Page 46 of The Winter of Our Discontent (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
My wife kept to her bed. She had been under duress, and I was inclined to allow her this period of self-indulgence.
Three mornings later, however, I became slightly annoyed that she still hid in her room.
Where was her unceasing courage? Upon enquiry, I was told by Harrison, who was told by Mrs Reynolds, who was told by Wilson, that Mrs Darcy was ill.
“Has Yardley been to see her?”
“Yes, sir. He attended her yesterday while you were with the tenants.”
“I see.” I had amassed the fortitude and will to apologise to her and was to be denied the opportunity.
The urge to sweep the whole episode under the carpet and return to my usual pursuits as if nothing had happened, to simply behave better without any acknowledgement of my wrongdoing, would only grow stronger with every day I delayed this unpalatable obligation to duty.
I shook my newspaper in irritation, and the entire cadre of footmen and maids in and around the breakfast parlour startled.
My reputation as an ogre was now firmly established, it seemed.
I stalked to the library and grimly stared at the spines of my books.
At noon, I called for my horse and rode up to the limestone hills where we have our caves for ageing cheese.
Far in the distance, I saw my sister galloping across the southern pasture.
She had not fully forgiven me and did not speak to me if she could help it.
Finally, at four o’clock, defeated by a cold wind, I rode home. At the door, I was greeted by Harrison.
“Mrs Darcy is asking for you, sir,” he said, taking my capped greatcoat, my muffler, my hat, and my gloves.
“Very well, tell her I will be up after I have changed.”
“She has asked for you every half an hour since two o’clock, sir.”
I did not prefer to be ‘summoned’. My mouth hardened into a grim, straight line if only to underscore what a petulant child I had become.
My expression, however, turned to one of concern when I was ushered into her room and saw her in her bed.
She looked truly ill. I shuffled forward with trepidation.
“Mr Darcy,” she said. Her voice was weak and parched.
“Forgive me for intruding on your time. Only I have a favour—” She broke off and spoke again in a stronger, more urgent tone.
“Most likely I only have a severe cold, sir, but I feel so ill that I am beset by fear, and I cannot rest. Will you help me?”
I stepped forwards in alarm. “What is it you wish me to do for you? Should we not call Yardley?”
“No, no. He has been here and done what is possible. Only Georgiana wishes to nurse me, and I will not allow it. But I fear if I get any weaker, she will prevail and attend to me.”
“I see.” I said this while standing at my wife’s bedside in a state of confused stupidity .
“Mr Yardley says my fever could become contagious, though he hopes it will not. I am begging, sir. Take Georgiana away from here. Promise me you will see her safely away.” She reached for my hand and clutched at it.
The gesture awoke me to the fear she felt, and a cold tendril of infectious dread crawled around my heart as I realised the danger my sister might be in.
“Yes, I see. Yes, I will take her.”
“You should not stay. Forgive me for asking you to come to me. I hope you too do not sicken—” She collapsed against her pillow. Wilson swept in and edged between us, and I was left with nothing to do but to depart the sickroom and command the travelling coach be ready to leave in under an hour.