Page 13 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Miss Lizzy, I can’t⁠—”

“You must. If the fever won’t break…” She was already on her way to the back, following the sounds of coughing. Elizabeth touched the baby’s cheek, feeling the terrible heat of him. She knew the signs of danger, and she saw them here.

“The physician must come today,” she told Mrs. Miller. “Do not wait until tomorrow.”

“Yes, miss.”

“And keep him cool. Damp cloths on his forehead. Small sips of water if he will take them.”

“Yes, miss.”

She turned and found Darcy holding out a banknote. “For the physician and whatever else is required.”

Elizabeth stared at the note. It was five pounds—more than she had ever been able to give, more than the Millers would see in a month of careful budgeting.

“Mr. Darcy⁠—”

“I saw you use your own coin for tenant emergencies.” His voice was gruff, almost defensive. “Consider this an addition to the fund.”

She took the note. Their fingers brushed, and Elizabeth felt that flutter again—that inconvenient awareness she had been trying to ignore all morning.

“Thank you,” she said, the words tasting strange on her tongue because she could think of nothing witty or sharp to throw at him.

It was thoroughly maddening. How was she to maintain a proper and righteous hatred for the future heir of Longbourn when the man insisted on being so insufferably decent?

CHAPTER FIVE

THE PINK RIBBON

Elizabeth returned to Longbourn from her ramble to Oakham Mount, her boots unremarkably clean, unlike Mr. Darcy, who had hurried off to the steward’s cottage, trailing mud and wounded dignity in equal measure. She was determined not to dwell on his recent acts of benevolence—Mrs. Pratt’s rent discreetly paid, a five-pound note on behalf of a sickly infant. Such sums were trifles to a man of his fortune, yet it was the manner of his giving, the quiet intention, that unsettled her most. It was exceedingly inconvenient to discover that the object of one’s irritation might possess a heart as well as a bank account.

Well! She need only recall his declaration that she was not handsome enough to tempt him, or the pained grimace he wore when Mary assaulted the pianoforte at Netherfield. And that nose—flaring when her mother compared his income to Bingley’s, as if he’d caught a whiff of something unspeakable on his boots. Yes, she could still despise him. Easily.

At least he had fallen in the mud. That memory she would cherish: the shock, the indignity, the instant Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley learned that gravity cared nothing for ten thousand a year.

What truly rankled, however, was his astonishing conquest of her father. Imagine being invited to the breakfast table where her father had actually lowered his newspaper to converse. And the irritating alliance they had formed, of having Elizabeth guide Darcy around Longbourn. Assuredly, her father enjoyed her intense dislike while rejoicing how his most clever daughter had fleeced Darcy over cards.

The walk, which would normally have granted her a degree of peace, did not accomplish its purpose. The Longbourn drive was a tangle of carriages, hired chaises, and gig horses being led toward the stables. It was an ordinary Wednesday in December, and she was not aware of any significant social engagements.

Her stomach and jaw dropped in unison as she stepped across the threshold and entered her house. Mrs. Bennet was already in the entrance hall in a state of giddy, trembling rapture, clasping her hands beneath her chin and exclaiming over a parade of strangers as though Father Christmas himself had descended through the smoky chimney with a sack full of eligible bachelors and Turkish carpets.

“A music master! A governess who trained a lady’s daughter! An artist, a French dancing master, and a French tutor! Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are too kind, too generous, too everything⁠—”

“What,” said Elizabeth, removing her bonnet and pelisse, “is happening?”

The drawing room contained, in addition to her transported mother: one Fitzwilliam Darcy, looking insufferably pleased with himself; one elderly gentleman with a violin case and an air of patient suffering; one younger gentleman clutching a portfolio of botanical sketches; one severe-looking woman in grey bombazine who could only be a governess of the old school; a bespectacled woman with a Continental air; a middle-aged dancing master wearing a powdered wig; her sisters in various degrees of delighted speculation; and her father, leaning against the doorframe of his study with the expression of a man watching a carriage accident from a safe distance.

Mrs. Bennet spotted her and swooped to her side.

“Why, Lizzy, wherever have you been? Trampling around the mud, I see. Straighten up and meet our small army of masters, Lizzy, for all of us. A music master from Italy, if you please, a woman for deportment, a drawing master, a dancing master, and a true Frenchwoman, Lizzy, French!”

“I thought you said you were too old to learn French, Mamma,” Lydia said, floating over to examine the French woman, no doubt looking for feathers. “And Italian confuses you even more.”

“Oh, do not say that, Lydia.” Mrs. Bennet latched on to Mr. Darcy, who had gravitated to her side, his critical gaze measuring each curl that had loosed from its pins. “Mr. Darcy, will you kindly explain to my daughter why I am not too old to learn French?”

“Mrs. Bennet would benefit immensely from a few phrases when she is presented to Lady Jersey at Almack’s. The patronesses converse almost exclusively in French when they wish to distinguish their particular friends from those merely tolerated.”

“Yes, yes, Lizzy, and are we not so fortunate that Mr. Darcy has taken it upon himself to engage all of these most wonderful masters?” Her mother took her by the elbow, dragging her toward a severe-looking woman. “Now, stand up straight, as this is Mrs. Beaumont, former governess to Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s daughter. Mr. Darcy, her credentials, if you please?”