Page 12 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“What happened? You wrote… of a sting.” It was hard to steady my voice. “Please show me.”
She drew up the covers. There was a two-pointed puncture on her foot, fiercely scarlet, and bilious green-and-yellow swelling on her ankle. Even though I had guessed the truth, it was terrifying.
“Not a bee, then,” I said. My fingers were trembling. I pushed my hands into my skirt to hide them.
“It was by the path, and the horse would not pass it. Oh, Lizzy, I was so foolish. It was beginning to rain, and Mamma would be angry if I returned, so I dismounted and found a stick to push it aside… The prick did not seem bad. I thought it nothing, truly. Only during the night did it grow worse. I was relieved when Mr. Bingley suggested sending for Mr. Jones.”
“A foul crawler.” It took all my control to pretend I was calm. Crawler stings were always described as deadly. Even horses shied from them. “Did you note anything we should tell the apothecary?”
A housemaid was in the room, a slip of a girl no more than twelve. At my mention of a foul crawler, I heard her gasp. Jane must have concealed the truth so she would not worry.
With a stifled sob, the girl fled, and I heard her crying in the hallway.
“It was about the length of my finger,” Jane whispered, “greenish-black, with dozens of legs. The stingers were in the tail, which it could curl over its head. I did not understand that until after.”
I could think of nothing else to say, so I took Jane’s hand, and we waited for Mr. Jones. After some minutes, the housekeeper escorted the young housemaid back and instructed her to see to our needs.
“Ma’am, can I get something for the miss or yourself?” the girl said in a timid voice. Her eyes were red.
I was about to decline but thought better and said to Jane, “They have hot chocolate. Would that not be a nice treat?” Jane nodded, her eyes closed, and the maid brought us two cups. But Jane could not touch hers, and mine grew cold beside it on the shelf.
The afternoon sun, emerged after yesterday’s rain, dragged behind the closed drapes. I wiped Jane’s wet forehead and cheeks, and the cloths came away rancid and bitter. We managed to change her soaked nightgown, then she fell into a fretful slumber, tossing and moaning. Still Mr. Jones did not arrive, and my fear grew and grew.
“When was Mr. Jones sent for?” I asked the maid.
“Miss Bingley sent a note at breakfast.”
“What did she write?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Please tell the housekeeper to call for him again. Say it is desperately urgent.”
The maid left with a stricken expression, and shortly the housekeeperherself returned. “I have sent two men on horses to find Mr. Jones. Ma’am, the master has been asking about Miss Bennet. What shall I say?”
They would be downstairs, playing cards or drinking chocolate and wondering at my rudeness for not returning to remark amusingly on the trifling headaches of ladies.
I shook my head in reply. Mr. Bingley could not visit Jane in her room, and I did not wish to encourage a visit from his sisters.
At last, boots thumped up the stairs accompanied by the bellowing tones of Mr. Jones, who considered volume a crucial ingredient of any cure. I leaped up in relief.
“A lady has a bee sting and headache, is it?” he said jovially as the door opened. “Well, we shall see—”
His words ended on seeing Jane, and he bent over her, a hand on her forehead, his face grave.
“Her ankle, sir.” I pointed, and he lifted the cover. The swelling had worsened, reaching her knee, and he cursed audibly. I explained, “She said it was small, greenish-black, with many pairs of legs—”
“When?The note said only she was stung by a bee. All afternoon I was with the midwife, for Mrs. Plowman is having a hard labor…”
“Jane was stung evening last.”
He shook his head angrily even as his fingers touched the swelling, examining it or, I hoped, helping it heal. “Has your father come?”
“Only I.” The question frightened me. “Should I send for him?”
“We cannot wait. You must trust my judgment, Miss Bennet.”
“Of course.”
