Jane Bennet paced the length of the bedchamber she shared with her sister. “Lizzy,” she said, “I am so very sorry. Truly.”
“It’s not worth fretting about,” said Elizabeth. “Chances are it is here in the house; it will turn up.”
“But it hasn’t,” said Jane mournfully, “and I have looked everywhere. It was lost at the ball last night; I just know it.”
“That clasp has always given me trouble,” Elizabeth pointed out. “I should not have loaned it.”
“I should not have borrowed it.”
“Nonsense. You did not ask; I offered. Amethysts are the perfect complement to your gown.”
“They were,” said Jane, with a sigh.
“Never mind. My bracelet will turn up somewhere.”
“Somewhere at Netherfield,” said Jane.
Netherfield. If Elizabeth did not see Netherfield ever again, it would be too soon! Last night’s ball had been a disaster. In her mind’s eye she could see the clumsy attempts at dancing made by her cousin, Mr. Collins. And she could hear his boastful speeches too—as well as her younger sisters’ raucous laughter as they danced with the officers, and her mother’s unwise (and rather loud) remarks made in the supper room. The unholy glee of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, as they observed all this, was palpable.
And then there was Mr. Darcy. True, she ought to have minded her tongue and left some things unsaid. But that expression of cold disdain, glittering in his dark eyes, she would not soon forget. It had been a horrid night. A wretchedly horrid night.
“I’ll go down and write to Miss Bingley at once,” said Jane, and she glanced at the window. “It is not raining. Ned can take it.”
Elizabeth followed Jane out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. “Writing a note is not the way to find a thing,” she said. “We must go to Netherfield ourselves.”
Jane came to a halt. “Oh, Lizzy, I cannot,” she said softly. “It would look as if I were grasping for a reason to—well, you know.”
“—to see Mr. Bingley again?” Elizabeth could not keep back a smile. “Mama would approve.”
Jane’s eyes found the floor. “It-it is not like that. I am not chasing him, even though everyone says so. How mortifying to have Mama’s ambitions displayed so publically.”
“I fear Mama cannot help herself,” Elizabeth said. “Your Mr. Bingley is quite the perfect match for you.”
“If only he were not so wealthy! For people will say—”
“His wealth,” interrupted Elizabeth, “is part of his perfection!”
“Lizzy!”
“I am only funning, dearest. I tell you what. I will go in your stead to Netherfield. No one can say that I am setting my cap at Charles Bingley.”
“But Lizzy—”
“Believe me, I do not intend to force my presence on the Bingleys or the Hursts or Mr. Darcy. I had quite enough of their company when you were ill. I will ask at the service door for the housekeeper. And as I do not wish for Mama to know of my errand, I will walk to Netherfield.”
“But the weather,” protested Jane.
“You saw for yourself that it does not rain. Have no fear, everyone there will be asleep or at breakfast. The housekeeper will do all that is needed. I will be back before midday, you’ll see.”
But Netherfield’s Mrs. Nicholls was not of a mind to search. “A little thing like that, Miss?” she said. “It could be anywhere. A very trying morning we’ve had.” And then, because Elizabeth insisted, she brought her up to search the supper room and ballroom herself.
She passed to Elizabeth a dry mop and a lamp. “Mind, we’ve not cleaned, Miss, not properly, you understand. Not with two ladies and a gentleman arriving on our doorstep this morning, fine as you please, demanding to be housed and fed.”
Mrs. Nicholls drew back one of the heavy draperies, sending a dust-filled shaft of light into the ballroom. “Moreover,” she went on, “the mistress wishes to be packed up and gone as soon as may be. And the house closed for the season—all on the morning after the largest ball this neighborhood has seen in years. It’s enough to drive a body to drink.”
This from the dignified Mrs. Nicholls! What else could Elizabeth do but thank the woman and promise to stay out of her way?
How forlorn the ballroom was, with empty chairs grouped in corners and along the walls. Last night it had been alive with light and music and conversation. Now the glittering chandeliers were dark; the banks of flowers wilting. The air smelled of stale perfume.
