Chapter Four The Horrors of Polite Society
MORNING brOUGHT NO improvement to Jane. She slept for twenty minutes, woke overheated and thirsty, then drifted away again before Elizabeth could persuade her to finish half a cup of lukewarm tea.
Her fever had not risen, but neither had it broken, and the constancy of it troubled Elizabeth more than any dramatic decline might have done.
Mr Jones arrived shortly after ten and entered the blue chamber carrying a leather case whose contents clinked ominously whenever he moved.
He examined Jane’s pulse, listened to her breathing, and questioned her until she produced several whispered answers.
Jane endured his professional attention patiently, although she surrendered to sleep before he had finished giving Elizabeth his instructions.
Mr Jones closed his case and looked at Elizabeth. “Her lungs remain clear, her pulse is strong, and the fever has settled no deeper than I expected. She must be kept warm and undisturbed, but I anticipate good improvement before another day has passed.”
Elizabeth adjusted the coverlet carefully over Jane’s shoulder. “You are certain there is no danger?”
Mr Jones offered a professional bow. “I would not offer certainty merely to comfort you. Miss Bennet has taken a chill, and the fever must naturally complete its course, but I have found nothing to cause alarm.”
Mrs Nicholls accompanied the apothecary downstairs, leaving Elizabeth alone by the large bed. Jane’s shallow breathing soon deepened into a steadier, reassuring rhythm, and the tension in Elizabeth’s mind eased enough for her to leave the hard wooden chair.
Writing to Longbourn offered occupation and prevented her vivid imagination from converting an ordinary fever into a permanent calamity.
She moved to the desk near the window, selected a fresh sheet of paper, and considered how much truth her mother could endure before taking to her own bed in a fit of competitive sympathy.
Mr Jones’s medical reassurance must be presented first, Jane’s continuing fever second, and everything else disguised in enough humour to keep Mr Bennet from sending a carriage for them immediately.
Dear Papa,
Mr Jones has examined Jane again and assures me that her fever is proceeding in the proper direction, although I had not previously understood that fevers had directions or could be trusted to reliably follow them.
Her breathing is clear, she has taken some tea, and he fully expects improvement before tomorrow.
Please tell Mamma that Jane is in no danger, but wait until she is seated before doing so, since relief may prove as exhausting to her nerves as alarm.
Mr Bingley continues to display monumental concern.
He has attempted to nourish Jane through every conceivable variety of broth known to England and appears prepared to invent several more if she does not recover quickly.
His sisters remain coldly civil, which is perhaps the highest temperature their aristocratic manners can safely endure.
I begin to suspect that high consequence is maintained through starvation.
At dinner last night, the table carried enough food to sustain Longbourn for a week, yet I alone ate any of it.
The Netherfield party preferred a dense, ruby-red wine that required constant replenishment.
Mr Hurst informed me that wine is fruit because it begins as grapes, so I must respectfully ask whether wealth permits a gentleman to drink his orchard and call it luncheon.
Mr Darcy has spoken more than six consecutive words to me and even expressed an opinion about a novel. I fear Hertfordshire may be accidentally improving him, although it is far too soon to determine whether the condition is permanent.
Your affectionate daughter,
Elizabeth
She read the letter once, removed a small spot of ink from the margin, and folded it before the temptation to add further observations became irresistible.
Mr Bingley’s household continued to puzzle her.
Their civility could not be faulted, but genuine warmth appeared only when Mr Bingley spoke of Jane, and even then, it vanished instantly whenever his elegant sisters entered the room.
Mr Darcy’s hands were freezing, his manner far colder, and the party consumed large quantities of red wine while surrounded by untouched food.
The word cold had begun to pursue her through the halls of Netherfield. She sighed and rang the bell for Mrs Nicholls, who arrived promptly carrying fresh linen.
Elizabeth indicated the folded paper. “May I trouble you to send this by one of the servants?”
Mrs Nicholls accepted the letter for delivery to Longbourn and placed it safely in the deep folds of her gown. “It shall go immediately, miss. Is there anything else you require?”
Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who was peacefully asleep. “I should not wish to inconvenience the cook, but at what precise hour does the household usually take luncheon?”
