I t was the oddest thing. Darcy had lost his voice, and now his legs buckled as wildly as a newborn colt’s under his weight. It was just as well, for when he tried to walk, there was a terrific pain in his feet, as though he was walking barefoot over shards of glass.
Nothing else ailed him. He did not have a cold—there was no cough or sneezing. He did not, thank the Lord, have a fever or anything that might indicate influenza. No bright red rash, no soreness in his throat when he swallowed, no aches or pains. Not even his back offered any further complaint.
Whatever this was, it was enough to keep him confined to his room, and that was a trial difficult to endure.
Darcy had come to Netherfield to visit with Bingley, to enjoy some sport and help him become established in the neighbourhood.
The very evening he arrived, he had been nearly sleepless for a week and then, after a brief respite, here he was, ill again, from a malady that made even less sense.
Darcy passed the days reading the few books he had brought along and his letters.
He wrote to his cousin Richard and his sister Georgiana but did not mention the uncertain state of his health.
There was nothing either of them could do.
He would not have Georgiana made anxious over him, and he would not put it past Richard to find a horse and ride to Hertfordshire without warning.
It was embarrassing enough to be confined to his rooms in a home not his own.
He did not wish to inflict Richard on the Bingleys, too.
Bingley visited after breakfast. He had planned to dine with the officers tonight but mentioned that he had written to Colonel Forster to decline the invitation.
He had also written to Darcy’s physician in town, but Darcy took comfort in the fact that Ingersoll would never be able to decipher Bingley’s hand.
One benefit of Darcy’s unexpected illness was that it offered him time to reflect upon his behaviour since arriving.
He found he could not be pleased with it.
He had slighted Miss Elizabeth when she had done nothing to deserve such treatment, and he recollected, with some chagrin, that his apology had not been a good one.
Miss Elizabeth’s manners were not those of the fashionable world, but while many of his acquaintances in London were more polished, none were as genuine.
Despite her inability to allow him to speak, he had watched her carefully at Lucas Lodge.
His conclusion was that Miss Elizabeth was naturally inclined to cheerfulness and sought to use her happy disposition to put those around her at their ease.
She was clever, but she was also kind. In his experience, this was a rare combination of attributes.
He had not truly minded Miss Bingley’s company before their journey to the countryside.
She was educated, and had a discerning eye and a sharp sense of humour that he appreciated.
Unfortunately, in sharing a house with her, he had noted that she often wielded her humour as if it were a sword—heavily, and without understanding that it could cut both ways.
When compared, there was a distinct difference between the two women, and Darcy wanted a wife whose disposition was similar to Miss Elizabeth’s rather than Miss Bingley’s.
Unfortunately, when they first arrived, Miss Bingley had successfully engaged him in a few caustic exchanges about Meryton and its inhabitants.
That had been not only ungentlemanly but unwise, for it had encouraged her to expect more than he was willing to give.
Miss Bingley had quickly forgiven him for what she perceived as his ill manners the first week of his stay and now sent her maid to speak with Cartwright each day.
This was a politeness that might be offered by any hostess to a guest who was in poor health were there not something almost possessive in the tone of the messages that made him uncomfortable.
Why would any woman wish to attach herself to a man whose health was suspect? He did not wish to dwell on it.
“Miss Bingley asks if they might see you for tea this afternoon, sir,” Cartwright said as he entered with everything required for Darcy’s morning ablutions. “She hopes you will indulge her.”
Darcy opened his mouth and attempted to speak. The only sound he managed was akin to a strangled badger. It was an improvement—at least now he was able to make some sort of sound. He sighed.
“Very well, sir, I shall let the maid know,” the valet said smoothly.
When he was alone again, Darcy held on to the bedpost and carefully pulled himself to his feet.
His legs were weak but held firm, and there was no longer any pain.
This evidence of progress gratified him, and he tottered stiffly to a chair near the fire.
He cleared his throat and managed to produce a human “ahem.”
Sitting up in a proper chair before a crackling blaze in the hearth put him in an excellent mood, especially when he was able to take refreshments while he read.
After the meal and the hot tea, Darcy practiced reading a few lines of his book aloud.
Although his voice was harsh and broken, he was at last able to speak.
