Page 22 of Five Gentlemen at Netherfield (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Drawing Room

Netherfield Hall

Later

Fitzwilliam Darcy inspected his appearance in the mirror and gave a nod. “Thank you, Percy,” he said to his valet. “Excellent as always.”

“Thank you, sir,” Percy said, though with less enthusiasm than usual.

Darcy preferred simple attire, and while he knew he looked well enough, his cousin, Lord Stanton, would outshine him at dinner.

Darcy could dress more fashionably if he liked, of course, as he had a bigger income than Stanton, but he had never been interested in such things.

He had long chosen comfort over ostentation, and simplicity over dandyism.

Percy rarely cared, but with Stanton’s valet in residence, there were probably interesting conversations in the Servants Quarters about the attire of their respective gentlemen, and Percy would doubtless prefer to turn out his master in more fashionable attire.

Darcy bent a sympathetic look on the man and then left his bedchamber and descended the steps to the main floor, full of satisfaction about his accomplishments for the day.

The mail had arrived with letters from his steward at Pemberley, another from his man of business in London, and a final, tedious note from his aunt, Lady Catherine, who insisted that Darcy visit Rosings, her estate in Kent, earlier than usual the following year.

He had written five pages to his steward, four to his man of business, and managed a single page to his aunt, and now he could settle down for a pleasant evening with his friends.

He stepped into the drawing room and came to a halt. The rest of the party was already assembled, and based on the alarmed look on Bingley’s face and the irritable one on his younger sister’s countenance, something was wrong.

“It is hardly any of your concern, Charles,” Miss Bingley declared.

Bingley was obviously upset and said, “Of course it is my concern, Caroline! It is the concern of every good-hearted gentleman, though I am not certain what I can do.”

“I think,” Lord Stanton said in a reasonable tone, “there is nothing you can do, or at least not at the present time.”

“Whatever has happened?” Darcy demanded.

Bingley turned an anguished face on his friend. “Sir William Lucas left only five minutes ago. He called to inform us that Mr. Bennet is terribly ill and will probably die!”

“Charles, do calm down,” Miss Bingley ordered. “You do not know that, and in any case, the Bennets are little more than acquaintances, and this distress on your part is absurd!”

Bingley turned a furious look on his sister, and Darcy opened his mouth, only to close it when Sir Quinton said, “Bingley, I think it wise to consider Sir William Lucas’s temperament.

He is, in his own way, an honest man, but also, perhaps, prone to hyperbole?

It seems obvious that Mr. Bennet has indeed fallen gravely ill, but one cannot trust Sir William’s declaration that the man is close to death. ”

Bingley turned a hopeful gaze on the older man. “Do you truly think so?”

“I do,” Sir Quinton declared.

“I agree,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said practically.

“Moreover, I would suggest that all we can do is pray for Mr. Bennet and his family. We are not relatives or close friends of the Bennets, and the last thing the inhabitants of Longbourn need is for curious neighbors to descend upon them like so many locusts.”

“I am not merely curious,” Bingley began and then sighed. “You are, of course, correct, that there is little we can do save pray, though I will send a message to Mrs. Bennet assuring her of our concern.”

“What did Sir William say about the nature of the illness?” Darcy asked.

“He has apparently suffered an apoplexy, according to Sir William,” Richard explained.

“That is most unfortunate,” Darcy said gravely. “At least the heir of the estate is here on a visit and will be a support to them in the event of … well, if Mr. Bennet should indeed die.”

There was a harrumph from Richard, which provoked a look of confusion from the master of Pemberley.

“You do not think he will be supportive?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” the colonel said drily, “but likely not. Sir William informed us, among other items, that Mr. Collins had met the Bennets a few days ago for the first time, so there is no longstanding amity to draw on. More than that, I also learned that Mr. Collins is the parson at Hunsford in Kent.”

Darcy felt his mouth drop open in shock, and yes, dismay.

“He is Lady Catherine’s rector?” he demanded weakly.

“He is,” Richard agreed, and now it was Lord Stanton who harrumphed.

