Page 63 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)
The afternoon was cold and grey, a faint mist clinging to the hedgerows as Darcy stepped down from the carriage.
He turned to assist Elizabeth, his gloved hand firmly taking hers.
Colonel Fitzwilliam followed, and together they crossed the gravel path toward Rosings Park, not to the grand front entrance, but to a discreet side door that opened from the kitchen gardens.
The door yielded to a narrow passage, with a low ceiling; the walls were whitewashed and slightly cracked from age.
The faint, mingled scents of baking bread, drying herbs, and woodsmoke lingered in the still air.
Their footsteps fell in soft echoes upon the smooth flagstones as they crept through the house.
Darcy led the way up the back staircase.
The steps were steep, close-set, and polished from constant tread, their wooden banister dark with age.
A single narrow window admitted a thin shaft of light, falling across the dust motes stirred by their passage.
The air grew warmer as they climbed, heavy with the scent of starch and beeswax from the linen presses kept in an anteroom nearby.
At Anne’s chamber door, Darcy knocked. Mrs. Jenkinson opened at once, her expression one of obvious relief, the lines in her face deepened by worry. “Come in. I fear I have not been able to get Miss Anne to drink any tea. She is still insensible.”
The sickroom was dim, its heavy curtains drawn against the wan afternoon. The air was thick and close, holding the scent of illness. A small fire burned low in the grate, doing little to dispel the chill dampness in the corners.
Anne lay motionless in the great bed, her slight form dwarfed by the carved oak posts and heavy hangings. Shadows hollowed her face, and her breathing came shallow and irregular. Elizabeth approached quietly and laid a hand upon Anne’s arm; the heat radiating from her skin was startling.
“She is burning,” Elizabeth said softly, requesting a bowl of cool water and clean towels. Her gaze fell upon a tea tray near the hearth. “And a cup of tepid tea, with a spoon.”
When both were brought, she tried to coax a few drops past Anne’s lips, but much was lost upon the pillow. She turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “A toddy lifter, if you please, it will be cleaner and quicker.” He rang the bell and passed on the request.
Moments later, the faint scurry of footsteps in the passage was followed by the appearance of a maid bearing the glass tube. Elizabeth filled it only partway, sliding the spout gently into the pocket of Anne’s inner cheek. The device allowed her to deliver several drops at a time without spillage.
“She must have fluids,” Elizabeth said, “and be cooled with towels when the fever rises. Miss Anne is severely dehydrated.” May I have paper and pen, if you please? I will write instructions for the maids.”
Darcy indicated a small desk by the window, its surface crowded with neglected correspondence.
When she had finished writing the instructions, he suggested returning to Bertram’s for luncheon.
Richard, however, refused to leave the bedside.
Darcy warned that Lady Catherine might attempt to force a marriage upon him, citing questions of impropriety and compromise, but Richard dismissed the concern.
“I will not leave my cousin’s side, Darcy. She needs me.”
Richard joined the Darcys as they descended the servants’ stair. At the base, the scent of yeast and woodsmoke thickened, and they passed the kitchens and then emerged into the kitchen garden.
Standing beside the carriage, Darcy stood in somber reflection. “It looks as though our cousin will not survive,” he said. Elizabeth took his hand, reminding him that they would do their best for Anne; she was young, and fluids might yet revive her. His expression softened at her confidence.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed intently on Richard. “Do you suppose, Cousin, that Lady Catherine has poisoned Anne intentionally?”
Richard straightened, his expression sharpening. “Lady Catherine? No, surely not. I am inclined to believe this an accident. You know how our aunt has always considered Anne frail, sickly from birth. She has ever plied her with one concoction after another, certain she was doing good.”
Darcy’s tone grew colder. “That is precisely my fear. What if Anne’s supposed frailty is of our aunt’s own making?
If she means to keep her perpetually unwell, or worse, to hasten her end, she may yet succeed.
We cannot be certain she has not already brought her to the brink.
As it stands, there is no guarantee Anne will survive. ”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “If that is the case, then we have but two courses, remove Lady Catherine to the dower house, or remove Anne from her reach entirely.”
Darcy inclined his head. “If Anne recovers sufficiently to be moved with safety, we shall remove her at once until we have resolved what is to be done with Lady Catherine. In the meantime, we must keep constant watch over her, and see that no harm, whether by negligence or design, can befall her again.”
At Bertram House, Charlotte greeted them warmly and served a cold collation of meats, bread, and fruit for luncheon. Darcy turned to the newspapers while the two women spoke quietly.
Late in the afternoon, a stable boy brought word that the clyster had arrived. They returned to Rosings by the same discreet route.
Anne remained flushed and fevered. Elizabeth handed Mrs. Jenkinson willow bark to brew for its cooling and pain-relieving properties, then instructed the two maids on the use of the clyster.
She had just finished the first infusion of tea and milk thistle when an imperious voice rang out in the corridor, sharp enough to pierce the heavy door.
It was Lady Catherine.
Mrs. Jenkinson hurried Elizabeth into the dressing room, which opened into the personal maid’s small chamber.
The companion returned at once to Anne’s bedside, while Elizabeth slipped into a narrow servants’ stair that descended to the service hall, where the faint clatter of pots drifted from the distant kitchen.
A footman directed her to the garden door, and she crossed swiftly to the carriage, her boots sinking into the pea-sized gravel.
Darcy did not join her until half an hour later.
When at last he stepped up and closed the door behind him, the frown on his brow spoke volumes.
The carriage jolted forward, and before they had gone a dozen yards, his frustration broke forth.
“That woman is impossible to work with,” he said with a low, controlled vehemence. “No wonder Louis de Bourgh chose to die rather than endure another year under her roof.”
Elizabeth turned in surprise. “He took his own life?”
Darcy’s expression shifted to contrition. “No, no, I misled you, Elizabeth. He was twenty-five years her senior, fifty-five when they married. He died at seventy-two of heart failure. The physicians warned him to forgo strong drink, but he declared he would rather be dead than live as a milksop.”
Elizabeth wondered, though she did not say it, whether life with Lady Catherine had played its own part in his resolve.
Darcy shook off the digression. “Well, that is neither here nor there. She is furious because we have interfered with this new patented treatment. I shall send word to the local physician about the powder; there may be others in the parish who have purchased it. Mrs. Jenkinson will remain at Anne’s bedside through the night, and if Lady Catherine produces any more of the powder and attempts to compel my cousin to take it, she will fetch Richard at once.
Elizabeth saw the set of his jaw and heard the resolve in his voice.
“She will not be swayed by reason,” he continued.
“Thus, we must manage both her bad behavior and Anne’s recovery.
I warned her that, should she refuse to cooperate, I would remove her to the dower house for the duration of Anne’s illness.
She relented for now, but it will not last; she will work herself into another tantrum, and we shall have to face her again.
Poor Richard remains behind to endure her misconduct. ”
His words were dry, but the fatigue beneath them was plain. Elizabeth laid her gloved hand over his. “Then we must be grateful he is both patient and loyal to your cousin.”
A fleeting smile touched Darcy’s lips, but the weight upon him did not lift.