Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner

by Jack Caldwell

  Elizabeth remained flat-footed and flabbergasted in the hallway.

  Chapter 3

  ELIZABETH AROSE EARLY AND made an abbreviated toilette. She had retired right after Mr. and Miss Bingley and the Hursts returned to Netherfield and wanted to be downstairs in good time to witness the arrival of Mr. Darcy’s physician, the paragon from Park Place, Mr. Macmillan.

  Alas, just as the maid finished her hair, she glanced through the bedroom window to see that a carriage and a curricle were being attended to by the groom. As she recognized Mr. Jones’s curricle, she supposed the other must be that of the famous physician. She was too late.

  Elizabeth was not made for gloom and made her way into the dining room in good humor. Only those who knew her intimately could perceive a slight air of disappointment in her mood. One of those people was her father who, to Elizabeth’s surprise, had arrived at the breakfast table before her.

  They greeted each other affectionately and, save for informing Mr. Bennet that Jane would soon be coming down, they ate in agreeable silence. Not long after that, Mr. Jones came into the room accompanied by a distinguished gentleman introduced as Mr. Macmillan. Elizabeth was impressed with his serous mien yet gentle manner of speaking. At Mr. Bennet’s invitation, given reluctantly to Elizabeth’s dismay, the two men of medicine helped themselves to the offerings at the side table. By that time, Jane had joined the party, and Mr. Macmillan gave his report as he ate.

  “I must concur with the diagnosis of my colleague.” He indicated Mr. Jones. “It is my belief that Mr. Darcy has suffered a simple fracture of the fibula. There seems to be no damage to either the knee or ankle, and from what one can judge by the aspect of the leg, the bone has not shifted out of place. With time, Mr. Darcy should have a full recovery.”

  “How much time?” was Mr. Bennet’s question.

  “The leg must be immobilized for at least two months before we can chance placing weight on it.”

  Mr. Bennet dropped his face into a hand. “And can he be moved?”

  “I should not think Mr. Darcy will be fit for travel for at least four weeks, sir. These things take time.”

  Mr. Bennet groaned, earning a sharp look from his favorite daughter.

  “I am certain that they do,” said Jane to Mr. Macmillan. “Is Mr. Darcy in any discomfort?”

  Mr. Macmillan’s countenance brightened at Jane’s concern. “There is pain, to be sure, but it can be managed with quiet and laudanum.” He turned to Mr. Jones. “Careful administration of laudanum. I understand there was an unfortunate incident yesterday.”

  The color rose in Mr. Jones’s face. “Yes . . . well, the determination of the proper dosage is often a matter of trial and error.”

  The London physician immediately set the other man at ease. “Very true. I meant no disparagement of your abilities. Rather, I am impressed with your knowledge. If you will pardon me for saying so, you are very learned for a country apothecary.”

  Mr. Jones preened. “I thank you, sir. After finishing my apprenticeship and beginning my practice, I began reading any medical text that became available to me. I have an uncle who is a solicitor at Chancery Court, and he taught me Latin. I have had the honor of reading several treatises by you, Mr. Macmillan, and have learned a great deal. Your views on phlebotomy and its substitutes were very enlightening.”

  “You are very kind. But why remain a mere apothecary? Surely you have the training to be a surgeon.”

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “While there is no surgeon in Meryton, one from Hertford can always be gotten when such services are required. The distance is not too great. To own the truth, I dislike the saw; I much prefer my potions and elixirs. I leave the bloody work to others.”

  Mr. Macmillan chuckled. “You have all the makings of a physician! There are many of my brothers who will not soil their hands on a patient. I do not hold to that and am considered a bit of a radical.”

  “Your splint was a revelation, sir,” said the apothecary. “You immobilize the knee and ankle?”

  “Yes — a French invention. They do make things besides wine and trouble.”

  This impromptu meeting of the mutual admiration society was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Bingley. The pleasant young man greeted everyone happily, particularly Jane, which earned a blush from the lady. For Elizabeth’s part, she was happy that the Superior Sisters had not accompanied him. Mr. Bingley was introduced to Mr. Macmillan, and after refusing a plate — he had eaten before leaving Netherfield — he reported that his sister was much recovered from her swoon the day before and asked about his friend. Given the same intelligence as the Bennets, Mr. Bingley thanked the physician for his quick response to Bartholomew’s summons.

