“My belly aches like the devil,” Hurst muttered, “but other than that I am only very tired. I did not know what tiredness was until today. And I may be a little faintish.” He shifted uncomfortably as the apothecary palpated his stomach. “I don’t expect you sent my wife and valet out to give me good news, sir. I’ll take it plain and unvarnished, if you please.”
“You are bleeding inside your gut,” Jones answered solemnly. “I believe you have been from the beginning, but it has worsened. There is nothing that may be done, I am sorry.”
“Had a feeling I wouldn’t come out the other side of this,” Hurst said tiredly. “How long, do you reckon?”
“Perhaps a day.”
“Well then.” He studied the plaster of the ceiling for a moment, as if inspiration might be found in its cracks. “Best send my wife in. Things I must tell her.”
The apothecary stood and bowed, then disappeared into the sitting room, where Mrs Hurst waited alone. She looked up at him, pale and anxious, and moved past him into Hurst’s room. Jones followed, hovering in the doorway, and watched as she went to her husband’s bedside. He wished not to intrude, but his concern for Mrs Hurst compelled him to remain near.
“Gilbert…” she said helplessly.
“Hush, Lou. Things I need to say, but so tired.” Mr Hurst closed his eyes, and for a moment Jones feared he had already gone. Then his lids lifted, slowly, and he fixed his wife with an earnest stare. “Been a good wife, Lou, want you to know that. Never told you so, but you were. Sorry we never had children. Fine mother you’d have made.”
Jones averted his gaze as Mrs Hurst began to sob.
“Stay away from that sister of yours. She makes you unhappy. Stick with Bingley, he’ll see you right.”
* * *
Elizabeth and Jane had not thought much of it when a maid had come the previous evening to inform them that there would be no formal dinner that evening, and that trays would be brought for them. It had been a frosty morning, and little warmer when Elizabeth had ventured a turn about the garden in the afternoon in one of the freshly dyed mourning gowns delivered from Longbourn. They presumed the gentlemen were fatigued from their exertions on behalf of the neighbourhood.
Mr Bingley’s daily note for Jane that morning was unusually brief, and she gasped as she read it. Elizabeth regarded her with great concern; she had ceased to read them before Jane could, and for a frantic moment wondered if Mr Bingley had breached the bounds of propriety after all. Jane handed her the note, and she soon wished she had been correct.
Miss Bennet,
Please forgive me, but I am unable to write much today. Mr Hurst succumbed to his illness last night, and my sister has great need of my company.
Yours,
CB
“Poor Mr Hurst!” Elizabeth exclaimed in surprise.
“And poor Mrs Hurst,” Jane added. “I do not feel I knew the gentleman beyond the barest acquaintance, but Mrs Hurst has been a real friend to us.”
“Indeed she has. We must write her a note of condolence.”
“Yes, and I must exert myself and respond to Mr Bingley, today of all days,” Jane said.
Elizabeth eyed Jane’s scabbed hands dubiously. “You will get salve all over the paper, dearest. Perhaps you had better exert yourself to dictate to me.” Jane accepted the practicality of the arrangement with only a little disappointment.
Dear Mrs Hurst,
We are so terribly sorry to hear of Mr Hurst’s death. The maids have mentioned more than once your devoted care of him, and we are certain that your gentle attentions and constant presence eased his final days. Jane is much better, though still abed, and if you should wish for some company that will demand little of you, please come and visit us. You know of our own recent loss. I cannot say that our spirits are cheerful, but perhaps we three may comfort each other.
With all regard and sympathy,
Jane and Elizabeth Bennet
“It is a good letter,” Jane said with a sad smile. “I hope she will come to visit us. You are correct that we may comfort each other.”
Elizabeth sealed the note and set it aside. Sharpening her pen with a few deft strokes of the knife, she prepared a fresh sheet of paper and said, “Now, let us delight Mr Bingley with your reply.”
* * *
The day after her husband’s death passed slowly for Louisa Hurst. She had sent her reluctant brother out upon his usual rounds with the other gentlemen, pointing out that she had letters to write, and that his dreadful penmanship would be of no help in that most urgent task, though he might, if he liked, ink the borders for her when he returned.
