Chapter 6 A Sting
A STING
The next breakfast, I came down late and found Jane fastening her bonnet.
“I am invited to visit with Miss Bingley and her sister,” she said. “The ladies are alone, with the gentlemen out until after dinner.”
“Mind that you ride,” Mamma called.
Lydia was buttering toast. “I rode yesterday. I wanted to make the ribbons on my bonnet flutter, but the horse was hopeless. She shied every two steps! I need a windy day instead.”
“You may have your wish,” I said, looking out the window. Black clouds squatted on the horizon.
“A horse relieves labor, but their sentience is problematic,” Mary said. That drew curious looks, but Mary did not notice. She was staring wistfully at the plate of bacon.
After a bemused silence, I said, “Jane should take the carriage.”
“Jane must ride,” Mamma said firmly. “It is sure to rain, and then she must stay all night, and see Mr. Bingley after his dinner.”
“That is a most obvious scheme!” I said.
“I do not want a sentient horse,” Lydia said. “Can we get a white one instead? They are prettier.”
“We are not buying a new horse!” I said, feeling the conversation was off track, if it had a track in the first place. I blew out an exasperated breath, reached for the bacon, and found the plate empty.
As Mamma planned, it rained ferociously. Jane certainly could not return. But the following morning, I received this note:
“My dearest Lizzy,
I find myself very unwell this morning from a sting, although I am sure it is no worse than a bee sting. My ankle is strangely swollen, which has caused a headache. My kind friends insist on my seeing Mr. Jones. I am sure he will set it right, so do not be alarmed.”
Mamma was ecstatic. “A bee sting! Is not Jane clever to encounter a bee in such weather! But does she say nothing of Mr. Bingley?”
“She did not say it is a bee sting,” I said, rereading with growing alarm. Very unwell. “I must go. I wish to be there when Mr. Jones visits.” Mr. Jones was the Meryton apothecary and surgeon, and he had cared for our family since Jane and I were children.
“Go? Whatever for?”
“It is not a bee sting, Mamma!” I held the note in front of her. “Do you not know your own daughter? When has Jane called herself ‘very unwell’?”
My father looked up from his book. “Shall I send for the horses?”
“They are loaned to Mrs. Trew,” I said. “I shall be there faster if I walk.”
“We can go as far as Meryton,” offered Kitty, and Lydia nodded happily.
“Make haste, for I leave promptly.”
We set out, Lydia chattering about visiting the officers’ wives, but Kitty silent and concerned. We parted in Meryton, Kitty hugging me tight. I continued, jumping stiles and tromping puddles, and my stockings were dripping when I spotted Netherfield House.
The house had not been occupied for several seasons, and if I were not so worried about Jane, I would have admired the improvements. The park was trimmed and planted, the manor shutters repainted, and the chimneys smoking. It looked welcoming and grand, much larger than Longbourn.
But as I approached, I met a change I could not ignore.
A draca charged to block my path. She was the length of our firedrake but wingless, a quadruped with a heavy build like a bulldog or badger—a lindworm, although there had been none in our neighborhood.
She must be the bound draca of Mr. Bingley’s elder sister, Mrs. Louisa Hurst, and her husband.
Unable to fly, a lindworm is considered inferior to our firedrake. But she was savage to confront, with long fangs and armored scales over a muscular frame.
I stopped, expecting intervention from the household, but nobody emerged.
“I must not be delayed,” I told her, having picked up the questionable habit of arguing with draca from my dawn visits. Her response was bared teeth and a steaming hiss, and my worry for Jane flared. I snapped, “Move!” To my surprise, she slunk into the draca house.
I rang and was shown into the breakfast parlor. Mr. Darcy rose instantly, followed by a surprised Mr. Bingley. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley greeted me from their chairs while eyeing my shoes, which were dripping muddy water on their polished floor.
“Have you been walking?” Miss Bingley asked faintly, a cup of chocolate half-raised in her hand.
“I wished to hurry,” I said. “It is only three miles.”
Mr. Bingley filled the astonished silence. “I am very pleased you came. Your sister is in no condition to receive visitors. The care of a beloved sister is most welcome.”
I was shown to the guest room door, and my heart plunged when I saw Jane in bed. She was deathly pale, her eyes feverish, and her beautiful hair bedraggled and damp. I hugged her, shocked by the weakness of her grip and the extreme heat of her body.
“Oh, Lizzy, I longed for you to come. Although I am sorry. I should not have troubled you…” Even Jane did not dare pursue that direction when I gave her a glare. “Very well, I admit I am only glad.”
