It was Mrs Heartly, the housekeeper at the main house, huffing and puffing along the path in her efforts to reach Elizabeth. This was unusual; she had never come to the dower cottage herself before. Yet, she was a kind woman, whose loyalty to her former master had been of the deepest sort. She had not approved of the way Elizabeth had been treated by her new one, and had shown it in myriad ways—sending servants to help her clean the place, to bring coal and firewood, even meals every Sunday when the main house feasted and the food would never be missed. A shaft of alarm gripped her, but she forced a calm she could not feel.
“Mrs Heartly, is all well?”
It took a few moments for the other woman to catch her breath; Elizabeth led her to the front terrace where a couple of wooden benches provided a little respite. She helped the housekeeper seat herself upon one.
“It’s sorry I am, mistress,” the woman said at last. “I came as soon as I could, but Mrs Caldwell left near an hour ago. It was she who delivered the news, stopping in on her way back to London to speak to Mrs John, you see.” MrsHeartly never referred to Fanny Ashwood as ‘mistress’, Elizabeth noticed, despite her position.
No, I do not see, she wanted to express, a bit impatiently. What news could Marianne Caldwell—Mrs Long’s sister, who had been visiting with her daughters in Meryton this past month or more—possibly have to say that concerned Elizabeth? The Longs were not particularly friendly towards her, although great friends with Fanny.
“’Tis your sister, Mrs Collins. She is laid low, she said.”
Jane? Laid low? How ill?Elizabeth sank onto the bench opposite.
Mrs Heartly continued to relate Mrs Caldwell’s intelligence. “Mrs Collins was invited to Netherfield for tea, and did not take the carriage, but rode instead. A storm broke, and she was soaked through before she got there, and word has it she fainted in the drawing room, right in the middle of the visit. Mr Jones was out to see her and is shaking his head over the matter. I did not think Mrs John would tell you,” she said bluntly. “She has all the servants fetching and carrying for her, probably to prevent me sending anyone over to tell you of it. But I know as how you care about your people, and I’ll do as I think is right, I will, and she’ll not stop me.”
Elizabeth reached over and briefly squeezed the housekeeper’s plump hand. “I thank you, Mrs Heartly. I thank you for everything you have done—have always done—to help me. I had best go—I have a long walk ahead of me.” She made as if to rise.
“Tom Stevens is waiting at the stables with the cart—he has to go to the Brock farm for milling, but he can take you as far as the bridge turnoff. That’ll get you a little over halfway.”
It had been a risk for the housekeeper to take so muchupon herself to help. A lump arose in Elizabeth’s throat, temporarily blocking her speech.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice emerging in a whisper.
Mrs Heartly reached across, gently patted her hand, and then hefted herself up. “God bless ye, mistress,” she said, and with a heavy sigh, turned away, back to the main house.
Tom Stevens slowed to a stop just before the Beacon Bridge; Elizabeth climbed from the cart and gave a little wave. Her driver tipped his cap to her and drove on. Elizabeth knew if she kept a brisk pace, she could reach Netherfield in just over an hour and be there by noon.
When she had started out, the only thing on Elizabeth’s mind was reaching her sister as soon as possible. Frissons of terror, harking back to the illness that had devastated Longbourn and, ultimately, taken Kitty and Papa’s lives, had filled her every thought. Mrs Caldwell would not have stopped in unless there was genuine concern, unless everyone in Meryton had listened to Mr Jones’s opinions and grown anxious. Elizabeth knew she must go and see Jane for herself; she must sit at her bedside, gently cooling her fevered brow, she must pray for her, she must try to encourage her to eat and drink, and help to clean her if it all came up again. Such was her anxiety, that it was not until she had been on the road for several minutes that other possibilities for the outcome of this visit occurred to her.
Firstly, she might not be permitted to see Jane at all. This was not a social call, but except for Mr Bingley, none of them knew her, just as she did not know them. While she had an introduction to Mr Bingley, he might recall she had notbehaved precisely civilly towards his friend at the assembly. Secondly, they might—probablywould—allow Jane to decide whether or not she wanted her sister’s attendance. Jane might refuse.
The awful, sickening feeling of learning the extent of the schism that now existed between herself and Jane was still an ache in her heart. She had realised for years, of course, that she and Jane were no longer very close—and yes, that knowledge had caused many a forlorn moment since their marriages. Nevertheless, she had supposed it was due merely to the very dissimilar lives they had thus far led. She had believed it was the fault of no one.
Jane held a very different interpretation.
Well, Elizabeth would go to her sister regardless. If she was not allowed in, she could at least be informed of the current state of Jane’s health; it was only another three miles to Longbourn, and Mr Collins would doubtless see that she was returned home. Elizabeth squared her shoulders, and set out for Netherfield.
“I must be allowed to see my wife!” Mr Collins cried. It was obvious the man was quite beside himself. His hair practically stood on end from the number of times he had clutched at his head during this conversation.
It was all Darcy could do not to tear his own hair out.
Mrs Collins had refused to see her husband. Mr Jones had said she was not to be disturbed. Both Bingley and Mrs Hurst looked at Darcy as if he would know how to deal with such a situation. Miss Bingley, naturally, was nowhere in sight.
“Mr Collins,” Darcy declared, in his best authoritarianmanner, “you must desist in these outbursts. A gentleman does not give way to phrenzy or excess excitement.”
To his credit, Collins did try to calm himself, taking a few deep breaths. Then he looked desperately towards Darcy. “Mrs Bennet says that when fatal illness last afflicted Longbourn—this was before Mr Jones’s time, I believe—the doctor bled them all. Most of the family survived, and she is deeply concerned that Mrs Collins is not receiving the most effective remedy.”
“Many doctors speak out against bleeding patients now, pronouncing it a completely ineffective treatment,” Darcy declared. It seemed to him that his father had grown weaker, not stronger, with every successive bleeding in his final illness, and it was only after his death that Darcy had read opinions criticising the practice. He would always be sorry he had not put a stop to it sooner. He invested his voice with more conviction. “I have heard that Miss Catherine died during that illness, as well as Mr Bennet. The bleeding did not help them, and certainly is not called for in the case of Mrs Collins. You are well acquainted with Jones. Do you not trust in his advice?”
“I-I…do not know! Do you?”
“He seems a very rational fellow, very wise,” Darcy assured.
“But why will she not see me? Is she—is she insensible?”
Why would shewantto see a hysterical fool?he thought, but forced himself to refrain from unhelpful remarks. Mrs Collins had grown agitated and adamantly protested when she was told her husband wished to visit, refusing his company. He had taken his ejection calmly enough yesterday, but plainly his mother-in-law had stirred him up to the boughs. “My mother always counselled that when women are ill, they areto be indulged. I agree. Your wife is resting peacefully. Mr Jones will be sent for again if needed. There is no cause for alarm. We promise to send word if there is any change for the worse, but as she will likely do nothing except sleep for the very near future, there is nothing to do for now.”
At last, Mr Collins departed, but only after assuring them that he would return first thing in the morning. As he could not be blamed for his concern, Darcy agreed that he should.
