Chapter Three An Illness at Netherfield #3
The ancient silver punch bowl had occupied the table since their arrival at Netherfield. It no longer faced the centre of the room. Its ornate handles had shifted several inches, turning the empty interior deliberately to the wall beyond which lay the distant blue chamber.
Darcy approached the vessel slowly. “When did it move?”
Fletcher began brushing the green coat. “The exact moment Miss Elizabeth entered the house. It made three attempts, encountered the candlestick, and pushed the brass onto the floor.”
Darcy stared at the vessel. “You might have returned it to its former position.”
Fletcher sighed. “I did so twice, sir. It objected.” He adjusted the candlestick, which now leaned noticeably to one side. “I firmly believe it approves of her.”
Darcy had doubts. “It has not been properly introduced.”
Fletcher picked up a lint brush. “It has never permitted basic etiquette to obstruct an opinion.”
The bowl moved another fraction of an inch towards the blue chamber, its empty interior producing a low, resonant hum that sounded suspiciously like a pleased sigh.
Darcy stepped back. “It is an inanimate vessel.”
Fletcher examined the bent candlestick. “It appears blissfully unaware of that limitation.”
Darcy dismissed the theory, because accepting it would require him to admit that the oldest, most dangerous object belonging to Pemberley had instantly recognised Elizabeth Bennet, turned to her, and expressed satisfaction at her arrival.
The primary problem with dismissing the theory was that he believed every part of it.
MRS HURST brOUGHT MISS Elizabeth downstairs shortly after seven, once Miss Bennet had taken some thin broth and surrendered to a healing sleep.
Darcy had spent the preceding hour attempting to read correspondence while Bingley paced the drawing room whenever a floorboard creaked overhead.
The letters were unanswered, the carpet acquired a worn path between the hearth and the door, and Hurst lost three consecutive games of billiards because his host abandoned the table whenever Mrs Nicholls entered the upper passage.
Miss Elizabeth appeared tired but composed.
A trunk had been sent earlier from Longbourn with the necessities for both sisters, and she had changed into a pale green gown.
The vivid colour in her cheeks after the morning’s exertion had faded, yet the True Blood retained its power over Darcy’s senses.
He rose behind the protection of formal courtesy and kept the entire breadth of the room between them.
Bingley reached her before she was half-way through the door. “How is Miss Bennet’s fever?”
Miss Elizabeth offered a reassuring smile. “It has not risen since Mr Jones left. She has eaten a little, and Mrs Nicholls firmly believes she may sleep for several hours.”
Bingley gripped the back of a chair. “Did she finish the broth?”
Miss Elizabeth nodded. “She managed enough.”
Bingley reached frantically for the bell. “Perhaps another tray should be prepared for when she wakes. She may prefer chicken broth, beef broth, or something lighter. Would fish broth be considered strengthening for an invalid?”
Miss Elizabeth intervened before he pulled the cord.
“Jane has one tureen next to her bed, another waiting in the dressing room, and a maid under strict instructions to summon the kitchen on the slightest movement. I believe Netherfield has already supplied every form of broth known to English kitchens.”
Bingley released the bell pull with deep reluctance. “There might be a specific variety she prefers.”
Miss Elizabeth’s smile widened into amusement. “She is too polite to distinguish between them while conscious, and far too ill to do so while asleep.”
Mrs Hurst directed Miss Elizabeth to the dining room before Bingley could establish a fourth line of liquid nourishment.
Bingley followed closely, requesting detailed information about Miss Bennet’s temperature, breathing, appetite, and comfort until Miss Bingley sharply reminded him that Miss Elizabeth had walked three miles, nursed her sister all afternoon, and might simply wish to sit before undergoing a formal medical examination.
Dinner had been prepared for Miss Elizabeth rather than the household.
Soup, fish, roast fowl, vegetables, fresh bread, and two puddings occupied enough space to feed every person at the table, but only her plate received sustained attention.
Darcy accepted a small portion of fish and moved it twice with his fork before abandoning it beneath a garnish.
Bingley completely forgot to serve himself.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst allowed their exquisite food to cool untouched, while Hurst busily constructed a small defensive wall from roasted potatoes around a single slice of fowl.
The footmen maintained a much steadier interest in the crystal glasses.
Miss Elizabeth received ordinary claret from one decanter.
A second, heavier vessel travelled exclusively among the Netherfield party, replenishing their glasses with a liquid far too dark and dense to have come from any vineyard.
