Page 4 of Done for the Best (Engaged to Mr Darcy #5)

CHAPTER FOUR

FITS AND STARTS

L ady Catherine, angry at both her daughter and her daughter’s suitor, left for London in a fit of pique, determined to punish them both by absenting herself.

For as much as it relieved the rest of those in the house, it placed Darcy in an uncomfortable spot. He ought to have left; his cousin, although his relation, was an unmarried woman, and he was an eligible bachelor. But he did not. Hang anyone who would speak against him—he was here for Elizabeth. In any case, Anne herself thought nothing of it and spent most of her days driving her phaeton to the neighbouring estate where Yardley stayed, or else entertaining Yardley in the drawing room while Mrs Jenkinson snored in her chair.

“My mother would be the one to insist on marriage to save my reputation, and she has already been doing that for years. People stopped paying her any mind a long time ago,” she said. She had boasted a becoming pink hue to her complexion since Yardley’s arrival and possessed a new straightness in her bearing. Darcy wondered, not for the first time, how much of her illness was due to the unrelenting shadow of her mother’s iron fist. Anne was like a rose that had never before seen enough sun to really enjoy its bloom.

The next days passed with no little difficulty. It was easy enough to obtain news of Elizabeth; the moment Mr Collins spied him outside the parsonage, he rushed to speak to him, quick to supply whatever information he had, good or bad. The parson had determined it was his duty to report to Darcy, and Darcy did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

Elizabeth’s recovery seemed to proceed in fits and starts. One day she was mostly awake, talking, and eventually out of bed. The next day might find her once again faintly feverish with no energy to remove from her bed, or talk, or even wake.

When a week had elapsed since she woke, Mr Collins came into the breakfast room at Rosings to give his daily report to Darcy, who was sitting with Anne and Mrs Jenkinson at the table. Darcy immediately perceived that he was unsettled; he was twisting his hands, chafing them in front of him, and though he accepted the offer of coffee, he looked away when shown the plate of ham.

“Forgive me,” he said when Anne raised her eyebrows, surprised by his demurral. “I cannot like…well, far be it from me…no, I cannot doubt the wise counsel…dear Lady Catherine with her superior comprehension must surely have hired a man of advanced understanding of the workings of?—”

“Mr Collins, what is it?” Darcy asked quickly. “Something concerning Miss Bennet?”

“Indeed,” Mr Collins said gravely. He quickly went on to explain—with a countenance that grew paler with every syllable—that Dr Hughes felt, given Elizabeth’s poor appetite and continued exhaustion, that her humours were imbalanced. “He has recommended a course of…of purgatives and bloodletting.”

Darcy felt his heart plunge into his boots, and his hands suddenly clenched his fork very tightly. He remembered still, with painful clarity, the effects such treatments had had on his mother when she was ill. He was certainly not medically trained, but he had always felt that the treatments had hastened her demise; in any case, they had certainly not cured her of anything.

“I cannot allow that,” he blurted.

Mr Collins looked about uncertainly. “The good doctor does feel strongly that Cousin Elizabeth is in need of it, and I am very certain that if Lady Catherine were here, she would recommend?—”

“No.” Anne had gone very still, but her voice was louder and firmer than Darcy had ever heard it. “No matter what my mother might think of it, such a treatment will not help Miss Bennet. I should stake my own health on it.”

“Do you truly think so?” Darcy knew Anne had, herself, been the subject of frequent similar treatments.

“Have you ever suffered such a regimen? If one is not near death before it, you can be sure one will be afterwards. Darcy, you must stop Dr Hughes immediately.”

Scarcely were the words fallen from Anne’s mouth than Darcy was on his feet. “Excuse me,” he said and strode from the room.

The breeze through his hair reminded him he had exited without hat or gloves, but as he was already halfway down the lane, he disregarded that. When he arrived at the parsonage, he was glad he had not spared the moments required to retrieve them. The maid took him to the parlour wherein sat only Mrs Bennet, twisting her handkerchief in her lap.

“Oh! Mr Darcy, sir.”

“Has Dr Hughes?—”

“The doctor is with my poor girl even now!” Mrs Bennet cried out. “Oh, how her poor addled wits can withstand such a treatment?—”

Darcy heard no more. “Mrs Bennet, pray, stop him at once.”

She stopped her wailing rant and gaped at him.

“Pray, go! Send him to me directly.”

Shocked, the lady only continued to stare, and Darcy, aware that at any moment a foul leech might be placed on Elizabeth’s delicate skin, turned and moved towards the stairs. He was not insensible to the impropriety of his actions, nor was he unaware that he had no understanding of where her bedchamber might be; nevertheless, he plunged ahead.

“Hughes!” He took the stairs two at a time, shouting with no concern for decorum. “Hughes, a moment please! Desist in your actions, man, I must speak to you!”

He could hear sounds behind one of the doors and, taking a chance, he stopped and pounded loudly. “Hughes?”

There was a pause, and the door was pulled open by Mrs Collins who, while white-faced, appeared resolute. “Mr Darcy?”

“I must speak to the doctor, madam, if you please.”

A male voice from within the room rumbled a few syllables, and over it, Darcy said, firmly, “I would speak to him at once, Mrs Collins.”

Dr Hughes—a portly gentleman of advanced years—appeared behind Mrs Collins. “Mr Darcy, this is highly irregular. We were about to begin treatment on Miss Bennet.”

“I cannot authorise it.” Darcy spoke firmly. “I fear it will do her more harm than good.”

