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Chapter?IX

Snow lay deep against the garden walls when the express rider hammered at Number?Nine’s door.

Elizabeth came running, shawl half-pinned, to find Mrs?Butterworth pale beneath her cap.

The letter bore Jane’s hurried scrawl: their father’s cough had turned to fevered bronchitis; the village apothecary feared it might “settle on the chest.” She begged Elizabeth to come—“Papa asks for you between fits of sleep”—but cautioned that roads were half-blocked from recent storms and Longbourn’s own coach horse had gone lame.

Elizabeth gripped the mantel for balance as she read aloud to Mrs?Winter and Darcy. Anxiety clamped her throat, but she forced calm, asking for directions, post-relays—anything.

Darcy set down his teacup with a decisiveness she had come to recognise.

“We send for Dr?Mantle in Bath—he is expert with pulmonary complaints. He will depart within the hour.” Before Elizabeth could protest the cost he added simply, “Please let me,” as though offering a shawl.

Then, turning to Mrs?Winter: “May I borrow your coach? My own travels poorly in snow drifts, but yours sits higher and has new runners.”

The widow nodded briskly. “On one condition: you do not attempt to drive it yourself.”

“I’ll hire two postilions,” Darcy promised.

As Georgiana gathered blankets and cordial bottles, Elizabeth faltered. “The roads—it could take two nights.”

“Then we prepare accordingly,” Darcy said, touching her elbow.

He made no dramatic vow of rescue—only practical measures: fresh horses arranged at Bristol, a warming brick for her feet, letters of introduction to inns along the Oxford road.

In the flurry of readiness she felt her panic steady; competence wove a net beneath her terror.

Within three hours Mrs?Winter’s coach creaked from the Crescent, lanterns glowing through swirling flakes.

Darcy handed Elizabeth in, pressing a packet of Bath lozenges into her palm.

“Write upon arrival—one line only, that he breathes easier.” His injured shoulder forbade travel jolts, yet she sensed how fiercely he wished to climb beside her.

Instead he closed the door, offered a rueful half-salute, and stepped back into snow whirling silver against his dark coat.

The coach lurched forward; Elizabeth kept her eyes on him until distance blurred his form.

Two nights of icy roads tested resolve. But Dr?Mantle’s carriage, following close behind, proved invaluable when they reached Longbourn just before dawn on the third day.

Mr?Bennet lay propped on pillows, complexion ashen yet eyes bright with ironic welcome: “Lizzy, my girl—you’ve brought half of Bath’s tonics.

” He wheezed but rallied to greet the physician.

Dr?Mantle’s manner was brisk and reassuring.

After auscultation he prescribed mustard poultices, honey-and-vinegar draughts, and a strict course of rest. “He is through the worst,” he told Elizabeth outside the door.

“With warmth and quiet he should mend.” Relief left her knees weak; she wrote Darcy the promised single line and entrusted it to the London mail coach at once.

Through ten slow days she nursed her father, traded anxious smiles with Jane, and shushed Kitty’s fretting.

Darcy’s letters arrived every other morning—spare, unadorned updates on Number?Nine: “The freesia leaves unfurled further today.” “Mrs?Winter proclaims your lettuce seedlings obstinate but healthy.” In each she heard the same steady heartbeat that had palpitated under disaster.

She replied with accounts of pulse rates, portion sizes, and the first joke Mr?Bennet managed about Collins inheriting his cough.

At last the fever broke. Mr?Bennet dozed without gasping, snored even—music to Elizabeth’s ears.

Jane caught her in the passage, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“You must be exhausted,” she whispered, “but I have never seen Papa look at anyone with such grateful mischief.” Elizabeth laughed softly and admitted weariness, though her thoughts already turned toward Bath—toward freesia buds and a man who wrote patient news of them.

When Mr?Bennet could sit up and demand his favourite razor, Elizabeth yielded to Jane’s gentle command: “Go home, dearest, before Mrs?Winter sends a search party.” Mr?Bennet pressed her hand.

“Tell your Mr?Darcy”—he coughed—“that I had no intention of perishing before sampling those pears he boasted about in his last note.”

She kissed his brow and began the journey back, carriage rattling over ruts now thawing under weak sun. Approaching Bath two days later, she glimpsed Royal Crescent’s curve gleaming pale gold. Her pulse sped irrationally.

Darcy awaited beyond the yew arch, hat in hand, sling discarded though arm remained bandaged. Snow had melted into crisp frost; his breath showed white. Elizabeth alighted, and for a moment words deserted them. Then she smiled—exhaustion, relief, affection all at once.

“He mends,” she said.

“I know.” Darcy held up her last letter, folded small from repeated readings.

Silence settled, soft but full. Finally he extended his uninjured hand; she slipped hers into it, fingers cold, heart hot.

Together they walked toward the greenhouse where frost filmed the glass, but inside, freesia buds flushed pale apricot—ready to open at the slightest increase of light.