Chapter 13 - Tempest and Tension

Friday 15th November 1811

Netherfield - Elizabeth's Sickroom - Elizabeth

Elizabeth woke early, as was her habit, though her body protested even the slight movement of turning her head. The room was still dim, but her mind felt clearer than it had in days. When exactly had she fallen ill? She had lost all sense of time during her fever.

Jane slept peacefully beside her, fair hair spread across the pillow, and Elizabeth wondered how many hours—or days—her sister had spent watching over her. The room was pleasantly warm, the hearth fire built high and glowing steadily. The bed was larger, softer, and far more comfortable than the one she slept in at Longbourn. Beneath the gentle crackle of flames, she caught the faint scent of beeswax and hearth-smoke—unfamiliar, but oddly comforting.

Through the partially open door came the hushed rustle of the household stirring to life. Her early-rising tendencies, coupled with what must have been nearly two days of sleep, made her perhaps the only person besides the servants awake at this hour.

"Did you see how Miss Bingley went on at dinner last night?" a voice whispered as the maids passed by. "All those comments about the chamber arrangements."

"Well, what do you expect?" came the reply. "Him giving up his own chambers like that. Though after carrying her through all that rain himself—"

Elizabeth's breath caught. His chambers?

The elegant room around her suddenly took on a new, startling significance. Miss Bingley's pointed remarks about the room's private nature, the servants' particular attention to the fire, the carefully chosen books—it all made a mortifying kind of sense.

Her cheeks burned as she looked about with new understanding. Every object seemed suddenly, intensely personal—the precisely arranged correspondence on the desk, the leather-bound volumes she had been perusing so freely, even the very bed in which she now lay. She had been occupying Mr Darcy's private chambers. For days.

And he had carried her here himself, through the storm.

The sound of Jane stirring beside her provided a welcome distraction from the tide of embarrassment rising within her. Her sister's eyes fluttered open and immediately found Elizabeth's face with concern.

"Lizzy? Are you feverish again? Your cheeks are quite flushed."

"No, I…" Elizabeth hesitated, unsure how to voice her mortification. "Jane, why did no one tell me these were Mr Darcy's chambers?"

Jane's expression grew cautious. "We thought it best not to distress you while you were still unwell. Mr Jones insisted you not be moved, and Mr Darcy was most adamant that you have the warmest room with the best fire."

"But surely there were other suitable rooms? The impropriety of…" Her voice trailed off as another thought struck her. "Is this why Miss Bingley has been so… attentive to the furnishings?"

"She has been… concerned about the irregular nature of the situation," Jane admitted carefully. "Though Mr Darcy insisted that your comfort and recovery take precedence over any other consideration."

ooOoo

Netherfield Park - Oak Wood - Darcy

Darcy's shot went wide, the bird escaping through the canopy. He didn't flinch, didn't curse. Barnes, handing him a fresh gun, hesitated a fraction longer than usual, clearly waiting for some sign of frustration. But Darcy merely took the weapon without comment, his gaze already straying toward the distant house. Despite the perfect morning, his thoughts continually wandered back to Netherfield.

Bingley's shots sounded from the next stand, Hurst's from further along the wood. Even the familiar rhythm of a morning's sport - dogs working through fallen leaves, birds rising, guns firing - failed to hold his attention.

"The birds are showing particularly well," Hurst observed, accepting a fresh gun from his loader. "We might make a record bag if we press on through the next copse."

"Bad luck, Darcy," Bingley called, checking his pocket watch yet again. "Perhaps we should head back for some refreshments?"

"Already?" Hurst protested. "But the birds are just beginning to—"

"Capital idea," Darcy agreed, handing his gun to Barnes. They'd had word of Elizabeth's improvement at breakfast, yet here he was, as eager as Bingley to return.

The walk back to the house took longer than usual, with Hurst stopping frequently to point out promising spots for tomorrow's sport. As they entered the hall, they found Miss Bingley directing maids with fresh flowers for tonight's dinner.

"The servants have set out refreshments in the morning room," she informed them, her attention fixed on adjusting a particularly stubborn bloom.

Later, the sound of Miss Bennet's gentle laugh drew him early to the drawing room. She and Bingley were engaged in conversation by the fire, both rising at his entrance - Jane to make her curtsy, Bingley to add another log to the already blazing fire.

