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“Poison? What are you talking about?” Darcy demanded.
Lady Catherine cried out in pain, clutching her abdomen again. She collapsed back into her armchair and her body began to twitch with violent convulsions.
“Mother!” Anne screamed.
“Help me!” cried Elizabeth as she attempted to assist Lady Catherine to the chaise longue. “She needs to lie down.”
Charlotte moved to help Elizabeth, but found herself roughly shoved aside by Mrs Jenkinson. The lady’s companion grabbed Lady’s Catherine’s shoulders and pulled her from Elizabeth. “I will take care of her ladyship. I have done it for many years and I know her needs best.”
Elizabeth did not waste time arguing, but simply began propping cushions around the sick lady. Charlotte hurried to help her. Lady Catherine moaned and writhed on the chaise, turning and vomiting onto the floor again. Sir William and Maria could only stand and watch, dumb with horror. Hargreaves stood uncertainly next to Anne, who was weeping openly. He made as if to put an arm around her shoulders, then quickly dropped it again.
Darcy summoned a footman. “Quick, get the physician and the apothecary!” he said tersely. Then he strode over to his aunt. “Turn her on her side,” he directed. “And loosen her stays.”
“Loosen her stays!” Mrs Jenkinson gasped. “Sir! In company? The impropriety—”
“Impropriety will not kill my aunt but suffocation will,” said Darcy curtly. “Do as I say.”
Elizabeth moved to comply and Charlotte hurried to help her. They ignored Mrs Jenkinson who spluttered indignantly next to them. When they had loosened her clothing, Darcy touched Lady’s Catherine’s face with a gentle hand.
“Aunt? Aunt? Can you hear me?”
A soft moan came from the older woman’s lips, but otherwise she appeared to be losing consciousness, her eyes rolling back into her head.
Darcy stood up, his face grim. “Cover her with a blanket. Keep her warm.”
They waited tensely as the minutes ticked past. They could do nothing now until the physician arrived and could advise them further. Every so often, Lady Catherine would cry out and her body would be wracked with convulsions, then there would be another bout of vomiting, before she lapsed into semi-consciousness again. Mrs Poole and several of the maids arrived, their eyes round with horror, and Mrs Jenkinson lost no time in taking charge of their energies, ordering them to stoke the fireplace, bring towels and bowls of water, fetch blankets, and clean up the mess on the floor.
Charlotte and Elizabeth stood back from the proceedings and let the servants take their place. On the other side of the room, Darcy had pulled Edwin Hargreaves aside and was discussing something intently with him. Mr Collins hovered ineffectually around the chaise longue, apparently torn between the impropriety of seeing Lady Catherine in this state and the desire to help her in some way. Sir William and Maria continued to stand immobile in their places, their eyes riveted on the sick lady.
Elizabeth looked over at Anne and bit her lip. The girl was huddled on one of the other chairs now, her face white and her body shaking. Elizabeth went over and, grabbing Lady Catherine’s discarded shawl, draped it around the girl’s shoulders.
“Miss de Bourgh? Would you like a drink? Some wine perhaps?”
“N-n-no... th-thank you...” The girl looked up and Elizabeth was struck by the horror and despair in her eyes. “Will... will Mother die?”
“Shh...” said Elizabeth, sitting down next to Anne and putting an arm around the girl. Given their recent acquaintance, it was probably highly improper to assume such familiarity, but she remembered Darcy’s earlier contempt for the strictures of society when talking to Mrs Jenkinson. She had been surprised by his attitude; she had always thought him to be a man who followed rigidly the rules of decorum—it appeared that once again she had misjudged him. There were even more sides to Darcy’s character than she had anticipated. And in this respect—she looked down at Anne’s clenched hands—she heartily agreed with his sentiments: this was one of those situations where necessity overcame propriety.
“Your mother is a strong woman,” Elizabeth said gently. She did not want to lie to the girl but she did want to offer comfort if she could. “We must not jump to conclusions.”
They heard a flurry of movement in the hallway outside and, the next moment, the physician and apothecary rushed into the room together. Elizabeth looked at them eagerly, feeling a wave of relief. Surely they would be able to save Lady Catherine now?
The hope was short-lived. After a brief examination, the physician turned from the patient, his face grim.
“It is definitely poison,” he announced. “Though I know not what type. It appears to have entered her ladyship’s person by some means—has she had anything to eat or drink recently?”
“Well, we have all just partaken of dinner...” said Mr Collins doubtfully. “But if it was in the food, would we not all be sick?”