  “Do you now return to London, sir?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Macmillan. “I intend to spend the night and readjust the splint tomorrow. There may be some swelling. Mr. Darcy’s man, Bartholomew, will attend me, and I shall show him how it is done.”

  “If you do not mind, I should like to observe,” offered the apothecary. “I am always looking to improve my technique.” Mr. Macmillan assured him that his presence would be welcomed.

  “You cannot stay here!” Mr. Bennet said ungraciously.

  The reader can be assured that this pronouncement was met with astonishment by all assembled.

  Seeing his error, Mr. Bennet softened his objection. “We are rather full up, Mr. Macmillan, with Mr. Collins in residence. I am sorry we cannot accommodate you.” As much as he tried, his tone left the company convinced that Mr. Bennet’s regrets were at best half-hearted. Elizabeth could not believe her father could show such ill-breeding.

  “I certainly understand your predicament, Mr. Bennet,” said the physician with the grace Elizabeth’s father should have shown, “but there is no harm done. I had already fixed my mind to stay at an inn in Meryton.”

  “Nonsense!” cried Mr. Bingley. “We have rooms enough at Netherfield, and we are less than three miles away. You shall stay as my guest. I insist upon it!”

  Elizabeth was pleased by Mr. Bingley’s generosity and was happy that the usually reserved Jane allowed herself to smile fully at her erstwhile suitor. Mr. Macmillan demurred, of course, but Mr. Bingley was persistent, and soon the physician agreed to the scheme. As the rest of the Bennet family remained above stairs in the embrace of Morpheus, the remainder of the breakfast passed in a quiet and agreeable manner before Mr. Bingley and the two men of medicine took their leave.

  As was their settled routine, Mr. Bennet retreated to his book room, Jane took up her embroidery in the sitting room, and Elizabeth indulged in a walk in the garden. The flower beds were mostly barren, prepared for the coming winter’s sleep, and Elizabeth had to be content with the crunching of the leaves beneath her feet while she turned her thoughts once again to their unexpected guest.

  Every moment in Mr. Darcy’s company seemed designed to throw her into more confusion as to his character. Never in all her life did Elizabeth expect to see anything like the exhibition of the previous evening, and that Mr. Darcy was the performer . . . well, she had no words to fully express her astonishment.

  She knew that the gentleman was under the influence of laudanum and brandy and therefore had no control over and bore no responsibility for his actions. But to sing a drinking song — in honor of the ladies of Longbourn, he claimed! His disheveled, smiling countenance was undeniably handsome, she had to admit. And that voice! That deep baritone sent shivers down her spine! Elizabeth’s traitorous heart was at war against her reason. How could she admire and despise a man in the same instant?

  Never had Elizabeth longed for a day to pass as quickly as she did that day. The Philipses’ party that evening would bring her in contact with Mr. Wickham and perhaps the answer to a growing mystery.

  * * *

  “Are you done with your breakfast, sir?” asked Sally.

  Darcy, half-sitting up on the couch, handed the maid his nearly empty plate. “Yes. My compliments to Cook. The chicken
was very fine.” It was no false compliment; for all of Longbourn’s shortcomings, there was nothing wrong with the quality of the food served there.

  Sally smiled prettily and set the plate aside. “Are you comfortable, sir? Shall I fluff the pillow? A blanket — shall I fetch you one? You mustn’t catch your death.”

  Darcy heard Bartholomew’s huff of exasperation, and Darcy himself barely stopped rolling his eyes. He had experienced this phenomenon before — a young maid’s flirtations while he was a guest at a friend’s estate. There were those of his acquaintance who would not hesitate to take advantage of the situation, but they were not Fitzwilliam Darcy. He would never lower himself to bed a servant; he would never act as had Wickham.

