Page 62 of Attempted Compromises
Whatever had happened, she knew things had changed forever. This was no ordinary scandal; this was something far darker—and it had invaded the very heart of Netherfield Park.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth stood frozen in the chaos of the servants’ quarters, the distant commands of Mrs. Nicholls barely registering in her mind. The housekeeper’s firm, authoritative tone echoed in the background as she directed the butler and maid, but Elizabeth felt as though she were underwater, unable to fully grasp the situation. It wasn’t until the older woman laid a hand on her arm to draw her away that she came to her senses.
“Come now, child,” the housekeeper said firmly, stepping forward and reaching for Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re in no state to be running about like this. Sit down in the kitchen and let me fetch you something warm. You need to collect yourself.”
The warmth of Mrs. Nicholls’s touch— which had clearly meant to offer comfort— jolted Elizabeth back into awareness. Shaking her head violently, she pulled herself free of the woman’s grasp. Her voice broke as she cried out, “No, I have to see Jane! I have to—!”
“Miss Elizabeth, please!” Mrs. Nicholls called frantically after her, but Elizabeth was already dashing back up the stairs, her skirts dragging heavily with the weight of water and grime.
She could barely feel her legs as she ran, her thoughts focused on reaching her sister. The only thought in her mind was her sister, her beloved Jane, lying unconscious and vulnerable, and the housekeeper’s calls to slow down barely registered in her ears.
Her breath hitched as another image intruded—a tall, dark-haired man lying crumpled on the floor of the drawing room.
Darcy.
Her heart clenched painfully at the thought of his still form. She had hidden her growing feelings for him behind layers of denial and propriety, but in this moment, the fear of losing him surged forward, raw and undeniable.
Elizabeth reached the drawing room and flung the door open, skidding to a halt beside the settee where her sister lay with her face down in Bingley’s lap. Dropping to her knees, heedless of the puddles forming from her soaked clothes, Elizabeth grasped Jane’s limp hand. Her sister’s face was serene, her lashes resting gently against her cheeks as though she were simply asleep. But the unnatural stillness of her chest sent a wave of terror through Elizabeth.
“Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, then louder, “Jane! Wake up, please!” Her voice cracked, and tears began to blur her vision. “You have to wake up! Please, Jane!”
Behind her, the sound of hurried footsteps announced Mrs. Nicholls’s arrival. “Miss Elizabeth!” the housekeeper exclaimed, her breath coming in short gasps. “You mustn’t—”
Elizabeth barely registered the words. She shook Jane’s shoulder gently at first, then with increasing desperation. “Jane, please, open your eyes!” she begged. But her sister remained still, unresponsive to her touch.
Strong hands grasped Elizabeth’s shoulders, trying to pull her back, but she fought against the grip with everything she had. “No!” she cried, her voice rising in anguish. “Let me go! I have to help her!”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs. Nicholls said firmly, her voice calm but resolute. “You’ll do her no good like this. Come away before you harm yourself or her any further.”
“I can’t leave her like this!”
“You must,” Mrs. Nicholls insisted, her voice steady. “You’re exhausted and mostly likely becoming ill. You’ll do neither her nor yourself any good in this state.”
Elizabeth struggled for a moment longer before her strength gave out. She collapsed against Mrs. Nicholls, her tears soaking the woman’s apron as sobs wracked her body. “She has to wake up,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice muffled by the fabric. “She has to.”
Mrs. Nicholls held her tightly, her arms strong and steady despite her age. “We’ll do everything we can for her, child,” she said gently. “But you must let us help.”
Elizabeth felt the warmth of Mrs. Nicholls’s strong arms wrapping around her, the grip firm but comforting as the older woman whispered words of reassurance into Elizabeth’s ear. Over the woman’s shoulders, however, Elizabeth could see the prone forms of the other members of their tea party. One face, in particular, sharpened into focus: Darcy’s.
A wave of dread filled her.What if he doesn’t awaken? What if he’s dead? What will happen to poor Andrew? To Georgiana?
A lump formed in her throat as she wondered if he was in pain, if he dreamed of Georgiana, if he would ever wake. She attempted to rise to her feet. “Please,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice trembling. “I need to see Mr. Darcy. I need to know he’s—”
But her pleas went unheeded as Mrs. Nicholls’s arms tightened. “Wait until Mr. Jones comes, miss.”
A sharp knock at the door announced the arrival of the apothecary, whose weathered face paled as his eyes swept over the scene. “Good God in heaven!” he exclaimed, stepping further into the room. “What in the name of all things holy is going on?”
His voice drew Elizabeth’s attention, and she wrenched herself free from Mrs. Nicholls’s embrace, her tear-streaked face turning toward the apothecary.
“Mr. Jones,” she began, her voice trembling, “you must help them. Please—Jane, Mr. Darcy, all of them—they’ve been drugged!”
Behind Mr. Jones, several servants crowded in the doorway, their hushed murmurs growing louder as they took in thescattered bodies. Elizabeth followed their gazes and felt her stomach drop as she realized where they were looking—at Jane and Mr. Bingley, still entangled on the settee in a compromising position.
“Oh, Lord,” Elizabeth groaned, a fresh wave of mortification washing over her. “The gossip!”
Driven by instinct, she scrambled to separate the unconscious couple, but her arms gave out after only a few attempts. Seeing her struggle, Mrs. Nicholls barked at two manservants lingering near the door.
