Derbyshire, February 1795
T welve-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy pinched his lips together, desperately trying to hold back the severe coughing fit that threatened to overwhelm his emaciated frame.
It had been three months since a bout of influenza had laid him low, and though the fever had long since broken, the lingering effects of pneumonia still clung to him like a shadow. Each breath felt like a labor, and every laugh turned into a painful hack that left him weak and trembling.
He adjusted the blanket draped over his legs, willing his body to cooperate. Across from him, George Wickham shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease, grinning mischievously.
“Come now, Fitz,” George said, dealing the next hand. “Surely you cannot let me win every round.”
Fitzwilliam smirked faintly, though his voice was hoarse. “You’ve only won because I have been too generous to point out your blatant cheating.”
George pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Cheating? Me? Never.”
The two boys dissolved into laughter, but the sound caught in Darcy’s throat. He leaned forward, clutching his chest as another violent paroxysm overtook him. George was on his feet in an instant, steadying him and handing him a handkerchief.
“Easy, Fitz. Do not strain yourself,” George’s tone was unusually gentle.
Darcy waved him off weakly, taking small sips until the fit subsided. “I am fine,” he rasped, though his voice was hoarse. “Just… do not make me laugh again.”
George grinned. “No promises.”
Resuming his seat, George began to deal the cards. “I might let you win this one, out of the goodness of my heart, of course. One must have pity on the less fortunate, after all.”
Before Fitzwilliam could respond, the door to Fitzwilliam’s bedroom swung open. Mr. George Darcy strode in, his presence commanding and his expression as severe as ever. His eyes darkened as his gaze fell on his son, lying in bed in the middle of the day.
“What is this?” Mr. Darcy demanded, his voice sharp. “Still in your nightclothes, even though it has been months since you fell ill? Playing cards, laughing like a fool and wheezing like an invalid? This is not how a Darcy behaves.”
Fitzwilliam looked down, his hands tightening around the blanket. “I—”
“Spare me your excuses,” Mr. Darcy snapped, cutting him off. “You are a disgrace, Fitzwilliam. Weak and pathetic, lying here like an invalid. I had hoped the Darcy blood would prevail, but it seems your mother’s influence is stronger than I feared.”
Wickham spoke up, his usual easy charm laced with tension. “Sir, if I may—Fitz has been improving. The doctor said laughter can lift the spirits, and he’s been doing much better this week.”
“Silence,” Mr. Darcy snapped, his eyes narrowing. “I will not have you making excuses for him. He is my son and will answer for himself.”
Struggling to sit upright, though his weakened frame trembled with the effort. “Father, I—”
“Enough,” Mr. Darcy interrupted, his tone cold. “You are a disappointment, Fitzwilliam. Weak, feeble. You lie here wasting away while other boys your age grow strong and capable. I can only hope going to school next year will toughen you.”
Fitzwilliam flushed deeply, ashamed that his friend was witnessing— for the first time— Mr. Darcy’s berating of his son. In the past, he had always envied the rapport between his father and his friend, especially as George always told Fitzwilliam how he wished his own father was more like Mr. Darcy.
Wickham, his voice steady despite the tension in the air, said in a pleading voice, “Sir, Fitz has been improving. The doctor said he needs rest—”
“And you think I do not know what my son needs?” Mr. Darcy’s voice was sharp as a blade. “I know what he lacks. Strength. Discipline.” He turned back to Fitzwilliam, his expression cold. “You are your mother’s spawn, boy. I suppose it is fitting you bear her family’s name.”
The words stung, and Fitzwilliam looked away, his pale hands clutching the blanket tightly. Wickham’s fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Fitzwilliam could see his friend’s bewilderment, unsure of how to respond to what to him was quite uncharacteristic behavior.
After a long, tense silence, Mr. Darcy straightened his coat and turned on his heel. “Perhaps school will succeed where I have failed. I can only hope.” With that, he left, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.
The room was quiet for a moment before Wickham let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said, his tone light but forced, “I would say he’s in a particularly foul mood today. Perhaps the valet tied his cravat too tight.”
Darcy sighed, sinking back against the pillows. “You needn’t defend me, George. It only makes things worse.” His words were punctuated by sharp coughs. When the fit finally ended, he said casually, “Besides, it is no different than what he’s said to me before. He got worse after Mother died giving birth to Georgiana.”
“I have always thought him quite amiable,” George said. “But just now… that was not just chastisement— it was cruelty.”
