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Longbourn - Mr Bennet’s Study - Mr Bennet

T he house had finally fallen silent, though Mr Bennet suspected his wife was still awake, fretting in her rooms. He had managed to extract enough sense from Mrs Bennet’s hysterics to understand that she intended to descend upon Netherfield first thing in the morning after breakfast, news or no news.

Now, in the quiet of his study, he re-read the rain-smeared letter by candlelight. Mr Morris’s hurried hand explained the accident, Lizzy’s condition, and that Mr Jones had been sent for. All very proper, very correct - but hours old now. What might have transpired since?

He glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. His second daughter, who had left home that morning in her usual high spirits, now lay fevered at Netherfield. Under any other circumstances, he might have found amusement in his wife’s dramatic response to the news, but not tonight.

The storm that had raged all day had finally settled into a steady rain, no longer accompanied by the violent winds that had caused such destruction. He should retire, but the thought of sleep seemed impossible. Perhaps another glass of port…

He poured himself a measure, but found himself unable to sit still. The more he thought about it, the more intolerable it seemed to wait until morning. To leave Lizzy in such a state, without even knowing how severe her condition might be…

“Hill!” he called, setting down his untouched port. The housekeeper appeared almost immediately - clearly, he was not the only one still awake and anxious.

“Sir?”

“Have the gig prepared. I am going to Netherfield.”

“At this hour, sir?” Hill’s usually composed face showed surprise.

“Precisely why I should go now, before Mrs Bennet attempts the journey herself in the morning.” He was already reaching for his coat. “Better to know the true state of things tonight than face hours of speculation over breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Hill hesitated. “Shall I inform Mrs Bennet?”

“Good God, no.” Mr Bennet shrugged into his coat. “Let her sleep, if she’s managed it. Though you might send word to the kitchen for some coffee - I suspect it will be a long night.”

As Hill hurried away, Mr Bennet found himself examining his own unusual impulse to action.

How many times had he sat in this very study, content to let the world’s chaos swirl around him while he remained safely ensconced with his books?

But this was Lizzy - his Lizzy, who shared his wit and humour, who understood him better than anyone…

The sound of activity in the stable yard drew him from his thoughts. Time enough for reflection later. For now, he had a daughter to see to.

The night was dark, but the carriage lanterns cast enough light to guide them along the familiar road.

Near the stone bridge, the horses shied suddenly, forcing the groom, who was driving, to rein them in sharply.

In the wavering lantern light, he saw why - the chaise lay on its side, the elegant frame twisted beyond repair.

Even secured against the storm, the wreckage told a clear tale of what might have happened to his Lizzy.

The massive oak that had caused such destruction stretched across half the road, its roots torn from the sodden earth by the storm’s fury.

Mr Bennet leaned forward in the carriage, studying the scene. His usual detachment faltered as he imagined his daughter trapped in that confined space. The depth of his gratitude toward Mr Darcy’s timely rescue took on new meaning as he observed the chaise’s shattered remains.

With a quiet word to the groom, they carefully manoeuvred past the wreck. His Lizzy needed him, and dawn would show this scene clearly enough to those who came after.

* * *

Netherfield - Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Jane

Jane sat beside her sister’s bed, fighting exhaustion as she watched Lizzy’s restless sleep.

Her own recent illness made the late hour weigh heavily, but she could not bear to leave her sister’s side.

Mrs Nicholls had tried several times to persuade her to rest, offering to maintain the vigil herself, but Jane had merely shaken her head and reached for the cool cloth again.

Lizzy’s fever seemed to rise and fall like the tide. One moment she would be burning hot, the next shivering despite the pile of blankets. Sometimes she muttered in her sleep - fragments about horses and rain, and once, quite clearly, Mr Darcy’s name, though Jane could not make out the context.

The fire crackled as a log shifted, making Jane start slightly.

She had lost track of time in this strange, closed world of Mr Darcy’s rooms. Everything about the room spoke of its usual occupant - from the precisely arranged books on the shelves to the fine quality of the linens - making the current situation seem even more surreal.

