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Netherfield - Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Darcy

D arcy stood in the doorway of his own rooms-now Elizabeth’s sickroom-feeling oddly like an intruder.

The familiar space had been transformed by her presence, his precise arrangements giving way to the organised chaos of illness.

Fresh linens, medicine bottles, and basins of water had replaced his carefully ordered possessions.

Even the air was different, heavy with the medicinal scents of Mr Jones’s powders and the dampness of rain.

Elizabeth lay pale against his pillows, her dark curls a stark contrast to the white linen.

The sight of her there, in his bed, caused a dis-concerting mixture of concern and…

something else he refused to examine too closely.

Mr Bennet sat beside her, one hand resting lightly on hers, though his sharp eyes missed nothing of his surroundings-or of Darcy’s continued presence.

“Most interesting volumes you keep by your bedside, Mr Darcy,” Mr Bennet observed, glancing at the shelf nearest him. “Plutarch, Aristotle… and is that a volume of poetry? One hopes my daughter’s fever dreams are not being influenced by ancient Greek philosophy.”

Darcy felt himself colour slightly at this indirect reference to Elizabeth’s current location. “I would have them removed, sir, but-”

“Oh, pray do not disturb them on my account,” Mr Bennet interrupted mildly. “I find a man’s choice of bedside reading most illuminating. Though perhaps not as illuminating as his choice of midnight visitors.”

The older man’s expression remained benign, but Darcy caught the gleam of shrewd observation in his eyes.

Before he could formulate a response that would neither compromise propriety nor reveal too much, Elizabeth stirred again at their voices, and Mr Bennet’s hand tightened on hers.

The gravity of what might have happened seemed to settle over both men.

“Most fortunate that you happened to be reading in the library when my daughter’s absence was noted. Though one wonders what could have drawn your attention from such elevated philosophical pursuits to notice a mere carriage’s delay.”

The mild tone did nothing to disguise the precision of the question. Darcy found himself caught between honesty and discretion, acutely aware that any explanation of his concern for Elizabeth would reveal more than he was prepared to acknowledge.

“I…” he began, then caught himself as Mr Bennet’s eyes returned to him, alight with something that might have been amusement. “That is, the storm had grown considerably worse. It seemed prudent to ensure all travellers had returned safely.”

Mr Bennet adjusted Elizabeth’s blanket with deliberate care. “Though I confess myself curious about your particular choice of rooms for my daughter’s recovery. Unless, of course, you make a habit of relinquishing your private quarters to rain-soaked young ladies?”

The question hung in the air between them, wrapped in layers of irony and subtle implications. Darcy felt the full weight of the older man’s penetrating gaze, even as Mr Bennet maintained his appearance of casual inquiry.

“The fire was already well-laid here,” Darcy said stiffly, knowing even as he spoke that he was repeating himself. “Miss Elizabeth required immediate warmth-”

“Indeed?” Mr Bennet’s attention seemed absorbed in patting Elizabeth’s hand, though his next words were precisely aimed.

“How providential that your rooms should be so well-prepared to receive unexpected guests. Though I wonder what my daughter would make of finding herself the beneficiary of such… particular consideration. Not every young woman finds herself welcomed into a philosopher’s lair. ”

Darcy felt the words strike sharper than they sounded. For all the older man’s mild tone, his meaning was unmistakable-and all the more effective for its civility. He straightened instinctively at the subtle challenge. “Any gentleman would have done the same, sir.”

“Would they indeed?” Mr Bennet’s tone remained mild, though his eyes glinted. “My experience suggests most gentlemen would have sent servants to handle such matters. But perhaps I am behind the times in my understanding of proper procedure when rescuing young ladies from overturned carriages.”

Elizabeth stirred again, drawing both men’s attention. “The horse…” she murmured, her face creasing with distress. “Too high…”

Had he really asked her to mount, even in such a state?

“Ah,” Mr Bennet said softly, his eyes moving from his daughter’s troubled expression to Darcy’s face.

“She has always been terrified of horses, you know. Ever since she was thrown as a child.” He paused, studying Darcy with renewed interest. “ Which makes me rather curious about how she came to be transported here at all.”

Darcy found himself caught between pride in Elizabeth’s courage and an urgent need to justify his actions. “There was no alternative but my horse, sir. The chaise was completely overturned, and she needed immediate shelter from the storm.”

