Chapter 13 #2
“Mr. Bingley, good morning,” Elizabeth said before either man could speak. “This is Mr. Jones, the local apothecary. He has just now finished examining my sister, and I asked him to share his report with you.”
“Mr. Jones, delighted to meet you… ah, that is, not in these circumstances, of course.” Bingley shook his head at himself, then stepped forward. “Please, how is she?”
“She is quite unwell,” Mr. Jones replied without preamble. “High fever, congestion in the lungs, and a dry cough that may worsen if she is moved.”
Bingley paled. “Moved? Certainly not! I would not dare dream of it.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and said, “It was my preferred option, as I would like to see my sister recover in a place where she is… comfortable.”
She was gratified to see Bingley flush brilliantly. Darcy shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“And as I have told Miss Elizabeth, sending her out in this state would be to court disaster,” the apothecary said firmly.
“She needs to remain in bed, warm and watched, and take broth and willow bark tea every few hours. If the fever rises or the cough becomes more labored, I must be summoned without delay.”
Bingley pressed his hand to his brow and turned away slightly, as though the force of the words had struck him physically. His shoulders slumped.
Darcy stepped forward, his tone crisp but respectful. “Is she in danger?”
“She is not in danger yet,” Mr. Jones replied, “so long as she is kept quiet and comfortable. The next day or two will tell us more.”
There was a long pause.
Elizabeth watched Bingley closely. He stood with his back half-turned, fingers splayed across the sideboard, his complexion blanched. Then slowly—visibly—he drew a breath and turned back.
“I will have the blue room aired at once,” he said hoarsely. “It has a better fireplace and is nearer the front stairs. She must be moved there immediately, as soon as it is warm enough. I cannot believe— Good God, I cannot believe this happened under my roof.”
Darcy placed a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You did not know.”
“I should have,” Bingley said, voice low and taut with shame. “How could I not? She was a guest in my home.”
Elizabeth studied his face—open, anguished, remorseful—and felt something in her own chest ease. No evasion. No excuses. Just honest contrition.
He looked at her then. “Miss Elizabeth, I am so deeply sorry. I… I cannot express—”
She held up a hand. “Please, Mr. Bingley. The time for apologies will come later. For now, my sister’s comfort is the only concern.”
Bingley nodded quickly, then turned to ring the bell with such force the rope shuddered. “I shall see to the arrangements myself,” he said.
Mr. Jones glanced at Elizabeth and gave a short nod. “My work here is done, for now. I shall see myself out.”
Elizabeth murmured her thanks. Once he was gone, she looked back at the two gentlemen. “I should return to Jane. Could someone please send some paper to my room? I will need to write a note to Longbourn. That is, if I am allowed to stay with my sister?”
Bingley blanched. “Of course, Miss Elizabeth. Absolutely. Please feel free to remain at Netherfield for as long as your sister remains unwell.”
She nodded once, then turned her back and left the room. It was only when the door closed behind her that she allowed herself a small smile. Poor Mr. Bingley is most genuine in his remorse—as he should be. Now we will see what he does about his harpy of a sister.
∞∞∞
Darcy watched as the door closed behind Elizabeth. He did not move. The final image of her—shoulders erect, chin high, that sharp little smile playing at her lips just as she turned away—was one he would not soon forget.
He let out a breath and turned toward Bingley. His friend had slumped into his chair like a marionette with cut strings, his face pale and drawn. Darcy opened his mouth to offer some encouragement, but before he could speak, a shrill, unmistakable voice rang down the corridor.
“What are you doing here?”
The two men froze. Bingley’s eyes widened as he gasped out “Caroline” in a whisper.
Darcy rose to his feet, already heading for the door. Together they crossed the room in long strides, and when they reached the entry to the stair hall, they saw the tableau in full.
Miss Bingley stood rigid, her cheeks splotched with pink and her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. Elizabeth faced her with evident incredulity, one dark brow arched high as though the entire scene amused her more than it surprised.
