Page 25 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

E lizabeth stood by the drawing room window, her fingers gripping the curtain as she recalled the departure of Mr. Darcy’s carriage the night before. She could not banish the image of his pale visage or his troubling departure. He most certainly had the same cold as Papa, but there had been something else, she was sure of it.

His departure had sent Mamma into a fit of nerves, for she was certain that if a cold could affect young, hale Mr. Darcy in such a dramatic way that Papa was certain to be taken to his deathbed. She had insisted on Papa retiring immediately to bed. He had grumbled, but she had brought him a hot tea with brandy, and he had forgiven her.

“What could have distressed him so?” she murmured to herself. The lively conversation had been nothing out of the ordinary—Mamma chattering, Lydia and Kitty squabbling, Mary pontificating, and her father indulging in his dry humour. Nothing that could have provoked such a reaction.

She released the curtain and began to pace the room. Mr. Darcy’s gaze had been distant, his movements stiff, almost pained. It was not the behaviour of a man suffering from a mere cold. Elizabeth replayed the evening’s events in her mind, searching for some clue that might explain his odd behaviour.

Her thoughts turned to the conversation about baby blankets. It had been lighthearted, even absurd, as her sisters debated the influence of childhood attachments on adult preferences. Yet Mr. Darcy’s reaction, the way his expression had hardened and his complexion paled, lingered in her memory. Could it have unsettled him so badly? But why? It made no sense.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her musings. “Come,” she called, smoothing her gown as Hill entered.

“Miss Elizabeth, your father has asked for you,” the housekeeper said, her tone gentle.

Elizabeth’s concern shifted immediately to her father. “Thank you, Hill. I shall go to him at once.”

She made her way to the small sitting room between the master’s and mistress’s chambers where Papa sat in a comfortable armchair, a blanket draped over his legs and a new cup of tea resting on the side table. He looked up as she entered, his face drawn but his eyes bright with affection.

“Ah, Lizzy,” he said, his voice hoarse but warm. “I fear your mother has determined to nurse me personally. If I am to recover, it will be through your tinctures, not her lamentations and fussing.”

Elizabeth smiled despite her worry. “Jane and I prepared everything we would need for winter illnesses before the wedding.” She leaned over the teacup and sniffed. “I see Hill has brought you some of the peppermint tea already. I shall gather some of the other items we require.”

He nodded, his gaze softening. “Thank you, my dear. You are a capable nurse, though I imagine you would rather be anywhere else than tending to an old man.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, moving closer to adjust the blanket over his knees. “You know there is nowhere I would rather be than ensuring your recovery. After all, you are not just any old man.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled faintly before a fit of coughing overtook him. Elizabeth placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her worry deepening. “You must rest, Papa. I shall see to everything.”

“I do not doubt it,” he said, his voice rasping.

She left the room with a heavy heart, her father’s frailty more evident than she wished to acknowledge. The tinctures and powders she had prepared filled her mind once more. She made her way to the stillroom and began to gather what they would require.

When Elizabeth was done, she realized that she had assembled far more than her father would require. Her gaze fell on a basket and then to the wrapped bundles. A decision formed quickly in her mind. If Mr. Darcy was unwell, he would benefit from these medicines as much as her father. When she had nursed Jane, many of the powders she used had come from Longbourn, for Netherfield had long stood empty and the stillroom was not well stocked. There was every chance they would be restricted to the medicines Mr. Jones could provide, and at this time of year there were many patients to serve.

She made certain Papa had everything required before seeking out the butler and requesting that the carriage be made ready. Mr. Hill’s expression briefly registered surprise, but he nodded. “Of course, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth returned to the stillroom and packed a basket with everything she thought Mr. Darcy might require. The Gardiners had left them a number of tinctures garnered from both London and their own warehouses, and she separated the best of those out to share. Then she gathered her cloak and gloves.

Elizabeth felt a sense of purpose steady her fear. Whatever troubled Mr. Darcy, whether it was his health or some unseen burden, she would do what she could to offer aid. She stepped into the waiting carriage and sat upright, the basket resting on her lap. Her thoughts raced, torn between worry for her father and the inexplicable urgency she felt regarding Mr. Darcy’s health.

When Netherfield came into view, Elizabeth took a deep breath, her resolve firm. She attempted to convince herself that it was the same as coming to tend to Jane, better even, for she was not arriving on foot. And Mr. Darcy, though he had positioned himself as her suitor, had not formalized matters, though she thought he had been about to do so. He had only been courting her a fortnight, but they had known one another much longer.

