by Jennifer Joy
Jane’s condition was worsening. If Elizabeth delayed too long in seeking medical help, she might not improve at all.
The moment Jane collapsed against the pillows after another bout of choking dry heaves, Elizabeth ran out to the hall to send for the apothecary.
A tall figure in the dark hall moved toward her.
She came to an abrupt halt, her heart leaping into her throat.
“Miss Elizabeth,” the figure said in a buttery baritone. He held the candle closer to his face.
It was Mr. Darcy.
Exhaling in relief, Elizabeth’s heart suffered another round of palpitating spasms when she saw that Mr. Darcy was not wearing a waistcoat or cravat.
“The whole household has taken horribly ill,” he said without preamble.
She tried to comprehend his words, but seeing Mr. Darcy in nothing more than shirt and breeches captivated her. She had always believed clothing’s purpose was to feature one’s best attributes and discreetly disguise everything else. Now, fully able to appreciate the strength of Mr. Darcy’s shoulders, the flatness of his stomach, and the narrowness of his hips, she felt it a pity that he must always cover himself up with a waistcoat and cravat.
“I apologize for my state. I did not expect to see anyone,” he explained, crossing his arms over his chest so that the linen stretched over his arms. Mr. Darcy had strong arms.
Elizabeth looked at the ceiling, then at the floor. She had been gaping, she was sure of it. What was wrong with her? As if she had never seen a gentleman in a shirt before! She had seen her father several times. Granted, he in no stretch of the imagination compared to Mr. Darcy, but that hardly excused her wayward thoughts.
What had he said? The entire household was ill? Yes, that was it. Remembering her purpose, and disturbed she had been so easily distracted, Elizabeth stepped toward the stairs. “I will send for the apothecary.”
“I have sent for him already.”
Elizabeth stopped, unsure what to do now that it had already been done. “Oh. Good. Thank you.”
Handsome and thoughtful — a dangerous combination.
The furrow in Mr. Darcy’s wide brow deepened. “How is Miss Bennet?”
Thoughtful and genuinely concerned. Oh dear.
“I have never seen her so wretched,” Elizabeth replied, proud of the steadiness of her voice when she felt wobbly all over.
He bowed his head, his shoulders slumped. “I am sorry to hear it. Please, it would be a kindness for you to allow me to be of assistance. Is there anything you or Miss Bennet require?”
Thoughtful, genuinely concerned, and practical. He was willing to put himself at her and Jane’s disposal when he had clearly been at ease in his bedchamber. Was it possible for any man to be more endearing than Mr. Darcy was at that moment?
Elizabeth pinched her eyes closed. She must focus on Jane, and not her growing admiration for Mr. Darcy. She and Mr. Darcy. Wait. They were not ill. Feeling as if she had stumbled over a clue to a mystery and unsure of its importance, Elizabeth asked, “Are you and I the only ones who are not ill?”
“Aside from the servants, yes.”
Mr. Darcy had inquired after the servants? Did his thoughtfulness know no bounds?
He added, “One of Bingley’s footmen helped me confirm that aside from Miss Bennet, the Hursts, and the Bingleys, nobody else has taken sick.”
What was she supposed to make of that? There must be a sensible explanation, but as upset as she was, it eluded her.
“Is there anything else you require? It would be my privilege to attend to it,” Mr. Darcy repeated, shifting his weight and clasping his hands together as Elizabeth often did when she was anxious with pent-up energy. “A message to deliver perhaps?” he pressed.
His readiness to attend to her and Jane was kind, but Elizabeth could not accept. “The hour is too late. I would no more put you in harm’s way—”
“The risk is nothing.”
“I appreciate your willingness, Mr. Darcy, but I see no benefit causing my family unnecessary worry by asking you, a stranger to them, to gallop to Longbourn and wake them from a deep sleep with a letter from me conveying bad news. I will send them word first thing in the morning.”
He pressed no further. Nor did he say anything else. He just stood there.
