Chapter Three An Illness at Netherfield
THREE EVENINGS AFTER the gathering at Lucas Lodge, the Netherfield carriage drew up under the portico shortly before eleven.
It bore three gentlemen who had endured Colonel Forster’s dinner, his questionable conversation, and a detailed account of military exercises that had occupied significantly more time than the exercises themselves.
Rain beat against the roof while Darcy descended behind Bingley.
Hurst followed at far greater leisure, protecting his hat under his coat and maintaining that the arrangement served the dignity of both garments equally well.
The doors opened before they reached them, revealing a brightly illuminated entrance hall and two footmen ready to receive their saturated outer garments.
Miss Bingley waited by the staircase, while Mrs Hurst hovered several steps above her. Neither woman had retired, and the absence of evening jewels suggested that dinner had concluded hours ago.
Bingley surrendered his dripping coat to a servant and glanced rapidly between his sisters. “Has something happened?”
Miss Bingley folded her hands before her waist, a monument to social inconvenience. “Miss Bennet is here.”
Bingley’s face brightened with joy before deep concern replaced the pleasure. “At this hour?”
Miss Bingley did not unbend. “She arrived on horseback. She was in time for dinner, although the rain overtook her before she had covered half the distance from Longbourn. She was thoroughly wet and shivering when she entered the house.”
Mrs Hurst descended a step, her silk slippers making no sound. “We provided dry clothing and placed her in the blue chamber. Mrs Nicholls has remained with her, but the chill has developed into a fever.”
Bingley took a long, shuddering breath, his eyes widening to an alarming degree.
Darcy detected Miss Bennet’s presence a moment later.
Her blood carried through the house, altered by illness until each unsteady pulse reached the entrance hall with the force of a struck drum.
The fever had sharpened the scent and drawn it down through two floors, several closed doors, and a staggering quantity of oak panelling.
Hurst drew a measured, appreciative breath through his nose. “She is very warm.”
Miss Bingley directed a warning glance at her brother-in-law. “You will not discuss Miss Bennet’s temperature here.”
Hurst adjusted his cuffs. “I did not require the information from you. My senses are in perfect order.”
Bingley had turned his body to the staircase. His pupils dilated until his eyes appeared black, registering the thumping heartbeat overhead. The sharp points of his canines pressed against his lower lip.
He gripped the wooden newel post. “Which chamber did you mention?”
Miss Bingley moved swiftly into his path, spreading her skirts as a barricade. “The blue chamber, but you cannot go to her. She is unmarried, unwell, and wearing one of Louisa’s nightgowns.”
Mrs Hurst rested one hand on the polished banister. “The nightgown is hardly the principal obstacle at this precise moment.”
Bingley took the first step, his knuckles turning white against the wood. “I wish only to assure myself that she is comfortable. I shall remain at the door.”
Another rapid sequence of feverish beats travelled down from the upper floor. Bingley’s fangs descended a full inch. He covered his mouth with one gloved hand and retreated half a pace, his chest heaving.
Darcy stepped forward and placed himself firmly between Bingley and the staircase, presenting a wall of broad shoulders and authority. “You will come away from the stairs.”
Bingley’s eyes were fixed on the landing. “I would never harm her.”
Darcy kept his voice pitched low enough to avoid alarming the footmen. “What you would ordinarily never do has become less relevant than what your instincts are considering. You can hear her heartbeat from here. You can scent the heat in her blood from the entrance hall, Charles.”
Bingley lowered his hand. “So can you.”
Darcy did not blink. “I am not in love with her.”
Bingley’s gaze snapped to his friend before returning miserably to the landing. His silence confirmed more than any loud protest might have concealed.
Mrs Hurst reached the final step and gave her brother’s arm a cautious, sympathetic pat. “She has asked for water twice and thanked every servant who entered the chamber. Even while feverish and delirious, she is more civil than most of our healthy guests.”
Bingley stared at the ceiling. “May I see her?”
Miss Bingley’s posture stiffened into outrage. “You may not enter the bedchamber of an unmarried lady.”
Bingley began pacing before the staircase. “I merely wish to assure myself that she is comfortable.”
“Then you will take the necessary measures before your confidence becomes a tragic experiment,” Darcy issued the order, trying to disguise it as advice.
Bingley halted. “I fed before we left.”