“He believes it builds character.”
“Character,” Wickham repeated, the word laced with disdain. He shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “I have always thought your father was stern with you based on what you said, but this... I never imagined.”
Darcy offered a wan smile. “He’s different with you, George. You are not his son.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Wickham frowned, his earlier good humor evaporating. “It does not excuse him,” he muttered. “You do not deserve that, Fitz. No one does.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and a maid entered, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups. Darcy offered her a faint smile. “Thank you, Emily.”
She curtsied, her cheeks pink. “Of course, sir.”
George stood and took the tray from her hands with an easy charm. “Allow me.”
Emily lingered, her eyes darting toward Wickham. “If you need anything else, Master George, just call.” Her voice was soft, almost coquettish.
Fitzwilliam braced himself for one of George’s usual flirtatious comments, but instead, his friend hesitated and looked back at him. Something shifted in his eyes, and he gave the maid a polite nod. “Thank you, Emily.”
She curtsied again, looking puzzled, then left the room. Wickham set the tray down and poured a cup of tea for Darcy, his movements unusually subdued.
Darcy took the cup with a curious glance. “What happened to the George Wickham who never met a pretty face he could not charm?”
Wickham shrugged, handing him a saucer. “I do not know. These last few months... helping you, being here—it feels different. Better. Not the usual ‘sneak into the stables’ kind of fun, but real. Like I have done something right for once.”
Darcy studied his friend, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s what it feels like to do good, George. To help others, to think beyond yourself.”
Wickham settled back into his chair, his usual bravado replaced with a quiet introspection. “It is strange, though. I have spent so much time causing trouble, I almost do not know what to do with this... feeling.”
“You get used to it,” Darcy said simply. “It is why I try to do what is right, even when it is difficult. It is worth it.”
Wickham stared at him for a long moment, his usual bravado replaced with something quieter, more introspective. “You are a strange one, Fitz. But maybe you are onto something. I think... I will try it your way. Being good. At least for a little while.”
Darcy chuckled softly, though it was punctuated by a brief cough. “A good place to start.”
Wickham grinned, though there was a new sincerity behind it. “Then it is settled. I will try to be more like you. Though do not let it go to your head.”
Darcy smirked faintly. “Perish the thought.”
The two boys lapsed into a companionable silence, the tension of the earlier encounter fading into the warmth of their shared resolve. For the first time in months, Fitzwilliam felt a glimmer of hope—not just for his recovery, but for the bond they had forged through hardship.
Perhaps going to school will not be so terrible after all; not when George is going with me .
∞∞∞
Hertfordshire, December 1805
Twelve-year-old Elizabeth Bennet looked down anxiously at her seven-year-old sister, Kitty. Just keep breathing , she pleaded.
The household had been struck by an influenza of some kind that had resulted in everyone feeling ill with fevers, body aches, and coughs for a week. Each member of the Bennet family had recovered— save Kitty, who was left with a cough that wracked her thin frame. More than once, Elizabeth had watched in terror as Kitty’s lips turned blue, the sight haunting her even in her dreams.
Mrs. Bennet’s nerves were shattered, and she retreated to her chambers. The matron claimed she was unable to handle the stress of tending to her second youngest daughter, so the care of the girl was left to Jane, Elizabeth, the nurse, and the occasional visit from Mr. Jones, the apothecary.
But even Mr. Jones had been candid about his limitations.
“I have done all I can,” he had admitted after his latest visit, shaking his head as he packed up his case. “The usual remedies are failing her, and I have no knowledge of anything else that might help. I am sorry, but you all may need to prepare yourselves for the worst. She will only decline.”
Elizabeth had stood in silence, her chest tight with frustration and fear. As she sat beside Kitty now, dabbing a damp cloth across her sister’s forehead, her mind whirled with questions. There had to be something they could do. Someone, somewhere, must know of a remedy.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon light streamed through the curtains. A memory surfaced of her Uncle Gardiner and his tales of far-off places—exotic spices, silks, and herbs brought to London from lands she could scarcely imagine. The thought planted a seed of hope.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said softly, looking up at her elder sister. “Do you think Uncle Gardiner might know of something? He imports goods from all over the world, does not he?”
Jane paused in her stitching, her brow furrowing in thought. “He does, though I do not know if he would have knowledge of medicines. Still, it could not hurt to ask.”
Elizabeth nodded, determination hardening her features. “I will write to him tonight.”
