Chapter 9
By late afternoon, the house was in an uproar. The apothecary had been called, and Mrs. Nicholls was directing the servants with unusual urgency.
Elizabeth’s heart seized. Jane lay pale and feverish in her bed; the improvement of the morning had vanished. Mr. Jones’s expression was grave.
“What has happened? This came so rapidly. She fell asleep this afternoon with no sign of fever. When she woke…” Elizabeth took her sister’s hand. It burned with heat.
“Having a fever return is not uncommon with these autumn chills.” The apothecary ordered a fresh bowl of water. “Your sister must be kept cool and quiet. The next twenty-four hours will tell us if this is merely a setback or if it is far more serious.”
Elizabeth sank into the chair beside the bed, her hand tightening on Jane’s. “I must send word to my father. I will not leave her.”
“Nor should you,” Mr. Jones agreed. “I will carry the news to Mr. Bennet myself. Do not be surprised if he remains at Longbourn, knowing she has excellent care. As well, I will encourage your mother and sisters to remain away since it would not do to expose them to her illness. Early tomorrow, I will return to check on her progress. In the meantime, cool compresses and rest.”
He departed, and Elizabeth settled in for her vigil. Throughout the evening, servants came and went. Mrs. Nicholls brought fresh water and linens. Someone sent up a tray that Elizabeth barely touched. And Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—sent messages.
The housekeeper delivered them, each one quoted exactly as stated.
“Please send word if you require anything at all.” “The apothecary has been instructed to spare no expense for anything that might aid Miss Bennet’s recovery.
” “I am pleased to request my family physician from London, should you desire.” “Bingley is beside himself with worry. As am I. Please know that you both remain in our thoughts and prayers.”
Late that evening, when Elizabeth finally emerged for a brief respite, she found Darcy pacing in the corridor outside the sickroom door. He stopped as soon as he saw her.
“How is she?” His face was tight with concern.
“The fever persists, but Mr. Jones believes it will break before morning.” Elizabeth rubbed her temples, exhausted. “I pray he is correct.”
“You need rest yourself.”
“I cannot leave her.”
“I am not suggesting you should.” He gestured toward a chair in the corridor. “You might want to sit here while Mrs. Nicholls is with your sister. She will call if there is any change.”
Elizabeth was brimming with restless energy. “I have been sitting for hours, sir. Perhaps, if I do not ask too much…would you walk with me?”
He offered his arm, and they set a rapid pace the length of the guest wing and back multiple times.
“Bingley wanted to go in himself,” he said. “To see her, to reassure himself. I had to restrain him physically.”
Despite everything, Elizabeth almost smiled. “That would have been most improper, and Jane would not have been pleased. She is not at her best.”
“That is what I told him. Though he was not convinced propriety mattered when Miss Bennet’s health hung in the balance.” Mr. Darcy shrugged. “I understood the impulse.”
Their eyes met, and Elizabeth inherently knew what he was not saying: he had wanted to come to her as well, to see for himself that she was managing, and to help.
“Thank you for the messages. For caring.”
“How could I not care?” His face was unguarded in a way she had never seen.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “I should return to her.”
“Of course.” He stepped back. When she pulled her arm away from his sleeve, he covered her hand with his, halting her motion. “Elizabeth, I will be here if you need anything. Send Mrs. Nicholls for me at any hour.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, before returning to Jane’s bedside.
True to his word, when she emerged at dawn to find fresh water, she glimpsed him at the end of the corridor, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it. He kept vigil all night.
Her heart, already softening toward him, melted a little more.
Two days passed in a blur of fever and worry. Jane’s temperature spiked and fell, spiked and fell. Elizabeth slept in the chair beside her bed when she slept at all.
Darcy came regularly to Jane’s door. He brought books he suspected Elizabeth might enjoy. He ensured fresh flowers appeared daily. He sent the housekeeper with reports and offers of assistance every few hours.
On the third morning, as Jane finally slept peacefully, her fever at last broke for good. Mrs. Nicholls delivered a small package with a knowing smile. “From the gentleman, miss. He hopes it provides some comfort during your sister’s recovery.”
Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers. The seventh piece.
This was the middle piece at the top of the chessboard. Visible were a few chess pieces and the edge of their hands. And more of their sleeves, the weave of his coat, the buttons at his cuff. Only one corner piece and the center section remained.
She pressed the drawing to her chest, tears pricking her eyes. She was exhausted. Overemotional. Touched beyond measure that he continued to show his devotion even when she had no time to spend in his company.
Jane stirred. “Lizzy? What is that?”
“The seventh piece.” Elizabeth showed her sister, who studied it with a small smile despite her weakness.
“Your hands must be nearly touching,” Jane observed. “Over the queen.”
“Yes.”
“It is beautifully done, Lizzy. And so very…intimate.”
Elizabeth studied the drawing again, seeing what Jane meant. The nearness, the position of their hands. This was not merely a recreation of their match.
“You are falling in love with him.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped. Why lie to Jane? Why lie to herself?
“I think I am,” she said hesitantly.
“Good,” Jane whispered, settling back against her pillows. “He deserves you. And you deserve him.”
“Two more pieces remain.” Elizabeth carefully set the drawing aside. “And much can happen before the story ends.”
“No, Lizzy,” Jane insisted. “All will be well.”
Darcy stood in the doorway of Netherfield’s drawing room, watching Elizabeth fuss over her sister’s shawl with the same attention she had shown throughout her sister’s illness.
A week. She had been here a full week, and now they were leaving. The thought sat like a stone in his chest.
Bingley also fretted over Miss Bennet. “I will call tomorrow, if you will receive me to check on your recovery. And the next day. And every day until after I am certain you are completely well.”
Miss Bennet’s blush was evident even from across the room.
The naked devotion in his friend’s manner pleased Darcy. Bingley could speak openly and freely because Miss Bennet’s feelings were equally transparent. They were well-suited. The path before them was clear. Would that his own situation were as simple.
Elizabeth glanced up and caught his eye across the room. An understanding passed between them, causing color to rise in her cheeks.
Lord, he wanted to go to her. Wanted to kiss her hand in front of everyone and declare that she was his, that he loved her, that when she left Netherfield, she would take his heart with her. But he could not. Not yet.
The drawings were his courtship, his promise, his plea. He had to trust that they would be enough. For now.
“Mr. Darcy, you seem quite distracted this morning.” Miss Bingley materialized at his elbow, her smile sharp. “I do hope nothing is troubling you.”
“Nothing at all, Miss Bingley.”
“How fortunate.” She followed his gaze to where Elizabeth stood with Miss Bennet. “I suppose we shall all be relieved to return to our usual routine once our guests depart. As delightful as it has been to play nurse to dear Jane, I am eager for some peace.”
The casual cruelty of reducing Elizabeth’s care to an inconvenience made his jaw tighten.
“Miss Elizabeth’s devotion to her sister is admirable. It speaks to a strength of character that is rare.”
Miss Bingley’s smile froze. “Oh, certainly. Very admirable. In its way.”
“There is no qualification to my statement needed, Miss Bingley. None.”
He crossed to where Bingley was helping Miss Bennet to her feet. Elizabeth steadied her sister from the other side.
“Are you certain you are well enough to travel, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked. “We would gladly host you longer if you need more time to convalesce.”
“You are too kind, sir,” she said with genuine warmth. “I am recovered enough. It is time we returned to Longbourn.”
Time. Yes. Time was the enemy now.
“Miss Bennet, I regret that I will be departing for London on the morrow. Estate business will keep me away for a week. While I am gone, if you have a need, do send a note to Mrs. Nicholls, who has promised to send an express rider to me. I would be pleased to be of assistance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes shot to him. “Gone?”
Her distress eased the pain in his heart that he suffered at leaving her behind.
“I expect to return in time for Bingley’s ball.”