Darcy did not trouble to conceal his scepticism. “You fed six hours ago, and Colonel Forster served enough roasted garlic to discourage appetite in every species represented at his table.”
Hurst examined a spot of rainwater on his sleeve. “I found the soup stimulating.”
Darcy did not turn his head. “You drank only from your flask, Hurst.”
Hurst bristled indignantly. “Well, the soup looked tasty. Everyone said so.”
Another fluttering sequence of beats travelled from the blue chamber. Bingley closed his eyes in pure agony, a low sound vibrating in his throat.
Darcy put a hand on Bingley’s arm. “You will feed elsewhere, Charles. And you will not return until you can pass beneath Miss Bennet’s chamber without calculating the precise distance to her throat.”
Bingley swallowed hard. “I am capable of restraint.”
Darcy shook his head. “Use the western park. The deer have recovered from Hurst’s visit last week, although they may not have recovered emotionally.”
Hurst lifted both hands in protest. “I took very little.”
Darcy glanced back without warmth. “You pursued the same stag for twenty minutes because you claimed it insulted your waistcoat.”
Hurst adjusted the garment in question, smoothing the silk with reverence. “Its attitude was unmistakable. It looked right at my lapels and sneered.”
Bingley departed through the side entrance into the driving rain without another word. Darcy listened in silence until his friend’s steps faded on the stone terrace and disappeared towards the sprawling parkland.
Miss Bingley produced a smile composed entirely of disapproval.
“This is what comes from allowing country families to mistake a polite invitation for intimacy. Miss Bennet’s mother sent her three miles on horseback in a threatening sky, although any woman with minimal sense would have ordered the carriage. ”
Mrs Hurst adjusted her shawl. “The rain began after Miss Bennet left Longbourn. She could not have predicted it.”
Miss Bingley sniffed. “Her mother predicted that Miss Bennet might be obliged to remain overnight, which appears to have been the primary object of the equestrian exercise.”
Miss Bingley entered the drawing room, and the others followed.
Despite her sharp criticism, she paused under the ceiling below Miss Bennet’s chamber and raised her eyes to the plaster.
Genuine concern did not soften her features, but something colder entered them when Bingley’s heavy footsteps sounded briefly on the gravel outside, then vanished again into the storm.
She had watched her brother’s agitation, and Darcy did not doubt that she had reached the same conclusion he had.
Darcy took a commanding position near the roaring hearth, letting the heat dry his damp pantaloons. “Has an apothecary been summoned?”
Miss Bingley turned from the ceiling with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mrs Nicholls did not consider it necessary. Miss Bennet has taken a chill, not contracted the plague.”
Darcy frowned. “You cannot possibly know that.”
Miss Bingley cast her eyes to the ceiling. “She was well when she arrived, apart from being wet, hopelessly cold, and unable to stop shivering.”
Hurst sank into a wing chair. “Those details offer limited support for the word well.”
Mrs Hurst glanced nervously at her husband. “Her fever rose less than an hour ago. Mrs Nicholls intended to reassess her condition before sending a footman out into this awful storm.”
Darcy reached for the bell pull. “The weather will not improve merely because we neglect the patient until morning.”
The butler appeared instantly. Darcy instructed the man to send a mounted servant to Mr Jones at once.
Miss Bingley drew breath to object to this assumption of authority within her brother’s house, but a sudden movement overhead took the words from her.
Mrs Nicholls crossed the upper passage, opened the blue chamber, and closed the door again.
Bingley returned twenty minutes later. He brought rain, significant quantities of mud, and an alarming degree of robust good cheer into the elegant drawing room. He strode inside, removed his sodden coat, and displayed a bright freshness unsuited to the dismal hour.
He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “The western herd is in excellent health.”
Darcy surveyed the torn shoulder of his friend’s linen shirt. “You overfed.”
Bingley grinned, exposing normal, blunt teeth. “I took precautions. Four deer permitted modest contributions, although the largest doe objected to my approach and kicked me into a holly hedge. No lasting injury occurred on either side.”
Darcy stared at Bingley’s dilated, overly bright eyes. “You have consumed enough venison blood to hear a thistle drop in Edinburgh.”
Bingley tilted his head, listening intently to the ceiling. “There is definitely a reel being danced somewhere to the north.”
Miss Bingley pressed her fingers to her temples, a picture of aristocratic despair. “Charles, you cannot remain in civilised society in this condition.”
Bingley beamed at her. “I shall sit quietly.”