been invited to remain, even though it was clear she was feverish. Instead, she was to ride her horse back home, still soaked from getting caught in it on her way over.”
Bingley gaped. “Excuse me?”
Darcy nodded. “Apparently your sister did not even offer a dry gown to wear for dinner. Had Mrs. Nicholls not taken pity on Miss Bennet, she would have been sent out into the dark night.”
“You must be joking.”
“I am afraid not,” Darcy said, his voice grim. “Mrs. Nicholls prevailed upon a maid to share one of her own gowns to wear for the night. Miss Bennet slept in the farthest room of the guest wing, with only a scullery maid to sit up with her.”
Bingley’s jaw slackened slightly. “In the maid’s gown?”
Darcy nodded once.
“She—Caroline—knew she was ill and did nothing?” With each new revelation—no fire, no gown, a scullery maid sitting with her—Bingley’s face shifted from confusion to disbelief and finally to something Darcy had never seen from his friend before–real, slow-burning anger.
He nodded in satisfaction at his friend. “Precisely. Mrs. Nicholls was the one who arranged everything. She even took it upon herself to send a note to Longbourn and another to the apothecary.”
Bingley’s mouth opened, then closed again. His complexion had gone pale, then red. He took a few quick steps toward the hearth, turned around, and paced back again.
“She knew. She knew Miss Bennet was here, ill—and she did nothing.”
His voice had changed—no longer incredulous, but low and tightening with each word. He planted both hands on the edge of the mantel and bowed his head for a moment, as if mastering something that threatened to break loose.
“I cannot believe—” he began, then stopped himself, straightening with sharp, jerking movements. “No. No, I can believe it. She has done petty things before, but this—Darcy, this is not just petty. This is cruel.”
“She likely hoped you would not learn of it,” Darcy said evenly. “Or perhaps she thought you would not care.”
“Well, she was wrong!” Bingley’s hands curled into fists, and he looked ready to charge up the stairs. “I shall speak to her now—this minute—she cannot treat someone like that and expect me to—”
Darcy reached out and caught his arm. “Bingley. You might wish to take a moment. You will have more success if you do not barge into her room shouting.”
Bingley stopped, breathing heavily, and shoved a hand through his hair again.
“She never listens to me. Never has. Does whatever she wants and I let her—for peace, I suppose. But this? This is not something I can—” He broke off, pacing to the window and back again.
“Miss Bennet could have been—what if she had—how could Caroline—”
Darcy let him vent in silence. He understood the feeling.
“I do not even know what to say,” Bingley said finally, his voice raw. “She will twist everything, as she always does.”
“Then use this time to decide what you will say,” Darcy said gently. “Plan it. Let her know, calmly but clearly, that this crosses a line.”
“I cannot do it alone,” Bingley said after a pause. “She will talk over me, make light of it. But if you are there—she’ll know I am not jesting. She listens to you.”
Darcy hesitated. “It is not my place—”
“You are my friend,” Bingley said simply. “I have no father, no elder brother. Just a few uncles still in trade who cut ties with me when I sold the warehouse. It’s just Caroline and Louisa. I know I ought to be able to handle them, but—”
He trailed off, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, Darcy saw him not as the cheerful master of Netherfield, but as the very young man he still was—only twenty-one, newly rich, newly landed, surrounded by people who pushed him from all sides.
Darcy remembered being twenty-one. Remembered wondering how he would survive managing Pemberley on his own.
And he had not been alone. He had still had Lady Anne.
And Georgiana. And his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who had swept in and ensured he did not drown in paperwork and false flattery after his father’s death.
He exhaled. “Very well. I will be there.”
Bingley’s shoulders straightened. “Thank you, Darcy.”
“Take some time. Eat. Drink coffee. Be prepared.”
“I shall. I want to be very clear-headed when I face her.”
“And I will support you.” Darcy clapped his friend on the back. “Come, let us get you breakfast.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had just finished coaxing two spoonfuls of broth between Jane’s lips when a knock at the door made her start. Mrs. Nicholls entered quietly and curtsied.
“Mr. Jones is here, miss. I told him you’d be wanting to see him straight off.”
Elizabeth rose at once. “Please send him in.”
A moment later, the apothecary stepped into the room with his familiar worn leather bag and a professional calm that instantly steadied Elizabeth’s nerves.
Mr. Jones was a small, neat man with wisps of gray at his temples and a manner that hovered between brusque and kind.
He greeted her with a nod, then moved at once to Jane’s bedside.
“Good morning, Miss Lizzy,” he said with a gentle smile, which she returned with relief.
He asked a few quiet questions while checking her pulse and lifting one of her eyelids. Jane stirred only faintly.
“She was caught in the rain last night,” Elizabeth explained. “She was chilled through, and there was… some delay in making her comfortable.”
“I see,” he said, though his mouth tightened slightly. He reached for his bag and retrieved a small horn instrument. “Let us see what her lungs are saying, poor girl.”
After placing the tool against Jane’s chest in several locations and listening carefully, he pulled away with a slight frown.
“Her fever is high, and there is congestion in the lungs. Not deep yet—but it could worsen. The cough sounds dry, which is better than wet for now. But she is not to be moved, Miss Elizabeth.”
This use of her full name told her that he was deadly serious in his instructions. “When can I take her home?” she asked, bracing herself. This afternoon; please let us leave today.
Her heart sank as he answered. “Not today, and not tomorrow, either. I would prefer she remain where she is for a full week, to be honest.”
At Elizabeth’s slight gasp, he continued, “She must stay warm, take broth and tea regularly, and be watched closely. If the cough worsens or she begins to breathe with difficulty, I am to be sent for immediately.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”
“I shall send a draught to ease the cough and bring the fever down,” he continued. “I will call again tomorrow morning. Mrs. Nichols tells me there is a competent girl watching her?”
“There is,” Elizabeth said, “but I plan to stay with her as well.”
“Good.” He looked at her shrewdly. “You are clear-headed. I trust your instincts.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then glanced toward the fire. “Mr. Jones—would you be willing to accompany me downstairs and deliver your instructions in the presence of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy?”
The apothecary raised a brow. “I would.”
“Thank you. I… I wish them to hear the full seriousness of her condition,” she said carefully. “From a professional.”
Mr. Jones studied her a moment, then gave a small, approving grunt. “Very well. Let us find the gentlemen.”
Elizabeth cast one last glance at her sister, smoothing the blankets, then followed the apothecary into the corridor. Her steps were brisk, but her thoughts were taut with anticipation.
If Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley truly meant well… if last night’s failings had been ignorance and not indifference… then now would be the moment to prove it.
The hallway was quiet as Elizabeth followed Mr. Jones down the stairs. She kept her hands clasped tightly before her to keep them from trembling—not from fear, precisely, but from a mix of fatigue, indignation, and a rising anxiety she could not quite suppress.
Mrs. Nicholls directed them to the breakfast room, and with a quick knock, Elizabeth pushed the door open.
Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy sat at the table, clearly in the middle of a conversation. Both turned quickly at the sound, then rose to their feet in unison.
Darcy’s eyes met hers first—sharp, assessing—and then flicked to the apothecary at her side. Bingley’s face lit for the briefest instant at her appearance, but the expression faltered the moment he saw her companion’s grave countenance.