Fresh animal blood carried little attraction for Darcy while Miss Elizabeth sat directly opposite him, but refusing it would leave his predatory senses still more vulnerable to her presence.
She tasted her soup, then observed Bingley’s empty plate. Her keen eyes moved to the sisters, and finally to Darcy before settling squarely on Hurst, who had emptied his dark glass for the third time.
She rested her spoon against the bowl. “Mr Hurst, I fear the cook has provided nothing to your taste.”
Hurst examined the potato fortifications on his plate. “The potatoes are excellent, but I have no wish to diminish their number.”
Miss Elizabeth declined to be diverted by the potatoes. “You have eaten nothing since we sat down.”
Hurst lifted his refilled glass with a satisfied smirk. “That is not entirely accurate.”
Miss Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I was speaking of food.”
Hurst took a sip. “So was I. Wine is made from grapes, and grapes are fruit. I am enjoying a salad.”
Miss Elizabeth placed her spoon beside her bowl. “Then cider must constitute an apple course, and a gentleman may enjoy a balanced diet without ever inconveniencing his teeth.”
Darcy lowered his glass before a sudden burst of amusement betrayed him. Bingley was less successful. A loud laugh escaped his chest, and one sharp canine descended far enough to catch the candlelight. He covered the monstrous lapse by pressing his linen napkin to his mouth.
Miss Bingley examined Miss Elizabeth over the floral centrepiece, her eyes narrowed. “Our cook is accustomed to much more restrained appetites.”
Miss Elizabeth resumed her soup without missing a beat. “The fault is entirely mine. I failed to understand that dinner at Netherfield is principally decorative.”
Hurst conceded the point by cheerfully raising his glass to her. “Decoration is essential to civilised life.”
The strained conversation moved to Miss Bennet, the threatening weather, and the likelihood of Mr Jones returning in the morning.
Miss Elizabeth ate enough to satisfy Mrs Hurst’s hovering hospitality but politely declined both puddings, whereupon Bingley ordered prodigious slices sent upstairs in case Miss Bennet awakened demanding plum custard in the middle of the night.
Miss Elizabeth did not point out that an invalid who had barely managed chicken broth was unlikely to demand pudding before dawn.
Her silence suggested that she had fully recognised the limits of reason where Bingley’s anxiety was concerned.
After dinner, the party returned to the grand drawing room.
Miss Bingley took possession of the seat nearest Darcy and of her embroidery, Mrs Hurst opened her workbasket, Hurst carried his glass to a distant chair where he could pursue the consumption of liquid fruit without interruption, and Bingley stationed a chair where the ceiling above the blue chamber was widest. Miss Elizabeth wandered to the large book table and selected the first volume of The Mysteries of Udolpho.
Darcy noticed the familiar title. “Do you admire Mrs Radcliffe?”
She opened the volume and smoothed the page. “I admire any author who can persuade a sensible reader to fear a window curtain.”
Darcy waved a hand dismissively. “A curtain should not require four dense volumes to explain itself.”
Miss Elizabeth did not raise her eyes from the text. “The curtain is merely fulfilling its destiny while the people behave irrationally around it. It is not responsible for the explanation.”
Darcy leaned back. “Then it may be the most reasonable character in the novel.”
She studied him above the open pages, her dark eyes flashing. “You have read it.”
He conceded the point with a slight nod. “I have endured it.”
Miss Elizabeth smiled. “That is a severe description of voluntary reading.”
Darcy adjusted his cuffs. “I merely wished to discover whether the preternatural events truly deserved their reputation. Mrs Radcliffe permitted terror to flourish for three volumes and then summoned mundane reason at the conclusion to deny that anything extraordinary had ever occurred.”
Miss Elizabeth settled into the chair opposite him. “Would you prefer the ghosts to be convicted in a court of law?”
He met her gaze squarely. “I would prefer them to accept responsibility for their actions.”
“There are no ghosts, Mr Darcy.”
He held her stare. “That is precisely my complaint.”
Her bright, genuine laughter reached him before she lowered her eyes back to the book. Darcy knew he had spoken far more freely than prudence allowed, but the sheer absurdity of discussing the nonexistence of unnatural creatures while surrounded by five vampires proved impossible to resist.
Miss Elizabeth turned a page. “The final explanation does not erase the initial terror. Emily does not know that reason will arrive later and organise the castle. She experiences every sound and shadow without that comfort.”