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Longbourn - Mr Bennet’s Study - Mr Bennet

T he rain had started again shortly after Lizzy left for Netherfield that morning.

Mr Bennet settled in his study with a book, had merely shaken his head at his second daughter’s determination to visit her sister.

The weather had worsened steadily throughout the day, and by two in the afternoon, the heavy clouds had brought an unusually early darkness to Longbourn.

He had assumed the Bingleys would offer her their carriage for the return journey - they could hardly expect a young lady to walk in such weather.

When no carriage appeared by half-past three, he concluded that they must have invited her to stay the night with Jane.

A sensible decision, given how quickly the storm had turned the afternoon to twilight.

He expected his wife would burst in to his study any moment with the news and inform him that she was sending Lizzy’s things.

Yet he found himself repeatedly drawn to the study window, watching the rain lash against the glass. A branch scraped against the pane, driven by another violent gust. The clock in the hall struck four, its chimes nearly lost in the howling wind.

Something about this early darkness made him uneasy.

Perhaps it would be wise to send a note - just to be certain.

though in this deluge, that would mean sending someone else out into the storm.

No, better to trust that Lizzy was safe at Netherfield.

Though knowing his second daughter’s independent spirit…

He returned to his chair, but the words refused to hold his attention.

Another gust rattled the windows. The gate latch rattled-or so he thought-but it was only the wind.

The hedgerows were shadows now, lost behind the rain.

Surely she was safe at Netherfield. Surely.

But the certainty he tried to summon would not settle.

He told himself it was foolish to worry-Lizzy had sense, after all-but the shadows in the corners of the study seemed to press closer with every minute she remained unaccounted for.

He could not remember the last time a book had failed to distract him.

“Mr Bennet!” His wife’s voice preceded her into the study.

“How can you sit there reading when Lizzy has not sent word? Not even a note to say she’s staying!

Though of course she must be staying - she can hardly walk home in this weather.

But really, Mr Bennet, such thoughtlessness! To leave her mother in such suspense!”

He glanced at the clock again. Nearly five now, and the darkness outside was complete. The storm showed no signs of abating.

“My dear,” he replied, not looking up from his book, “I am sure Lizzy has more sense than to attempt the journey in this weather.”

“She might have sent word! Unless-oh, what if she’s lying in a ditch? Struck by lightning? Mr Bennet, my nerves cannot take it!”

Mr Bennet’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on his book. He had been trying not to consider such possibilities himself. “Mrs Bennet, you yourself just said she must be staying at Netherfield. They would hardly allow her to leave in such conditions.”

“But she’s so headstrong! You know how she delights in tramping about the countryside, regardless of the weather or her poor mother’s feelings!” Mrs Bennet collapsed into a chair, pressing her handkerchief to her forehead. “And now it’s growing so dark…”

For once, Mr Bennet found himself unable to dismiss his wife’s concerns entirely. The early darkness pressed against the windows, and the storm’s fury seemed to be increasing rather than abating.

The clock struck five. “Cook will have dinner ready,” he said, closing his book. “No sense in letting it spoil while we fret. We all need to eat, regardless of Lizzy’s whereabouts.”

“Eat! How can you think of eating at a time like this?”

“Cook has worked hard to prepare us a lovely meal, my dear. Come.” Though his tone remained dry, Mr Bennet cast one last glance at the rain-lashed windows before following his wife from the study.

The dining room was well-lit against the early darkness, though Mrs Bennet had barely touched her soup.

“But suppose she did try to walk home? In all this rain and wind! Oh, my poor Lizzy… And Jane still so ill! What if she takes a turn for the worse? What if Lizzy catches it too? They will both die, and Mr Bingley will quit the neighbourhood in horror, and it will be all my fault for letting them go to Netherfield in the first place!”

“La!” said Lydia, helping herself to more bread. “I am sure Lizzy is perfectly comfortable at Netherfield. What luck that Jane fell ill - now they will both get to stay even longer!”

“And with all the officers confined to quarters by this weather,” Kitty added, “there’s nothing amusing happening in Meryton anyway.”

“Patience and fortitude are virtues to be cultivated in times of uncertainty,” Mary intoned, setting down her spoon. “As Hannah More observes-”

The sound of horses in the drive interrupted her moral observation, followed by the bustle of servants greeting riders at the kitchen entrance.

