Page 10 of The Lost Prophecy

Chapter Three: An Illness at Netherfield

THREE EVENINGS AFTER the gathering at Lucas Lodge, the Netherfield carriage drew up under the portico shortly before eleven. It bore three gentlemen who had endured Colonel Forster’s dinner, his questionable conversation, and a detailed account of military exercises that had occupied significantly more time than the exercises themselves.

Rain beat against the roof while Darcy descended behind Bingley. Hurst followed at far greater leisure, protecting his hat under his coat and maintaining that the arrangement served the dignity of both garments equally well. The doors opened before they reached them, revealing a brightly illuminated entrance hall and two footmen ready to receive their saturated outer garments.

Miss Bingley waited by the staircase, while Mrs Hurst hovered several steps above her. Neither woman had retired, and the absence of evening jewels suggested that dinner had concluded hours ago.

Bingley surrendered his dripping coat to a servant and glanced rapidly between his sisters. “Has something happened?”

Miss Bingley folded her hands before her waist, a monument to social inconvenience. “Miss Bennet is here.”

Bingley’s face brightened with joy before deep concern replaced the pleasure. “At this hour?”

Miss Bingley did not unbend. “She arrived on horseback. She was in time for dinner, although the rain overtook her before she had covered half the distance from Longbourn. She was thoroughly wet and shivering when she entered the house.”

Mrs Hurst descended a step, her silk slippers making no sound. “We provided dry clothing and placed her in the blue chamber. Mrs Nicholls has remained with her, but the chill has developed into a fever.”

Bingley took a long, shuddering breath, his eyes widening to an alarming degree.

Darcy detected Miss Bennet’s presence a moment later. Her blood carried through the house, altered by illness until each unsteady pulse reached the entrance hall with the force of a struck drum. The fever had sharpened the scent and drawn it down through two floors, several closed doors, and a staggering quantity of oak panelling.

Hurst drew a measured, appreciative breath through his nose. “She is very warm.”

Miss Bingley directed a warning glance at her brother-in-law. “You will not discuss Miss Bennet’s temperature here.”

Hurst adjusted his cuffs. “I did not require the information from you. My senses are in perfect order.”

Bingley had turned his body to the staircase. His pupils dilated until his eyes appeared black, registering the thumping heartbeat overhead. The sharp points of his canines pressed against his lower lip.

He gripped the wooden newel post. “Which chamber did you mention?”

Miss Bingley moved swiftly into his path, spreading her skirts as a barricade. “The blue chamber, but you cannot go to her. She is unmarried, unwell, and wearing one of Louisa’s nightgowns.”

Mrs Hurst rested one hand on the polished banister. “The nightgown is hardly the principal obstacle at this precise moment.”

Bingley took the first step, his knuckles turning white against the wood. “I wish only to assure myself that she is comfortable. I shall remain at the door.”

Another rapid sequence of feverish beats travelled down from the upper floor. Bingley’s fangs descended a full inch. He covered his mouth with one gloved hand and retreated half a pace, his chest heaving.

Darcy stepped forward and placed himself firmly between Bingley and the staircase, presenting a wall of broad shoulders and authority. “You will come away from the stairs.”

Bingley’s eyes were fixed on the landing. “I would never harm her.”

Darcy kept his voice pitched low enough to avoid alarming the footmen. “What you would ordinarily never do has become less relevant than what your instincts are considering. You can hear her heartbeat from here. You can scent the heat in her blood from the entrance hall, Charles.”

Bingley lowered his hand. “So can you.”

Darcy did not blink. “I am not in love with her.”

Bingley’s gaze snapped to his friend before returning miserably to the landing. His silence confirmed more than any loud protest might have concealed.

Mrs Hurst reached the final step and gave her brother’s arm a cautious, sympathetic pat. “She has asked for water twice and thanked every servant who entered the chamber. Even while feverish and delirious, she is more civil than most of our healthy guests.”

Bingley stared at the ceiling. “May I see her?”

Miss Bingley’s posture stiffened into outrage. “You may not enter the bedchamber of an unmarried lady.”

Bingley began pacing before the staircase. “I merely wish to assure myself that she is comfortable.”