by Robin Helm
“And you are most fastidious. I understand,” replied Bingley in a soothing tone. “Since I told Roberts to leave you in my care, I shall go give him your instructions and speak to the housekeeper concerning food and drink for you and Miss Bennet.”
Darcy closed his eyes, exhausted by the conversation. “Tell him to wake me when the bath is ready. I am fit to see neither man nor beast, and certainly not Miss Elizabeth, in my present state.”
Bingley’s shoulders shook as he headed towards the door. He made an odd, choking sound.
He is behaving quite strangely this morning. Is he falling ill as well? I shall ask Beckett to see to him.
Darcy’s thoughts drifted as he fell into a light slumber, dreaming of a lovely, dark-haired young gentlewoman. Her voice was low and melodic while she read to him. It was a delightful dream, and he clung to it as long as he could.
As he regained consciousness, he felt a hand on his shoulder. All that remained of his dream when he opened his eyes was a strange sense of disappointment, for there was Roberts, and the beauty was gone.
“Shall I help you to the bath, sir? I took the liberty of having the footmen move the tub to this chamber. You shan’t have to walk so far, and a screen shields it from the rest of the room.”
“Excellent, though I think I can walk that short distance alone,” Darcy mumbled in reply. “Be sure to wash my hair.”
“Sir? I thought you would want a very quick bath. You do not seem quite yourself.”
Because Darcy was so dizzy he nearly fell when he attempted to stand, he allowed Roberts to assist him from his bed to the bathtub.
After his valet undressed him, Darcy reclined in the warm water, allowing his muscles to relax and his mind to wander.
“Are you ready to go back to bed, sir?”
“Have you asked for clean linen?”
“I shall ring for a maid,” answered Roberts.
“Wait. Wash my hair and fetch a clean nightshirt and robe. I wish to be clothed when the maid comes in. I am not yet able to leave this room, but I think I am able to sit up while you arrange my hair.”
“Very good, sir.”
Roberts followed his instructions to the letter, and within an hour, Darcy was back in his bed, resting on fresh bedclothes, eating eggs and toast, drinking tea, and feeling a bit more like a man than a dog.
He was inordinately pleased to find that he smelled better, as well.
Satisfied that he was up to hearing a good book read properly, he looked forward to Miss Elizabeth’s visit.
When Mr. Beckett and Mr. Jones arrived, however, Mr. Bingley escorted them straight to Darcy’s room.
The gentleman’s pleasure was to be postponed. For the second time in the space of two hours, he was most unhappy.
Mr. Jones stood aside as Mr. Beckett examined the patient.
Darcy was even more disgruntled as the physician poked and prodded him, listening to his chest, checking his heart, and peering down throat.
Finally, the man put away his instruments. “’Tis an excellent thing you have the constitution of a horse, Mr. Darcy. Otherwise, the situation would be dire.”
“How so?” inquired the patient.
“You have influenza. London is presently suffering an epidemic, and many children, along with the elderly and sickly, have died from the disease. You will likely suffer a great deal in the next few days, but, no doubt, with proper rest and treatment, you will survive. Were you in London recently?”
Darcy nodded. “We came here from Town but a few days ago. I noticed many people were sick, yet they still came to soirees and musical evenings. I was ready to leave the place and come to the country. However, Miss Bennet was not in London. How did she contract the disease?”
“She was the only lady you favoured with a dance at the Assembly, apart from my sisters,” replied Bingley, “and they wore long gloves.”
“But I never touched Miss Bennet. She wore gloves, as well.”
Bingley was somber. “Miss Bennet wore gloves most of the evening, but her sister, Miss Lydia, bumped into her, causing her to spill her punch. She removed her gloves before she danced with you because they were wet.”
“I brought a plague upon the neighborhood.” Darcy looked up at the ceiling. “What if she dies? I should not have come here.”
“Nonsense,” answered Mr. Beckett. “Someone else in the vicinity may have passed through London recently. There is no way of knowing why the lady became ill. Have you been around the people of the village since the Assembly?”