Elizabeth removed her pelisse, set her gloves and bonnet on a chair, and took up the dry mop. She would begin with the area in front of the musicians’ gallery and work through the room.
Straightway she saw the value of Mrs. Nicholls’s lamp. By its light she found a button, several hair pins, and a spangled ribbon. The glitter of gold and amethysts was nowhere to be seen, but Elizabeth’s memories shone bright. Here she had danced with Mr. Darcy—he had asked and she did not refuse him.
She ought to have done so! They had conversed together, and his answers were intelligent and even witty. Mr. Darcy was no fool, she gave him that. Even during Jane’s illness, which kept her confined to this house, she had been impressed with his conversation. And he danced surprisingly well.
Here too she had danced with Mr. Collins—she had the bruised toes to prove it! The less she thought about him and his pompous conversation, the better.
And here Jane fell in love with Charles Bingley. Elizabeth paused in her search and leaned against the long handle of the dry mop. Beautiful, gentle, good-hearted Jane had found a kind man worthy of her love. In this Elizabeth rejoiced with all her heart.
Presently she heard a rattle of a latch, and the ballroom doors came open to admit someone. “Hello?” a man’s voice called. “Mrs.—Hurst? Is that you?”
Elizabeth squinted at him through the dimness, but she did not answer. She did not dare, because she recognized his voice. It was Mr. Darcy.
“Who is there?” he enquired.
How like Mr. Darcy to be persistent! “It is I, Elizabeth Bennet,” she said reluctantly. There. That would drive him away.
But he did not go. He simply said, “Miss Bennet.”
And now an explanation was in order. “I—am searching for my sister’s bracelet, or rather, my bracelet.”
She was babbling. Heaven help her, she was babbling. “It was lost at the ball last night. Mrs. Hurst is not here.”
“Have you searched the cloak room downstairs?”
This was an obvious location, but Elizabeth had not thought of it. “No. I—thank you for the suggestion.”
Instead of leaving, Mr. Darcy came toward her through the dimness. “What sort of bracelet is it?”
“Amethysts set in gold. It—is not a great loss, Mr. Darcy. A mere trinket given me by my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. Jane borrowed it, you see, and she is distressed because it went missing.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows. The sky darkened noticeably.
The door came open again. “Mr. Darcy?” said a woman’s pleasant voice. “Have you found Mrs. Hurst? Oh. Hello.”
“Miss Woodhouse, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Mr. Darcy paused. “Is she also related to Aunt Jane?”
Miss Woodhouse came forward in a decidedly friendly way and held out a hand to Elizabeth. “Of course she is related; we all are. How do you do, Miss Bennet? Forgive me; from what Miss Bingley was saying, I thought your name would be Jane.”
“She is my sister,” said Elizabeth. “And I shouldn’t shake hands, as mine is rather dirty. I am searching for a bracelet Jane lost at the ball.”
Emma grasped Elizabeth’s hand anyway. “Then we must help you. Although,” she added, “I should find Mrs. Hurst, for Miss Bingley must be stopped. She cannot be allowed to leave Netherfield, not when Aunt Jane so clearly wishes her to be here.”
“Aunt Jane,” said Darcy in a low voice, “is apparently some sort of guardian to us all.”
“That is very nicely said,” agreed Miss Woodhouse. “It is most unwise to trifle with Aunt Jane. No good will come of it.”
A flash of lightning lit the room; in the near distance thunder rolled. Rain began to beat against the window glass. Elizabeth’s heart sank. The minute she left Netherfield she would be drenched to the skin.
Apparently Mr. Darcy noticed her dismay, for he looked a question. “Yes, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth tartly. “As before, I scorned to use our carriage and walked.” She gestured to the hem of her gown. “Behold, the mud. I had hoped to make my search privately, without attracting notice.”
“You are stranded here?” said Miss Woodhouse. “Then we must persuade Miss Bingley to ask you to dinner, which would be a very good thing. Mr. Bertram is becoming rather tiresome.”