Bingley slapped his forehead. “The ball, I completely forgot! I mentioned it to Caroline last evening.” Bingley exclaimed. To Miss Bennet, he said, “Yes, I would like to hold it in ten days’ time. Since my purpose is to celebrate your recovery, might I request the honor of your first two dances?”
Miss Bennet’s blush deepened. “I would be honored, Mr. Bingley.”
Darcy studied Elizabeth’s face, delighted to see the small smile that curved her lips at her sister’s happiness. She deserved the same happiness.
If only he could give it to her.
“Miss Elizabeth, might I have a word before you depart?”
She nodded. They moved to a window, far enough away for privacy but still within sight of the others.
“I wanted to tell you,” he began, then had to clear his throat. “The eighth piece will arrive while I am in London. I have already put instructions in place for its delivery.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes were warm, encouraging. “I very much look forward to receiving the drawing.”
“And the ninth…” He paused, struck by how inadequate words were for what he wanted to say. “The ninth, I will bring myself. At the ball. It is…special. I want to hand it to you personally.”
“I shall wait for it.” Her voice was soft. “And for your return.”
“Elizabeth…” Her name came out barely above a whisper, rough with all the emotion he could not fully express. Urgency flooded through him.
Miss Bingley’s voice rang out. “Mr. Darcy! Do come, settle a question for us. Charles insists the ball be held on a Tuesday. I believe most balls in good society are held on Wednesday.”
The interruption was deliberate, malicious, and completely effective.
Elizabeth stepped back, restoring proper distance. “You should go. Miss Bingley seems to require your opinion.”
“I care nothing for Miss Bingley’s opinion on balls. I care about—”
“Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley called again, more insistently.
He closed his eyes briefly, marshaling his composure. When he opened them, sympathy softened Elizabeth’s expression.
“We will speak at the ball,” she said. “When you bring the ninth piece.”
“Will you open the ball with me? And save the supper set for me?” he asked boldly.
“I will.”
His happiness was almost complete. He bowed formally. “Until then, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She bobbed a curtsey before she moved closer. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, sending his heart racing.
Peering from the window as Bingley hovered nearby, Darcy’s hand rose unconsciously toward the glass, while maids and Elizabeth adjusted blankets and hot bricks for Miss Bennet’s comfort during the three-mile journey.
The distance between himself and Elizabeth opened like a chasm.
He could not hover. Could not offer assistance.
Could do nothing but watch her prepare to leave.
The drawings were his only voice. Besides, he could not imagine Elizabeth allowing him to act like Bingley.
Chuckling to himself, he was annoyed when Miss Bingley approached.
“I must say, Mr. Darcy, you have been tolerant of Miss Eliza’s presumption this week. Not every gentleman would be so patient with a woman who monopolizes his friend’s household for days.”
“On the contrary,” he said, each word deliberate and cold. “Miss Bingley, it does not serve you well to criticize your neighbors and a guest in your home.”
Miss Bingley’s face went white. “I did not mean to suggest…”
“Yes, you did.” He faced her fully. “And I will thank you to speak of Miss Elizabeth with respect. Or better yet, not to speak of her at all.”
He left her gaping and went to the doorway.
Ten days. Ten days of wondering if she was thinking of him, if her feelings were growing as his had grown. Ten days until he would get her reaction to the ninth and final piece.
Since the carriage had yet to depart, he hurriedly approached where Miss Elizabeth was seated.
“Safe travels, Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
“And to you, Mr. Darcy.”
The carriage pulled away. He remained until it disappeared from view, as did Bingley.
“She has you quite besotted,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I have never seen you like this, Darcy.”
“Like what?”
“Like a man in love.”
Darcy would not deny the truth. “I am.”
“Does she return your feelings?”
“I do not know.” He turned to go inside, suddenly weary. “But I intend to find out at the ball.”
That evening, in the study, he pulled out the ninth piece—the center, the heart of the image—and studied each line and shadow.
This was everything. His final move in the game they had been playing since that morning on the dueling field.
He prayed that she would understand its significance and, when she did, would give him the answer his heart desired.