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Netherfield - Kitchen - Mrs Winters

T he kitchen at Netherfield was warm and steamy despite the chill autumn day, filled with the usual clatter of pots and bustle of preparation for the evening meal. But today, the normal rhythm of work was disrupted by an undercurrent of excitement as news filtered down from above stairs.

“They say Mr Darcy carried her in himself,” Meg whispered to Jenny, the scullery maid, as she scrubbed at a pot. “Right past Miss Bingley and straight to his own bed!”

“Hush your nonsense,” Mrs Winters, the cook, said sharply, though she could not quite hide her own interest. “That’s not for the likes of us to discuss.

And mind you do not let Mrs Nicholls hear such talk - she runs a proper household, she does, even if the family’s only here for the hunting season. ”

“But it’s true!” piped up Tommy, one of the stable lads who’d come in seeking warmth. “I saw them arrive meself - him carrying her like she weighed no more than a feather, both of them soaked through. And Miss Bingley just standing there, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.”

“Well, I heard from Meg, who heard from Betty, that Miss Bingley had sent the young lady home in the chaise despite the weather,” said Jenny, abandoning any pretence of scrubbing. “And now look what’s come of it.”

“That’s enough of that,” Mrs Winters warned, though her tone had softened. She had her own opinions about Miss Bingley’s ways, but such thoughts were not for sharing. “The bread needs kneading and those vegetables will not peel themselves.”

The kitchen door burst open, letting in a blast of cold air and Jack, another stable boy, his face flushed with excitement. “They’re back! Mr Bingley and the others - and you should see the state of them!”

Mrs Winters brandished her spoon at the mud he was tracking in. “Close that door before we all catch our death! Now, what’s this about Mr Bingley?”

“They have just come in through the stable yard - Mr Bingley and four others, all of them looking like they have been swimming in the pond. And Thomas…” Jack paused for effect, clearly relishing being the bearer of such exciting news, “they had to carry him between them. White as a sheet, he was.”

“Heavens preserve us,” Mrs Winters muttered, already moving to put more water on to heat. “Jenny, run and tell Mrs Nicholls they will be needing hot drinks and - where do you think you’re going, Tommy?”

But the stable lad was already darting back out the door, no doubt to see for himself. Jenny lingered, caught between duty and curiosity.

“The chaise is completely ruined,” Jack continued eagerly, shaking rain from his coat. “They have just brought Thomas in through the stable yard - took four men to carry him, and him moaning something awful. Mr Bingley’s with them, soaked to the skin.”

“What happened to him?” Jenny asked, forgetting Mrs Winters’ warning in her excitement.

“Well, however it happened,” Mrs Winters interrupted firmly, “the poor man needs tending. Jenny, what did I tell you about fetching Mrs Nicholls?”

Jenny had barely reached the door when Mr Morris entered, bringing with him a gust of cold air and an air of authority that made even Mrs Winters straighten her apron.

“Hot water and bandages to the blue guest room immediately,” he instructed, his usually impeccable appearance somewhat dampened by the weather. “And Mrs Winters, a light broth for Thomas when he’s settled. Mr Jones has been sent for, but this weather…” He shook his head grimly.

“Of course, Mr Morris,” Mrs Winters replied, already moving to comply. “Jenny, stop gawking and fetch those bandages. Jack, make yourself useful or make yourself scarce.”

But Jack lingered by the door. “Mr Morris, sir - is it true about the chaise? They’re saying in the stables…”

Morris fixed the stable boy with a quelling look. “That’s not for discussion. Now, if you have no duties to attend to in this weather, you can help carry water up to the blue guest room.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack mumbled, properly chastened. But as he followed Jenny out with the bandages, they could hear him whispering, “I heard from James that the whole thing’s smashed beyond repair…”

“That will do,” Morris called after them sharply.