Elizabeth was tempted to send Mr. Darcy on a useless errand just to occupy him, but she had a sick sister on whom to attend — a sister she had been away from for too long. Jutting her thumb over her shoulder, she said, “I really must return to Jane.”
With a curt bow, he said, “I will await the apothecary, then,” and dashed out of view and into his room (where, Elizabeth bemused, he would no doubt don a waistcoat.)
Elizabeth did not know if Jane’s slight improvement the following morning could be credited to the apothecary’s drought or to Jane’s own purging of the evil sickness. But she finally rested.
Slipping away from her sister’s bedside to the attached guest room Mr. Bingley had readied for her use, Elizabeth wrote to their mother, informing her of the current state of Jane’s health (and happy she had waited to pen her letter so she had positive news to share.) She regretted having sent the coach back to Longbourn the evening prior to convey Mr. Bingley’s message that they would be spending the night at Netherfield. Now, she had to request they send the carriage back to fetch them home.
Mama must have been thrilled to receive word of their stay. It probably had not occurred to her to wonder what had caused their delay when she could assume Mr. Bingley had been overcome by tender emotion and insisted they spend the night.
Poor Mr. Bingley. He must feel awful to have invited a young lady to whom he showed a notable preference only to have her fall ill at his table along with the rest of his household. Even in malaise, he was a perfect gentleman. He had insisted that the apothecary see to Jane before himself.
Elizabeth had not seen Mr. Darcy since their brief exchange in the hall. Netherfield Park was larger than Longbourn, but it was not so grand it prevented its guests from chancing upon each other. Was he purposely avoiding her? She could not conjure why. He had apologized for his state of undress (which she really must try to stop thinking about), but he had not seemed embarrassed.
Elizabeth did not want to flatter herself by supposing he thought of her at all, although she would not have minded if he did. No doubt, he had finally found an undertaking in which to occupy himself.
Pouring sand over the page and folding the paper, she carried her message to the footman sitting guard in the hall. He assured her a messenger would be sent post haste. Elizabeth wondered if this was the same footman who had helped Mr. Darcy inquire into the health of the servants.
Housemaids scurried up and down the stairs carrying chamber pots, pitchers of water, and clean linens. Each one paused to see if Elizabeth required anything for herself or Miss Bennet, adding that Mr. Bingley had impressed upon them the importance of seeing to their comfort. The servants’ attentiveness was a testament to Mr. Bingley’s kindness and his growing devotion to Jane.
Elizabeth asked one of the maids how the rest of the household fared, and the girl’s hesitancy to reply offered little encouragement. Neither did the two recently cleaned chamber pots she carried.
Jane was too exhausted to speak when she woke, so Elizabeth told her stories and coaxed a couple of spoonfuls of broth past her lips. If their carriage delayed much longer, she would have to find the library.
Two hours later, just as Elizabeth was about to search for the book room, she received a reply from her mother.
Chapter 11
At first, Elizabeth was pleased to see her family’s carriage. But her contentment took a dramatic turn when she ran downstairs to see two trunks deposited in the entrance hall of Netherfield Park along with her and Jane’s maid.
Two trunks! Was Mama trying to move them in?
Elizabeth would have run after the retreating carriage had Emily not stopped her. She held out a folded paper. “I have a l
etter for you from Mrs. Bennet.” Emily’s voice echoed in the marble hall.
Frustrated and confused at the sight of the distant carriage and crumpled paper, Elizabeth took the note begrudgingly and read her mother’s scribble.
The contents of the note said what she had expected, not that Elizabeth took any pleasure in being right. To the contrary, she was mortified.
Her mother demanded that she and Jane extend their stay at Netherfield Park as long as they can manage. A week’s worth of clothing and whatnots had been packed in their trunks, and Mama trusted they would use the contents to their advantage. She hoped to hear of an engagement soon and would not think of receiving them home until at least one had been secured.