∞∞∞
Two weeks later, Elizabeth sat at the breakfast table with a letter in her hand and a small sachet of dried herbs before her. She had read her uncle’s response twice already, her heart lifting with cautious optimism.
Dearest Lizzy,
Your letter touched me deeply, and I am so sorry to hear of poor Kitty’s struggles. I have spoken with my managers, who in turn have asked around at the docks. Some of the workers—immigrants from far-off lands—shared knowledge of remedies used in their countries for ailments like the one you described.
Enclosed are some dried herbs one of them recommended, along with instructions for preparing them. Many of their suggestions are for plants that do not grow in England, so I have sent inquiries for many to be brought with my regular imports.
I cannot promise they will work, but I will continue to inquire and send along anything else I discover. Give my love to Kitty and the family. My betrothed, Madeline, likewise sends her regards and begs me to tell you that Kitty is in her prayers.
I think you will like your new aunt, Lizzy.
Yours affectionately,
Edward Gardiner
Elizabeth turned the sachet over in her hands, the faint scent of the herbs unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. “Jane,” she said, looking up, “I think we should try this.”
Jane glanced at the letter, her expression cautious. “Do you think Mr. Jones will agree?”
Elizabeth’s jaw set in quiet resolve. “He must. If we do nothing, Kitty…” She could not bring herself to say the words.
Mr. Jones was sent for, and he warily looked at the small package. “Well, I suppose there is no harm in trying it,” he admitted when Elizabeth pressed it into his hands. “Lord knows she will die in any case.”
Leaving Jane with Kitty, Elizabeth led the apothecary to the still room, where Mr. Jones carefully prepare the mixture according to Mr. Gardiner’s instructions. Together, they steeped the herbs in hot water from the kitchen until the room was filled with their strange, earthy aroma.
∞∞∞
Hertfordshire, February 1809
The Bennet household was alive with the usual morning bustle. The sound of chairs scraping against the floor, the clink of teacups, and the murmur of conversation filled the breakfast room. Mr. Bennet unfolded his newspaper with a decisive snap, the scent of ink mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Suddenly, a pair of hands covered Elizabeth’s eyes from behind. “Guess who?” said a gruff voice.
Elizabeth sniffed. “Lydia,” she declared with certainty.
Lydia pouted and slid into her chair. “It is not fair. Elizabeth always gets it right.”
“Because she can smell us,” Kitty said with a smirk. “Like a dog can.”
Elizabeth nearly snorted, part amused and part offended. Mr. Bennet looked up from his newspaper. “Indeed, a most useful trait in a daughter—provided she does not start barking at visitors.”
Everyone burst into laughter and resumed their breakfast. Mr. Bennet was halfway through the front page when he abruptly exclaimed, “Well, now, that’s quite the disaster.”
Elizabeth, now sixteen years of age, looked up sharply. “What is it, Papa? Surely not news of the French?”
“Napoleon?” Mr. Bennet blinked at her with a confused expression. “No, no. He remains where he ought—for now. Though I do appreciate your flair for the dramatic, Lizzy. This, however, concerns matters much closer to home on our own shores.”
“What is it, then?” Jane asked softly, her hands resting neatly in her lap.
Mr. Bennet adjusted his spectacles and peered over the paper. “Drury Lane. Burned to the ground last night.”
Elizabeth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Drury Lane? Surely not!” Memories of glittering chandeliers, the velvet-covered seats, and the actors’ powerful voices filled her mind. “Surely you are jesting?” she pleaded.
“I never jest about such matters, my dear,” he replied, holding the newspaper aloft. “It says here the blaze began late last night and consumed the building entirely.”
“It was magnificent,” Elizabeth murmured sadly, more to herself than anyone else.
Jane’s brows knit together. “How terrible. Were the fire brigades unable to extinguish it, then?”
“Apparently not,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone dry. “It seems the firemen did not arrive until an hour after the blaze began. And when they did arrive, there was no water to be had.”
“No water?” Elizabeth echoed, incredulous. “But they have— had those large cisterns on the roof, did they not?”
“Empty,” he said with a shrug. “No one knows why, at least not yet. By the time other sources of water were found, the fire had consumed nearly everything.”
Jane placed a hand to her heart. “Was anyone hurt?”
“One man killed,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone sober. “A wall collapsed on him during the efforts to extinguish the flames. Beyond that, very little could be saved.”
