5. 12 November 1811
DARCY
It was pouring rain as it neared the time to leave for the dinner, and Bingley sent a note advancing the time by half an hour.
“We cannot ride, after all; we will take a carriage, and it will likely be slower going with the rain,” the note explained with Bingley’s usual poor penmanship and inkblots requiring far more time to decode than such a billet ought.
Darcy met Hurst and Bingley at the front door at half past five, and they donned their coats, hats and gloves. They dashed to the waiting carriage but were still a bit wetter than expected; the skies had opened up to be quite a deluge.
“Well, this has been more trouble than I expected,” Bingley said as he brushed droplets off the shoulders of his greatcoat. He kept his hat on, and it dripped a bit from the brim.
Hurst and Darcy had managed to flick excess water off their hats as they entered and therefore dripped considerably less. “Well, after all, it is Britain,” Darcy said with drier tones than should have been possible in such a downfall. “Rain is to be expected in mid-November.”
“I hope Miss Bennet arrived early enough to miss the rain,” Hurst said.
“Miss Bennet?” Bingley’s voice was at least an octave higher than usual.
Hurst looked surprised. “Yes. Caroline invited her to dine with the ladies tonight, as we would be missing from the meal. Have you not heard?”
Bingley’s eyes were wide, and his smile widened but then disappeared. “I was not informed. Can we cancel—?”
Darcy opened his mouth to counter such a notion, but Hurst was there first. “No! We cannot, Bingley. Your sisters only made the plans for the evening because we would be gone.”
“But she is there, at Netherfield.” Bingley sounded almost bereft.
“Well, at any rate, I promised Darcy we would not linger long at the dinner; he is tired from his morning journey, and we do not know the men of Meryton and environs well enough to wish to chat overmuch. So it is possible we can see Jane—uh, Miss Bennet—before she leaves.”
Hurst grinned and looked as if he would tease his brother-in-law.
Bingley hurried to add, “Because that would be a great opportunity to introduce her to you, Darcy.”
Hurst smiled knowingly but gave up the notion of poking at the besotted man.
The dinner was held in the town’s assembly hall, and the large space became quite loud with chatter.
Darcy bore up well enough with Bingley’s introductions to Sir William and a variety of misters: Goulding, King, Jones, Philips, Johnson, Robbins.
He also met the colonel in charge of the regiment, Colonel Forster, but he little bothered to memorise the names of the officers who were introduced.
Mr Johnson knew of Pemberley and engaged Darcy immediately, and several other men joined in as they discussed four-crop rotation, breeds of goats and sheep, and the way the war was impacting sales of grains and other crops.
“Our barley, wheat, and rye crops are selling very well, indeed,” Darcy claimed.
“Apparently war tends to increase, rather than decrease, the need for liquor.”
The other men chuckled and nodded. The conversation continued along familiar and welcome topics.
Bingley, who usually found large gatherings extremely pleasing to his outgoing character, looked a bit lost. Part of that was that so much of the conversation dealt with agriculture, but Darcy suspected the larger part of Bingley’s unusual mood was the distraction of Miss Bennet being at his house while he was away.
Bingley kept an eye on the windows, and shortly after the meal, the rain stopped altogether. “We should take advantage of the respite in the storm, I believe,” Bingley said as he made hasty farewells to the colonel and the men closest to him.
The roads were safe enough, and soon the men entered Netherfield’s manor house. Bingley asked Mr Evans, his butler, if Miss Bennet was still in the house.
Mr Evans’s face did not quite maintain his usual impassive expression as he explained, “Miss Bennet has taken ill and is upstairs in the guest wing.”
“Ill?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs Nicholls can tell you far more than I.”
Darcy stayed near Bingley as he conferred with his housekeeper. Bingley had never been a host before, and with his feelings so elevated for this particular guest, he might not think as clearly as usual. He wished to support his friend.
However, Mrs Nicholls was everything capable.
She briskly informed Bingley that Miss Bennet had been on horseback when the heavens opened up, and she had gotten quite soaked.
Although the ladies had insisted that she change into a dry gown and had pressed warm drinks on her, Miss Bennet felt so poorly halfway through the dinner that she borrowed nightclothes and retired to a bed.
A footman had braved the rain to take a message to Longbourn, alerting the Bennets of the illness.