Elizabeth felt sick. Just when she was assured of Mr. Darcy’s good opinion after their extraordinary first meeting, she was under orders to impose on Mr. Bingley’s kind hospitality when he was as sick as Jane. How had this happened? Perhaps she had minimized Jane’s illness too much for their mother to treat their impromptu stay like a house party.
The other side of the page contained instructions regarding Jane’s care along with mention of a tin in Emily’s possession containing a mixture of herbs Mama insisted Elizabeth make into a tea for Jane and any of the other residents still suffering from nausea. Elizabeth’s faith in her mother’s sense was restored to its usual place — that of a well-meaning but often presumptuous parent whose nerves would suffer endless attacks and spasms until all five of her daughters were settled.
Seeing the trunks upstairs along with Emily, who insisted Elizabeth leave Jane with her so that she might get some rest before she, too, fell ill, Elizabeth went to her bedchamber. The curtains were pulled and the bed looked soft and inviting. Elizabeth had not realized how tired she was until she saw the fluffed pillows and thick blankets. But though she laid down for several minutes, she could not sleep.
Concluding that her time would be put to better use finding the library than in tossing and turning, Elizabeth abandoned the comfort of her bed.
She riffled through her trunk, looking for a clean morning gown. Other than volume two of Mr. Pinkerton’s “…Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World” there was nothing of interest to see. Mama had packed her bottle of Floris perfume and her nicest ball gown — because nursing was no excuse to neglect one’s appearance evidently. Elizabeth imagined that the contents of Jane’s trunk would be similar to her own. At least, Jane could be sick in style.
Emily must have packed the sensible gown layered at the bottom of the trunk. Elizabeth was grateful to see it. The soft fabric smelled refreshingly clean, like lye soap and lavender.
Donning her simple frock and dabbing the jasmine perfume onto her neck and the insides of her wrists, Elizabeth left her room and followed the sound of clanging keys until she found the housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls. The gentle woman showed Elizabeth the way to the library, then left her to peruse the shelves.
Mr. Bingley’s library was well-situated, with large windows overlooking the gardens and clusters of chairs and settees placed around them. The prospect afforded a lovely view and ample light by which to read. The bookshelves, however, were woefully understocked. It did not take ten minutes for Elizabeth to read the spine of every book in the room. Most of the tomes were on estate management, but she did find a couple of volumes of poetry she could read aloud to Jane.
Cradling the books in her arm, she was about to leave the neglected room when Mr. Darcy opened the door. She froze in place, unable to move.
He stopped abruptly, one foot poised in the air, when he saw her. He wore a waistcoat and cravat … more was the pity.
The hair at his brow and collar was still damp. Elizabeth appreciated how his dark locks curled every which way as hers did.
They stood in silence, contemplating each other. She knew her thoughts. They warmed her cheeks and held her slippers firmly against the carpet. What was Mr. Darcy thinking? He opened his mouth as if he intended to speak, but he said nothing. He just stood there uncomfortably, as if he had been the one to see her in a state of undress the night before. Or was he still embarrassed over the incident? Had he hoped to avoid her?
“I … had thought to find the library … empty,” he stammered, already turning to depart.
He was definitely avoiding her. Far from being offended, Elizabeth was curious. She posed him no threat, and she thought no less of him for having seen him in his shirtsleeves. In fact, she was having difficulty not thinking of him a great deal more.
She took in a deep breath, eager to make her escape before her complexion betrayed her thoughts. “You soon would have found it so. I was on my way out.” She drew closer to the door, her eyelids drooping when she was near enough to catch the scent of soap and shaving lather and something else she could not identify but which she would always associate with Mr. Darcy. It was agreeable whatever it was.
Shaking herself from her reverie, Elizabeth looked up at him expectantly.
Mr. Darcy did not remove himself from the doorway. “Is Miss Bennet improved?”
“She is a little, thank you.” She cleared her throat, her voice sounding too high in her ears. “What of Mr. Bingley and the rest of the household?”