“What happened? You wrote… of a sting.” It was hard to steady my voice. “Please show me.”
She drew up the covers. There was a two-pointed puncture on her foot, fiercely scarlet, and bilious green-and-yellow swelling on her ankle. Even though I had guessed the truth, it was terrifying.
“Not a bee, then,” I said. My fingers were trembling. I pushed my hands into my skirt to hide them.
“It was by the path, and the horse would not pass it. Oh, Lizzy, I was so foolish. It was beginning to rain, and Mamma would be angry if I returned, so I dismounted and found a stick to push it aside… The prick did not seem bad. I thought it nothing, truly. Only during the night did it grow worse. I was relieved when Mr. Bingley suggested sending for Mr. Jones.”
“A foul crawler.” It took all my control to pretend I was calm. Crawler stings were always described as deadly. Even horses shied from them. “Did you note anything we should tell the apothecary?”
A housemaid was in the room, a slip of a girl no more than twelve. At my mention of a foul crawler, I heard her gasp. Jane must have concealed the truth so she would not worry.
With a stifled sob, the girl fled, and I heard her crying in the hallway.
“It was about the length of my finger,” Jane whispered, “greenish-black, with dozens of legs. The stingers were in the tail, which it could curl over its head. I did not understand that until after.”
I could think of nothing else to say, so I took Jane’s hand, and we waited for Mr. Jones. After some minutes, the housekeeper escorted the young housemaid back and instructed her to see to our needs.
“Ma’am, can I get something for the miss or yourself?” the girl said in a timid voice. Her eyes were red.
I was about to decline but thought better and said to Jane, “They have hot chocolate. Would that not be a nice treat?” Jane nodded, her eyes closed, and the maid brought us two cups. But Jane could not touch hers, and mine grew cold beside it on the shelf.
The afternoon sun, emerged after yesterday’s rain, dragged behind the closed drapes.
I wiped Jane’s wet forehead and cheeks, and the cloths came away rancid and bitter.
We managed to change her soaked nightgown, then she fell into a fretful slumber, tossing and moaning.
Still Mr. Jones did not arrive, and my fear grew and grew.
“When was Mr. Jones sent for?” I asked the maid.
“Miss Bingley sent a note at breakfast.”
“What did she write?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Please tell the housekeeper to call for him again. Say it is desperately urgent.”
The maid left with a stricken expression, and shortly the housekeeper herself returned. “I have sent two men on horses to find Mr. Jones. Ma’am, the master has been asking about Miss Bennet. What shall I say?”
They would be downstairs, playing cards or drinking chocolate and wondering at my rudeness for not returning to remark amusingly on the trifling headaches of ladies.
I shook my head in reply. Mr. Bingley could not visit Jane in her room, and I did not wish to encourage a visit from his sisters.
At last, boots thumped up the stairs accompanied by the bellowing tones of Mr. Jones, who considered volume a crucial ingredient of any cure. I leaped up in relief.
“A lady has a bee sting and headache, is it?” he said jovially as the door opened. “Well, we shall see—”
His words ended on seeing Jane, and he bent over her, a hand on her forehead, his face grave.
“Her ankle, sir.” I pointed, and he lifted the cover. The swelling had worsened, reaching her knee, and he cursed audibly. I explained, “She said it was small, greenish-black, with many pairs of legs—”
“When? The note said only she was stung by a bee. All afternoon I was with the midwife, for Mrs. Plowman is having a hard labor…”
“Jane was stung evening last.”
He shook his head angrily even as his fingers touched the swelling, examining it or, I hoped, helping it heal. “Has your father come?”
“Only I.” The question frightened me. “Should I send for him?”
“We cannot wait. You must trust my judgment, Miss Bennet.”
“Of course.”
“Your sister is gravely ill.” I nodded. This was obvious. “I cannot overstate the seriousness of her condition. There is a chance if I treat her now. I cannot delay to send for a specialized physician. Further progression will remove all hope.”
I had never seen him so serious. All I could do was nod again. He bowed and left the room, calling for the housekeeper.
I sat helplessly, almost unseeing, trapped in a strange house and terrified for Jane. The housekeeper entered, directing two maids with the brusque manner of housekeepers everywhere. They pulled the linens aside and pushed a heavy quilt under Jane’s leg. Jane made no response as they moved her.
The room emptied. But the plain dress and shoes of a maid had stopped in front of me. I looked up and saw the wizened face and reddened hands of the Scottish laundry maid I had met outside the draca house at Longbourn.