“Lady Catherine had tea... served by her,” Mrs Jenkinson hissed, pointing at Charlotte. “And a se’en night ago, when Mrs Collins had also served the tea, Lady Catherine was taken ill as well, though her symptoms that time were fairly mild: just some dizziness and nausea. This time the poisoner has been more vengeful.”
Charlotte flushed as all eyes in the room turned on her.
Elizabeth stepped forwards and said angrily, “What are you implying?”
Mrs Jenkinson shrugged and turned away, but her eyes flashed maliciously.
“Surely the most important thing now is to administer an antidote to her ladyship?” said Mr Collins, wringing his hands.
“That is the material point, sir,” the apothecary spoke up. “Without knowledge of the source of the poison, it is impossible to determine the correct antidote. We could make matters worse by administering the wrong restorative.”
Lady Catherine moaned again and hunched over, her body twisting in pain. Anne cried out in distress and Elizabeth said desperately, “You have to do something!”
“I shall bleed her... but other than that...” The physician shook his head.
“Your pardon, doctor, but if I might make a suggestion...” Darcy spoke up. He gestured towards Mr Hargreaves. “Mr Hargreaves here is a gentleman scientist. He may be able to help.”
The other young man stepped forwards nervously. “Uh... yes, I have a particular interest in pharmacopoeia preparations, both toxic and curative. I... um... believe I may know of a substance that could help, in the absence of an antidote.” He hesitated as everyone looked at him expectantly. “Charcoal.”
“Charcoal?” said the physician incredulously.
Mr Hargreaves nodded. “I do not completely understand the processes involved, but charcoal appears to have the ability to absorb poisons and neutralise them. However, it must be heated to high temperatures first and then ground to a powder. This powder is then taken internally.”
“I do not know...” the physician said with a doubtful look.
“There can be no harm in trying,” said Darcy briskly. “We have no other alternatives.”
The physician looked at the apothecary, then they both nodded. “Very well.”
The room became a hive of activity after that as servants rushed to do Mr Hargreaves’s bidding, bringing a bag of charcoal to the hearth, building up a huge fire, heating the coal, and then crushing the hot pieces into a fine powder. Charlotte remained with Mr Collins beside Lady Catherine, attempting to help when Mrs Jenkinson would let her, but Elizabeth decided that it was best for Anne to be removed from the scene. She led the shivering girl into the library, where a maid had been instructed to bring them some fresh tea. The hot drink seemed to soothe Anne who soon fell into an exhausted sleep on one of the library sofas. Elizabeth covered the girl carefully with a large blanket, then sank exhausted herself into a chair by the fireplace.
“I must thank you for taking care of my cousin.”
Elizabeth roused herself to see Darcy standing in the library doorway. She said hopefully, “Is Lady Catherine—?”
He shook his head as he came into the room. “We are still waiting. Hargreaves has administered the charcoal, but thus far her symptoms continue unabated.”
An image of Lady Catherine writhing and crying out in pain came to Elizabeth’s mind. She cringed from the memory and felt once again that helpless frustration as she had watched, unable to do anything, in the drawing room. She shook her head, dismayed to find tears springing to her eyes.
Darcy crouched down next to her. “Miss Bennet...”
Elizabeth waved him away. “I-I-I’m sorry,” she gasped, gulping back a sob. “Forgive me. I detest women who dissolve in tears at the first sign of distress and yet it appears I am one of them!”
He took a snowy white handkerchief out of his inner jacket pocket and handed it to her, saying gently, “You have suffered an ordeal. There is no shame in feeling compassion for others.”
Elizabeth dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief as she struggled to get her emotions back under control. Finally, the tears abated and she sat back, taking a shuddering breath. She glanced down at the sodden cloth in her hands and said in dismay, “I-I’m sorry. I seem to always be ruining your linen—”
Darcy laughed softly. “’Tis of no consequence, Miss Bennet. At least this time I do not have to explain the mystery of a missing cravat to my curious valet.”
Elizabeth felt a blush come to her cheeks as she remembered the incident at Netherfield Park when she had had need of his cravat. She had cut her hand badly while on a solitary excursion to the attic and had been lucky he was there to help her staunch the wound. She remembered the warm intimacy of their encounter then, alone together in the darkness of the attic, and felt the blush deepen on her cheeks.