“Why is that bad?” Bingley asked anxiously, which caused Darcy to pull himself together.

“Erm, well, it is not bad, exactly,” he said temperately, “but…”

“But Lady Catherine is one of the most arrogant, autocratic women in England,” Richard chimed in, “and she always – always – hires men who more or less worship her. I am not trying to cast shade on Mr. Collins, you understand, but he will not be the type of man to take control of a situation with sense and vigor. Lady Catherine would never permit such a thing in her parson.”

Darcy winced at such plain speaking, but Lord Stanton agreed, “I doubt that Mr. Collins will be of any particular support to the ladies, but there are uncles, are there not? One in Meryton and the other in London?”

“In Cheapside, I believe,” Miss Bingley said with a sneer.

The viscount nodded and continued, “Cheapside, then. The best thing we can do now is to let them manage their own crisis, Bingley.”

His host looked downcast at this information, but at this critical moment, the butler entered with the news that dinner was ready, and the party made their stately way into the dining room.

Dinner was sumptuous as usual, but Darcy found himself surprisingly distracted. He knew his cousins were correct, that the Bennets needed privacy during this difficult time, but nonetheless, his mind continued to shift to the lovely Elizabeth Bennet, no doubt full of fear over the fate of her sire.

***

Mrs. Bennet’s Bedchamber

Longbourn

11 O’clock the Next Morning

The room was filled with sunlight and the reassuring sound of the crackling fire, both quite at variance with the pall of dread and doom that lay over Mrs. Bennet’s soul like a shroud. She lay still for a minute, trying to remember why she felt so miserable on such a lovely day.

Memories crashed over her of Mr. Bennet’s apoplexy and imminent death.

Mrs. Bennet moaned and drew a hand across her eyes, dreading to rise and receive the inevitable news.

Perhaps she could put it off an hour or two longer?

She could at least lie here and ponder, though there was no possible way she could fall asleep again now.

She wondered that she had been able to fall asleep at all.

An idle glance at the clock made her gasp, fling back her bedclothes, and sit up.

Not only had she slept, but it had been both deep and long.

The hour that normally saw her rising had come and gone, and it was high time she rose and attired and broke her fast, even if she was terrified to hear the latest news about her husband.

It seemed quite likely that her husband lay dead in his chambers, but so long as she was not directly informed of that horrifying reality, she could draw comfort from the possibility that her husband still lived.

Yet the uncertainty itself was a form of torture, the agony of not knowing.

It was not that their marriage was happy, precisely, but she had truly loved Mr. Bennet at one time, and she was still fond of him.

He was not so old that he should be dead and in his grave.

He should have had many more years – decades even – of life before him.

Worse yet, when he died, she would lose her treasured position as Mistress of Longbourn. She had lived here for nearly a quarter of a century, almost her whole life. This was where she belonged!

Of course, there was some hope that she would be able to stay here even if Mr. Bennet died.

Mr. Collins wanted to offer for Lizzy, who was a sensible girl.

She would accept, of course, and Mrs. Bennet could remain in her position in her own home.

That was, if Mr. Bennet refrained from dying soon; if he did, that would force the whole family into mourning.

Sadly, Elizabeth and Mr. Collins had not known each other long at all, so it would be entirely reasonable for the heir to wait awhile as he courted her before any offer was extended.

Oh, it was all such a muddle! Mrs. Bennet passed her hand over her eyes and tottered to her feet. The door opened, and one of the maids stepped inside.

“Allow me to help you, Madame,” Sally said, rushing over to poke the fire, which obediently roared up to pump heat into the room.

Mrs. Bennet was well aware that the servants knew everything, and it took a full minute for her to muster up her courage. “Do you know how Mr. Bennet is this morning?”

“He is about the same, Madame,” Sally said, opening the wardrobe and selecting a warm gown for the day. “Mr. Jones sent a nurse to assist for the day, and there will be another nurse coming tonight.”

Mrs. Bennet relaxed in relief. For today at least, her role as mistress of Longbourn was secure.