Chapter Three
Meryton
Elizabeth
Elizabeth stopped short before the cottage beside St. Mary’s chapel, her market basket still hanging from one arm, and regarded Mrs. Tunley in astonishment.
“I cannot see her at all?”
“I am afraid not, Miss Bennet.” Mrs. Tunley remained in the doorway with one hand upon the frame, her manner kind but sufficiently decided to make it plain that no entreaty would carry Elizabeth beyond it.
“But I saw Julia on New Year’s Eve, and almost every day before it.
” Elizabeth knew that she was arguing where argument could serve no purpose, yet could not immediately command herself to reason.
“Had my father not had company these last two days, I should have called. She was perfectly well when I saw her. What can have happened so suddenly?”
Mrs. Tunley heard her without interruption.
She was a small, upright woman past sixty, whose usual composure had always given Elizabeth the impression that very little could put her seriously out of countenance.
This morning, however, there was a gravity about her which Elizabeth had never seen before.
“Julia complained on New Year’s Day of a soreness in her throat.
By afternoon she had grown feverish, and before evening there was a rash upon her skin.
I sent for the apothecary directly.” Mrs. Tunley hesitated, and when she continued her voice was quieter.
“He has no doubt of what it is. Scarlet fever.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the handle of her basket.
“Scarlet fever?”
“I am afraid so.”
For several moments Elizabeth could say nothing. The name itself was sufficient. She had heard it spoken too often in connection with houses where one child had fallen ill and another followed, and all the assurances she might have demanded died upon her tongue.
“Is she very ill?”
“She is ill, certainly, but you must not frighten yourself by imagining the worst.” Mrs. Tunley’s expression softened. “She had a tolerable night, and the apothecary is to return this afternoon. For the present, he insists upon quiet and that no one be admitted who has no business in the sickroom.”
“Then she is quite confined to her bed?”
“For her own sake, and for yours. I would not permit you to enter even if Julia herself begged it of me.”
Elizabeth could not dispute the wisdom of this, though she disliked it exceedingly.
Only three days ago Julia had been laughing beside her as they walked through Meryton, complaining of the cold and declaring that December had been invented solely to punish those obliged to leave their firesides.
To picture that same Julia now confined to her bed, feverish and suffering, seemed impossible.
“And there is truly nothing I may do?”
“Nothing that requires you to cross this threshold.”
Mrs. Tunley reached out and briefly laid her hand upon Elizabeth’s sleeve. “Do not think me unkind, my dear. I know how attached you are to one another, and Julia would be the first to reproach me if I allowed you to carry the illness back to Longbourn. You have four sisters to consider.”
That argument could not be resisted.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “Yes. Of course.”
“You may write to her.”
She looked up at once. “May I?”
“Certainly. She is not so ill that a letter will trouble her, provided she is not expected to answer it. Indeed, I daresay hearing from you would please her exceedingly.”
“Then I shall write today.”
“I thought you might.” A faint smile touched Mrs. Tunley’s face. “I believe I have heard your name twenty times since yesterday morning. When she was told you could not be admitted, she was chiefly concerned that you might come all this way before anyone could warn you.”
Despite everything, Elizabeth almost smiled. “That sounds very like Julia.”
“It does.”
“Will you send word to Longbourn if there is any change?”
“You have my promise. And when the apothecary declares her fit to receive company again, you may be certain you shall be among the first to know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tunley.”
“There now. Go home before you catch cold standing upon my step. I have one patient to nurse already and have no wish to answer to Mrs. Bennet for another.”
Under other circumstances the observation might have amused Elizabeth. Now she managed only a faint smile before taking her leave.
She had gone scarcely a dozen paces when she remembered the basket upon her arm and the errands she had intended to complete in Meryton.
They seemed strangely unimportant now. She had expected nothing more from the morning than an hour in Julia’s company, perhaps tea beside the fire, some neighbourhood intelligence to laugh over, and one of those conversations which had acquired the comfortable habit of continuing long after either of them remembered how it had begun.
Instead there was a closed door behind her, and Julia lay ill beyond it.
Elizabeth turned towards Longbourn. She knew Mrs. Tunley was right. She knew the apothecary’s prohibition was sensible, that entering the cottage could do Julia no good and might expose every person at Longbourn to the same illness. Reason supplied every argument required of it.
It did not make walking away any easier.
~
Longbourn,
3rd January 1811
My dear Julia,
I have this moment returned from your aunt’s door in a humour which I assure you does me very little credit.
To be within a few yards of you and yet forbidden to see you is a species of provocation for which I was quite unprepared.
Since I am denied the pleasure of being troublesome at your bedside, however, I have determined to be troublesome upon paper instead.
You cannot suppose that so trifling a circumstance as an illness will deliver you from me.
Your aunt told me what the apothecary believes your complaint to be, and I confess the name alarmed me.
She assured me, however, that you passed a tolerable night, and I have resolved to remember the assurance rather than the alarm.
You have never shown yourself particularly disposed to submit to anybody’s commands, and I cannot believe a fever will succeed where the rest of us have failed.
