Mr. Jones, the apothecary from Meryton, was sent for without delay and arrived before the morning had properly settled into its usual rhythm. His entrance carried with it an air of practiced urgency, though his manner remained composed. He spoke little as he was conducted upstairs, and less still once he had begun his examination. Darcy, who had joined the others in the breakfast room shortly after the summons had been given, heard only fragments—footsteps above, the opening and closing of doors, and the low murmur of voices that did not carry.
Bingley, unable to remain below, had gone upstairs, determined to speak with Mr. Jones immediately following his examination.
The rest waited.
Miss Bingley occupied herself with arranging and rearranging the items before her, her attention never truly fixed upon them. Mrs. Hurst leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting toward the window with intermittent interest. Darcy stood near the mantel, one hand resting lightly against its edge, his thoughts not wholly given to the situation above, though not untouched by it.
At length, the door opened. Mr. Jones entered, followed by Bingley. The expression upon Bingley’s face was sufficient to prepare them all.
“Well?” Miss Bingley asked, rising slightly.
Mr. Jones folded his hands behind his back. “Miss Bennet is a great deal too ill to be moved.”
The words fell with finality.
Miss Bingley drew a breath, her irritation undisguised and obvious. “Too ill? You are certain she cannot return home?”
“I would not advise it under any circumstance,” Mr. Jones replied. “The fever has taken hold. Movement would only worsen her condition. She must remain here, be kept warm, and allowed to rest. I shall send a draught that may assist, though time will be the principal remedy.”
Mrs. Hurst exchanged a glance with her sister, though neither spoke.
Bingley turned slightly, his posture stiffening with purpose. “Then she shall remain here as long as necessary. Miss Elizabeth will stay with her, of course.”
Mr. Jones gathered his gloves from the table. “That would be advisable.”
Darcy watched as the apothecary gathered his things and took his leave, the matter concluded as far as his profession was concerned. Bingley remained standing there, his thoughts plainly still above stairs, before at last he returned to the present.
“You see,” he said, addressing his sisters, “it is settled.”
Miss Bingley’s lips pressed together, though she said nothing. Bingley, satisfied that the necessary arrangements had been made, moved toward the door once more.
“I shall go up again,” he said. “Pray excuse me.”
He left them.
Silence lingered for only a moment.
Then Miss Bingley spoke.
“Really,” she said, her tone no longer moderated by restraint, “I cannot countenance it.”
Mrs. Hurst shifted slightly. “My dear Caroline—”
“No,” Miss Bingley continued, turning toward her brother’s empty chair as though he still occupied it. “It is beyond reason. To have such people in the house—indefinitely, it seems—is quite insupportable.”
Darcy's focus intensified; even so, he maintained an appearance of composure.
Mrs. Hurst regarded her sister with clear curiosity. “What do you mean by ‘such people’?”
Miss Bingley’s composure returned swiftly, though a sharper edge remained beneath it. “I mean exactly what I say. Our guests are not quite what they appear.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward her.
Mrs. Hurst leaned forward slightly. “Explain yourself.”
Miss Bingley smiled, and on this occasion, she made no effort to temper the expression.
“I learned something of our visitors last evening—something that places their situation in a rather different light.”