“Oh, but Miss Woodhouse.”
“Do call me Emma. Will you help me to find Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley?”
“Of course,” said Elizabeth. “But I should tell you that Miss Bingley will not be pleased to see me.”
“Nonsense,” said Emma. “Now where could she and Mrs. Hurst be? The drawing room is already wrapped up in Holland cloth. Let us try the front parlour, a room Miss Bingley has set aside for receiving callers—most of whom she hopes will not come.”
Darcy leaned in. “She means guests from last night’s ball, who will come to express their thanks,” he said to Elizabeth. “Caroline wishes them at Jericho.”
“Caroline wishes to be at Jericho,” said Emma pleasantly. “Which, I must say, is a very apt description for London.” She waited at the door for Mr. Darcy to open it.
Elizabeth came into the front parlour in time to hear Mr. Hurst bellow, “Have I seen you somewhere? One of the clubs? The name is familiar.”
A young man, dressed in what Elizabeth guessed to be very smart attire, was slouching against the mantelpiece. He straightened up and cleared his throat. “My father,” he said, “is a member of White’s, sir. But I prefer Boodle’s.”
“Fond of cards, are you? Whist, faro, quinze?”
The young man brightened. “I am a dab hand at hazard as well, sir, although the rules are devilish complex.”
“Oho. Then we must have a game of whist, if we can find enough players. You there!” Mr. Hurst fixed a beady eye on Elizabeth. “You fond of cards?”
“I am afraid not, sir,” she said. “No more than before.”
“Ah, I remember you, the reader. Paugh.” He swung round. “No use asking that gabble monger,” he said of a middle-aged lady seated by the window. “No use asking Darcy either. Has to be Louisa and—say.” He eyed Emma. “Do you play whist?”
“I play rather well, thank you,” said Emma. “But at the moment I have no time for card games.”
“Humph. Caroline will have to sit in. Now where did she put the cards? Caroline?”
“There is no need to yell,” said a muffled voice. Apparently Caroline Bingley was lying on one of the sofas. She struggled to sit up. “I have no idea where your wretched cards are kept.”
“You there, boy!” Hurst called to a footman. “Find us a deck of cards and bring in a glass and a new bottle for—what did you say your name was?”
“Bertram. Tom Bertram. My father is—”
There came a groan from Caroline. “For heaven’s sake, speak more softly; my head aches dreadfully.”
“And you would go to London today, would you, Missy?” said Mr. Hurst to her. He turned to Mr. Bertram. “Well, boy? You were saying something about your father?”
“His name is Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas Bertram.”
“And you’re Tom. Same as your father, eh? Eldest son?”
“That’s right.”
“Come take a seat, boy, and pit your skill against mine. And Caroline, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll play whist with young Tom, here. He’s the eldest son.” Mr. Hurst gave a braying laugh.
Emma leaned in. “Do you see why I am glad that you have come, Elizabeth? What sort of people have we fallen in with? I fear they are not gentlefolk.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing. Had Mr. Darcy caught this remark? Yes, he certainly had. His expression was forbidding, but his eyes were alight with laughter. Somehow this gave her courage to approach the sofa.
“Good morning, Miss Bingley,” she said. “I am come to search for a missing bracelet. It was never my intention to disturb you, but Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Darcy insisted that I pay my respects.”
“How—lovely.” Caroline’s tone was arctic. Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth’s hemline. “Dear me, Miss Elizabeth, is that mud quite dry?”
“It is,” said Elizabeth. “Although this bit here”—she pointed to her smudged knee—“is from your ballroom floor.”
“When in the country,” said Emma, “one must expect a little mud now and again.”
Caroline rolled her eyes heavenward, and this did not escape Emma Woodhouse. “Walking is a usual practice among resident landowners,” she said. “I often walk about our park, or in the shrubbery, or to and from dear Highbury. Walking,” she added, “seems rather odd to London people. I daresay that as you become accustomed to living on an estate, you will learn our ways.”
