CHAPTER THREE
Longbourn in Alarm
Longbourn had known illnesses, quarrels, nerves, broken crockery, visits from relations, and one memorable incident involving Lydia, a borrowed pony, and a fishpond.
It had never before contained Fitzwilliam Darcy unconscious in the best guest chamber while half the household ran for hot water. Mr. Bennet took command because someone had to. “Mrs. Bennet, if you continue standing in the passage, no one can pass.”
“Oh! Mr. Bennet, do not speak to me as though I am the difficulty! That poor man may die under our roof!”
“A possibility not improved by blocking the stairs.”
Mrs. Bennet moved at once. “Jane, fetch the clean linen from the upper press. Mary, tell Cook we shall require broth. Kitty, stop crying.”
“I am not crying.”
“You are squeaking.”
“I always squeak when I am frightened.”
“Then be frightened quietly.”
“Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet turned. “Where is Lydia?” Lydia appeared at the top of the stairs carrying three blankets and wearing no cap.
“La! Mama, I am here. Hill said he was bleeding everywhere, but he is not, not everywhere at least, and I told Sarah to heat more bricks because gentlemen always get cold after bleeding. Denny said so after Lieutenant Sanderson cut his hand on a sabre.”
Mr. Bennet stared at his youngest daughter. “For once, Lydia, your military education may prove useful.”
She beamed. Mr. Jones arrived twenty minutes later, his small gig driven at a pace that horrified his horse.
The local apothecary was a square, capable man with thinning hair and no reverence for rank when rank was bleeding on his sheets.
He examined Darcy’s leg in silence, then asked Elizabeth how the accident had happened.
“A fox frightened the horse, I think. He was alone when I found him.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Sometimes.”
“Speaking sensibly?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
Jane looked at her. Elizabeth said, “Not consistently.”
Mr. Jones lifted his eyes briefly, then returned to the injury.
The break was below the knee. The bone had pierced the flesh and then slipped back beneath it when Darcy had been moved.
The wound was contaminated with mud and cloth.
Mr. Jones’s face became grave. “I can clean it. I can slow the bleeding. I will not set this alone.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression changed. “Who do you require?”
“Dr. Garrison in St. Albans. He has treated compound fractures after coaching accidents and has a steadier hand than any man nearer.”
“How soon?”
“If we send a fast rider, three hours. Perhaps less if the roads favour him.”
Mr. Bennet was already turning toward the door.
“Thomas!” The Longbourn groom was dispatched with a fresh horse and instructions to change mounts at an inn if necessary.
Elizabeth remained by the guest-room window while Mr. Jones cleaned the wound.
She did not watch. She watched Darcy’s face instead.
He had regained consciousness enough to know pain was coming.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Jones said, “you need not remain.”
Darcy’s hand closed around hers. “I believe I shall,” Elizabeth replied.
Mr. Jones raised one brow but said nothing.
Darcy endured the cleaning with rigid silence until the last few minutes. Then the pain became too much. A hoarse sound escaped him and his head turned blindly toward Elizabeth.
She squeezed his hand. “Insufferable man,” she whispered. “You shall not escape a proper quarrel with me by dying.” His eyes opened a fraction.
“Engaged,” he muttered.
Mr. Jones paused. Elizabeth wanted the floor to open beneath her. “You are not to speak.”
“Promised.”
“Yes, yes. I promised all manner of things to prevent you from thrashing about like a landed trout.”
Mr. Jones coughed suspiciously.
Darcy subsided. It was nearly two in the afternoon before Dr. Garrison arrived.
He was a tall, silver-haired man with a scar across one thumb and the calm of someone who had seen enough broken bodies not to be impressed by catastrophe.
He examined Darcy, spoke in low tones with Mr. Jones, and then asked Mr. Bennet whether the patient’s family had been informed.
“We do not know precisely who expects him in London,” Mr. Bennet said.
“His servants at Netherfield have nearly all gone. I have sent a man there to see whether any remain.”
“Do so. He is fortunate to be young and strong. He is also in considerable danger.”
Mrs. Bennet, standing in the doorway, went pale.
The doctor continued. “The bone must be set and the wound stitched. Infection is my chief concern. He may develop fever. If he does, we keep him cool, give fluids when he can take them, and pray his constitution is as excellent as his appearance suggests.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bennet pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. “Poor Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth looked at her mother in surprise. There was no calculation in Mrs. Bennet’s face. No thought of ten thousand a year. Only distress. “Can he be moved to Netherfield after you set the leg?” Mr. Bennet asked.
“No.”
“To London?”
“Certainly not.”
Mrs. Bennet straightened as if someone had issued her a challenge. “Then he stays here.”
Mr. Bennet looked at her.
“What?” she demanded. “Would you put him in the road? Jane, tell Hill the green room must be prepared for whichever doctor stays overnight. Lizzy, you shall not sit up alone. Mary may take the first watch after dinner and Jane the second. Lydia and Kitty are not to plague him.”
“Why not?” Lydia protested. “I can be very quiet.”
The entire family looked at her. Lydia folded her arms. “I can.”
Dr. Garrison’s mouth twitched. The setting of Darcy’s leg required four men, laudanum, and nearly an hour. Elizabeth waited downstairs with Jane. Neither spoke while the muffled sounds came through the ceiling.
At last Jane reached for her hand. “He is very ill.”
“Yes.”
“You found him.”
“Yes.”
Jane studied her face. “Lizzy.”
Elizabeth knew that tone. “Not now.”
“What happened in the lane?”
“An accident.”
“Only an accident?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed.
Jane’s eyes widened. “Lizzy!”
“Jane, he was delirious.”
“What did he say?” Elizabeth glanced toward the door.
Their mother was in the kitchen. Their father had gone to speak with Mr. Jones. Mary was reading in the back parlour. Lydia and Kitty had been sent to gather every clean cloth they could find, which had become a competition.
“He told me he loved me.”
Jane’s lips parted.
“And then,” Elizabeth continued rapidly, “he asked me to marry him.”
Jane became perfectly still. “I refused to answer because the entire thing was absurd, but he kept attempting to sit up. Every time he moved his leg he nearly fainted, and I was afraid he would do himself further harm. So I said yes.”
Jane stared.
“It was not real.”
“Lizzy—”
“He had lost a great deal of blood. He called me sensible. That alone proves he was not in possession of his faculties.”
Jane made a strangled sound that might have been laughter. Elizabeth lowered her voice.
“Then he kissed me.”
Jane’s eyes became enormous. “He did what?”
“Do not make me say it twice.”
“Did you—”
“No!”
Jane’s mouth trembled. “Jane Bennet, if you laugh at me, I shall never forgive you.”
“I am not laughing.”
“You are about to.”
“I am trying very hard not to.”
Elizabeth covered her face with both hands. Jane leaned against her shoulder and did laugh then, very softly, until Elizabeth began laughing too, partly because the alternative was to scream.
Their laughter died when Dr. Garrison entered. “The leg is set,” he said.
“He has borne it as well as could be expected.”
Elizabeth stood. “Will he live?”
The doctor looked at her closely. “If fever does not take him.”
That night, fever came.