Bingley thought a moment. “We visited a local family, and we were in the village inn during a thunderstorm. Darcy caught Miss Bennet as she fell from a horse. They were both drenched.”
“We may be fortunate, then. Perhaps the only two cases will be the young lady and you, Mr. Darcy. After I examine Miss Bennet, I shall give a treatment regimen to your housekeeper.”
Bingley followed him. “I shall go with you, to show you the room, of course.”
Darcy burrowed under the cover, his mood very low.
She shall not come to read to me once she knows ’tis my fault her sister is ill. She loves her sister dearly, and she will not forgive me.
Judge not that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.
Matthew 7:1-2
Elizabeth sat by her sister’s bed, reading aloud from The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes.
Hearing her sister’s even breathing, Elizabeth lapsed into silence.
Jane groaned, and Elizabeth rose to her feet, placing her hand on her sister’s forehead and setting the book on a small bedside table.
She is far too hot. No wonder she is restless. I doubt she heard a word I read, and Don Quixote is one of her favourites.
Elizabeth dipped a cloth in the water basin on a table by the bed and gently sponged Jane’s face. She looked up, leaving the cloth on Jane’s forehead as Mr. Jones entered the room, followed closely by a golden-haired, handsome man who carried a satchel.
Mr. Jones nodded at her and glanced up at the tall, young gentleman. “Miss Elizabeth, allow me to introduce Mr. Thaddeus Beckett, Mr. Darcy’s physician. He just arrived from London, and he is here to determine the extent of your sister’s illness.”
Mr. Beckett bowed gracefully while Elizabeth extended her hand, lowered her eyes, and curtseyed. He took her fingers lightly as he straightened to his full height and smiled at her.
The power of speech left her when her gaze travelled from his smile to his eyes. He had the most beautiful, light blue eyes she had ever beheld, and they were observing her with undisguised interest.
She quickly recovered, taking a deep breath as she pulled her hand from his grasp and stepped away from the bedside. I shall not look at him again. I become a blithering idiot when I do.
“My sister, Jane. Thank you for coming to see her,” she said, gesturing towards the prone figure under the coverlet.
“Ah! I see you’ve been reading Cervantes,” he said. “I read his short stories as a younger man. Now I greatly enjoy his poems and other works, as well, especially Don Quixote. I know very few ladies who enjoy his work.”
Elizabeth focused her attention to his forehead, studiously avoiding the rest of his face. “I suppose you must count my sister and me among the bluestockings. Don Quixote is one of Jane’s most beloved books.”
He raised an eyebrow, drawing her eyes to his.
“But not yours?” he asked.
Again, she was caught by his blond good looks, and she quickly fixed her gaze on Jane.
I refuse to make a fool of myself over a man who very likely agrees with Mr. Darcy concerning my ample figure. She shook her head. Even if Mr. Darcy did refer to me as ‘beautiful,’ I must remember the poor man was likely talking out of his head due to his illness.
“I enjoy a multitude of authors and literary forms, but Alexander Pope challenges me. I l
ike authors who make me think.”
She was satisfied with her answer. I am not a ninny.
I may be a bit too frank, but I am known for my honesty. I will not change for a face which surely should belong to a Greek god. Apollo? The god of healing and medicine, light and truth. Perfect.
Mr. Jones cleared his throat rather loudly. “Perhaps you could look to Miss Bennet now, Mr. Beckett. Do you think she suffers the same malady which afflicts Mr. Darcy?”
“I would prefer to delay my examination until the lady is awake. I do not wish to startle Miss Bennet by touching her while she sleeps.”
His voice was low and rich.
Musical. Apollo played a golden lyre.
Elizabeth mentally shook herself and leaned over her sister. “The physician is here from London,” she whispered.
Jane’s eyes fluttered open. “Lizzy? I am awake.” She put a hand to her throat.
She looked at Mr. Beckett, and then back to Elizabeth. “Have I died, or am I dreaming?”