"Mr Darcy," she greeted him warmly, resuming her seat. "I must thank you again for all your kindness to my sister."

He bowed. "Miss Bennet. You are feeling stronger, I trust?" Behind her chair, Bingley busied himself carefully arranging the fresh log.

"Much better, thank you," Jane replied with her gentle smile. "Though I fear I have been quite a burden to everyone's kindness."

"Not at all," Bingley interjected quickly, straightening from the fire. "That is—" He caught himself, turning back to adjust another log that hardly needed attention.

"And Miss Elizabeth?" he asked, after a suitable pause. "She continues to recover?"

"Yes, though Mr Jones insists she must not yet leave her bed."

"She has been well enough to read, I trust?" The question was perhaps too eager, but he could hardly retract it now.

"Indeed," Miss Bennet smiled. "I believe she was most pleased to find Gibbon among the volumes."

Darcy turned toward the window to hide his satisfaction at this intelligence. To think of Elizabeth reading his books, perhaps sharing his own marginal notes… He was saved from this dangerous line of thought by Miss Bingley's entrance.

Miss Bingley's entrance prevented any response, though her occasional glances toward the door suggested she shared his awareness of who was missing.

"My dear Jane!" Caroline's affectionate greeting interrupted any further discussion as she swept into the room. "You must not tire yourself. Charles, surely that fire is quite warm enough now?"

Bingley finally abandoned his task as his sister settled herself beside Jane, taking her hand warmly. "I have had the blue drawing room arranged for dinner - so much cosier for an intimate party. Though we shall miss dear Eliza's company, of course."

Dinner was a quiet affair in the blue drawing room, with Miss Bingley attending particularly to Jane's comfort while Hurst dozed in his chair and his wife occupied herself with her embroidery. Bingley managed to direct most of the conversation toward subjects that allowed his guest to speak without tiring herself, though he was frequently required to repeat things for Mr Hurst, who roused occasionally to request clarification about the topics under discussion.

When Miss Bennet excused herself shortly after the meal, pleading the need to check on her sister, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst immediately rose to accompany her. Their warm expressions of concern for both sisters' welfare followed the ladies from the room, while Mr Hurst merely grunted his goodnight without opening his eyes.

Darcy watched their departure with poorly concealed envy. While he was confined to propriety in the drawing room with Bingley and a snoring Hurst, the ladies alone had the freedom to visit Elizabeth's sickroom. Later that night, as he climbed the stairs to his temporary quarters, he could not help glancing toward the corridor that led to his chambers, where a faint light still burned.

"Cards?" Hurst suggested, already reaching for the deck. With only three players, piquet was impossible, but Darcy found himself nodding at the suggestion. Anything to occupy his thoughts.

Bingley made no pretence of interest in the game, openly watching the door whenever voices drifted down from above. Their attempt at whist with a dummy hand failed quickly - Hurst's increasingly pointed comments about technique went largely unheeded as Darcy kept losing count of trumps.

When the ladies returned without Miss Bennet who'd gone to bed, but with news of Miss Elizabeth's improvement, Mr Hurst and Bingley settled to piquet, with Mrs Hurst observing their game. Darcy took up his pen to write, and Miss Bingley, seating herself near him, watched the progress of his letter with great attention.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" she exclaimed. When this earned no response, she continued, "Though perhaps you might mention our neighbours to her. The Phillips's, for instance - I dare say she would be most interested to hear about Miss Elizabeth's relations. Her uncle the attorney would make such a charming addition to the Pemberley gallery, situated next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know," she added with a significant look at her sister, "only in different lines."

Darcy continued writing, hoping his silence would discourage further commentary. But Miss Bingley was not to be deterred.

"You write uncommonly fast tonight, Mr Darcy."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly." He tried to focus on his letter to Georgiana, though Miss Bingley's presence at his elbow made it increasingly difficult.

"And yet how many letters you must have occasion to write, with all your business matters at Pemberley! How odious I should think them."

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours." Perhaps shortness of manner would succeed where silence had failed.

But Miss Bingley merely leaned closer to observe his writing. "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you, but I always mend my own."

