He seemed to struggle for words, so she took his arm and led him to the bench at the side of the house. She continued to hug his arm even after they were seated, and waited patiently for him to speak.
“My nephew, David…” he whispered at last, in tones of disbelief. “He died in the night. His case did not seem dire; I thought he would recover, but…” Tears spilled down his face.
She used her own handkerchief to dry his cheeks. “Oh, my dear, how terrible. And your poor sister…”
“What did I miss?” he wondered. “Is there something I might have done?”
“Surely there was not,” she murmured, continuing her ministrations. “You have said yourself that there is no way to be certain of the outcome until very late in the illness. Poor David had not the strength to defeat it, that is all. You are not to blame.”
“This illness is so terrible for children,” he said. “But when only one of the six Blake children died, I allowed myself to hope that perhaps, for some reason, it would not be so awful this time. I set aside the families I saw cut down in London, and convinced myself all of Jenny’s children would be well. What if I also ignored the signs that David was failing?”
“You did not,” Charlotte answered firmly. “You are the most observant person I know. Even if you wished to ignore such signs, your training and your nature would not allow it. David was a three-year-old boy with a sickness that brings down many adults. Leave off this castigation of yourself, I implore you, and instead be grateful that he died quietly, without suffering all the worst ravages of the disease beforehand.”
He stared at her in open surprise for a moment before tentatively nodding. “You are correct, Miss Lucas—that is something to be thankful for.” They sat in a strangely companionable silence for some moments, reflecting upon the tumult of the young day, until he turned and gathered both of her hands into his own, bestowing a kiss on the knuckles of one and then the other.
“Miss Lucas, I know I have not been calling on you for long—in truth, I cannot be said to have called upon you at all in the traditional sense—but I believe circumstances have allowed us to know each other better than months of polite conversation over tea in the parlour would. There is a question I should very much like to ask you, if you are ready to hear it.”
Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat. There could be no mistaking his intent. And yet, she was too fond of him and too desirous of his affections to behave with him as she would have with another, more practical, choice. So she smiled and him and squeezed his fingers and replied, “When you have got over the shock of David’s death, if you would still like to ask your question, I would very much like to hear it.”
He regarded her solemnly. “I believe I know my own mind, but if you will be more certain of me at a later date, I can do nothing but respect your wishes now.” He kissed her hands once more and released them. “How is Miss Maria this morning?”
“Restless.”
“I dare say she is ready to leave her bed, on a limited basis. Shall we go and tell her the good news?”
* * *
The afternoon brought two very different notes to Elizabeth. From Charlotte came word that Maria had entirely passed through the danger, and now had only to rest and recover. From Longbourn, however, in her sister Kitty’s hand, came news of a different sort.
Dearest sisters,
Forgive me if this makes little sense, for I have not slept in the last day. As I write, Father is reading to Lydia and Mary has fallen asleep next to her. We have passed a trying night, and are still in doubt of Lydia’s fate. Mr Jones remains hopeful, and so do we, but Lydia is very weak indeed. I wish you will both pray for her often.
Pardon my sloppiness, I am nodding off over the paper. I will close now.
Kitty
In their father’s firm script, just below the smudged signature, was a further note.
My dear girls, how I wish you were home with us, but I take comfort every moment in knowing that you soon shall be, that Jane grows stronger daily, and in a week or two I shall look upon my beloved eldest daughters once more.
“Surely,” Jane said in a shocked tone after reading it, “God would not take both our mother and Lydia away from us? I was so certain, after hearing of Mary and Kitty’s swift action, that their next report would be of Lydia’s recovery.”
They both knew very well that smallpox could take entire families, but Elizabeth forbore from replying in such a way, instead suggesting that they obey Kitty’s request and offer up prayers for their youngest sister. Jane was much relieved by the exercise, but Elizabeth could not be easy though she hid her worries behind a cheerful face.
* * *
For the second time in the space of a week, Darcy found himself attending the funeral of someone with whom he had not been well-acquainted. In Hurst’s case, the acquaintance spanned several years, though he had known the man little better when he died than after being acquainted with him for only a month.
As the vicar read the service, Darcy glanced at his friend, whose eyes were red-rimmed. Though he knew Bingley had approved of Hurst’s habits of overindulgence in food and drink no more than Darcy himself, he had recently learnt that Bingley had respected and liked the man for his rational prudence in matters financial and his kindness towards his dependents. Though even Bingley would not go so far as to call his brother ‘considerate’—consideration requiring an effort, something Mr Hurst had generally disdained—he had treated and paid his servants well, and been gentle and even indulgent with his wife. Darcy and Bingley both knew many husbands who could not claim as much.
And so, he thought back with something like regret upon his shallow acquaintance with Mr Hurst. Perhaps, had he made the effort to know the man a little better, he might have learnt to esteem him before his death.
During the hymns, the voices of the few mourners echoed in the small chapel. Bingley had lamented in the carriage that Hurst’s family would not be allowed to inter him with his ancestors, for fear of contagion, nor attend his funeral. Darcy shuddered to think that his own earthly form might be put to the earth anywhere but Pemberley, and hoped that Gilbert Hurst would rest in peace.
* * *
Kitty very nearly shoved Mary out of Lydia’s room that morning. “I shall tend to Lydia for a while. Go and have some sleep in your own bed for once.”
