Page 19 of Five Gentlemen at Netherfield (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Colonel Forster’s Rented House

Meryton

The Next Day

Dawn

The courtyard behind Colonel Forster's rented house was a world of gray mist and shadows.

The sun had not yet risen to warm the world, and the horses blew clouds of steam from their nostrils like dragons as they stamped on the cobbles.

Darcy stood beside his carriage as a meager block against the thin dawn breeze, the collar of his woolen greatcoat turned up and a scarf wound about his neck.

His thick leather boots and woolen socks kept the stones' chill from seeping up into his toes, and for that he was grateful.

The courtyard was quiet save for the horses' restlessness and the coachman soothing his charges with low, hushed murmurs and clicks.

Darcy tilted his head back to the sky, admiring the pale pinks and lavenders and mauves starting to illuminate the eastern horizon.

It bid fair to be a lovely day and good for traveling, and though the ride to Marshalsea would doubtless be tense, at least the passengers and their prisoner would be comfortable in Darcy's carriage.

He was glad that he had ordered it brought down to Netherfield.

It would be uncomfortable and inconvenient to have to borrow one from Bingley.

The door opened and Darcy turned. Richard, similarly bundled up, nodded crisply and turned back as Wickham stumbled out the door, hands bound in front of him.

A burly private in a red coat came hard on the heels of the arrested man, a stern scowl on his features.

He would be riding with them to stand guard over Wickham, and Darcy, eyeing the man, thought that Forster had chosen well.

He turned his attention on Wickham. The handsome face was washed pale, the blue eyes wide with terror.

His hands were bound in front of him, and tightly, as if whoever had tied the ropes was taking no chances.

He wore no heavy coat and thick muffler and had already started to shiver in the cold air.

Even so, he hung back from the carriage, desperation written across his features.

Darcy swallowed down a surge of guilt. He was not being unusually cruel or vindictive to Wickham; he was only seeing that the scoundrel faced the consequences of his own perfidy.

No one had forced Wickham down this path, and it was high time that his misbehavior was curtailed.

The steward’s son had cared nothing for the consequences of his actions suffered by tradesmen and farmer’s daughters and pub owners and the girls who served in them.

Now it was time for him to suffer those consequences, rather than heedlessly leaving destroyed lives in his wake.

“Get him in there,” Richard ordered, gesturing toward the open door of the carriage.

Wickham actually whimpered and cast a beseeching look at Darcy. “You cannot … please … you simply cannot…”

Richard grunted in displeasure and grabbed Wickham’s left arm, while the private grasped his right arm, and the pair shoved Wickham firmly into the carriage. The private followed the prisoner within the carriage, and Richard turned and said softly to Darcy, “Are you all right, Cousin?”

Darcy straightened his shoulders and said, “I am, yes. After you, Richard.”

***

Longbourn Estate

Elizabeth took a deep breath of cool morning air as she marched briskly down the pathway toward her home.

She had woken early and crept out of the house in search of exercise and solitude.

The day was likely to be a challenging one, with Mr. Collins hovering over her and burbling incessantly and idiotically.

She hoped and prayed that her father had recovered from his headache and would be in his accustomed place at the head of the table during meals. Mr. Bennet, eccentric though he was, would probably participate at least somewhat in their conversations, which would be a relief.

She stepped onto the side lawn of Longbourn, where the gray-green grass was slightly frosted, and hurried to the side door, which led past the kitchen.

She had not eaten anything before departing the house and was by now hungry.

Fortunately, Cook was a kindly woman and always had a muffin or apple available after her early morning walks.

She pushed open the door, walked through and shut it hastily behind her, eager to keep the heat indoors.

A few steps took her to the door into the kitchen, and she opened it and entered, her nostrils quivering in delight.

The room was a bustle of activity, with Cook overseeing a pot of stewed prunes, and two servant girls chopping fruit and kneading bread.

“Ah, Miss Lizzy,” Cook said with a smile. “There are biscuits for you in the basket there.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said gratefully, taking two of the treats and leaving in haste. She well knew that having a daughter of the house taking up room in the kitchen at this hour would not be a boon to the hardworking staff of Longbourn.

She made her way to the stairway at the west end of the house and climbed it, her mind already fixed on a novel she had left half-read the previous day. It was still early, and she would be able to enjoy an hour of reading before coping with Mr. Collins again at the breakfast table.

“Elizabeth?” Jane’s soft voice called out when she reached the top of the stairs.

She turned in surprise, which transformed into alarm. The corridor was dim, with only two candles burning in sconces, but she had excellent eyesight, and the look of distress on her sister’s face could not be mistaken for anything else.

“What is wrong?” she asked, stepping urgently closer.