A soft knock at the door preceded Mrs Nicholls return with fresh water. “Miss Bennet, you really must try to rest,” the housekeeper said quietly, setting down her burden. “You’re still recovering. Let me sit with Miss Elizabeth - I have nursed many a fever in my time.”

“I cannot leave her,” Jane replied, though she felt the truth of Mrs Nicholls’ words in her own trembling hands. “What if she needs me?”

“I’ll send for you at the slightest change,” Mrs Nicholls promised, moving to feel Elizabeth’s forehead with practised hands. “The fever’s no worse, at least. Mr Jones said that was a good sign.”

Jane nodded, remembering the apothecary’s earlier visit.

He had seemed satisfied with Lizzy’s care, though his instructions about keeping her still and warm had effectively ended any discussion of moving her to other quarters.

Even Caroline had ceased her hints about more “appropriate” arrangements after Mr Jones’s firm pronouncement.

“Has there been any word about Thomas?” Jane asked, trying to suppress a yawn.

“He’s sleeping now, thank goodness. His sister is with him.” Mrs Nicholls adjusted Lizzy’s blankets with careful movements. “Though what possessed anyone to send out the chaise in such weather…” She caught herself, remembering her position. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. It’s not my place to comment. ”

Before Jane could respond, Lizzy stirred, mumbling something about being trapped. Jane leaned forward immediately, taking her sister’s hand.

“Shh, Lizzy. You’re safe now.”

Lizzy’s eyes fluttered open, though Jane was not sure she was truly awake. “The water… kept dripping…” she murmured, then seemed to drift off again.

Jane felt Mrs Nicholls’ gentle hand on her shoulder. “Come now, Miss Bennet. You can hardly help your sister if you make yourself ill again. Let me see you back to your room - I promise I will not leave Miss Elizabeth’s side until you return in the morning.”

The wisdom of the housekeeper’s words finally penetrated Jane’s exhausted mind. She was swaying slightly in her chair, and the words in her prayer book had begun to blur hours ago. Still, she hesitated.

“You’ll send for me if-”

“At the slightest change,” Mrs Nicholls assured her, already helping her to her feet. “Though I expect she’ll sleep through till morning now that Mr Jones’s powders have taken effect.”

Jane allowed herself to be guided to the door, pausing for one last look at her sister.

Lizzy seemed peaceful enough now, her breathing steady if still too quick.

Mrs Nicholls had already settled into the chair Jane had vacated, her experienced hands smoothing the blankets with practised efficiency.

The short walk to her own room seemed to take all Jane’s remaining strength. Meg was waiting to help her prepare for bed, and Jane submitted to having her hair brushed out with drowsy gratitude. Her own illness had left her weaker than she’d realised.

As she finally lay down in her bed, Jane found her thoughts drifting.

The events of the day seemed almost dreamlike - Lizzy trapped in the overturned chaise, Mr Darcy carrying her through the rain, Caroline’s barely concealed agitation at finding her installed in his rooms…

She wa nted to examine it all more closely, to understand what it might mean, but sleep was already pulling her under.

Her last conscious thought was a prayer for her sister’s recovery, and a grateful acknowledgment that Lizzy was in good hands. Mrs Nicholls would watch over her through the night, and in the morning…

Jane drifted off before she could complete the thought, her exhausted body finally claiming the rest it needed.

* * *

Netherfield - The Billiard Room - Darcy

The steady click of billiard balls was the only sound in the darkened house.

Darcy lined up another shot, his movements precise despite the late hour and his fatigue.

He had long since abandoned his coat and cravat, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he circled the table again and again, as if he could somehow order his thoughts through the familiar ritual of the game.

He had tried reading earlier in his temporary quarters, but the blue guest room felt strange and confining.

Every distant sound from elsewhere in the house made him wonder if it might be news of Elizabeth’s condition.

At least here in the billiard room, the familiar activity required enough concentration to provide momentary distraction from thoughts of her fever, her pale face, the way she had trembled…

The white ball spun wide of its target, breaking his run.

Darcy straightened, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

How many games had he played now? The candles had burned low, though he had barely noticed the passing time.

Fletcher had given up trying to convince him to rest hours ago, though Darcy suspected his valet was still hovering somewhere nearby, waiting to be needed.