Mrs Nicholls’s face stayed impassive. “Mr Bingley and his party do not sit down for luncheon, miss.”
“Do they never become hungry between breakfast and dinner?” Elizabeth asked, puzzled.
Mrs Nicholls smoothed her apron. “They have their own special arrangements.”
The phrase explained nothing and carried enough polite finality to strongly discourage any ordinary enquiry.
Mrs Nicholls smiled and waved a hand towards the door. “I shall have a tray prepared for you and Miss Bennet. Cook has made a beautiful chicken pie, and there is cold beef if you should prefer it.”
Elizabeth returned the smile. “The pie will be more than sufficient. Thank you.”
Once the housekeeper had departed, Elizabeth sat with Jane until another quarter-hour of undisturbed sleep convinced her that a brief absence would do no permanent harm.
A book might prevent her from counting every breath her sister took.
She left strict instructions for the maid in the dressing room to summon her if Jane woke, then stepped into the passage and began searching for the main staircase.
Netherfield’s upper floor had been designed by an architect who believed direct routes encouraged moral weakness.
Elizabeth passed two identical tables, a portrait of an unsmiling gentleman, and three closed doors before realising she had entered the passage leading to the private family apartments rather than the guest staircase.
She turned to retrace her steps, and caught the distinct sound of a metallic scrape beyond the dark corner.
Elizabeth stopped. The noise came again, followed by a hollow clang and several determined bumps against the wooden skirting board. No servant appeared, and the long corridor was empty under the pale morning light.
A silver punch bowl rolled abruptly around the corner.
The vessel travelled smoothly on its curved side, corrected its direction by striking the wall, and continued towards her.
Its engraved handles hit the fine carpet at each rotation, producing the irregular clatter she had followed.
Elizabeth retreated one cautious step, but the bowl increased its speed until it reached her slippers and stopped.
For several long seconds, neither of them moved.
Elizabeth stared down at the vessel. “You are a punch bowl.”
The bowl rocked forward and rubbed itself affectionately against her slippers like an oversized, metallic cat.
Elizabeth pressed one hand against the wallpaper. A second explanation failed to arrive, while the first was unacceptable to human reason.
The bowl circled her feet, caught one ornate handle on the hem of her gown, and tugged. She freed the fabric carefully, half expecting the vessel to bite her.
Footsteps thundered from the family apartments.
A man rounded the corner far too quickly, collided with the table under the portrait, and seized its edge before both he and the furniture reached the floor.
His sober black clothing identified him as a gentleman’s servant, although his expression suggested that service had acquired demands far beyond the original agreement.
He recovered his balance and hurried to her. “I beg your pardon, miss. I shall remove it at once.”
The bowl pressed itself far more firmly against Elizabeth’s slippers, issuing a low hum.
Elizabeth indicated the object at her feet. “Does this happen often?”
The servant grimaced. “Not often enough to establish a proper defensive procedure.”
He bent down and grasped both handles. The bowl refused to move a single inch.
Elizabeth examined him closely. “You appear intimately acquainted with it.”
He planted one foot behind him and pulled. “Fletcher, miss. Mr Darcy’s valet. The bowl is an ancient Pemberley heirloom.”
Elizabeth watched him struggle. “That explains its ownership. It does not explain its travelling alone through the house.”
Fletcher grunted. “There are complex mechanical principles involved.”
The bowl tightened its hold on her hem, dragging the fabric downwards.
“What mechanical principles?”
The valet kept his eyes on the unyielding bowl. “Magnetism, intense gravity, and very old silver, miss. The precise science exceeds my understanding.”
“Does magnetism commonly cause household vessels to pursue visitors?”
Fletcher pulled harder. “Only those of superior manufacture.”
Fletcher pulled again with all his weight.
The bowl released Elizabeth without warning, sending the valet flying backwards into the floral wallpaper.
He miraculously retained his grip, gathered the vessel tightly against his chest, and attempted to restore his dignity while the bowl tilted one handle back to her.
Elizabeth folded her hands neatly before her waist. “Is there anything wrong with it?”
Fletcher smoothed his coat with one free hand. “Mr Darcy prefers to consider it inanimate.”
Elizabeth did not blink. “That was not my question.”
Fletcher sighed. “It is the safest available answer, I am afraid.”