“I prefer to remain nearby,” he replied curtly, though his tone lacked its usual edge. “In case he worsens.”
As night fell, Mr Bingley appeared with a practical suggestion. “Miss Bennet, it seems clear that Ambrose benefits greatly from your presence. Might you consent to remain at Netherfield until he recovers? We have ample guest chambers, and it would spare you the daily journey.”
Elizabeth hesitated, conscious of the impropriety yet unwilling to abandon Ambrose when he clearly needed her. “If it would truly help his recovery…”
“Please stay, Elizabeth,” Georgiana urged. “I confess I sleep little in circumstances such as this, and knowing you were here would provide such comfort.”
Mr Darcy stepped forward from his position near the window. “I second the invitation, Miss Bennet. Your influence on the boy’s welfare has been considerable.”
The grudging admission seemed to cost him some effort, but Elizabeth detected gratitude beneath his formal words. “Very well. I shall send word to my family.”
The practical arrangements were swiftly settled and Elizabeth prepared to spend the night in the chamber adjoining Ambrose’s room. The boy’s fever fluctuated, bringing moments of lucidity followed by periods of restless sleep. As darkness fell, she read to him from a collection of fairy tales, her voice providing comfort in the flickering candlelight.
The following evening brought modest improvement in Ambrose’s condition. His fever had lessened though not broken entirely, and he managed to take both medicine and small amounts of broth without protest when Elizabeth administered them. The household’s collective anxiety had eased somewhat, allowing for the first normal gathering in Netherfield’s drawing room since the crisis began.
Elizabeth settled into a chair while Georgiana took her place at the pianoforte, playing soft melodies that sounded pleasant to anyone who was listening. Mr Darcy positioned himself near the fireplace with a book, though she noticed he turned few pages. The Bingley siblings and Mr Hurst occupied their customary spots, Miss Bingley working at her embroidery while casting periodic glances towards Mr Darcy with obvious calculation.
“Such devoted nursing must be exhausting,” Miss Bingley noted, though her tone carried more praise than usual. “I have always admired those with the patience for tending the sick. It requires such particular qualities.”
Elizabeth accepted the compliment with a tired smile. “You are very kind. The reward of seeing Ambrose improve makes any effort worthwhile.”
“How admirably sentiment-driven,” Mrs Hurst added. “Though I confess myself puzzled by such dedication to a child who is not one’s own relation.”
“Affection need not be confined to blood ties,” Elizabeth replied evenly. “Love freely given often proves stronger than that demanded by mere family obligation.”
Miss Bingley, perhaps realising that her sister’s comment had created an awkward moment, attempted to redirect the conversation towards safer ground. “Speaking of familyobligations, I received the most interesting letter from Lady Darlington today. She writes that the London season promises to be exceptionally brilliant next year, with several notable engagements due to be announced.”
“How delightful,” Mrs Hurst responded with interest. “I do hope we shall have the opportunity to witness some of the festivities. There is nothing quite like London during the season.”
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley continued, warming to her subject. “Lady Darlington mentioned that Lord Marbury’s eldest son has finally chosen a bride—Miss Ashworth of Yorkshire. A most advantageous match, with twenty thousand pounds and excellent connections.”
The conversation continued in this vein for several minutes, touching upon various social connections and upcoming events in town. Elizabeth contributed little to the discussion, her thoughts still occupied with Ambrose’s condition and the strain of recent days. The subject then turned to literature and that drew her into spirited participation.
“I confess myself puzzled by the recent trend towards anonymous publication,” Miss Bingley was saying, her tone suggesting she considered herself quite knowledgeable on literary matters. “Surely an author of merit would wish to claim credit for their work?”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied, “but there may be compelling reasons for such discretion. A lady author, for instance, might face prejudice that would prevent fair consideration of her work.”
Mr Darcy, who had been silently reading in his corner chair, looked up at this comment. “Or perhaps such authorsrecognise that their work lacks sufficient merit to bear scrutiny under their true names.”
The dismissive tone gave her pause. “That seems a rather severe judgement, sir. Anonymity may reflect an author’s desire to be judged purely on the strength of their writing, rather than upon their reputation or social standing.”
“An idealistic notion, Miss Bennet, but hardly practical. Anonymous publication more often serves to protect authors from the consequences of controversial or inferior work.”
“Controversial? What constitutes controversy in literature? Perspectives that differ from established thought?”
A slight smile played at the corners of Mr Darcy’s mouth, though whether from amusement or condescension, she could not determine. “I speak merely of literary quality, Miss Bennet. Anonymous works are frequently the product of hasty composition, lacking the polish that comes from an author’s commitment to their reputation.”
“Yet some of our most celebrated works were initially published without attribution,” she responded. “Their quality was not diminished by the absence of a name upon the title page.”
“You make a compelling argument,” he acknowledged, though his tone suggested he remained unconvinced. “However, I maintain that true literary achievement requires the courage of conviction. The willingness to stand behind one’s work publicly.”
“That may be easily said by those blessed with every social advantage. But surely it requires different forms of courage for those whose circumstances make public acknowledgement challenging.”
The silence that followed carried an undercurrent of tension. Miss Bingley cleared her throat with obvious disapproval, while Mr Bingley shifted in his chair, clearly seeking to restore harmony.
Mr Darcy set down his book with deliberate precision. “You suggest, then, that merit alone should determine a work’s reception? That circumstances of birth and station should bear no weight in literary judgement?”
“I should like to think so,” she said confidently. “A profound truth remains profound regardless of its source. Wisdom may be found in unexpected places.”