“Authorise?” Mrs Collins looked at the doctor and then at Darcy.

The doctor nodded towards her. “Mrs Collins, stay with Miss Bennet please.”He stepped outside of the room and motioned for Mrs Collins to close the door behind him. She did as she was bidden, leaving the men in the hall, alone.

“I will not see Miss Bennet bled,” Darcy said, imbuing every ounce of authority he could summon into his tone. “I do not think it will benefit her and may, in fact, be quite detrimental to her recovery.”

“With all due respect, I cannot agree with you, sir,” Dr Hughes replied. “Miss Bennet has refused nearly all food, her skin is pale and dull, and her fever has not wholly abated. These are all signs of generalised inflammation that might encompass the kidneys, the heart, the stomach—all manner of problems which can be cured by a reduction in the amount of blood she has. With the leeches, along with a purgative?—”

“I disagree,” Darcy said with a little frown. The sound of his own blood roared in his ears, and he gave the older man his haughtiest glare. “My cousin has said she has been bled and had purgatives many times and suffers greatly when she does.”

“Miss de Bourgh has not suffered an attack by an adder,” Dr Hughes replied calmly, unruffled by Darcy’s demands. With gentle insistence, he added, “Sir, you must understand that Miss Bennet might not have eliminated the venom fully and even now it might be causing further injury.”

The two men eyed one another. Dr Hughes seemed as determined as Darcy felt that his was the correct course.

“One more day will surely not make a difference,” Darcy said firmly. “I insist. I will see to it that she eats something.”

“One day could be the difference between permanent damage and not,” Dr Hughes warned.The man had to be at least sixty years old. No doubt he had been trained when bloodletting and vomiting were the most recent advances.

“One more day,” Darcy repeated.

Dr Hughes offered one last weak protest. “Lady Catherine would not?—”

“Lady Catherine is not here. I am, and I wish you to give Miss Bennet one more day. She will eat, sir, I assure you of that. You will find her in better vigour tomorrow, or you may apply the leeches to me alongside her.”

“One day,” said Dr Hughes with a resigned sigh. “I give you one day.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said, profound relief coursing through him.

“And she must not be subjected to commotion! None of this shouting or pounding on doors; certainly no news to shock her system. She is in a highly delicate state!”

“You have my word.” Darcy extended his hand to the doctor who, obviously surprised, shook it. “No shouting, no shocking, no commotion.”

With a curt nod, Dr Hughes took himself back into Elizabeth’s bedchamber, and Darcy, feeling as if he wished to sag against the wall, instead moved slowly back down the stairs, to the room where Mrs Bennet still sat. She looked up with eyes wide with fear, her handkerchief clutched in her fist.

“He will wait one day,” Darcy said. “We must make Miss Bennet eat something for him, and we must keep her calm and peaceful.”

There was a piercing wail, part nerves and part elation, and before he could understand it, Mrs Bennet had leapt from her chair and come and kissed his cheek. He was so startled, it was over before he realised it had begun.

“Dear boy! Dear, dear boy!” she exclaimed. Then in a lower voice, she said, “I was in terror, remembering my own experience with it—it was right after my dear girl Lydia was born. I had a little fever, nothing so very dreadful, and Mr Jones… Was it Mr Jones? Or was that back when Mr Wilton was still in Meryton?” She tapped one finger on her cheek, considering it. “Old Mrs Percy was the midwife, and she hated Mr Wilton, thought him quite a brute and never wished anything to do with him, but I daresay if I was ill enough, she might have called on him. Of course, Mr Bennet did nothing but sit in his study smoking, he was quite attached to his pipe in those days…in any case, it was the most dreadful experience of my life. Leeches all over me, draining me nearly dry, and the purgatives! Oh, the purgatives were the worst of it! I could not stand for a fortnight after that!”

On and on she went, telling him far too many details, certainly much more than he ever should have known of any woman; and in the midst of it, Mrs Collins entered looking uncertain. “Sir, Eliza has asked if you will…if you would wait and allow her to speak to you.”

His heart leapt. “Yes, of course I will.”

“I shall bring her in here,” said Mrs Collins.

“She will need a fire,” Mrs Bennet said. “I shall get your girl in here to set it.” With that, she bustled off.

Mrs Collins watched the door close behind Mrs Bennet, then turned back to Darcy. “Sir, the fever has left Eliza with some confusion.”

“What sort of confusion?”

“She seems to have forgotten a great many things,” Mrs Collins explained. “Pray do not think she’s gone witless! No, nothing of that sort! She remembers some things very well, but others…not at all. Lady Catherine’s physician questioned her thoroughly. She has every idea of who she is and where she is from, and she did not forget any of her family, save for my husband. She had no idea who Mr Collins was or why she should be in Kent, a guest at his house.”

“I see.”

“Her last memories—her last clear memories—were of June of ’11, or thereabouts. She remembers being at an assembly at that time.”

“N-not the assembly that I—that we, Mr Bingley and I?—”

“The assembly where she was deemed tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt you?” Mrs Collins cast a reproving grin at him. “No, not that one.”

Darcy chuckled uncomfortably.

“As for the rest of your acquaintance, we have…well, we have told her a little bit. Not everything, of course, as it seems there is a great deal that none of us knew.”

“But she has no true recollection of me?”

“Do not distress yourself for that,” said Mrs Collins, her grey eyes earnest. “Dr Hughes says all is not lost, not yet. She may still recover some of her memories.”