The contrast between them could not have been starker: Elizabeth in her plain morning gown, a shawl wrapped hastily about her shoulders, her hair unkempt and still damp at the ends from her efforts with Jane upstairs.
“I am here,” she said coolly, “to tend to my ill sister.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Bingley snapped. “I sent your sister home last night. This is some scheme, is it not? You helped her sneak back in before dawn to compromise my brother, is that it?”
Elizabeth stiffened. A flush crept up her neck. Her mouth parted in disbelief.
“You are here to trap him! I knew it. I knew the moment I saw the way your sister looked at him at the assembly—do not think I did not see it.”
Darcy watched as Elizabeth’s eyes darted over to them, her mouth hanging open in incredulity.
Miss Bingley’s voice rose in triumph. “Did you think that you would not be caught? Did you imagine you could worm your way into a respectable house, hoping the master might overlook your lack of fashion and your country airs? You and your sisters are nothing more than fortune-seeking hussies.”
Gasps echoed from the servants in the hall—Mrs. Nicholls, who had just rounded the corner; the second housemaid, halfway up the main stairs; even a footman, frozen mid-stride with a tray in hand.
Elizabeth turned slowly back to her, her breath unsteady. Her lips parted to respond.
And then—
“Caroline!”
Bingley’s voice cracked like a whip, and Darcy’s head whipped around to stare at his friend. “Enough.”
Miss Bingley faltered mid-breath. She turned, startled, and saw him standing tall in the doorway, eyes blazing. “But Charles—”
“No!” His voice was sharp with an authority that Darcy had never heard from his friend before. “Not another word.”
He moved forward the last few steps to the staircase and stood beside Elizabeth, facing his sister. “How dare you speak to her so? How dare you behave so?”
“I was only—”
“You were cruel. Deliberately, shamefully cruel. I have excused you for years. I allowed your vanity, your pretensions, your pride to go unchecked for the sake of peace. But this?” His hand swept toward Elizabeth.
“You left a sick woman to shiver alone in a cold room, and now you insult her sister—who came here out of nothing but love and concern—with slander? What happened to you?”
Caroline stared, mouth agape.
“You were not always like this,” Bingley continued, his voice thick with restrained fury. “You were once kind. But now all I see is arrogance and envy. And for what? Miss Bennet is gentle, lovely, and gracious. Everything you are not.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth quivered. She glanced to Darcy for rescue, but he stood with arms folded, gaze cool and steady.
“Do not look at Darcy,” he snapped, when her gaze flicked desperately in that direction.
“He will not protect you. He only tolerates you for my sake. You have chased him like a fox in a hound pack. But he will never offer for you. You are not what he wants—he values affection, kindness, sincerity. None of which you possess.”
Caroline looked at Darcy with a mixture of horror and disbelief. He met her eyes without blinking and nodded slowly. “Your brother speaks the truth.”
It was a death blow.
She staggered back a step, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes brimming.
Darcy was vaguely aware of the housemaid still halfway up the stairs, gripping the banister as if it were a lifeline. Another servant had come in from the side corridor and was now standing stock still, eyes wide, clearly enjoying the spectacle more than decorum permitted.
In another circumstance, he might be urging Bingley to lower his voice, to be more discreet, to conduct the conversation in privacy.
But now? Now he did not care.
Bingley’s voice was cold steel now. “As of this morning, you are no longer mistress of Netherfield. Your accounts are closed. I will no longer pay your dressmaker, your perfumer, your modiste, your—your absurd little book club subscriptions. You may remain here only so long as you are silent and penitent. The next outburst, Caroline, and I will send you to Scarborough to board with Aunt Thistlethwaite and her cats. Or better yet, to Town, to live on your own—without my support.”
Caroline gasped. “You would ruin me.”
“I do not need to,” he said, voice soft now. “You have done it yourself.”
Bingley stood unmoving. Darcy could see the trembling rage beneath his friend’s stillness, and he could only wait with bated breath.