Page 7 of Hidden Desires

“PLEASE FORGIVE MY SISTER,” Mr. Bingley said as Bennet returned. “She believes everything in London surpasses the rest of the country, including its physicians. I will speak with her.”

“Miss Bingley did not offend me. I might question her sincerity if she showed less concern.”

He shifted on the chaise and winced as his leg moved. “May I trouble you for something to ease the pain? The throbbing makes it difficult to think.”

Bennet studied him. The young man’s face had lost its color, his hands clenching and releasing the cushion in rhythm with his pain.

“I will give you a small glass of port, but no more. The apothecary will want your mind clear.”

“Thank you. Anything will help.”

Bennet reached for the bottle in the cabinet, but before he could pour, the door opened and a man entered, carrying a case he placed on the nearest table.

“I hope that was for you and not my patient,” he said, taking the bottle from Bennet and returning it to its shelf. “Must I remind you of my position on spirits before an examination?”

“He asked for relief, and I obliged. I meant no harm,” Bennet said, stepping back and raising his hands.

The man shook his head and turned to the injured man. “This is not the first time I have warned him. Mr. Bennet knows I cannot trust my judgment if the patient cannot give a clear answer.”

He paused. “Please accept my apology, but I do not suffer foolishness, no matter how well meant. I am Mr. Jones, the apothecary.”

“I promise to take no offense, as long as I get some relief,” the young man muttered.

Jones bent to inspect the injured foot. After a minute, he rose and turned to Bennet.

“You have other responsibilities. If I need anything, Mrs. Hill knows where to find you.”

With a brief nod, Bennet went to the sitting room, where his daughters waited for news.

“How is he? What does Mr. Jones say? How long until he recovers?” Jane asked, hurrying to his side.

“The poor fellow just arrived. Let him finish his examination,” Bennet said, stepping around her and patting her shoulder.

“Mr. Jones knows his business. I trust his judgment. Now, if you will excuse me, I would rather face this interrogation in a chair.”

He crossed the room and seated himself by the fire. Jane paced, her gaze never straying from the entrance.

“I cannot bear not knowing. What if Mr. Bingley’s condition is serious? What if he does not recover?” she said.

“A fair concern in this county. He should count himself lucky if he reaches Netherfield alive,” Miss Bingley sniffed, showing no concern for Mr. Bennet’s opinion.

Elizabeth rested her chin on her hands and regarded the unpleasant woman as though deep in thought. “Which ankle did he turn?” she asked, satisfied with the flicker of surprise on Miss Bingley’s face.

“Was it the right or the left?” she prompted when silence followed, watching with pleasure as confusion vied with distaste.

“What possible difference could that make?” came the response, her habitual sneer finally asserting itself.

Elizabeth glanced toward her father, then to Jane, whose smile faltered.

“Only that Mr. Jones has more experience setting the bones of sheep and cattle than those of gentlemen. He once splinted a neighbor’s arm backward at the elbow.

The poor man can no longer lift a spoon without turning his entire body to face it. ”

Jane pressed her lips together, clearly torn between decorum and amusement.

Elizabeth continued, voice smooth. “Of course, Mr. Jones meant no harm. But his apprenticeship was brief, and he learned most of his trade from treating livestock. I daresay he feels more confident with hooves than ankles.”

Miss Bingley blanched and sprang from her seat as an agonized cry echoed through the house, then rushed to the door.

Bennet grasped her arm as she hurried past, “Mr. Jones knows what he is doing. Let him treat your brother without interruption.”

The trembling woman tried to shake free, but Bennet held fast.

“Treat him?” she cried, pointing at Elizabeth, whose untroubled gaze only deepened her panic. “I must stop him before Charles leaves this house walking in circles!”

Bennet’s eyes widened, and he turned to his second daughter. Her upward glance, as if seeking divine aid, fooled neither him nor Jane, who, to her credit, had not stepped in to spoil her sister’s mischief.

“I think both of your brother’s feet are safe,” he said, scowling at Elizabeth.

“Mr. Bennet,” called the housekeeper from the entrance, “Mr. Jones wants to see you.”

With a warning glance toward Elizabeth, he rose and returned to the library, arriving as the apothecary finished with his patient.

“You are just in time,” Mr. Jones said, as Miss Bingley and the others followed close behind.

“I examined him and rendered first aid. The ankle does not appear broken, but it has swelled. I found no abnormal movement, though I cannot say with certainty. I wrapped it to reduce discomfort. If you put him to bed and keep the foot elevated, the pain and swelling should ease.”

