They resumed their seats and reached for their knitting, eager to show Elizabeth their progress.
Georgiana held up her work. “We are knitting for the Christmas baskets that shall be distributed to the tenants. See, these are caps for the children.”
Elizabeth took the knitting into her hands and ran her fingers over the wool.
“Georgiana, this is lovely. The wool is very fine, and the bright red is such a cheerful color.”
Georgiana reached into her knitting bag and withdrew a blue skein of yarn.
“This is the color we are using for the boys. Once Kitty becomes more proficient, I shall teach her how to knit mittens.”
Elizabeth examined their work with approval.
“These are beautifully knitted, sisters. I am impressed, and I am certain the children shall be delighted with them. Georgiana, prepare a knitting bag for me. I shall work on a cap while I sit with Mary. I have grown weary of reading and could use the distraction.”
“Have we had any word from the hunt?”
“No, Lizzy, nothing,” Kitty replied. “But at least it has not begun to rain.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I am going to see Mrs. Reynolds to discuss the dinner menu. Send for me immediately if Mary has need of me.”
The waiting was wearisome, and Elizabeth was tired and wished the babies would simply be born. Her thoughts drifted to Lydia. Who would have sat beside her in India had she carried her child to term? But there was no purpose in dwelling upon such questions. It would never come to pass. Lydia was gone.
After spending a quarter of an hour with Mrs. Reynolds, Elizabeth went to the library and stepped through the French doors into the garden. She wandered among the roses and paused to admire the riot of color when one of the footmen came running toward her.
“We have word from the hunt, mistress. Mr. Collins has sustained an injury.”
He handed her a small piece of paper. A note in Fitzwilliam’s hand.
Dread settled in her stomach as she unfolded the paper. For a moment, she could scarcely comprehend what he had written.
Chapter 55: Death At Pemberley
“Hark back! Hark back!”
The gamekeeper’s voice rang out across the hillside, loud and urgent.
“Rabid dog! Rabid dog!”
Darcy wheeled his horse in the direction the man indicated. Then he saw it.
One of the dogs was unmistakably rabid.
The animal had turned toward the hounds, snarling and snapping at the air. Its movements were erratic and unnatural, but the most alarming sign was the saliva streaming from its mouth. Darcy felt certain he would never forget the strange, hoarse barks it emitted.
The hounds were well trained and obeyed the gamekeeper’s command at once, retreating with him as he led them away from the infected animal.
Darcy and several of the men raised their rifles and fired.
The dog fell, along with three others.
The remainder of the pack scattered and fled.
Selkirk rode up beside him, his expression grim.
“This is bad, Darcy. If that rabid dog has bitten any of the others…”
“Yes. I have heard it can take weeks, sometimes even months, before an animal shows symptoms.”