When the carriage came to a stop, she stepped down, the basket of remedies balanced carefully on one arm. She climbed the stone steps and knocked firmly at the grand front door, which was opened moments later by the butler, his expression polite but surprised.

“Miss Bennet,” he said with a bow. “How may I assist you?”

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “I have come to inquire after Mr. Darcy.” She lifted the basket. “I have brought remedies that may assist in his recovery.”

The butler’s brows lifted slightly, but he stepped aside. “If you will wait in the drawing room, Miss Bennet, I shall inform Colonel Fitzwilliam that you are here.”

She followed him into the drawing room, where a fire burned low in the hearth. She set the basket on a side table and took a seat, her gloved hands resting in her lap. The quiet of the room and the absence of servants was unsettling.

Minutes later, Colonel Fitzwilliam entered. His expression was both courteous and cautious. “Miss Bennet, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “More of an imposition, I am sure. I am not here to visit, Colonel, only to make certain that you are well supplied. My father was taken ill at much the same time as Mr. Darcy, and while I was preparing for his care, I took the liberty of assembling this basket for you all. The tincture of myrrh is especially good for sore throats.” She gestured toward the basket. “Mrs. Nicholls will know what to do.”

He nodded. “I shall see that she receives it. This is most kind of you.”

She hesitated, then ventured, “Is there nothing else troubling him? He seemed ill, yes, but also truly upset. I do hope no one at Longbourn was the cause of it.”

The colonel’s expression became guarded. “Darcy has much on his mind, as he often does. But rest assured, he is in capable hands. Your thoughtfulness is greatly appreciated.”

Elizabeth searched his face for a clue, but the man’s composure revealed nothing. Frustrated but unwilling to press further, she rose and curtsied. “Thank you, Colonel. Please convey my regards to Mr. and Miss Darcy.”

Fitzwilliam bowed. “I shall. Good day, and thank you again, Miss Bennet.”

As Elizabeth returned to the carriage, her thoughts remained clouded with worry. She had done what she could, but the sense of unease lingered. Whatever had unsettled Mr. Darcy, she was sure it was no mere cold. Yet she could do no more until he chose to confide in her, and he could not do that until he was well.

As the carriage rolled away from Netherfield, Elizabeth gazed out at the frost-dappled fields, her heart heavy with unanswered questions. She could only hope that her gesture, however small, might bring him some measure of comfort.

“What are you doing, Lizzy?” Lydia asked from her seat, where she lounged with a piece of lace in hand. “You look as though you expect a ghost to appear at any moment.”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “I am merely thinking.”

“Thinking about Mr. Darcy, I warrant,” Lydia said slyly. “He has not visited for days, has he? Perhaps he has changed his mind.”

Elizabeth ignored her sister’s gibe and turned back to the window. The hedgerows beyond were bare, their skeletal branches outlined against the pale sky. The sight only deepened her unease. “He is ill, Lydia.”

Her mother’s voice began to rise to a higher pitch. “Oh, what shall become of us if your father remains unwell? I shall be forced to beg assistance from your sister Jane. How dreadful it will be to live at the mercy of others!”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, her patience fraying. “Mamma, Jane is your daughter, not a stranger.”

Lydia nodded. “Indeed, Mamma, Jane is Mrs. Bingley now, and they have so much money! You have no need to worry about the hedgerows so long as she has a roof to offer us.”

Mrs. Bennet sniffed but seemed mollified. She poured a cup of tea. “I shall take this to your father. He will recover sooner if I tend to him myself.”

Elizabeth watched her mother leave the room, her gait more purposeful than before, and let out a small sigh of relief. At least her mother had found some direction for her energy. And Papa probably would improve more quickly if only so that he would be left alone. She smiled. He would never admit it, but she knew he enjoyed having Mamma cosset him.

“You are very dull, Lizzy,” Lydia declared after less than a minute. “I am going to find Kitty.”

She barely noticed Lydia’s departure. Her thoughts returned to Netherfield, replaying every detail of her short visit. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words, polite but evasive, had done little to ease her concerns. Mr. Darcy’s illness was troubling enough, but the distress she had witnessed haunted her. What burden weighed so heavily upon him that even his formidable composure had faltered? She stared out the window.

The frost outside had thickened, giving the fields a crystalline beauty that Elizabeth might have admired under different circumstances. Now, they only seemed bleak and unyielding, much like the walls Mr. Darcy had built around himself. She longed to understand, to help, but how could she if he would not allow it?

Was this what it would be like to be married to him? Would she forever be on the outside looking in?

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of her father’s cough from upstairs, faint but persistent. Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. There was no use dwelling on what she could not control. Mr. Darcy was in good hands, and her father needed her here.