“We are going to Netherfield at once,” Miss Bingley declared, pushing past the apothecary to peer at her brother’s feet, “where you can recover from the mistreatment you endured here.”

Mr. Bingley gave her a grateful look, tempered with amusement. “Your concern warms my heart, Caroline, but I could not have asked for better care. There is no need to trouble yourself further.”

“Please accept our apologies,” Jane implored. “Despite our efforts to provide you with comfort and assistance, it appears we failed.”

“Your treatment was exemplary,” Mr. Bingley said, his tone carrying a hint of gentle reproach at his sister’s implication. “I doubt we would find more competent care in London or anywhere else.”

“Stay off that foot for three weeks,” Mr. Jones said.

“As I mentioned, I do not believe it is broken, but that can be difficult to detect in this part of the body. The joint consists of more than two bones, and one of the smaller ones below the ankle may still be injured. I cannot know for certain until the swelling goes down.”

Mr. Bingley’s smile faded. “What should I do?” he asked, twisting to face the man and gasping from the pain that followed.

“I cannot spend that much time in bed. The estate needs repairs, and I have made commitments that cannot wait. What if I sit and rest now and then throughout the day? That should allow my body to recover.”

Mr. Jones gave his head a firm shake and bent to put his bag in order. “Do not stand or walk for at least three weeks. After that, begin again with care,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

“I shall return in a week to inspect the foot. If the swelling has gone down, I should have no trouble detecting a break. Heed my warning. If you ignore my instructions, the injury will worsen, and your recovery will take longer. Stay in bed and allow the servants to care for you. Even if nothing is broken, healing will take time. You may suffer weakness for six weeks or more.”

“What about the pain?” Mr. Bingley asked, gasping each time he shifted on the cushion. “Is there anything for that?”

“There is,” Mr. Jones said, retrieving a vial filled with a reddish-brown liquid. “Laudanum will help, but take it only when you must. It is strong and must be used sparingly. If you are careful, it should last until I return.”

“Mr. Bingley is not staying at Longbourn. He leased the Netherfield estate,” Bennet said. “My guess is that he wants, more than anything, to recover in familiar surroundings. I will make sure he gets there.”

“One bed is as good as another,” Mr. Jones replied. “My work is complete, so I am leaving. Remember, Mr. Bingley, do not rush. Listen to what your body tells you.”

Gathering his bag, the apothecary nodded to each of them and departed.

“Thank you for your help,” Mr. Bingley said. “If not for your presence, I might not have made it back to the house.”

“It is thanks to me that you have this problem,” Bennet said. “I owe you an apology, not gratitude, for putting you in this predicament.”

Miss Bingley gave a sarcastic snort, most unladylike. “Finally, someone accepts the blame for nearly killing my brother.”

No one answered. After a moment, she rose and crossed to the entrance. “I am going to make sure the carriage is acceptable,” she said, flouncing from the room. “My brother has endured enough without the added discomfort of another country-built conveyance.”

Elizabeth saw Mr. Bingley’s eyes follow his sister. Anger flashed, then faded.

“When you are ready,” Bennet said, ignoring the insult, “the servants can help you through the house and out to the carriage.”

“Mr. Bennet, I am grateful for your care and concern. As soon as I get home, I plan to retire. A good sleep should prepare me for tomorrow.”

“Mr. Jones told you to stay in bed until your ankle heals, and I agree,” Bennet said. “He said, if you injure it again, the damage may be permanent.”

“The needs of Netherfield are too important to ignore. I cannot restore the estate if I lie flat in bed. The work cannot stand idle because I would rather sleep.”

Bennet paced the floor, a habit when wrestling with a vexing problem. He tipped his head, regarded Mr. Bingley, shook it, and resumed his steps, muttering under his breath.

“You cannot do that in your present state,” he said at last, stopping at the young man’s side. “Longbourn does not need my constant attention, so I am going to take over for you.”

“That is too much to ask.” Mr. Bingley raised his hands to stop Bennet’s protest. “Let me write to Darcy. He is my closest friend, and I have no doubt he will come at once. If I send the dispatch tomorrow, he should arrive in two weeks or less. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to spend my entire recovery tending to Netherfield while you neglect your own property.”

“Darcy?” Bennet asked, tapping a finger along the side of his nose. “Why is that name so familiar?”