Most gratefully yours,
Georgiana Darcy
“Hill, please ask Papa if I may borrow the carriage,” Elizabeth called, already moving towards the stairs to gather her things. “I must go to Netherfield immediately.”
***
The brief journey felt interminable despite the horses’ swift pace. Elizabeth’s mind conjured increasingly dire scenarios witheach passing mile—childhood fevers could turn dangerous so quickly, and Ambrose’s small frame would have little strength to fight serious illness. The memory of his bright laughter from their recent visits seemed impossibly precious now that it might be silenced.
Netherfield’s usually welcoming entrance held an air of subdued anxiety as Elizabeth arrived. Mr Bingley met her in the hall, his normally cheerful demeanour replaced by apprehension.
“Miss Bennet, thank God you’ve come. The poor little fellow has been asking for you since dawn, though he can barely speak above a whisper.” He guided her quickly up the stairs. “Dr Matthews attended him earlier but could offer little beyond the usual remedies. Georgiana is beside herself with worry.”
The scene in Ambrose’s chamber struck Elizabeth with immediate distress. The small boy lay motionless beneath heavy blankets, his usually rosy cheeks flushed with unnatural heat while his breathing came in quick, shallow gasps. Georgiana sat beside the bed holding a spoon and a small cup, her face drawn with exhaustion and fear.
“Ambrose, dearest, you must try again,” Georgiana was pleading softly. “Dr Matthews says this medicine will help reduce your fever.”
The boy’s response was barely audible but unmistakably stubborn. “It tastes horrible and makes me sick.”
Miss Francesca stood at the foot of the bed, her tone more commanding than coaxing. “Master Ambrose, you will take your medicine this instant. Such behaviour is most unseemly.”
“I won’t!” Ambrose’s voice cracked with the effort of defiance, though the sound was pitifully weak. “I want Lizzy.”
Elizabeth moved swiftly to the bedside, her heart clenching at the sight of his glazed eyes and parched lips. “Hello, my dear one,” she said softly, settling into the chair beside Georgiana. “I hear you’re feeling quite poorly.”
Ambrose’s eyes fluttered open at her voice, and a ghost of his usual smile crossed his sickly features. “Lizzy! You came!”
“Of course I came. Now, let me feel your forehead.” She placed a cool hand against his burning skin, noting with alarm how much heat radiated from his small body. Taking a damp cloth from Miss Francesca’s hands, she dipped it in the basin of water nearby and began carefully wiping his face and neck.
“That feels nice,” Ambrose whispered, leaning into her touch like a kitten seeking comfort.
Elizabeth continued her ministrations while speaking in low, soothing tones. “Georgiana tells me Dr Matthews left some medicine to help you feel better. I know it doesn’t taste pleasant, but sometimes we must do unpleasant things to achieve good results.”
“But it makes my stomach hurt worse,” Ambrose protested weakly.
“I understand, dearest. Suppose we try taking it very slowly, just tiny sips with plenty of water between? And perhaps Georgiana could tell us a story while you drink it—that might help distract from the taste.”
Ambrose considered this proposal with the gravity of a diplomat weighing treaty terms. “Will you hold my hand while I take it?”
“Absolutely.” Elizabeth clasped his small, hot fingers in hers. “You’re very brave, Ambrose. Much braver than many grown men I know.”
This appeal to his courage proved effective. With Elizabeth’s encouragement and Georgiana’s whispered fairy tale, Ambrose managed to consume the entire dose of medicine without further protest. Within minutes, he had drifted into a more peaceful sleep, his breathing slightly easier.
“How did you manage that?” Georgiana asked in wonder. “We’ve been attempting to give him that dose for over an hour.”
“Sometimes persistence must be tempered with patience,” Elizabeth replied, her voice kept low to avoid waking the boy. “Fear makes everything more difficult—for children especially.”
As the afternoon progressed, Elizabeth became increasingly aware of an unexpected presence hovering at the borders of the sickroom. Mr Darcy appeared in the doorway with suspicious frequency, each time offering some practical excuse for his visit while his eyes immediately sought Ambrose’s sleeping form.
“Has his fever broken yet?” he enquired during his fourth such appearance, his usual stern composure betraying subtle cracks of anxiety.
“Not yet, though he seems more comfortable since taking the medicine,” Elizabeth said, studying his face with new attention. Gone was the cold indifference she had expected from someone whom Mr Wickham claimed viewed the boy as mere obligation. Instead, she observed barely suppressed concern in the tight line of his jaw and the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“The apothecary suggested cool compresses might help,” he said as his gaze remained fixed on Ambrose’s flushed features. “I’ve ordered fresh supplies from the kitchen.”
When the compresses arrived, Elizabeth was surprised to see Mr Darcy personally oversee their preparation, testing thetemperature of each cloth with meticulous care. Such attention to detail spoke of sincere worry rather than mere duty.
“Perhaps you should rest, sir,” she suggested kindly. “Georgiana and I can manage his care through the evening.”