Finding it impossible to complete his letter under such persistent attention, Darcy made his excuses.

"You cannot mean to retire already, Mr Darcy," Miss Bingley protested as he began gathering his writing materials. "The evening is still young, and I'm sure we could arrange some music. Or perhaps another rubber of whist?"

"Thank you, no." Darcy had endured quite enough of her attention for one evening. "I have several matters requiring my attention."

"But surely your letter to dear Georgiana can wait until tomorrow? We so rarely have these pleasant, intimate evenings any more."

Finding it impossible to complete his letter under such persistent attention - or to politely refuse further entertainment - Darcy made his excuses. The card players were too absorbed in their game to notice his departure, Hurst's voice carrying on about proper technique as he left the room.

As Darcy climbed the stairs to his temporary quarters, he could not help glancing toward the corridor that led to his chambers, where a faint light still burned.

A cry from his chambers made him freeze. "No… trapped… the walls…" Elizabeth's voice, raw and tight with fear, cut through the corridor like a blade. He didn't think. He simply moved—propriety forgotten, heart pounding—as he pushed open the door.

The night-candle cast just enough light to see Elizabeth caught in some nightmare, her face pale and drawn. "Can't move… the chase is too small…" Her evident terror of being confined made his chest tighten with understanding.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said quietly, forgetting he had no right to be there. "You're not trapped. You're safe now."

Her eyes flew open at his voice, though she seemed to look through rather than at him. The realization of where he was - alone in a lady's bedchamber at night - finally penetrated his consciousness. He retreated hastily, though her ragged breathing followed him down the corridor.

Upon reaching his temporary quarters, Darcy rang for Fletcher. His valet appeared almost immediately, clearly having waited up.

"Why was Miss Elizabeth unattended?" Darcy demanded without preamble.

"Sarah was meant to sit with her tonight, sir." Something in Fletcher's carefully neutral tone suggested this was not an ideal arrangement. "I shall speak with Mrs Nicholls about ensuring proper attendance for the remainder of the night."

"See that you do." Darcy turned to the window, unwilling to let even Fletcher see how shaken he was by Elizabeth's evident distress. "And ensure someone reliable is with her for the remainder of the night."

After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Have her nights been disturbed?"

"I shall inquire, sir."

Darcy nodded sharply. He stood silently as Fletcher helped him out of his evening clothes, his mind still dwelling on Elizabeth's evident terror.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Fletcher asked, gathering up Darcy's evening clothes.

"No, that will be all."

"I shall return as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements, sir."

Only after his valet had gone did Darcy allow himself to move to the window, where Elizabeth's distressed voice continued to echo in his thoughts. Some time later, Fletcher's quiet return roused him from his brooding.

"Martha will sit with Miss Elizabeth for the remainder of the night, sir. And Mrs Nicholls reports this is the third such incident since the fever broke."

Darcy nodded, dismissing him. He stood at the window long after Fletcher had gone, one hand braced against the sill. Elizabeth's voice echoed still in his mind, the fear in it lodging deep beneath his ribs—impossible to silence.

ooOoo

Netherfield Park - Elizabeth's Sickroom - Elizabeth

Elizabeth woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. For a moment, she couldn't place where she was—the unfamiliar shadows and strange bed disorienting her further. Then Jane's gentle voice pierced the haze.

"Lizzy? You were dreaming of the chaise again."

Elizabeth forced herself to take slow, deliberate breaths, focusing on the open space around her—so different from the confined prison of her nightmare. "I'm quite well," she managed, though her voice trembled slightly. "You should not have been disturbed."

"Perhaps we might talk for a while?" she added, unable to face the prospect of closing her eyes again just yet. The memory of being trapped was still too fresh, too immediate.

Jane settled into the chair beside her, understanding without need for explanation.

"Tell me about your evening," Elizabeth said, her voice steadier now, though she still gripped the coverlet tightly. "Was Mr Bingley as attentive as ever?"

Even in the dim candlelight, she could see her sister's colour rise. "He was… most kind. Though I fear I tired too quickly to remain long in company."

After a pause, Jane added softly, "I believe… I heard Mr Darcy's voice just now. Did you see him?"