She glanced at Darcy to see if he shared the recollections, but he was busy pouring a fresh cup of tea from the pot. He held up a silver flask and added a long measure to the cup before handing it to Elizabeth. “Here, drink this,” he said.
Elizabeth eyed the flask askance. “What did you put in it?”
“I ask you to trust me, Miss Bennet. Drink it.”
She looked up into his dark eyes and felt everything in her respond to him. Taking the cup gingerly from him, she raised it to her lips and took a heady swallow. She choked on the hot, bitter liquid as it burned down her throat.
“What is that?” she gasped.
“Drink more,” he directed.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, then was surprised to find that a slow warmth was permeating her body. It started from her throat and spread downwards, making her bones turn to liquid and untying the knot of tension in her stomach. She hesitated, then obediently drank more tea, taking care to take smaller sips this time.
She sighed and raised her head at last. “What is it?” she asked again.
There was a twinkle in Darcy’s eyes. “Some of my aunt’s best brandy. I am sure she would deem this a worthy occasion.” He glanced across at his sleeping cousin and his brow furrowed again. “I would have liked Anne to have some as well, but it appears that sleep is the best thing for her now.”
Elizabeth followed his gaze, wondering about his feelings for his cousin. Did he expect to honour the betrothal wishes of his mother and aunt? And especially now, if Lady Catherine should expire, Anne would need someone to take care of her. Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face because Darcy glanced at her and said, as if offering an explanation, “Anne is very much alone. One feels the need to care for her and protect her. Perhaps it is because I have a younger sister myself...”
“I share your sentiments,” said Elizabeth quickly. It was true. Though Anne de Bourgh was in fact a few years older than herself, she felt a protective tenderness towards the other girl and an instinctive urge to look after her. However, she could not stop herself adding, “A husband would provide the best protection and it appears that Lady Catherine has made her choice.”
Darcy looked at her for a long moment, then said, “I choose my own wife.” And something in his eyes made her heart begin to beat faster.
Elizabeth stared at him. An intimate sensibility seemed to envelope them in the still of the library. The logs in the fireplace shifted and crackled, their orange glow casting a flickering light over Darcy’s face, lending him an almost demonic air. His dark eyes burned into hers and Elizabeth felt her heart pounding in her chest. She did not know what was happening but it was as if she had been transported to another world, another place, where nothing existed save for her and Darcy—and this simmering awareness between them.
He leaned imperceptibly closer—much closer than propriety allowed—and Elizabeth felt unable to move. It was as if she was under a spell—breathless, waiting, a sense of anticipation building in her chest... her eyelids fluttered shut and she took a breath, parting her lips...
“Eliza?”
Elizabeth jumped and turned as Darcy stood up abruptly and moved away from her. Charlotte stood framed in the library doorway. Elizabeth wondered how much her friend had seen.
“We... we should return to the parsonage now,” said Charlotte hesitantly, coming into the library. “There is little more we can do to help and we do not wish to add to the servants’ burden.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, standing up quickly and smoothing down her gown. She did not know what had almost happened just now between her and Darcy, but a part of her was frightened by the intensity of that moment. She wanted to escape and have some time in solitude.
“I shall call the carriage,” said Darcy and strode out of the library.
Aware of Charlotte’s shrewd gaze on her, Elizabeth busied herself arranging Anne’s blankets more securely around her. Then she hurried back out to the hallway before her friend could have a chance to question her. They were met by Mr Collins and Mr Hargreaves. The latter looked at Elizabeth anxiously and asked:
“How is Anne? I... I mean, Miss de Bourgh?”
“She is asleep in the library,” said Elizabeth. “No doubt it is the best thing for her. Perhaps her maid could be sent for, to sit with her and watch over her.”
“I shall see that it is done,” said Mr Hargreaves quickly.
Elizabeth noticed that the doors to the drawing room stood open and that the chaise longue was vacant. “Where is Lady Catherine—?”
“They have removed her ladyship to her bedchamber,” said Mr Collins. “The physician is examining her again now.”
The sound of jingling bridles and horses’ hooves announced the arrival of the carriage outside. A moment later, Darcy appeared in the hallway and the party moved towards the front door. But before farewells could be exchanged, they heard the sound of steps coming down the main staircase. Everyone turned to see the physician descending the stairs.
He looked at them sombrely. “It is not good news,” he said, his voice grave. “The poison has penetrated deep within Lady Catherine’s person and though the charcoal has helped somewhat, her symptoms are still severe.” He took a deep breath. “I regret to say this but... she may be dead by morning.”
