Her mother reached out to adjust the edge of the blanket yet again, and Elizabeth smothered a laugh. “Mamma, Papa will become overheated.”
Mamma looked up, scandalised. “But what if he grows chilled, Lizzy? You know how weak he has been.”
“I assure you, Fanny,” Papa said, “that I am in no danger of freezing in my own sitting room.”
Elizabeth excused herself, retreating to her room and finally allowing herself a moment to breathe. She sank into the chair by the window, the weight of the past few days slowly lifting from her shoulders. Papa was recovering. His appetite had returned, and his sharp humour was proof enough that his spirits were improving.
A long walk through the fields would be heavenly, but a quiet meal and rest seemed the wiser course. She rang for Sarah and requested a small meal of whatever the cook had on hand. As always, in any moment where her full attention was not required, her thoughts turned to Mr. Darcy.
She had heard nothing since her brief visit to Netherfield, and the silence gnawed at her. No word had come from Colonel Fitzwilliam or his household. Jane had not written, so it was possible they had not alerted Mr. Bingley. Was Mr. Darcy recovering as Papa was?
Elizabeth frowned, frustrated by the uncertainty. She knew her concern was irrational. They were not formally bound and therefore society said she could not inquire, but the thought of him suffering was painful to her.
Sarah entered with the tray, setting it on the small table by the window. “Will you be needing anything else, Miss Bennet?”
“No, thank you, Sarah,” Elizabeth replied, offering her a small smile. “This will do nicely.”
As Sarah left, Elizabeth nibbled on a bit of the roast left from last night’s dinner, her mind remained occupied with thoughts of Netherfield. She imagined Mr. Darcy seated in his library, reading one of his thick volumes with that grave expression he so often wore. Or perhaps pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought.
He had become so comfortable here with her family, so at ease in their company. She had been sure that his addresses were imminent. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she shook her head, determined to set such musings aside. Mr. Darcy’s recovery was what was important.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Elizabeth resolved to take a walk after all, though it could not be a long one. She wrapped herself up warmly and hoped the fresh air would clear away the remnants of worry that stubbornly invaded her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The pounding from downstairs jolted Elizabeth from her troubled sleep. She sat upright, heart racing, as muffled voices filtered up from below. Moments later, a knock came at her door.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Hill called urgently. “A messenger from Netherfield has come. He says it is urgent.”
Elizabeth was already out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown as she opened the door. “What is it?”
“Mr. Darcy, miss. He is very ill and calling for you.”
Her breath caught, but she recovered quickly. “Mr. Hill, please send someone in the cart to Meryton. Wake Old Mrs. Simmons and say that they have need of her skills at Netherfield. She can act as my chaperone.” Mrs. Annesley might be willing, but Elizabeth did not wish to presume.
“Yes, Miss Bennet.”
While Mr. Hill hurried off, Elizabeth dressed and pinned up her hair in a simple knot. She would not allow herself to think ofMr. Darcy succumbing to his illness. He would be well, and when he was, then she could account for her impropriety.
Mamma was waiting for her when she exited her chamber. “Elizabeth, have Mrs. Hill travel over with you and send her home when Mrs. Simmons arrives. I have told her we will allow her to have the day tomorrow in recompense.”
“Thank you, Mamma,” Elizabeth replied, anxious to be on her way.
For once, her mother did not launch into a long set of instructions. Instead, she took Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “If they lack for anything, send word. I will pray for him, Lizzy.”
“He will be well, Mamma,” Elizabeth said, hating how pinched her voice sounded. “Papa is recovering. So will Mr. Darcy.” Even as she said the words, she understood that sometimes young men died while older men lived.
Within twenty minutes of Mrs. Hills’s summons, Elizabeth was in Mr. Darcy’s carriage, trundling down the drive.
When they arrived at Netherfield, Elizabeth flew up the stone steps and was met by the butler whose expression betrayed no small degree of relief at her presence. He led her swiftly to Mr. Darcy’s chamber, his silence emphasizing the urgency of the situation.
The chamber was lit with a dozen candles and the fire. Mr. Darcy lay motionless on the grand four-poster bed, his complexion nearly white other than the flush of fever, his pallor stark against his dark, damp curls. His breathing was shallow and laboured, each rasp a painful sound that cut through the tense quiet of the room.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward to usher her inside, his usually amiable countenance deeply lined with fatigue. Mr. Harris hovered near the bedside, wringing a wet cloth as he gave instructions to a maid who was filling a bowl with chunks of ice.
Elizabeth took it all in, though her eyes were drawn inexorably back to the man in the bed. “Mr. Harris,” she said firmly, “what is being done?”
The valet started, then gestured to the bowl. “We have been trying to bring his fever down, Miss Bennet, but it is stubborn. He has taken nothing all day, and Mr. Jones’s last visit offered little hope beyond continuing what we are already doing.”