“And yet you convinced her,” Mr Bennet said, one brow raised. “No small feat, I assure you.”

“I…” he began, then caught himself. “That is, I walked beside the horse myself, sir. To ensure her safety.” He paused, thinking of Georgiana’s similar fears.

“My sister also shares Miss Elizabeth’s…

reservations about riding. One learns to recognise when a steady presence might help overcome such fears. ”

“Indeed?” Mr Bennet’s eyes sharpened with interest. “And you find yourself often in the position of steadying nervous riders, Mr Darcy?”

“Only for those under my protection, sir,” he replied stiffly, then immediately regretted the implication of his words.

“Under your protection?” Mr Bennet’s eyebrows rose slightly. “How fascinating. I was not aware my daughter had acquired such a guardian.”

Before Darcy could attempt to explain his presumption, Elizabeth stirred again. “Mr Darcy?” she murmured, though her eyes remained closed. “The water… must not drip on Mr Bingley’s floors…”

“Ah,” Mr Bennet said softly, his attention returning to his daughter. “Still concerned with propriety, even in her fever. How very like Lizzy.” He smoothed her hair with careful movements. “Though I wonder what she would make of finding herself in such… elevated accommodations when she wakes.”

Darcy shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of how the situation must appear. “Sir, I assure you-”

“Oh, pray do not trouble yourself with explanations, Mr Darcy,” Mr Bennet interrupted mildly.

“I am sure everything was handled with the utmost… propriety. Though I confess myself curious about one thing.” He paused deliberately.

“How came it to be you, rather than our host Mr Bingley, who took such decisive action regarding my daughter’s welfare? ”

The question hung in the air between them, deceptively casual yet precise as a well-aimed arrow. Darcy found himself caught between truth and pride, remembering how he had urged Bingley to form the search party, how he had been unable to wait for others once they found the overturned chaise.

“Mr Bingley was equally concerned for Miss Elizabeth’s safety,” he said stiffly. “We formed the search party together when the chaise failed to return.”

“Indeed?” Mr Bennet’s voice remained mild, though his eyes missed nothing of Darcy’s discomfort. “How fortunate that my daughter’s welfare should command such attention from both host and guest. Though I notice it was not Mr Bingley who thought to offer his private rooms.”

“Bingley remained with Thomas, sir,” Darcy said stiffly. “The man was badly injured, and as his master, Bingley’s first duty was to his servant’s care. He also needed to organise the securing of the chaise before the storm could worsen the damage.”

“Quite right. Bingley is dutiful in such matters.” Mr Bennet’s voice remained mild, but there was no mistaking the keen watchfulness in his gaze.

“While you, having no such obligations, were free to… attend to my daughter’s welfare with such particular consideration.

Even to the point of offering your private rooms.”

Elizabeth stirred again at their voices, her fingers plucking restlessly at the blankets. Mr Bennet’s attention immediately returned to his daughter, though his next words were clearly meant for Darcy.

“Funny, is not it-how crisis reveals a man’s nature more clearly than any conversation. ”

Darcy felt the flush creeping up his neck again.

How could he explain his actions without revealing the depth of his concern for Elizabeth?

Even to himself, he could hardly justify the urgency that had driven him to carry her to his own rooms, the need to ensure her comfort himself rather than leaving it to servants.

“I should perhaps look in on my other daughter,” Mr Bennet said, rising from his chair.

His expression had softened considerably since understanding the full extent of Darcy’s actions.

“Though I trust Jane’s accommodations are somewhat less…

philosophical in nature?” There was warmth in the tease now-an acknowledgment, not a challenge.

* * *

Netherfield - Mrs Nicholls’ Sitting Room - Fletcher

Mr Morris had just shown Mr Jones out after his midnight visit, having arrived at the same time as Mr Bennet.

The apothecary had administered fresh powders to Miss Elizabeth and checked on Thomas’s shoulder, while Mr Bennet remained with his daughter.

The muffled sounds of kitchen activity filtered through to Mrs Nicholls’ sitting room, where the three senior servants had gathered for an urgent conference.

The small room, tucked away in the household offices near the kitchen stairs, offered relative privacy despite the constant movement of maids and footmen in the passages beyond.

A single lamp cast warm light over the room’s practical furnishings, while a tea tray sat untouched on the sturdy table between them - a proper courtesy despite the hour.