“Thomas!” Mrs. Bennet scolded, though her voice lacked its usual vigor.
“There is no point in pretense, my dear,” Mr. Bennet replied. “We gambled Elizabeth’s reputation on the notion that nursing Mr. Darcy would lead to an honorable proposal once he recovered. Instead, it appears we have gained nothing but deeper disgrace.”
Elizabeth wiped her tears with trembling fingers. “I am sorry, Papa. I have ruined everything.”
“One question only, Lizzy, before you retire,” Mr. Bennet said gently. “Is there any hope? Any chance that Mr. Darcy might—” he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with such directness, “—might have formed an attachment that could withstand his aunt’s interference?”
The question pierced Elizabeth’s heart. The fevered kiss still burned on her lips, and the way he poured in his feelings, so tender and yet urgent… Elizabeth could barely contain her changed feelings. But what would he believe when he recovered, only to recall the impropriety?
“I cannot say, Papa,” she answered truthfully. “His fever… that is, his condition, made it impossible to know his true feelings. And now, I fear we may never know.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, his expression grave. “I understand. Get some rest, child. Tomorrow we shall face whatever comes.”
As Elizabeth rose to leave, Mrs. Bennet surprised her with a gentle embrace. “You have paid a price too, Lizzy,” she said with unexpected perception. “I see it in your eyes.”
Two days had passed without word from Netherfield—two days that felt like eternity to Elizabeth’s tormented heart. She had barely slept, starting at every sound outside her window, hoping for some messenger bearing news of Darcy’s condition. During the endless hours, she paced her chamber, alternating between desperate prayer for his recovery and agonizing fear that he might already be gone.
“There would be news if something dreadful had occurred,” Jane assured her that morning as they sat together in the drawing room, both too restless for any meaningful occupation. “Surely Mr. Bingley would send word.”
“Would he?” Elizabeth asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “After what transpired, perhaps he feels no obligation to inform us of anything.”
Jane’s face tightened with her own barely suppressed worry. “Charles has always been honorable in his dealings with us. I cannot believe he would abandon all connection.”
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book, his expression grave. “I have been considering sending Hill to Netherfield to inquire after Mr. Darcy’s condition. This uncertainty is intolerable.”
“Papa, no,” Jane said quickly, glancing at Elizabeth’s stricken face. “Such a gesture might seem… presumptuous. Given the circumstances of our departure.”
Elizabeth pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. “What if they bled him? He was already weak, and then the infection took hold…”
Her voice broke, unable to complete the terrible thought.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats sent Elizabeth flying to the window. A familiar bay mare was making its way up the drive.
“It’s Mr. Bingley,” she announced, her voice barely steady. Had he come with good news or dire news?
Moments later, Mrs. Hill appeared at the door, announcing Mr. Bingley.
All heads turned as Charles Bingley entered, his usually cheerful countenance drawn with fatigue. He carried a small package wrapped in linen. He bowed to the assembled company before addressing Mrs. Bennet directly.
“Forgive my intrusion at this early hour. I wish to provide news of Mr. Darcy’s condition.”
Elizabeth’s pulse pranced, scanning his expression for an inkling of Darcy’s situation. He wasn’t his usual cheerful self, but neither did he bear the demeanor of a man delivering devastating news.
“You are most welcome, Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet replied, gesturing to a chair. “Please, join us. We have been most anxious for word. How does Mr. Darcy fare?”
Bingley accepted the seat, his tired eyes landing on Jane before returning her parents’ greeting. Elizabeth caught the brief exchange—how his gaze lingered on her sister’s face.
“The fever continues,” Bingley said carefully, “though Mrs. Porter believes her poultices are drawing out the infection. The ice treatments have begun, and we hope they will break the fever where other remedies have failed.”
“Thank heaven,” Mrs. Bennet breathed. “And the wound itself? The infection?”
Bingley’s expression grew grave. “The infection had spread somewhat, but Mrs. Porter’s methods appear to contain it. Lady Catherine was most adamant that bleeding would weaken him further. She has taken complete oversight of her nephew’s care.”
“How lucid is he?” Mr. Bennet asked bluntly. “Can he take nourishment? Speak coherently?”
Bingley glanced at Elizabeth. “He is lucid at times, but prefers his sister’s ministrations. Lady Catherine has taken oversight of her nephew’s care and has engaged a professional nurse to assist Mrs. Porter.”
“It seems Mr. Darcy is well attended,” Mrs. Bennet observed, though her glance toward Elizabeth held unexpected sympathy.
