Chapter 2
“...in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part.”
With the vows she would soon make thrumming in her thoughts, Elizabeth flew from her chambers and down Longbourn’s stairs. Overcome with happiness and anticipation, she scrabbled for her half-boots and fumbled with her cloak.
Hurrying out, she found Darcy pacing near the arbour where, come summer, her great-grandmother’s climbing roses would bloom and cover the thick cords of vines.
She would not be here to see it. I shall be at Pemberley, walking in gardens I saw only briefly last summer.
Thinking of the man who soon would take her there as his wife filled her with such joy that she broke into a near run.
As soon as she was within reach, Darcy swept her into his embrace and held her tight.
Pulling her behind the arbour, he whispered her name and bent towards her, seemingly as eager to express his love as she was hers.
Her arms slipped about his neck as she parted her lips and met his kisses with equal passion.
“I take it all is well in Longbourn’s book-room,” he whispered when they parted.
“It is. We have my father’s blessing, and his gratitude for speaking to him in the comfort of his favourite room.” Unable to contain her joy, Elizabeth laughed quietly. “He was expecting neither your application nor my fervent declaration of mutual affection.”
“I imagine not. I reserve my fervent declarations for you,” he said, smiling and tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Your father does not like surprises. Nor does he care for learning that his skill in observing others is less keen than he believed.”
“Watching Mr Wickham make love to us all with his pretty words and smug, repulsive presence curtailed Papa’s interest in watching his neighbours long enough to make sport of them.”
Darcy scowled. “Another of Wickham’s sins, ruining a man’s sport.”
Elizabeth tapped his chest. “But not his daughter, thanks to you.”
“He— You did not tell him of…”
Of the innumerable things she adored about Darcy, it was his quiet modesty—his reluctance in mentioning his good deeds or any of his other fine attributes—she felt most deeply.
“I did, and he is shocked and grateful and sees you and your library worthy of his favourite daughter. After all was told, he called it ‘an evening of wonders’ at Longbourn.”
“I doubt he wishes for more such evenings. I certainly do not. The uncertainty of his response, only hours after despairing of yours? Never again.”
Elizabeth gave his cheek a gentle, reassuring caress. Darcy leant into her hand but pressed on, asking, “Was it necessary to tell that tale to convince him I am worthy of you?”
“No! I simply wished him to know, to better understand your true worth is in the goodness of your character, not your estate.”
He swallowed; seeing his vulnerability, Elizabeth tugged his arm, and they began walking in the dormant leaf-strewn garden.
“I was disliked, was I not?”
“A little, based on Mr Wickham’s lies and my own thoughtlessness in speaking of your words at the assembly.” She shrugged. “The Bennets do not like the Gouldings of Haye-Park either. Impressive as fortune, consequence, and good looks may be, there is a stubborn, wilful streak in our family.”
“A Bennet? Stubborn? Wilful? I am shocked.”
She laughed. “Teasing man. Does it trouble you, my stubborn character and these opinions I express that are not my own?”
“Nothing can trouble me so long as I can claim Elizabeth Bennet as my love and future wife.”
Troubled and fearing the worst, Elizabeth was applying cool, damp cloths to her husband’s neck and head, as her mother had done for her and her sisters, when Dr Lumley arrived.
The grey-haired physician, who had seen to Darcy since he was a child and dealt with illnesses, broken limbs, births, and deaths in Pemberley’s rooms, learnt what he could from Elizabeth before he slipped into Darcy’s chambers, closing the door firmly behind him.
Elizabeth paced, then folded herself against the wall of the sitting room until Mrs Reynolds took her arm and steered her to a chair.
“All will be well,” the housekeeper assured her.
“Mr Darcy has run himself down a bit. A little rest will do him good.” She handed her mistress a cup of steaming tea and remained standing beside her, seemingly equally as anxious.
Elizabeth could only hope the elderly woman was right. Mrs Reynolds had known Darcy since he was four years old—Bennet’s age—and seen him through sickness and grief. She knows his strength. I have never seen him ill beyond a headache, and these past weeks, he has been heedless of his own health.
The door opened and clicked shut.
“Mrs Darcy,” she heard the physician say, though his voice was muffled beneath the panicked beating of her heart. “It is pneumonia.”
If not for the sturdy presence of Mrs Reynolds beside her, Elizabeth might have swooned. She managed to swallow and croaked, “He has worn himself down.”
Dr Lumley shook his head. “He had it once as a child. He recovered quickly then, and I am hopeful he will do the same now. His fever is high, but he is a young, strong, healthy man.”
Releasing a trembling breath, she nodded.
“I have given him fever powders, but we must draw out the lungs with poultices. I shall prepare a liniment of soap, spirit of wine, camphor, spirit of ammonia, and rosemary oil.”
Yes, she knew that concoction well. Kitty had coughed so much in the winter months that every remedy to help her breathe and sleep had been employed. “Tell me what I can do.”
“First, order the servants to keep the fire low, and do not allow candles too close to his pillow. We must reduce the amount of smoke he inhales. He should not lie down—we must keep him banked against his pillows to ensure the infection does not settle any more deeply within his lungs.”
“Tea with honey?” asked Mrs Reynolds. “Steaming pots over the fire?”
Dr Lumley nodded his approval. “Yes. It is the air around him, the air he takes in, that most matters. He should be well within a few days. He will struggle to breathe and be racked by coughing until the lungs loosen and the sputum comes out.”
“And that is all? Powders, poultices, teas, and steam?” It was a stupid question, but Elizabeth’s mind was spinning, searching for any knowledge she might require before the physician left.
“Some would try leeches, others hold by arsenic, but I am a man of this century,” he assured her with a kindly smile.
“I have seen you through two births and recall your husband’s anxious pacing.
Darcy is a great man, but do not emulate his fretting.
Take care of yourself as well.” Dr Lumley exchanged a knowing look with Mrs Reynolds.
“I do not suspect contagion, but it is best to keep the boys away. Their liveliness may be too much for the sick-room.”
“Of course.” The anticipation of Christmas and the visitors it would bring had heightened their usual boisterous spirits, but she would keep them far away from their father. Bennet and Henry were sleeping peacefully now, untroubled by coughs or fever, and she would keep them that way.
Fortified by coffee and rolls, the doctor was gone within the hour, leaving her with a promise to return the following day—should he be needed and the weather permit it.
The roads from Lambton were caked with ice and snow, and after he assured Elizabeth again that if his instructions were followed, Darcy would recover in a few days, she agreed to send a note with any news.
John or one of Pemberley’s strongest riders could make the journey to the town; risking the life of the physician upon whom all depended would be foolish. Immoral, even.
Darcy was only thirty-three, strong, and vigorous. The Master of Pemberley would be well.