She turned from the window and made her way back to the stillroom. The faint scent of dried herbs greeted her, a reminder of the practical care she could offer. With steady hands, she measured out another dose of the horehound syrup that had soothed her father’s cough the night before. His throat, while irritated, was able to be soothed with hot tea, and she had been sure to keep hot water coming up from the kitchen all morning. Mamma prepared it the way he liked it when he was feeling unwell. She wondered who was making Mr. Darcy’s tea. He preferred lemon, but the fruit was difficult to find in the winter.

Perhaps her gesture for Mr. Darcy would prove useful, even if she never learned the full truth of his troubles. For now, she would focus on Papa and trust that time would reveal what her intuition could not.

Papa leaned back in his chair, a cushion propped behind his back, as Mamma flitted about, fretting over whether the tea was warm enough. Her hands fluttered to the teapot, then to the blanket draped over his knees, and finally to the bowl of broth that Mrs. Hill had just brought in.

“Fanny do sit down,” Papa drawled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I am quite certain the tea is sufficiently hot, and if it is not, I have every faith in your ability to ask Mrs. Hill for more water.”

Mamma huffed but complied, finally perching herself on the edge of a chair close enough to her husband to pat his knee from time to time. “It is no trouble, Mr. Bennet. You must be properly cared for, and it is my duty to ensure that you are!”

Elizabeth fought a smile. Her father, though still pale, had regained much of his strength and with it, his playful irreverence. He adjusted the blanket slightly, his fingers toying with the edge.

“Lizzy,” Papa said, his tone languid, “you have done admirably these past days, but it is high time you leave me to your mother and Mrs. Hill. I suspect I shall survive under their care.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Are you certain, Papa? I fear Mrs. Hill and Mamma might compete to see who can most quickly anticipate your needs.”

Papa did not deny it. His gaze softened, and his voice lowered slightly. “It is my way of telling you to rest, Lizzy. I shall be well; I promise you that.”

Mamma sniffed, though there was no mistaking the relief that brightened her features. “But if Lizzy is to leave, you must promise not to overexert yourself. Your tea and broth are here, you see, and you must keep warm.”

To emphasize her words, she placed another blanket on his lap over the first and tucked them both in with exaggerated care. “There. Now you are perfectly comfortable.”

Elizabeth’s amusement grew. “Very well, Papa. I shall leave you to your comforts. Have Mrs. Hill come for me if you have need.”

Papa waved a hand dismissively, though his smile was fond. “Rest well, my dear.”

Her mother reached out to adjust the edge of the blanket yet again, and Elizabeth smothered a laugh. “Mamma, Papa will become overheated.”

Mamma looked up, scandalised. “But what if he grows chilled, Lizzy? You know how weak he has been.”

“I assure you, Fanny,” Papa said, “that I am in no danger of freezing in my own sitting room.”

Elizabeth excused herself, retreating to her room and finally allowing herself a moment to breathe. She sank into the chair by the window, the weight of the past few days slowly lifting from her shoulders. Papa was recovering. His appetite had returned, and his sharp humour was proof enough that his spirits were improving.

A long walk through the fields would be heavenly, but a quiet meal and rest seemed the wiser course. She rang for Sarah and requested a small meal of whatever the cook had on hand. As always, in any moment where her full attention was not required, her thoughts turned to Mr. Darcy.

She had heard nothing since her brief visit to Netherfield, and the silence gnawed at her. No word had come from Colonel Fitzwilliam or his household. Jane had not written, so it was possible they had not alerted Mr. Bingley. Was Mr. Darcy recovering as Papa was?

Elizabeth frowned, frustrated by the uncertainty. She knew her concern was irrational. They were not formally bound and therefore society said she could not inquire, but the thought of him suffering was painful to her.

Sarah entered with the tray, setting it on the small table by the window. “Will you be needing anything else, Miss Bennet?”

“No, thank you, Sarah,” Elizabeth replied, offering her a small smile. “This will do nicely.”

As Sarah left, Elizabeth nibbled on a bit of the roast left from last night’s dinner, her mind remained occupied with thoughts of Netherfield. She imagined Mr. Darcy seated in his library, reading one of his thick volumes with that grave expression he so often wore. Or perhaps pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought.

He had become so comfortable here with her family, so at ease in their company. She had been sure that his addresses were imminent. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she shook her head, determined to set such musings aside. Mr. Darcy’s recovery was what was important.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Elizabeth resolved to take a walk after all, though it could not be a long one. She wrapped herself up warmly and hoped the fresh air would clear away the remnants of worry that stubbornly invaded her thoughts.