The apothecary, Mr Jones, replied to a message that the symptoms did not sound severe, especially since she was not running a fever.
He said that, given the fact that she was sleeping peacefully, he would come in the morning at first light rather than during the night.
Darcy approved all that she reported and felt that Bingley need do nothing more, given the circumstances. He waited to see what Bingley’s instincts were.
His friend apparently needed more reassurance, for he asked a question she had already answered: “Miss Bennet is not severely ill?”
“She is not running a fever, and she seems to be sleeping peacefully,” Mrs Nicholls repeated with a soothing note in her voice.
“She is not alone in a strange room in a strange house?”
“Miss Bingley assigned Baxter to stay with her until midnight, and Clarke will attend to her after that.”
Bingley nodded, opened his mouth, closed his mouth.
“Thank you, Mrs Nicholls,” Darcy said. “You have done very well.”
Bingley only nodded, and Darcy was not certain that his friend was capable, at the moment, of everyday civility.
He towed Bingley to the billiards room, where Hurst awaited them with glasses of brandy.
Darcy was tired, and Bingley was not at his best, so after only one game, Darcy put down his glass still three-quarters full and retired to his rooms.
He hoped it would not be raining in the morning. Darcy looked forward to riding the estate with his friend—if the man could be coaxed into leaving the house with Miss Bennet inside.
As Darcy’s valet brushed and folded his waistcoat and laid out a fresh nightshirt, Darcy grinned. It was not as if Bingley would be allowed into the sick room. He would need the distraction of a tour of the estate!
When Darcy woke, he saw that the sky was clear and the rising sun was already beginning to dry the mud. He still hoped to ride with Bingley, later, and he judged conditions too muddy at the moment, in any case, so he dressed simply and headed out to the gardens for a walk on the gravel paths.
Netherfield Park’s manor house was more box-shaped than Pemberley, but it seemed to be well built and maintained.
The gardens were neatly prepared for winter, although they offered a few blossoms yet: mums, asters, and winter pansies.
He was impressed with the care he saw throughout the estate, so far.
When he returned inside, traded his Hessian boots for slippers and washed up a bit, he wandered downstairs to find the breakfast room. A footman politely pointed the way without needing to be asked, and Darcy entered to find himself alone.
He tended to keep country hours even in London, and he supposed that the Bingley sisters might keep Town hours even in the country. Of course, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley might have taken the time to check on Miss Bennet, thus shorting their sleep.
Darcy took coffee, toast with marmalade, and a few paper-thin slices of ham, and as he sat down to eat, he read from his Cooke’s Pocket Edition of Select British Poets.
Bingley finally made an appearance. His hair was ruffled, as if he had been running his hands through it, and he said, “I just met with Mr Jones. We met him last night, at the dinner—”
“I remember him. The apothecary.”
“Yes! Well, he assures me that Miss Bennet is doing well—I mean, she is quite ill, but given her illness, she is not succumbing, thus far at least, to any of the more serious strains of—of illness.”
“I am very glad to hear it.” Darcy watched Bingley run his hands through his hair yet again, striding up and down the breakfast room.
After a minute, he sat down, but then he jumped to his feet once again.
Darcy said, “Perhaps, given the fact that Miss Bennet seems to be in no danger, you should sit down and eat. And perhaps, after breakfast, we can ride out and see the park and the home farm, and maybe the nearest tenant cottages?”
Bingley stopped pacing and said, “Those are good ideas, Darcy. I will quickly refresh myself and then we can—” he waved his hand in the air and finished, “do all of that.”
He left the room.
Almost immediately, the butler entered, announcing, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” The man looked briefly surprised, and Darcy knew that he had expected Bingley to be there.
Darcy got to his feet and turned to the door to face what he assumed would be a sister of Bingley’s angel.
The young lady who entered had a light and pleasing figure, dark curls that were abundant and slightly disheveled, as if they had been blown about, escaping her hairpins, and beautiful dark eyes.
She gave a brief, polite smile to accompany her curtsey, and she looked even more surprised than the butler.
She had likely met the Hursts as well as the Bingleys and certainly would have every expectation of seeing someone she knew.
Darcy bowed, and as he did, he saw that her dress was a bit muddy. About six inches of it showed signs of mud that had splashed up and then dried; apparently the lady had made a careful attempt to brush the dried mud away, and yet it remained visible.