“Neither, dearest. Why would you ask that?” Elizabeth’s brow creased in worry.
Jane pulled her down, speaking softly, her words intended for Elizabeth’s ears only. “Is that an angel? Has he come to take me to heaven?”
Elizabeth blushed bright red and murmured her reply. “No, Jane. ’Tis Mr. Beckett, the physician come from London.”
The patient sighed deeply and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was serene. “Mr. Beckett, thank you for coming,” she said quietly in a rasping voice.
If the young man had heard the exchange, he had the good manners not to show it. “Miss Bennet, I fear you have the influenza, as Mr. Darcy does. Do I have your permission to examine you now?”
Jane nodded slightly, and Elizabeth stepped aside.
Mr. Beckett turned to Elizabeth. “Your sister seems to be confused. Please, go to the other side of the bed and hold her hand. Talk softly to her while I check her symptoms.”
Elizabeth nodded and did as he requested.
When the physician was finished, he washed his hands in the basin on the washstand. “Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Jones, please join me just outside the door.”
After directing the maid to sit with Jane, Elizabeth followed him, noting his broad shoulders and elegant posture.
He is as handsome from the back as he is from the front. I am a terrible person for looking at him in such a way, but how can I not notice?
The gentleman looked troubled. “Your sister does indeed have influenza, and I fear she will be worse before she is better. I am concerned for her lungs, but I also worry about her confusion. Has she eaten today?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “She complains with her throat each time I try to feed her.”
“It is as I thought. I studied with Mr. Matthew Dobson, among others, a few years ago. He thinks people with a certain condition exhibit such symptoms when they go without food for too many hours. Forgive me, but I must ask, have you ever noticed a sweet smell from her chamber pot?”
Elizabeth widened her eyes, her colour deepening. “How odd that you should ask. I have remarked on it to Jane several times.”
“It is as I thought. She has too much sugar in her blood and must eat regularly to make her brain work properly. The state of a person’s physical body can cause damage to the mind. Mr. John Rollo, another colleague, published a recommended diet for such instances. I shall write it down for you. In the meantime, she must eat something sweet. ’Tis the fastest way to limit the glycosuria and stop her mental fog, though she should not make a habit of ingesting sugar. That would be detrimental to her health.”
Her face brightened. “I have some sweets sent with me by our housekeeper at Longbourn. Jane was so ill, I entirely forgot about them.”
She opened the door, hurried to the hamper, and returned with two wrapped bundles, untying the string from one of them as she walked back.
“What are those?” asked Mr. Beckett, his blue eyes sparkling. “They look delicious.”
“Cookies,” answered Elizabeth, handing him a jumble.
He took a bite and smiled. “Mmmm …. Wonderful! Sweeter than biscuits. Mr. Jones, help me to raise Miss Bennet to a sitting position. I dislike having to disturb her, but we have no choice. Miss Elizabeth, place pillows behind her to hold her up while she eats. Get a glass of water while I break the cookie into small pieces. She should drink water in between bites.”
Elizabeth followed his instructions quickly and was rewarded by his frequent approving glances towards her.
Her stomach fluttered. How odd. Perhaps I am ill, as well.
Jane had greatly improved by the time they finished feeding her, and the gentlemen quit the room to find Mr. Bingley.
The master of Netherfield had been most adamant that they apprise him of Miss Bennet’s condition as soon as Mr. Beckett finished his visit with her.
Elizabeth dressed for dinner early, allowing herself enough time to read to Mr. Darcy for an hour before the meal. When she was ready, she presented herself to Jane for approval.
“Shall I embarrass you, my dear?”
Jane smiled weakly. “You look quite lovely, Lizzy.”
“Are you certain I should not stay and read to you instead? Mr. Darcy would not mind.”
“I am quite tired. I shall sleep while you are gone, and you can bring my dinner and feed it to me when you return. You must amuse me by telling me everything that happens while you are away.”