Elizabeth's breath caught. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, her expression troubled. "I… I'm not certain. Everything is rather confused." She frowned, trying to sort memory from dream. "Though I think I heard him say something about being safe?"

Jane tilted her head slightly. "It is possible. He passed by your door earlier. Perhaps your mind remembered his voice even in sleep."

Elizabeth hesitated, her fingers twisting in the coverlet. "It felt so real, Jane. I remember… the sound of his voice in the dark. Calm. Steady. Not part of the nightmare—but pulling me out of it." She shook her head, frustrated. "And yet I don't know if he was truly there or if I imagined it."

Jane reached for her hand gently. "Whether dream or memory, it comforted you. That is enough, for now."

"He has been most attentive to your welfare," she added, her voice quiet. "The way he carried you through the rain, and walked beside his horse despite the storm…"

Elizabeth nodded slowly, then blinked hard. "I remember very little of the journey. Only his voice. Telling me I was safe." A pause. "Though I confess, I never thought to find Mr Darcy so… considerate."

Jane gave a small, knowing smile. "Perhaps," she said gently, "we have not known him well enough to judge."

Elizabeth gave a small, mirthless laugh. "It is disorienting, waking in a bed one does not recognize, with memories that do not feel entirely one's own."

Her gaze swept the room—the fine woodwork, the orderly writing desk, the gleaming brass fittings, the fire still burning low in the grate. Everything bespoke quiet elegance.

"…And yet, for a man who does not live here," she murmured, "he certainly makes a place feel his own."

Jane looked over, curious.

Elizabeth offered a soft huff of laughter. "It's ridiculous, I know. I lie in a borrowed bed, surrounded by borrowed things, and yet everything speaks of him. Quietly expensive. Utterly composed. A little too proud."

She paused, then added more quietly, "But warm. Surprisingly warm."

Jane said nothing, but the corner of her mouth tilted upward.

Elizabeth looked away. "It would be most improper, of course, to let one's opinion of a gentleman be softened by the comforts of his taste."

And yet, as she lay back against the pillows, the feel of fine linens beneath her fingertips and the memory of his voice in the dark lingered longer than she would admit.

ooOoo

Netherfield, Blue Room - Darcy

The pen in Darcy's hand hesitated above the page. A drop of ink bloomed and bled outward before he finally moved to blot it.

My dearest Georgiana, he had begun—only to stop halfway through the next line, his thoughts refusing to arrange themselves into anything resembling coherence.

He reached for the fresh sheet, drew in a breath, and tried again.

The weather at Netherfield remains disagreeable, though the sport was fair this morning. Bingley is as good-natured as ever, and his sisters continue to—

He stopped again. Continue to what? Plague me? Hover? Pry? He scratched a sharp black line through the sentence and set the pen down altogether.

His gaze shifted toward the window, though the glass only reflected the candlelight behind him. Somewhere down the corridor, a woman slept in his chambers—not merely a guest, but Elizabeth Bennet herself. Still pale from fever. Still haunted by whatever horrors the overturned chaise had imprinted upon her.

Her voice echoed in his mind: panicked, fragile. "Can't move… the chaise is too small…"

The sound had pierced him. Even now, hours later, it echoed beneath his ribs.

He should not have gone in. He knew that. And yet, in that moment, he had not felt like a man with choices. He had simply heard her distress and moved.

He had told her she was safe. Had she heard him?

His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.

That room had never felt particularly personal before. He had occupied it as a guest, no more than that. But now—it carried the imprint of her presence. The warmth of the fire. The stillness after a storm. His books in her hands.

He did not flatter himself with illusions about her opinion of him. And yet, a part of him—stubborn and treacherous—hoped she had noticed the quiet order, the comfort, the care. That she had understood something about him through the space he had left behind.

It is foolish, he thought. She is not a woman to be swayed by surroundings. She would laugh at the notion.

And yet… she had lain there, vulnerable and unguarded. She had heard his voice in the dark, and clung to it.

He rose and moved to the window, pushing it open just enough to let in the night air. The candle flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the writing desk.

Downstairs, the house was silent. Behind him, the letter remained unwritten.

Darcy rested his hands on the windowsill and stared out into the dark.

It was not his house. Not his room.

But somehow, tonight, it had felt like something more than borrowed.