“Hmph. Do not pretend that it would not be most inconvenient if she died here.”
Rather than replying, Bingley looked at his plate with a sick expression. He said nothing more.
“I do wish them the best,” Miss Bingley added. “All of the Bennets. You cannot say that I do not wish them well — but the poor creatures will find it difficult to marry. Everyone knows about their uncle in Cheapside, and how small a business their country-town attorney uncle in Meryton does.”
“I do not care a whit for how many relations they have in Cheapside.” Bingley stood up from the table, as though he intended to stomp off, rubbed his arms, shivered, and then sat down again.
“Are you well?” Darcy asked. “I know you—”
“I hate to hear Jane spoken of in such a way — as though she is a matter of a commercial arrangement, like purchasing an excellent horse, who is on the verge of death. She will not die.”
“Of course she will not,” Miss Bingley said. “We have determined that she would not possibly be so rude — sweet thing. But we know that the Bennets are beneath us. It will be difficult for them to ever marry any man of consequence in the world.”
“I do not care a whit!” Bingley repeated. “You hear me not at all.” He stood and left the table.
Darcy sipped at his wine.
His friend was very likely to make the mistake of marrying a woman with vulgar relations and no connections or dowry worth speaking of. And perhaps he would be happy for it. Bingley could do this, but he was Fitzwilliam Darcy, the master of Pemberley.
He expected better of himself.
It was that drive to be worthy of his family name that had forced him to work till his muscles ached and twitched to gain the strength that allowed him to walk for the better part of a mile on his crutches, if he pushed himself. It was that drive that kept him from mourning and acting like a cripple.
He was Darcy.
He would always be worthy of the family name.
He could not marry Elizabeth.
What?
Where did even thethoughtof marrying Elizabeth come from?
After dinner, Darcy wrote a letter, which he sent off by express to Mr. Thompson, the physician he had worked with in London, to ask him if he could come tomorrow to examine the patient. Perhaps he was being ridiculous, but there was something about Miss Bennet’s case that convinced them all that it was more than just a fever and a headache that afflicted her.
This proved to be prescient.
The next morning Elizabeth burst into the breakfast room with deep bags around her eyes, disordered hair, and a pale frightened face. “We must call the doctor again. Jane has become far worse. Her fever is higher, she is delirious, and worse—” Elizabeth swallowed. “Half her face is paralyzed, I believe she suffered a fit of apoplexy during the night.”
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth clutched her father’s hand and watched helplessly as the doctor that Darcy had brought from London examined Jane.
Even in her misery, Elizabeth felt a strong gratitude to Darcy: He had sent for Mr. Thompsonyesterday, before Jane’s condition had deteriorated so far that the necessity was clear.
The left side of Jane’s face had completely collapsed, the lips, cheeks, everything drooped and hung loose. And still Jane kept her head perpetually tilted towards the right side. The physician palpated and pressed, and he felt around her neck with his white hands.
Jane moaned piteously when he tried to bend her neck with his hands. “Oh God, oh God, it hurts.”
Elizabeth knew how hot Jane’s skin felt.
Was her sister, the dearest creature in the whole world, dying?
Papa stared at the proceedings with dry eyes, but his grip on Elizabeth’s hand was tight and desperate. Her fingers hurt.
“Miss Bennet, can you flex your toes?” the doctor asked.
She moaned.
