Page 8 of Dear Friend

Richard laughed as he collected his gloves. “Give Georgiana my love.”

“You may give it to her yourself. You said she was downstairs.”

“An excellent point.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam reached the door, then glanced back. “She will be well, Darcy. Miss Ellicott’s leaving will distress her, but Georgiana is not without people who love her.”

“I know.”

Richard nodded and left.

The room seemed unusually quiet after him. Darcy remained at his desk, his attention settling once more upon the letter his cousin had returned. He could not prevent change merely because the present arrangement had proved satisfactory, but he could exercise every reasonable care over those whom he admitted into Georgiana’s confidence. Miss Ellicott had deserved her trust. Darcy meant to see that her successor deserved it also.

He drew the remaining letter towards him. The recommendations were uniformly favourable, and his enquiries had produced no contradiction, no doubtful connection, no circumstance which gave him reason for uneasiness.

There remained only the woman herself.

Mrs. Agatha Younge.

On Thursday, he would judge the lady for himself.

Chapter Three

3rd January 1811

Meryton

Elizabeth

Elizabeth stopped short before the cottage beside St. Mary’s chapel, her market basket still hanging from one arm, and regarded Mrs. Tunley in astonishment.

“I cannot see her at all?”

“I am afraid not, Miss Bennet.” Mrs. Tunley remained in the doorway with one hand upon the frame, her manner kind but sufficiently decided to make it plain that no entreaty would carry Elizabeth beyond it.

“But I saw Julia on New Year’s Eve, and almost every day before it.” Elizabeth knew that she was arguing where argument could serve no purpose, yet could not immediately command herself to reason. “Had my father not had company these last two days, I should have called. She was perfectly well when I saw her. What can have happened so suddenly?”

Mrs. Tunley heard her without interruption. She was a small, upright woman past sixty, whose usual composure had always given Elizabeth the impression that very little could put her seriously out of countenance. This morning, however, there was a gravity about her which Elizabeth had never seen before.

“Julia complained on New Year’s Day of a soreness in her throat. By afternoon she had grown feverish, and before evening there was a rash upon her skin. I sent for the apothecary directly.” Mrs. Tunley hesitated, and when she continued her voice was quieter. “He has no doubt of what it is. Scarlet fever.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the handle of her basket.

“Scarlet fever?”

“I am afraid so.”

For several moments Elizabeth could say nothing. The name itself was sufficient. She had heard it spoken too often in connection with houses where one child had fallen ill and another followed, and all the assurances she might have demanded died upon her tongue.

“Is she very ill?”

“She is ill, certainly, but you must not frighten yourself by imagining the worst.” Mrs. Tunley’s expression softened. “She had a tolerable night, and the apothecary is to return this afternoon. For the present, he insists upon quiet and that no one be admitted who has no business in the sickroom.”

“Then she is quite confined to her bed?”

“For her own sake, and for yours. I would not permit you to enter even if Julia herself begged it of me.”

Elizabeth could not dispute the wisdom of this, though she disliked it exceedingly. Only three days ago Julia had been laughing beside her as they walked through Meryton, complaining of the cold and declaring that December had been invented solely to punish those obliged to leave their firesides. To picture that same Julia now confined to her bed, feverish and suffering, seemed impossible.