Jane, who was still dressed in her night attire, swallowed hard and said quietly, “It is Father. He is…”

Terror filled Elizabeth’s heart. “No, no, it is not possible. He cannot be …”

Jane looked puzzled and then shook her lovely head rapidly. “No, not … not passed. But he is ill, very ill. I just sent one of the servants to fetch Mr. Jones.”

Elizabeth gulped in relief and said, “May I see him?”

“Please do, Lizzy.”

The pair made their hasty way down the hall, which ran parallel to the frontage of Longbourn and then turned into the corridor, which led to the bedchambers in the east wing.

Their father’s bedchamber, with its heavy oak furniture and dark curtains, was a masculine room, and on those rare occasions when Elizabeth entered within, she felt it suited Mr. Bennet well.

Now, however, the room was bright with lit candles, and Mr. Hill, who served as Mr. Bennet’s valet, was standing near his master, his face drawn with worry.

Mr. Bennet himself was propped up in bed, his upper body leaning against several pillows.

Elizabeth stepped forward eagerly and stared into her beloved father’s face.

There was something wrong, very wrong, as indicated by the slight droop of lips and slackened cheek on the left side of his face. His brown eyes, usually filled with cynicism, were now wide with fear.

“Father,” Elizabeth said, sitting down on the bed and reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek. “I am sorry you are not feeling well.”

The next moment her chest seized with alarm as Mr. Bennet said, “Grund flugh eggum.”

Elizabeth turned terrified eyes on her older sister, who said, “He cannot speak clearly, Lizzy.”

It took everything in her power to turn a smiling, reassuring face on her father. “It is quite all right, Papa. Mr. Jones will be here soon and will look after you.”

He relaxed at these words, and the right side of his lips lifted a trifle as if he were trying to smile. She forced herself to continue smiling and murmuring reassuringly for the next half an hour, when, to her profound relief, Mr. Jones arrived.

Jane, who had left the room some minutes earlier to change into her day attire, was waiting outside the door of her father’s room.

“Lizzy?” she whispered. “What shall we tell Mother?”

Elizabeth had been so full of concern about her father that it had not occurred to her that her mother would be a substantial problem.

If Mr. Bennet had suffered a severe apoplexy, which seemed all too likely, there was, and here she took a deep breath, a good chance that her father would not survive the next week.

In that case, Mr. Collins, currently a guest, would become master of the estate. Thanks to Aunt Amelia, such an event would not be an absolute catastrophe, but Mrs. Bennet, who found both comfort and pride in her position as mistress of Longbourn, would be horrified and distressed.

“I think we should inform her that Father is not feeling well for now,” she finally said softly, “but not any details until we learn more from Mr. Jones. If it is true that Father is gravely ill, well, we will have to tell her as gently as possible.”

“That seems a wise course of action,” Jane said, glancing at the closed door beyond which her father was being examined. “Would you mind staying here and speaking to Mr. Jones? I simply cannot, that is…”

“By all means,” Elizabeth said promptly. “I would rather be here than at the breakfast table, truly.”

Jane nodded, her eyes bright with tears, and hurried away, while Elizabeth walked over and sank into a chair placed at the end of the corridor. She found herself lifting frantic prayers to God that He would bring healing to her father.

Thirty agonizing minutes passed before the door opened to reveal the apothecary, who stepped into the corridor, pulled the door behind him, and then turned toward Elizabeth as she rose from the chair and took a few steps closer.

“My father?” she asked and could not help the trembling in her tone.

Mr. Jones was some forty years of age, intelligent, kind, and honest.

“He has suffered an apoplexy,” the man said, his expression sympathetic. “It is a serious one, given that his speech is impaired, along with the left side of his body.”

Elizabeth’s heart was hammering in her chest, and she was forced to take several deep breaths before she asked, “Will he die?”

“I do not know,” Jones said gently. “There is a good chance he will, but apoplexy is a peculiar thing, and we do not know why some people recover at least moderately and some pass on.”

Elizabeth gulped and compelled herself, with great difficulty, to overcome her horror. She and Jane and Mary were the only sensible members of the family in the house, and the upcoming road for her father, as long as it was, must be her current priority.

“Ought we to summon a physician from Town?” she asked, and then winced. That was perhaps not a particularly courteous question.

To her relief, Mr. Jones nodded and said, “I hope you will, Miss Elizabeth. I do not pretend to be an expert on apoplexies, and naturally you wish for every possible measure to be taken to assist your father.”

“Do you have someone in mind?” Elizabeth inquired anxiously.

“I do, a Doctor Stanley, and with your permission, I will send an express to him now.”

“I would appreciate that very much. Thank you.”

“I would also recommend that you have one of your male servants assist Mr. Hill in caring for your father. He will need to be lifted and moved, and that will require substantial strength.”

Elizabeth immediately considered the various male servants and quickly came up with a name. “I will have Caleb assist. Thank you, Mr. Jones.”