He turned back to Mrs Winters. “Mr Bingley and the others will need hot drinks when they have changed. And…” he hesitated, glancing at the few remaining servants hovering nearby, “perhaps it would be best if any discussion of today’s events remained below stairs. ”

“Straight away, Mr Morris,” Mrs Winters agreed, shooing away the lingering kitchen maids. “Though you might want to have a word with Meg - she’s been up and down these stairs a dozen times in the last hour, and not always with good reason, if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed.” Morris’s expression suggested he’d already noted more than a few servants finding excuses to pass by Mr Darcy’s rooms. “Mrs Nicholls is dealing with that matter. Now, about that broth…”

A crash from the passage, followed by the sound of water splashing and Jack’s voice raised in protest, interrupted whatever else he might have said.

Morris closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. “I trust someone will see to that immediately.”

“I will deal with it, Mr Morris,” Mrs Winters assured him, already moving toward the door. “Though if they have spilled that water outside Mr Darcy’s rooms…”

“Heaven preserve us,” Morris muttered, following her out. The last thing they needed was more servants clustering around that particular corridor, all eager to help mop up the spill while straining their ears for any interesting sounds from within.

* * *

Netherfield - Caroline’s Rooms - Caroline

Caroline stood before her mirror, barely controlling her temper as Wilson adjusted her gown.

Voices rose from below; Charles had returned. Caroline’s lips thinned. Neither her brother nor Mr Darcy seemed capable of preserving any sense of propriety today.

“Wilson, my pelisse. I will go down.” She heard Mrs Winters scolding in the hallway. Yet more signs of disorder .

A maid nearly collided with her as she opened the door, arms full of bandages. Caroline’s jaw clenched. Even the servants had lost their heads.

In the corridor, muddy footprints marred the fine carpets. More voices drifted up: Charles issuing instructions for the injured servant. Always the servants first.

She caught sight of Mrs Nicholls issuing quiet orders outside Mr Darcy’s rooms, as if she ruled the house.

“Miss Bingley,” Mrs Nicholls said with a composed curtsy. “Miss Elizabeth is resting. Mrs Winters has sent broth.”

“I shall look in on her myself,” Caroline said coldly. “As hostess, I must ensure she has what she needs. In Mr Darcy’s rooms.”

Mrs Nicholls curtsied again but said nothing, allowing her passage.

Inside, the fire blazed. Two maids scurried about gathering damp clothes. Elizabeth lay pale against Mr Darcy’s pillows, her breathing shallow, bundled beneath layers of blankets. She looked fragile, almost beautiful, and Caroline’s frustration sharpened.

Servants paused to curtsy and quickly fled, leaving Martha settled by the bed, mending as though she belonged there.

“Miss Bennet’s sister has been informed, I trust?”

“Miss Bennet still rests,” Martha said without looking up. “Mrs Nicholls thought it best not to disturb her yet.”

Caroline could take no more. She swept from the room, jaw tight, determined to find Charles.

At the stairs she met him, muddy and exhausted.

“Charles! This household is in chaos. Mr Darcy installed Miss Elizabeth in his rooms! What will people say?”

Charles paused, visibly processing this. “Well… his rooms are warm, and she’s ill—”

“Exactly! Propriety, Charles! You must speak to him. His reputation, and ours, is at stake. ”

“I hardly think Darcy will appreciate my advice,” Charles said lightly, hurrying toward his chambers. “Miss Bennet should be told gently.”

As if summoned, Jane appeared, pale and dishevelled. “I heard voices… is Lizzy gone?”

Charles rushed to support her. “Miss Bennet, you should not be up!”

“Where is she? Is she hurt?”

Caroline cut in. “In Mr Darcy’s rooms.”

“Caroline!” Charles snapped.

“Please… I must see her,” Jane pleaded softly.

“Allow me to help you dress first,” Charles offered gallantly.

But Jane moved steadily forward. “Please, Mr Bingley. I must see Lizzy now.”

Caroline followed the little procession grimly.

They rounded the corner and found Darcy himself, dishevelled and flushed, speaking sharply to Mrs Nicholls.

“I must insist on seeing her.” Darcy’s voice carried clear authority.

“Sir, it would not be proper.”

Both turned as Jane appeared, leaning heavily against Charles. Mrs Nicholls’s eyes widened at Jane’s state of disarray.

Mr Darcy took in the scene: Jane barely dressed and supported by Charles, Caroline standing coolly composed, and himself dishevelled before them. For a rare moment, even Mr Darcy seemed at a loss.