You are therefore to do nothing but rest and grow well. I shall undertake the more laborious business of keeping you acquainted with everything of consequence in Meryton, though as you know already, consequence is not always easily found here.
I went to the milliner’s this morning and spent nearly a quarter of an hour amongst the ribbons without deciding upon anything.
I perceived then how thoroughly you have spoiled me.
Had you been there, you would have pronounced one colour elegant, another intolerable, and a third entirely beneath my notice, and the matter would have been settled before I had time to disagree with you.
I find myself quite unequal to the burden of forming opinions without your assistance.
I have already determined that upon the first fine morning after you are permitted abroad, we shall walk to Oakham Mount.
You may protest against the distance if you please, but I shall remind you that illness cannot be allowed to improve your character so greatly that you cease complaining altogether. I should scarcely know you.
As for Longbourn, Kitty maintains that she saw a fox in the lane behind the church yesterday evening.
Lydia declares with equal confidence that it was the vicar’s dog.
Neither has produced evidence sufficient to convince the other, and the dispute has already survived two meals.
I leave the question to your judgement, since I know you will form an opinion whether the evidence deserves one or not.
You see to what your absence has reduced me.
I have already descended to ribbons, foxes, and quarrels between my sisters, and this upon my first letter.
If you remain ill much longer, I shall be forced to give you an account of the weather, which I know you consider the final refuge of a correspondent who has nothing worth saying.
I shall write again tomorrow, whether you deserve another letter or not. You are under no obligation to answer me. Indeed, if I discover that you have exhausted yourself in doing so, I shall complain of you to your aunt and have all writing materials removed from your room.
Pray grow well soon, Julia. Meryton is decidedly less amusing without you, and I find I have grown far too accustomed to your company to bear its interruption with any degree of patience.
Yours most affectionately,
Elizabeth.
Elizabeth read the letter through once more before folding it.
She was tempted to alter one or two sentences, then decided that another reading would only persuade her to alter two or three more.
She sealed it instead and rested her hand upon the folded paper for a moment, wishing, rather foolishly, that affection might be conveyed as readily as ink.
She had scarcely finished sanding the direction when a knock sounded at her chamber door, and Jane put her head inside without waiting for an answer.
“There you are. I wondered what had become of you since you returned from Meryton.” Her eyes fell upon the writing desk as she entered. “Have I interrupted you?”
“No. I have only just finished.”
Jane came farther into the room and seated herself upon the edge of the bed. “To whom are you writing?”
“To Julia.” Elizabeth brushed the last grains of sand from the letter. “I called at her aunt’s cottage on my way home, but Mrs. Tunley would not permit me to see her.”
Jane’s expression changed immediately. “Not permit you? Why?”
“She is ill.” Elizabeth set the letter aside. “She has been poorly for a couple of days. According to the apothecary, it is scarlet fever.”
“Scarlet fever!”
The alarm in Jane’s voice was sufficiently near Elizabeth’s own that she wished at once she had spoken more gently.
“Mrs. Tunley says she passed a tolerable night,” Elizabeth added. “And the apothecary is to see her again today. I am determined to take what comfort I may from that rather than dwell upon how ill she might be.”
Jane was silent for a moment. “But you did not go inside to see her?”
“No. Mrs. Tunley would scarcely allow me upon the step. She is determined that no one shall be admitted unnecessarily, and particularly that I shall not carry the illness home to Longbourn.”
“I am very glad she prevented you.”
“Jane!”
“I do not mean that I am glad you were kept from Julia.” Jane reached for her hand. “You know I do not. But if the complaint is truly scarlet fever, you could do her no good by exposing yourself to it. And Mama would be beside herself if one of us were to fall ill.”
“Mama is so frequently beside herself that I scarcely know how we should distinguish the occasion, but I understand your concern.”
Jane's lips curved despite herself. “That does not make me wrong.”
“No.” Elizabeth returned the pressure of her hand. “It does not.”
“How ill is she?”
“I could learn very little. She has a fever and a sore throat, and Mrs. Tunley said she was confined to her bed. But she is well enough to have a letter read to her, which must signify something.” Elizabeth glanced towards the sealed sheet upon the desk.
“Her aunt promised to send word if there is any change.”
“And you will write to her every day, I suppose.”
“I see no reason I should not write to her every day, unless she begs Mrs. Tunley to forbid my letters as well.”
“I do not think that very likely.”
“Then she must recover quickly, for I mean to write as often as I can if it will cheer her, even if I am obliged to fill my pages with the most tedious nonsense for want of anything better to say.”
Jane smiled, though the concern had not entirely left her face. “I am sure she will be glad of anything you send.”
Elizabeth looked again at the letter. It was a poor substitute for sitting beside Julia and hearing her laugh at whatever nonsense Elizabeth had contrived to distract her, but for the present it was the only kindness permitted her.
“I hope so.” She rose and took up the letter. “I shall send one of the servants with it to Mrs. Tunley now. There is no reason Julia should wait for it merely because I am forbidden to take it myself.”