“The worst is not yet over. The Hursts and Miss Bingley were affected most severely. Bingley has improved since last night, if only slightly. He has been able to drink some broth.”
“The same with Jane.”
He sighed, then removing himself from the doorway, he entered the room and sat in the chair farthest away from her. He crossed one foot over another, then tried to rest one booted ankle over his knee. When that proved unsatisfactory, he tried the other side.
So entertained was Elizabeth in watching him, she forgot she had meant to leave the room. It was obvious he was avoiding her, and now, it seemed that her presence made him nervous. Uncertain of how long her stay was to be, and not wishing to cause the gentleman more discomfort than necessary, Elizabeth thought it a kindness to address the problem directly.
“You seem unsettled, Mr. Darcy,” she commented.
He shoved his hand through his hair, sighing audibly. “I am unaccustomed to inactivity,” he said so grumpily, Elizabeth swallowed a chuckle. So, she was not the trouble after all.
Feeling much better, Elizabeth teased, “Then be grateful you are not a lady.”
Mr. Darcy grunted. “I used to sit in on my sister’s music lessons. Georgiana is very shy, and she would hardly speak to her tutor unless I was nearby. For her sake, I encouraged her through hours of endless scales and tunes I heard so many times I grew to despise them. I have never been so bored. I do not know how ladies endure spending all day indoors when there is so much to do.”
Elizabeth tilted her chin. While the image of Mr. Darcy sitting beside his sister during her music lessons was precious, she was interested to know how he suggested a lady occupy her time. Crossing the room to the window, she asked, “What would you have us do?”
“Do ladies not enjoy such activities?”
“You did not. Why should I?” She sat opposite him.
He shifted his weight in his chair again. “It was my understanding that accomplished ladies have many activities from which to choose to keep them busy. Between developing their various arts, they have calls to make and their charitable causes to give them purpose.”
Elizabeth snorted. “I have ripped my fair share of bandages, Mr. Darcy, but after a morning of nothing but stitching and polite conversation over sips of tea, I am so restless, I would rather poke my eyes out with a needle than re-thread it.”
Most gentlemen were shocked to hear a lady complain so fiercely of lady-like pursuits. Mr. Darcy merely raised his eyebrows. “What of music, books, and painting? Do you not find them enjoyable?”
“Lovely pastimes, all of them. But would you be satisfied if you were stuck inside your house all day with nothing to do but receive callers who only talk of the weather and the styles of gown worn at the lates
t ball, practice the same music that is played at every social event, and paint the scenes you would rather see in person than painted on a table?”
Mr. Darcy frowned. “I have never considered that before. My sister enjoyed her music lessons so much, I never questioned that another lady might find them difficult to endure … as I did.”
Elizabeth held her peace. She had complained enough for one morning.
“Is that why you ride the Lucases’ horses?” he asked, rubbing his side whiskers.
Elizabeth liked how his whiskers pointed at the end, angling to his lips and the small divot on his chin. She liked that they did not cover the dimple she had seen the day before. Hurrying to reply before she forgot he had asked her reason for riding the Lucases’ horses, she said, “Excitement does not come to me, and so I must search for it however I can.”
He frowned. “Excitement is overrated.”
“How can you say that?” she asked.
“Too many young men throw away their lives in the pursuit of excitement.”
Elizabeth understood the veracity of Mr. Darcy’s statement, but she had had years to formulate a reply to that particular argument. “It is true, although it is their choice to do so. The fairer sex is not given that same consideration.” Recalling Miss Bingley’s comment from the night before, she added, “Our sensibilities are too delicate to even read the newspapers.”
Mr. Darcy chuckled, granting Elizabeth a brief glimpse of his dimple. “Your sensibilities are not so delicate, I presume?”
She smiled in answer. She did not wish to be the topic of conversation when she had so much more to learn about him. “It is a good thing, I think, and I am tempted to return the compliment to you, sir, otherwise I suppose we both would have fallen ill along with the rest.”