Page 12 of The Engagement at Longbourn

Jane gave her a sad smile. “I may be foolish, Lizzy. I am not entirely simple.”

“You are neither.”

From above came the sudden sound of a chair scraping. Elizabeth was out of the room before Jane could speak. Darcy’s fever worsened that afternoon. Dr. Morrison, the Darcy family physician, arrived from London shortly before dusk in a carriage bearing enough medical luggage to suggest he intended to establish a hospital. He was a compact man in his late fifties who had delivered Georgiana, treated Darcy after a childhood fall from a tree, and once informed Lady Catherine de Bourgh that her digestion would improve if she spoke less during meals.

Colonel Fitzwilliam revered him. He and Dr. Garrison conferred for nearly an hour. The household moved around them. Mrs. Bennet ordered watered wine, clean nightshirts, barley broth, fresh sheets, more wood for the guest-room fire, and a screen to keep drafts from the bed.

When Hill suggested the linen cupboard was running low, Mrs. Bennet did not hesitate. “Use my best sheets.”

Hill blinked. “The wedding set, ma’am?”

“Sheets are for beds, Mrs. Hill, and there is a sick gentleman in one. Oh! Must everything be debated?”

Elizabeth, passing in the hall, heard it.

She had spent years thinking her mother’s mind occupied only by husbands, gowns, officers, and nerves. Yet Mrs. Bennet knew precisely which tenant wife had recently been confined, which cottage required extra coal, which child on the estate had outgrown his boots, and which dairymaid’s mother was failing. Her care was noisy. That did not make it false. Near midnight Darcy became restless. Richard sat on one side of the bed, Elizabeth on the other.

“Pemberley,” Darcy murmured.

“You are not at Pemberley,” Richard said.

“Obviously.”

“Then stop trying to give estate instructions.”

“South field drainage.”

“I shall inform the south field personally.”

Darcy’s eyes opened.

He looked at Elizabeth. “You are here.”

“I have been here for ten minutes.”

“Stay.”

“I shall.”

Richard looked between them. Darcy’s fingers moved until Elizabeth, after a moment’s hesitation, put her hand into his.

He calmed at once.

Richard’s brows rose.

Elizabeth ignored him.

“My uncle will object,” Darcy said.

Richard nearly choked. “Which uncle?”

“Not yours.”

“That narrows it admirably.”

“Lady Catherine.”

“She is your aunt.”