Elizabeth kissed her forehead. “Sarah will sit with you while I am absent. She will fetch anything you need. You must tell her, you know. Send her if you want me to come back. I shall be cross if you do not.”
“I saw how you looked at Mr. Beckett. I think you like him, Lizzy.”
“I confess I do like him. Indeed, I do not know how anyone would not like him.”
Jane nodded. “He is quite handsome. Is he not?”
Elizabeth felt the blush rise from her neck to her cheeks. “Yes. Very handsome. He may be the handsomest man of my acquaintance. An Apollo come to life.”
“Interesting. You have known him all of half an hour, yet you compare him to a mythical god.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Does he not look like a being who could harness four horses to his chariot and force the sun to move across the sky? He has every appearance of goodness.”
Jane nodded slowly. “He does, but I am surprised you would decide his character based on his visage. As I recall, you objected most vehemently when a certain gentleman judged you in the same way.”
Elizabeth was speechless for the second time in one afternoon. She is right. Mr. Beckett looks angelic, but he may be a devil for all I know.
“When did you become so wise?”
“I have been admired for my blond hair, blue eyes, and slender figure for many years now. However, no one ever thinks me intelligent or capable. I am seen as too kind, gullible, easygoing. I trust people until they prove me wrong, but I am not stupid. Do you understand?”
“And I am routinely thought of as intelligent, but not as pretty as you are.”
Jane’s smile was sad. “I would rather be thought of as wise than beautiful. Beauty fades rather quickly.”
Elizabeth leaned down and gathered her sister in her arms. “You are both, my dearest one.”
“You love me, so you think the best of me. Should you not extend the same latitude to someone you do not know so well? Mr. Darcy judged you based on your appearance, and he was wrong in that, but he risked his own health to save me from injury. I wish you would reconsider your low opinion of him.”
“I will try, to please you.”
Jane closed her eyes. “My throat feels raw. It hurts when I speak.”
She looks so tired. Perhaps the nap will do her good. “I shall go then. You need to rest.”
Elizabeth collected a book, along with the bundle of cookies for Mr. Bingley, and left Jane to the care of Sarah. She strode down the hall to Mr. Darcy’s room with purpose, determined to do wh
at Mr. Bingley had asked of her.
I also will consider what Jane said. I shall attempt to forget what he said about me and act without prejudice, as I would with any new acquaintance.
As she had arranged earlier, Mr. Bingley and Susan, a young maid, awaited her just outside the gentleman’s chambers.
Elizabeth handed Mr. Bingley the packet of cookies. “My friend baked these for you. Jane and I enjoy her sweets very much.”
He accepted her gift with a smile. “You came.”
She raised a brow. “I told you I would. Is he awake?”
“Indeed. He refuses to sleep for fear he will miss your visit.”
Elizabeth shook her head, pursing her lips. “I do not believe you for a minute. I prefer that you enter first; I shall follow you.”
Mr. Bingley opened the door, directing Elizabeth to the chair by Mr. Darcy’s bed. After placing the cookies on a table, he and Sarah sat nearby.
“Do you like Alexander Pope, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth. He hardly looks ill. In fact, he is in remarkably good looks for a man at death’s door.
He nodded, dark eyes gleaming. “I do, Miss Bennet. How did you know?”
“He is one of my favourites, and I thought we might share an admiration of his work.”
“I have often thought we would agree on many things, including, but not limited to, a similar taste in literature. What work did you bring to read to me?”
She showed him the cover. “I am fortunate to have Pope’s complete works with me. Do you have a preference? An Essay on Criticism? An Essay on Man? His translation of The Iliad? I shall allow you to choose.”
Darcy smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.
She took a deep breath. I have never seen the man smile in such a way before. I hope he chooses the most pedestrian of Pope’s works.
It was not to be.
Darcy tilted his head, watching her. “The Rape of the Lock.”
“You jest, sir.”
“Oh, no. I am perfectly serious.”
She opened the book to the correct page and swallowed hard.
