As he took the tea in small sips, she settled into a chair and took up a book. Plutarch. “Papa, I will read to you until you fall asleep.”
He answered, his voice barely audible. “Very well, Lizzy. Do what you must to preserve my life, for when I leave this world, you and your mother and your sisters will be destitute.”
His words filled her with alarm, yet she gave no outward sign of it. She raised the volume and began reading from his cherished book.
That first day and night, Elizabeth repeated the fomentations and percussion every two hours, and each time she ensured her father drank a full cup of the medicinal tea, and she finished by reading aloud to him from his favorite book.
The treatment was effective. He coughed and coughed, and he himself admitted that his lungs were beginning to clear.
Elizabeth slept only in brief intervals between her ministrations. In this manner, she passed the first week, taking time only to eat her meals and to rest when he did.
On the seventh day, when she entered his room, she found her father sitting upright at the side of the bed.
His breathing was no longer so labored, and his face was not so ashen.
“Papa, you are looking more like yourself. Your cheeks have a little color, and your lips are no longer blue.”
Mr. Bennet grinned. “Lizzy, I believe I have turned a corner.”
“Were you able to eat this morning?”
“I was. An egg, a strip of bacon, and a piece of toast. It is the most I have eaten since I fell ill.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. “That is good news. I am delighted by your progress. Are you ready for your treatment?”
“Yes,” he said, “but you must help me raise my legs, for I feel exceedingly weak.”
He sank back into the pillows as she raised his legs. Elizabeth administered the treatment, then gave him his tea.
“I have selected a work of Virgil’s for your reading pleasure this morning.”
“Which did you select, my girl?”
She laughed lightly. “Aeneid.”
He chuckled. “That is your favorite, Lizzy, not mine. I prefer Eclogues, but no matter. I have not studied the Aeneid in years. You may begin.” After she had read to him for an hour, her father stirred.
“That is well, my dear. Go for a walk. Take care of yourself. I would not have you fall ill. This influenza is the worst I have ever suffered.”
“Very well, Papa. I will return in an hour to see how you get on.” Elizabeth washed her hands and left him.
When she went down to the drawing room, she found Mary sitting alone in the dark; the drapes were closed, and the room was unnaturally still.
Elizabeth sat beside her and asked, “Mary… what is it? Has Mr. Collins taken a turn for the worse?”
Mary stared at her sister.
“Mamma passed in the night.”
Elizabeth felt as though the air had been torn from her lungs. For a moment, she could not speak. Her throat tightened, and she could only stare, struggling not to faint.
“What…? Did you say that Mamma passed in the night?”
Mary’s voice trembled. “I believe so, Lizzy. And it is all my fault.”
Elizabeth’s shock sharpened into alarm.
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
