“Only a little, sir. It was not a good night,” Elizabeth explained.
His anxious frown deepened. “Would that I could offer any information that might ease Miss Bennet’s suffering, or your burden,” he said earnestly.
“I appreciate all that you have done for us,” she assured him. “We can only wait, and hope, and make dear Jane as comfortable as possible. Mr Jones remains optimistic, and so must we.”
He nodded, and hesitated for a moment. “Miss Elizabeth, I attempted to speak with you yesterday afternoon, but got no answer to my knock. When I was at Longbourn yesterday, Miss Catherine informed me that Mrs Hill had the fever and your mother and youngest sister were both rather worse. Mrs Bennet had a cough and a renewal of fever, while Miss Lydia was much weakened by her illness.”
Mr Darcy’s gentle tone could not keep Elizabeth from a feeling of apprehension and dismay; he must have glimpsed it in her expression, for she felt his hand clasp her own. “Mr Jones has, I am sure, seen them since then, and I hope that you will have better news of your family later today, but I could not in good conscience remain silent longer.”
“Of course not. I had rather have the truth, and I thank you.” Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands; much as his gesture had surprised her, it served to comfort and reassure her. “Did Kitty seem well?”
“She seemed entirely well, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied with a smile, “and assured me that Miss Mary and Mr Bennet are likewise.”
“That, at least, is something to be happy about. I sent my letters down last night; I assume they await you and the other gentlemen.”
“If you wish to visit your family, if I could be of any assistance, when Miss Bennet is improved—”
“Darcy?”
Elizabeth stepped back into the doorway, her hand falling away from Mr Darcy’s. She turned, smiling, to Mr Bingley and found him looking impatiently at his friend.
“Mr Darcy has brought news from Longbourn,” she explained.
“Good news, I hope. We are in need of good news,” replied Mr Bingley before he nodded at Mr Darcy. “Carter is downstairs if you wish to join him.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile at the man’s unsubtle attempt to rid himself of his disapproving friend. It worked, however; Mr Darcy looked at her, bowed, and disappeared around the corner of the passageway.
“Have you another note for Jane?”
“I do indeed,” Mr Bingley said, and produced it.
“She has not been well enough to hear them, but every day I tell her that a new one has arrived, and I know that she takes pleasure in their mere existence, and your constancy in writing them,” said Elizabeth with a look of gratitude.
He expressed his own pleasure in this knowledge, and his eagerness for the day when Miss Bennet would once again be well enough to read them and—happy thought!—perhaps even reply. Unable to tarry longer, he bade her good day with all sincere wishes for the improved health and happiness of both sisters, and departed.
His wish was soon to be realised, for Jane grew rather better over the course of the day. She was yet very weak and ill, but was able to eat and drink more. In the evening, after sleeping deeply the whole of the afternoon, she expressed a wish to sit up and showed more alertness than she had for several days.
Mr Jones had come while Jane slept, and pronounced himself satisfied that the worst was past, and they need no longer fear for her life. Elizabeth relayed this to Jane, who remarked that while she did not remember much of the last several days, she recalled several times thinking that she must surely perish, and was rather surprised to find herself mistaken. It was all Elizabeth could do not to burst into tears at this, and she swiftly changed the subject by drawing Jane’s attention to the little stack of Mr Bingley’s notes which had accumulated. After being entertained with these, in which he wrote cheerfully of his trips about the neighbourhood and always closed with his hopes for her swift recovery, Jane asked if her sister might resume the novel they had been enjoying together, and so the two or three hours that Jane was able to remain awake passed very pleasantly indeed.
* * *
The next day, when Mr Jones called at Lucas Lodge, he returned the flagon to Miss Lucas with his thanks. After he visited Miss Maria and pronounced her no worse than was usual for this stage of the illness, he was surprised to find it handed back to him, now radiating warmth from the hot tea within, by the Lucases’ manservant.
The fellow saw his look of surprise, and told him it was refilled by Miss Lucas’s orders, and would be every day that he brought it with him.
He smiled to himself. “Please do thank Miss Lucas for me.”
He arrived at Netherfield late that afternoon. Several possible new cases had been brought to his attention, and his continued forward motion owed more to sheer will than to real energy. Mrs Hurst hurried down the stairs to greet him.
“Mr Jones, I am glad you are here,” the lady said. “My husband’s fever has subsided but now a rash has appeared.”
He followed her to Mr Hurst’s chamber and examined with curiosity and unease the dusky, bruised patches appearing across his patient’s body, following the path but lacking the form of the lesions of smallpox.
Mrs Hurst asked the apothecary if anything was amiss.
“I am uncertain,” he replied thoughtfully. “The appearance of the rash is strange, and it is not developing in the usual manner. Mr Hurst, how are you feeling?”
“Feel like I’ve been trampled by horses. My middle pains me terribly.”
