November 1811
Charles Bingley walked with his betrothed, Jane Bennet, in the garden outside her home.
“What if she does not recover, Charles?” Jane said, clearly trying not to cry again. He had been proud to offer her comfort for the past several days, but he, too, was worried for both Jane and her cousin.
“Surely she will, my dove,” he soothed. “Mr. Bennet said Lizzy was always strong as a child.”
“Yes, but that is why I am so worried. She has been feverish for so many days. This is not like her. Perhaps living in London all these years has weakened her constitution.”
“Darcy said she was in the stream for some time before he found her, but the doctor says we must hope yet. Remember her fever has reduced more than once,” Bingley said.
“Only to return again higher than before. I cannot help but think our wedding will be delayed.” Jane’s look was pained as she sought his reaction.
What should he tell her? He wanted no delay for any reason. Neither illness nor mourning should stop them finally saying their vows in ten days.
“We will do whatever you need, Jane. We will proceed as planned, or I will wait for you to be ready.”
“Thank you, Charles,” Jane sighed.
Bingley relaxed. It had not been what he wanted to say, but he meant every word. “Let us talk of something cheerful,” he said.
“Will you tell me of the night you met Lizzy? It was at my Uncle Gardiner’s home, was it not?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” Charles recalled. “It would have been…let me see. Four—no. Four-and-a-half years ago now. My father had known Mr. Gardiner for a year or two. Your uncle sold some of my father’s textiles in his Emporium.”
“Oh! I was so hateful to Lizzy at that time. At least I have the comfort that should she die, she has already forgiven me for my behavior,” Jane cried.
“Dearest, do not speak so. Lizzy has indeed forgiven you, and she will not die. Let me tell you of happier times. I had started at Oxford the previous autumn, but I was with my family in London for a week mid-term for some reason. I do not recall why…”