Page 6 of Transforming Mr. Darcy
Elizabeth blushed. Mr. Darcy might be haughty, but he was a gentleman. He ought not be compared to a dog. “He is nothing to me,” she insisted.
Mildread lifted an eyebrow.
“It is only that I would not wish for him to be made ill on my behalf. I would not even wish that on Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst.”
“So in your estimation, he is superior to Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst?” the fairy asked lightly.
The Netherfield ladies were every bit as proud and supercilious as Mr. Darcy. Perhaps even more, since the women yet retained their powers of speech. Yet Elizabeth believed she had caught a glimpse of gentleness in him tonight that Mr. Bingley’s sisters lacked.
Still the fairy continued her work, the needle dipping steadily in and out of the cloth. “What aboutMr. Hurst?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Mr. Hurst is rarely conscious, so I cannot say.”
Mildread wrinkled her little nose, but Elizabeth spied the hints of a smile. “True enough.”
“If Mr. Darcy is thought to be ill, Mr. Bingley will be occupied and unavailable to court Jane,” Elizabeth blurted out. This had only just occurred to her, but it was true. Mr. Bingley would soon depart Lucas Lodge with Mr. Darcy; she was sure of it. He was not a man who would send his ill friend off alone. Jane had been greatly anticipating spending the evening in Mr. Bingley’s company. Elizabeth was disappointed for her, that was all.
Mildread sniffed. “Where is Priscilla?”
Elizabeth might have heard a bit of disdain in the question, but she did not dwell on it. “I cannot say,” she told Mildread, who grunted in a most un-fairy-like manner.
“Because once Priscilla has introduced them, she need not do anything more,” Mildread grumbled. “Well, I shall tend to Jane’s happiness in her absence, then. Will that do?”
Elizabeth wanted to decline, but she did not wish to offend Mildread. That could be—would be—disastrous for them all.
Elizabeth had not agreed, but Mildread did not seem to notice. She shooed Elizabeth back out to the party, where Jane was standing with Mamma.
“What does he mean, coming out when he is ill?” Mamma complained loudly. “Now Mr. Bingley has escorted him back to Netherfield and will miss the entire evening!”
The evening was more than half gone, but Elizabeth would not debate Mamma when her mother was already querulous. There was no point.
“Mamma,” Jane remonstrated, “we are all very concerned for Mr. Darcy. Sometimes these things happen very suddenly. He surely would not have come out had he felt ill.”
“I would put nothing past such a man,” Mamma replied with a huff. “Mark my words, Jane, he means to keep Mr. Bingley away from you. And then what will we do?”
Jane’s cheeks coloured. “Mamma, please.”
“Mildread is in the parlour, Mamma,” Elizabeth said softly. “She is working on the most cunning scrolled design. Perhaps you might care to see it?”
“Mildread is here?” Her mother’s expression cleared, and Elizabeth relaxed. Mamma truly did love pretty things, and she often came up with her own ideas from viewing the fairy’s work and asking about it.
Mamma sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I shall, now that Jane will not need me.” She patted Jane’s arm and made for the hallway.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” Jane said quietly, her cheeks still a rosy pink. “I am disappointed, of course, but Mr. Bingley would not be a man worth knowing were he to abandon his ill friend for a party.”
Elizabeth smiled. She did not care for Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst, but she believed they would ask Jane to visit them, and soon. Mr. Bingley would see to it. “Come, shall we comfort Sir William on the loss of his most illustrious guests?”
Jane smiled and took her arm. As they strolled across the room, Elizabeth cast a glance over at her younger sisters, who were dancing. She might have enjoyed a dance with Mr. Darcy.
But Mildread was wrong. He would not have asked.
Chapter 4
It 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.
