"Nothing. That is the problem. They keep saying there has been no change, as though that ought to comfort me."
"When did Jones last attend her?"
"This afternoon. He says the fever is no worse and that her lungs remain clear." Bingley repeated the words quickly, as if he had repeated them many times to himself. "He says she needs rest and warmth, but she has barely eaten and she is still feverish. Caroline tells me that is to be expected."
"It is. With a bad cold or influenza, it is."
Bingley stared at him. "How can you possibly know?"
Darcy paused. "I do not. Not for certain. But Jones would have said if he believed there was cause for alarm."
Bingley shrugged off Darcy’s hand and resumed pacing. He was very pale, and every few steps his gaze returned to the closed door. Once, he stopped as though he had heard something from within, then moved on when the passage remained silent.
"Have you been standing here long?" Darcy asked for want of anything more sensible to say. Even when Bingley faced troubles, he was usually relentlessly optimistic—often when he had no cause to be so.
"I am not standing. I am walking."
"Have you been walking here long?"
Bingley glanced towards the window as though the fading light might answer for him. "Perhaps an hour, maybe two."
Darcy looked at the closed door. "You cannot remain outside Miss Bennet’s chamber forever."
"I know that."
"It is hardly proper."
"I know that too."
"Then why are you here?"
Bingley turned upon him with sudden force. "Because she is ill in my house and I cannot do a damned thing about it." The words rang through the passage. He looked almost as shocked by them as Darcy was and lowered his voice at once.
"I cannot sit downstairs while she lies here with a fever. I have tried. Hurst is snoring, Louisa keeps telling me not to worry and Caroline is nowhere to be seen. Miss Elizabeth comes out every so often and says her sister is resting, then disappears again before I can do anything useful."
"Come downstairs, Bingley."
Bingley did not move. "I cannot sit through dinner pretending nothing is wrong."
Darcy stepped forwards and caught him firmly by the shoulders. "Go and dress, Bingley. By the time we waketomorrow, Miss Bennet will very likely be much improved, and you can do absolutely no good standing here tonight."
Bingley looked towards the door once more.
"Go," Darcy said, more gently. "You will be sent for at once if anything changes."
After a moment, Bingley nodded. He had taken only a few reluctant steps towards his chamber when the bedchamber door opened behind them.
Elizabeth stepped into the passage and closed it carefully, one hand remaining upon the knob. She had changed out of her ruined gown, though the pale blue dress she now wore was plainly borrowed and sat a little loosely across her shoulders. Her hair had been simply arranged, with several curls escaping around her face, and there was a tiredness in her expression that made Darcy's chest tighten all over again.
Bingley turned at once and crossed towards her eagerly. "How is she?"
"Sleeping at last," Elizabeth said softly. "Her fever has eased a little, and she has taken some broth. She spoke of you too. She asked whether you had enjoyed your time with the officers."
The relief that passed over his face was so immediate that Elizabeth's expression brightened. He seemed unable to answer directly, his eyes glassy, but he bowed to her with unusualgravity and looked once more towards the closed door before turning away. He went towards his room with rather more purpose than before, though Darcy noticed that he still glanced back before disappearing around the corner.
When the passage had fallen quiet again, Elizabeth looked towards Darcy. "He has been very anxious. Jane would feel terrible if she had known that she had caused him a moment's worry."
"He has spent the better part of the afternoon wearing out the carpet outside your sister's door," Darcy said. "I believe he would have remained there all night if it was down to him."