“Riders at this hour? In this weather?” Mrs Bennet clutched at her chest. “Oh! I knew it! Something dreadful has happened!”

“It might be news of the officers,” Kitty suggested hopefully.

“Or a message from Lizzy,” Lydia added, standing to peer out the window into the darkness. “Perhaps she’s been invited to stay the week!”

“Sit down, both of you,” Mr Bennet said sharply, his own attention fixed on the sounds from below. They could hear boots in the kitchen, voices, the scrape of chairs.

“Mr Bennet, go down at once and find out what’s happened!” Mrs Bennet demanded. “How can you sit there when-”

Hill appeared in the doorway, her face grave in the candlelight.

“If you please, sir,” Hill said, her usual composure slightly strained. “Two riders from Netherfield.”

Mrs Bennet’s fork clattered against her plate. “Oh! I knew it! Something dreadful has happened to my poor girls!”

“Show them in immediately,” Mr Bennet said, already moving toward the door.

“They’re being seen to in the kitchen first, sir. The poor lads are half-frozen. But they brought this-” Hill held out a letter, the paper still damp from the journey.

Mr Bennet moved closer to the candlelight to read, aware of his family’s eyes upon him. He unfolded the letter, the paper still dripping. As his eyes scanned the page, the furrow in his brow deepened.

“Found in the chaise… high fever… Mr Jones in attendance.” Mr Bennet’s mouth thinned to a line as he continued reading. A coldness settled in his chest. He had dismissed the storm, dismissed his own unea se. But now… he should have sent for her.

“Well?” Mrs Bennet demanded, unable to bear the suspense. “What has happened? Are they both dead? Has Mr Bingley cast them out? Oh, my poor nerves!”

* * *

Netherfield - Bingley’s Study - Darcy

Darcy maintained his position by the study window, watching the rain while trying not to count the minutes since Mr Jones had gone upstairs. Fletcher gave a small cough. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Fletcher.” Darcy did not turn from the window, though he remained acutely aware that his cravat was still loose and his coat unbuttoned. The valet quietly withdrew just as the door opened again to admit Bingley, now properly attired though his hair was still damp from his bath.

“The chaise is secured as best we can manage in this weather,” Bingley said, moving to warm his hands by the fire. “Though it’s damaged beyond repair, I fear. We will need to wait for the storm to pass before we can clear the road properly.”

Darcy gave a slight nod, his attention drawn back to the window where water still streamed down the glass.

“I passed Jones on my way down,” Bingley continued, watching him carefully. “He was just heading up to examine Miss Elizabeth.”

“And Thomas?” Darcy kept his voice perfectly level.

“Being tended to in the servants’ hall. Mrs Winters has him well looked after.” Bingley hesitated, then added, “Darcy, about the current arrangements…”

“If you object to Miss Elizabeth’s using my rooms- ”

“No, no,” Bingley interrupted hastily. “Though Caroline has made her opinions on the matter quite clear. But surely Miss Elizabeth’s health must take precedence over…” He trailed off, clearly unsure how to mention the impropriety without offending his friend or making too much of it.

A knock at the door interrupted them. Morris appeared, his usual dignified manner somewhat strained. “Mr Jones has finished his examination, sir. He asked to speak with you both.”

Darcy turned from the window, careful to keep his movements measured despite the sudden leap of his pulse.

“Show him in, Morris.” Bingley said calmly.

Darcy clasped his hands behind his back, a habit formed in his youth for maintaining composure.

The same rigid self-control he’d needed after his father’s death, and had practised ever since.

He would not allow his concern for Elizabeth to show so openly, no matter how his heart raced as Morris went to fetch the apothecary.

Morris returned moments later with Mr Jones, whose weathered face bore signs of fatigue. He set his bag down with a weary sigh, and Darcy forced himself to remain still, to not demand immediate answers.

“Well, gentlemen,” Jones began, accepting the chair Bingley offered, “I have done what I can for both patients. Thomas’s injuries are serious but not life-threatening - provided infection does not set in.” He paused, and Darcy felt his muscles tense. “As for Miss Elizabeth…”

Darcy kept his voice carefully neutral. “The fever?”

“Yes, most concerning. Being trapped motionless in that wet, confined space… quite different from riding through the rain, you understand. The cold had time to settle deep.”