“Miss Bennet has been taken ill as well, sir,” Cartwright offered when he came in to prepare Darcy for the evening. He seemed pleased to see Darcy out of bed. “Mr. Bingley has called for the apothecary.”
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, ignoring Cartwright’s obvious surprise that his voice had returned. He stood carefully as his man placed a basin of warm water on a small table nearby. The valet watched him placidly, but Darcy detected a small smile on Cartwright’s face. “I did not know she had come.”
“She rode over and was caught in the rain,” the valet informed him.
Darcy frowned. Why would Miss Bennet ride when the weather was so changeable? Why had Miss Bingley invited her at all? While Miss Bennet was a sweet girl, he had not thought that Miss Bingley cared much for her. Bingley, though . . . Ah.
Miss Bingley had invited Miss Bennet because she believed Bingley would be out of the house, dining with the officers.
She wished to dissuade Miss Bennet from pursuing her brother or her brother from pursuing Miss Bennet.
Despite comprehending Miss Bingley’s concerns, Darcy could not avoid chuckling as he washed his face and hands.
Mrs. Bennet had outmanoeuvered his hostess.
Well, Miss Bingley ought not be scheming to work around her brother.
She was justly served, now, with yet another ill guest for whom to care.
He frowned when he considered Miss Bennet. “It is not serious, I hope?”
“It does not appear to be,” Cartwright said, holding out the towel he had draped over his arm.
“Good, good. I may join the others downstairs tomorrow,” Darcy said. “At least there shall only be one patient instead of two.” He coughed. It still felt as though there was something caught in his throat.
“Might I suggest one more day above stairs, sir?” Cartwright asked without meeting Darcy’s gaze. “You are still recovering, and Miss Bingley’s enthusiasm may be a bit wearing.”
He did not laugh, but it was a near thing. “You may be right, Cartwright. I can always invite Bingley to spend the afternoon here with me.” He anticipated being of some use to Bingley at last, even if it was only to distract him from Miss Bennet’s condition.
With this last bout of extraordinary illness behind him, Darcy was greatly anticipating a bit of sport. He could hardly wait.
“Bingley,” Darcy greeted his friend the next morning.
Bingley blinked and then smiled warmly. “Darcy,” he said with a relieved shake of his head. “It does me good to hear your voice, man.”
“I must agree,” Darcy replied with a grin. “Cartwright thought I ought to hold out another day to be certain I am recovered, and I thought it a grand notion.”
His friend laughed. “Indeed. You and I shall be quite comfortable here while my sisters complain about Miss Elizabeth.”
That brought Darcy up short. “Miss Elizabeth?”
“Oh, of course. You were not at breakfast,” Bingley said with another easy laugh.
He drew up a chair. “Miss Bennet sent a note to Longbourn early this morning, and before we had finished our breakfast, Miss Elizabeth arrived to tend her.” His gaze was soft.
“I am very glad Miss Bennet has such a devoted sister. Do you know, she walked here? Nearly three miles, just to be of use to Miss Bennet.”
“It rained overnight. She must have been all over mud.”
“Caroline made the same observation,” Bingley scoffed, and Darcy winced.
He had not meant to insult Miss Elizabeth. Rather, he had been approving her dedication and pleasantly engaged in imagining how she must have appeared—muddy hems, cheeks flushed, fine dark eyes brightened by the exercise. “Forgive me, Bingley,” he said. “I did not intend to offend.”
His friend tipped his head slightly to one side and looked him up and down. “Are you sure you are recovered? You are rather flushed.”
“I am well.” Darcy cleared his throat again, though this had more to do with his embarrassment than any lingering ailment.
“Good. I will not hesitate to say that you had us all quite concerned.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“You are my friend, Darcy. Please do not mention it.”
Darcy knew Bingley meant that quite literally. He did not want to be thanked for the things he did. His friendship had always been sincere and generous.
They talked, read, played chess and cards, and otherwise enjoyed their afternoon. Cartwright reported around four that Miss Elizabeth was to stay to nurse her sister and that servants had been sent to fetch them both clothing from Longbourn.
“I expect she shall come down for dinner, though she may not remain after,” the valet reported when questioned by the master of the house.