  The thought of his former childhood playmate darkened his expression. Wickham in Meryton! Nothing good could come of that! Thank goodness he had not brought Georgiana to Netherfield. It had been many months since Ramsgate, but his sweet sister still suffered from mortification and had withdrawn from society. How much worse would it be for her to be but a few miles from that reprobate!

  Apparently, his morose thoughts were transparent, for Sally grew worried and concerned. “Oh, sir, are you in any pain? Mr. Bartholomew, more laudanum, if you please!”

  “No, no,” Darcy labored to reassure the girl, “I am quite comfortable.”

  Actually, he was not. A few hours on the Bennet’s couch might be agreeable, but a full night’s sleep had done away with the sofa’s appeal. The light dose of laudanum administered that morning had done little to relieve his discomfort. What made matters worse was that Darcy could not move very much; he was limited to placing both legs on the sofa or his right foot on the floor. In either position, he was flat on his back, his left leg immobilized. And now Macmillan said he was not to be moved for a month, except for the necessities? A month on this couch? In what level of hell had Darcy landed?

  Bartholomew answered a knock on the door; it was Miss Jane Bennet. “Mr. Darcy, are you up to having visitors?” the lady asked kindly.

  Darcy set aside his self-pity. “I should like it of all things, Miss Bennet. Please . . . ” He gestured to a chair near the couch. Once she was seated, Bartholomew begged to be excused, saying he had a few things to discuss with Mrs. Hill. The valet left, leaving the door slightly ajar, while Sally in the role of chaperone busied herself by puttering about, dusting the room.

  Miss Bennet worked on her embroidery while sharing small talk with Darcy. After only a few minutes, he found himself almost as much at ease talking to her as he had been in conversing with Miss Elizabeth at Netherfield weeks before — easier in some ways, for he was not fighting the attraction he felt for her sister. They spoke of family and horses, two subjects Darcy enjoyed. He was surprised to learn that Miss Elizabeth did not ride; a childhood fright had quite put her off the occupation. Darcy found himself speaking of the joy he found in riding with Georgiana when they were interrupted.

  “Oh, go away, you furry thing!” cried Sally.

  Darcy glanced at the door and saw a ginger cat slowly walking in.

  “No, no, Cassandra, you are not welcome here.” Jane put aside her embroidery and rose to expel the cat, but it was too quick for either lady and, with a bound, planted itself on Darcy’s chest. The cat was not light, and Darcy gave a whoof. Not discouraged in the least, the feline settled down upon the prone man.

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy, I am so sorry!” Miss Bennet made to remove the beast, but Darcy forestalled her.

  “No, no, I am not troubled. After all, this is her house, not mine.” He glanced at the purring cat. “I believe we have met before although we have not been properly introduced.”

  Jane turned bright red. “This is our cat, Cassandra. I am afraid you met yesterday.”

  “I thought I recognized the color.” Darcy gently rubbed the animal behind the ears, and the cat accepted his attention with rumbling delight. “Come to apologize, eh? Very well, I suppose the blame must be shared with the horse and its rider. You are welcome here, Miss Cassandra.”

  “She is very sweet to us but not usually accepting of strangers.” Miss Bennet smiled. “You have made a conquest.”

  Darcy chanced a quick glance at Sally, who was watching the scene with adulation. There was one conquest he would eschew even if his life depended on it.

  “Your sister must be very worried about you,” Jane observed.

  Darcy absently stroked the cat. “She would be if she knew of this.”

  “She does not?” Jane said with some emotion. “Has no one written her?”

  “I would, but the laudanum — it is difficult to concentrate.”

  Miss Bennet firmed her lips, an act Darcy heretofore thought the lady of incapable of performing. “Then allow me to assist you. We together shall pen a quick note to her.” Before Darcy could protest, the lady marched to a desk opposite, sat herself down, and gathered ink and paper. She turned her head, brandishing a pen. “Tell me what you wish to say, sir, and I shall write it down.”

  It took a while and several drafts, but in the end, Darcy signed a letter written by Miss Bennet that informed Georgiana that an accident would necessitate his remaining in Hertfordshire until Christmastide. He claimed that he was in no danger or pain and only regretted this time away from his dear sister. He charged her to attend to her lessons, not to worry, and soon he would join her in London. Miss Bennet rose with the now-sealed letter in her hands.