Mary set down her toast, her expression somber. “It is a tragedy that such a cultural institution could be lost to negligence.”
Elizabeth nodded, her mind drifting to the performances she had seen there with the Gardiners. “I remember how grand it was,” she said wistfully. “The chandeliers sparkling, the actors commanding the stage. Jane, do you recall the evening we saw Twelfth Night?”
Jane’s lips curved into a small smile. “I do. You were so taken with Viola’s line, ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate.’ You repeated it for days afterward.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Well, it is a fine line. Shakespeare knew how to turn a phrase.”
Mary sighed heavily. “I suppose I shall not attend the theater when I visit the Gardiners after all. I was quite looking forward to my first play.”
“Not unless you care to sit among the ashes,” Mr. Bennet quipped, earning a giggle from Lydia.
“Perhaps when it is rebuilt before your come-out,” Jane said with a gentle smile.
“Rebuilt?” Mr. Bennet scoffed, folding the paper. “With what funds? The theater was already drowning in debt from its recent refurbishments. I will eat my hat if Sheridan will not be in debt for three hundred thousand pounds by the time it is finished, and I doubt insurance will cover a tenth of that.”
“Three hundred thousand?” gasped Lydia. “La, I should be an actress with that kind of money!”
Kitty giggled along with her sister, but both fell silent at a quelling look from their father. A thought struck her, and her eyes widened. “Does this mean all of London could burn again, like it did before?”
“Do not be silly,” Lydia scoffed. “They are far too clever now to let that happen.”
“Are they?” Mrs. Bennet fretted, waving a handkerchief. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, what of my brother and his family? Could they be in danger?”
Mr. Bennet sighed. “Calm yourself, my dear. Your brother lives in Cheapside, which is a great distance from the theaters. London is not the tinderbox it once was.”
“Why not?” Kitty asked, her face as anxious as her mother’s.
“Well, after the Great Fire of 1666, they rebuilt the city with wider streets and brick buildings to prevent such a calamity from occurring again. That, coupled with the formation of fire brigades, new building regulations, and tiled roofs should prevent even large fires from wreaking complete destruction.”
“But two theaters have burned in a matter of months,” Elizabeth pointed out, her tone thoughtful. “First Covent Garden, now Drury Lane. That cannot be a coincidence.”
Jane tilted her head, her voice gentle. “Perhaps it is merely unfortunate timing.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allowed. “But it seems odd. And to think,” Elizabeth said, her tone lighter, “that we shall never again hear, ‘If music be the food of love, play on,’ from such a stage.” She glanced at Jane with a wistful smile.
Mr. Bennet shook his head, standing with his customary air of wearied patience. “That is quite enough excitement for one morning. I have spoken more to my children than I care to in a day. I shall retire to my study to recover.” He gave them all a grin and bow, then left the room.
The Bennet sisters exchanged smiles, knowing their father to be in jest. Despite the dire news, their father’s wit remained as constant as the rising sun.
As Elizabeth looked around the room at her sisters and mother, whose conversation moved to lighter topics, she could not help but feel a pang of unease lingering beneath her outward composure. While her family’s mindless chatter continued—the newest fashions, Lydia’s endless fantasies of balls, and Kitty’s musings on ribbons—Elizabeth’s thoughts remained tethered to the morning’s news.
Two theaters, both pillars of London’s culture, reduced to ashes in such a short span of time. It was troubling, to say the least. The thought of those glittering halls, now blackened ruins, struck a melancholy chord. More than that, it unsettled her sense of security, reminding her how fragile even the grandest institutions could be.
Her gaze settled on Jane, whose gentle countenance radiated calm as she sipped her tea. Elizabeth envied her sister’s ability to find hope in any situation. Mary, ever serious, was busy jotting notes into her little book—likely some reflection on the moral lesson to be gleaned from the morning’s discussion. Kitty and Lydia, meanwhile, were already squabbling over who might wear which color to their next imagined social event.
And then there was her mother, oblivious to the deeper implications, now fretting over the state of Mr. Bennet’s waistcoat and whether it needed mending.
Elizabeth sighed inwardly. How easily they all returned to normalcy. Yet the image of flames consuming Drury Lane lingered in her mind. Was it truly just negligence? Or was there something greater at play?
She picked up her teacup and sipped, the porcelain warm against her hands. Whatever the truth, the events of the morning were a stark reminder of how swiftly life could shift. With one spark, a building, a business, even a life could be reduced to nothing but ash.