Page 36 of A November to Remember

“I am so sorry, Papa.”

“Do not be. Be well, as soon as you can muster. I will not survive if something happens to you, and then your mother shall truly make camp in the hedgerows.”

Jane managed a weak, fragile smile before her eyelids drifted shut once more.

Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not care one whit what Mamma thinks at present. Jane is ill, and I have absolutely no room in my head for her schemes.”

Mr Bennet met her fierce gaze.

“I know, Lizzy.”

The quiet acknowledgement immediately stripped the sharp edge from her anger.

He remained standing beside Jane for a while, inquiring after her comfort, inspecting the beef tea, and expressing his approval that the broth contained more beef than theology. Once Jane had fallen deeply asleep, he turned and joined Elizabeth at the window.

“My entrance below produced a rather curious event,” he murmured, his voice low so as not to disturb the patient.

“What happened?” Elizabeth asked.

“The hostesses barely registered my existence,” Mr Bennet noted with dry amusement. “Miss Bingley offered me exactly two fingers in greeting and immediately presented her bosom to Lord Keathley. Mrs Hurst was occupied with a glass of what appeared to be beetroot juice and seemed unwilling to abandon it for anything short of a fire.”

“That sounds consistent with their characters.”

“The gentlemen, however, rose.”

Elizabeth blinked. “All of them?”

“Mr Bingley first. He launched himself across the room before Hughes had even finished speaking my name. He assured me that Jane had every conceivable comfort, repeated Mr Jones’s medical diagnosis verbatim, and then repeated it a second time because he had forgotten the first telling in his haste. Lord Keathley offered me brandy, his political influence, a London physician, and the services of a man in Vienna whose specific profession he could not recall. Colonel Fitzwilliam offered me a cucumber sandwich.”

Elizabeth could not suppress a smile. “Naturally.”

“Mr Darcy,” her father continued, his tone shifting into a register of analytical interest, “gave me the exact times of Jane’s medicines, the precise hour Mr Jones had arrived, an assessment of the condition of the local roads, and the given name of the maid attending her.”

“He knew all of that?”

“He had taken great, methodical care to learn it.”

Mr Bennet turned towards the glass, clasping his hands behind his back.

“There is something else you ought to hear. Jones told me that Mr Darcy had asked him whether Jane’s illness was contagious.”

Elizabeth considered this, and the first, most logical explanation arrived easily. Mr Darcy was the sort of man who calculated risks. He wished to protect the household from an outbreak. It was sensible, if somewhat cold.

But Mr Bennet continued before she could voice the assumption.

“He then asked Jones whether you should remain in the room. He wished to know if constant attendance placed you at risk, and whether specific precautions ought to be taken for your health.”

Elizabeth’s attention snapped sharply back to the sleeping figure in the bed.

“Perhaps,” she managed, her voice unaccountably thin, “he feared two invalid Bennet sisters would overwhelm the Netherfield staff.”

“Perhaps,” her father agreed, his tone bland.

“Papa.”

“I have offered no interpretation of the events, Lizzy.”

“You have delivered the information in a manner meticulously designed to force one.”