  “I shall have my father post it directly.”

  Darcy tried to dissuade her from that action — he could certainly pay for the postage — but Jane would not hear of it. She was almost at the door when it was opened by Mrs. Hill, a beaming Mr. Bingley close behind. The reason for Bingley’s quick return to Longbourn was instantly revealed.

  “Cheer up, Darce!” cried Bingley. “I have brought you a bed!”

  He had brought more than a bed. The entire Netherfield party was now in attendance, including Mr. Hurst and Mr. Macmillan. The ruckus raised the house, and soon the hallway was filled with Bennets, Bingleys, and other persons as Mr. Hill and a few other servants moved the furniture about the parlor and assembled the bed.

  The crush of people convinced Cassandra to flee the scene. Mrs. Bennet, once she recovered from her initial astonishment at the scheme, joined the work of redecorating whole-heartedly, assisted by Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. Miss Bingley contented herself with making a few suggestions, all of which were ignored. The younger Miss Bennets did little but stare. As for the master of Longbourn, he simply threw up his hands and retreated to his book room in a huff.

  Once the bed was established, Mr. Macmillan requested a few minutes privacy, and under his direction, Bartholomew and Mr. Hill helped Darcy into his new accommodations.

  Darcy sighed as he lay back on the mattress, Mrs. Hill and Sally tucking the covers about him. Never had a bed felt so welcomed than after his forced occupation of the Bennet’s couch. The ladies returned and completed the re-orientation of the parlor.

  “There, Mr. Darcy!” cried Mrs. Bennet when the labors were completed. “This is as fine a room as may be found in Hertfordshire, I declare! Warm and cozy — certainly better than Purvis Lodge. The attics there are dreadful!”

  “Harrumph!” Mr. Collins turned up his nose. “Good enough for Hertfordshire, I suppose, but nothing to Rosings Park! I say that these accommodations are unfit for my patroness’s nephew, and he should be moved to better quarters.”

  “Mr. Collins,” said Darcy wearily. “Please. Leave. My. Presence. Now.” The fastidious parson flushed and fled while Darcy turned his attention to Mrs. Bennet. “Madam, this room is perfectly acceptable. I thank you and your staff for your kind attentions.”

  A wide smile grew on the matron’s face. “I am told by Hill that you fancied Cook’s white soup. I knew you would. It is the best in the district.” She leaned in and continued, “It is ten times what you will find on Lady Lucas’s table!”

  “Mother!” cried Miss Elizabeth.

  “
What?” Mrs. Bennet replied. “I speak nothing but the truth. Ask Mr. Darcy; he is the connoisseur.” She turned back to her guest. “I suppose you have three French cooks at your Pemberley, at least!”

  For once, Darcy found amusement in the foolish lady’s boasting but said in all honesty, “Mrs. Bennet, your white soup is as fine as I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying.”

  “There, you see?” Mrs. Bennet cried triumphantly before her eye fell on the clock. “Oh, but we must get ready for the Philipses’ party! Pray excuse us, Mr. Darcy. I am certain you appreciate the responsibilities we have, being one of the most distinguished families in the district!” She sighed. “We are always dealing with invitations, and we must honor them. It would not do for us to so disparage society. Surely, you understand these things!”

  Darcy did not know whether it was an aftereffect of the laudanum, but he was quite diverted by Mrs. Bennet. “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

  * * *

  The party at the Philipses’ was tolerable only because of the inclusion of the militia. The officers of the ——hire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party. Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as they were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy Uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who held court in a corner of the room.

  Almost every female eye in the room was on Mr. Wickham, but it was Elizabeth and Lydia with whom he seated himself. At first, there was danger of Lydia monopolizing the conversation with idle talk of ribbons and red coats, but fortunately for Elizabeth, the gentleman seemed predisposed toward the topic closest to her heart — namely, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. He enquired how long Mr. Darcy had been staying in the neighborhood.

  “About a month, almost all of that time at Netherfield until his accident,” said Elizabeth.

  “Now we are stuck with him in our parlor!” added Lydia.