Caroline’s flushed face became even redder. “I’ll have you know,” she flashed, “that—”
The parlour door came open with a bang. “Hallo!” called a cheerful voice. “Here I am, home again. The bridge at Brunsley is washed out; can you believe it? So I had to turn back.”
“Charles,” cried Caroline hoarsely.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Hurst. “That bridge is made of stone; been there since Roman times.”
“The bridge is as right as rain,” said Charles, “it’s the road on either side that’s washed out. The river’s overrun its banks.”
“Could you not—what is the expression? Ford the river and press on? For you must go to London,” wailed Caroline. “Our plan …”
“There’s no crossing that river without a boat, dear girl,” said Charles. “No harm done. The water should be down in a day or two.”
“Unless it continues to rain,” Emma pointed out. “I believe you are Mr. Bingley, the man who so kindly sent our invitation. How do you do? I am Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield.”
Charles Bingley looked rather startled. He was kept from answering because of clucking noises made by the middle-aged woman, who had deserted her post by the window. She now hovered over Caroline Bingley.
“My dear,” she said, “are you feeling quite well? I know it is not my place to say, but you look as if you are burning up with fever. My dear mother is prone to feverishness, so I know all about it. You ought to lie down again, with a damp cloth on your forehead. Is there someone here who can make a mustard plaster?”
“Caroline?” said Charles.
“I am fine,” she insisted. But she lay back on the sofa cushions just the same.
“You do not look fine,” her brother said. “As this lady said—I beg your pardon, ma’am, I did not catch the name?”
“This is Miss Bates, Charles,” said Mr. Darcy. “Another of your invited guests. The gentleman is Mr. Tom Bertram.”
“Of Mansfield Park,” added Emma helpfully.
Miss Bates laid her hand on Caroline’s forehead. “My dear child, you are burning up, positively burning up. And your cheeks …”
“Caro,” said Charles, “your cheeks and your neck are swollen.”
Caroline’s hands flew to her neck. “They are not!”
“Indeed they are, and very much so,” said Miss Bates. “And your head aches; you said so yourself. My dear, do you find it difficult to swallow?”
Caroline looked as if she were about to cry. “Of course not,” she rasped.
“We’ll see about that,” said Charles, and he snatched Mr. Hurst’s wine glass. “Drink this,” he told his sister.
Elizabeth had to give Caroline Bingley credit. She did try to drink the wine.
“Of course I am not a physician—and you must have your own medical man in this area, although I daresay he cannot compare with our dear Mr. Perry,” babbled Miss Bates. “It is a childhood illness, and you are not a child, but all the signs are present, indeed they are. I very much fear that you, Miss Bingley, have contracted the mumps.”
“What?” shrieked Caroline. And then her eyes filled with tears, for her throat truly did pain her.
Mrs. Hurst shrieked too. “The mumps?
“How—humiliating,” wailed Caroline.
“But-but I have never had the mumps,” cried Mrs. Hurst, “at least I do not think I have. And what if I am in the family way?”
Caroline wrinkled her nose. “Oh, surely not.”
Mrs. Hurst gave her sister a look. “It is possible. And I’ll not take the risk, thank you. Mr. Hurst,” she called, “we must leave at once. Bridge or no bridge, we must get away from here.”
“But Louisa—” rasped Caroline.
“I am very, very sorry, my dear, but it cannot be helped. We cannot host you for Christmas at Grosvenor Square this year. Come at Easter.” She turned to her husband, who was deep in his card game with Tom Bertram. “Mr. Hurst!” she cried, and hurried from the room.
He rose to his feet and cast his cards on the table. “Just when I was winning,” he complained. “First Charles steals my wine, and then I am cheated out of a game. And now,” he added, “I must spend the night in some curst coaching inn.” Mr. Hurst shambled off. The parlour door swung shut behind him.
Elizabeth went up to Charles. “If I might importune the Hursts, Mr. Bingley,” she said, “the lane passes quite near to Longbourn. If your sister is ill, I should not trespass upon your hospitality by remaining. It would be so very helpful if I am not obliged to walk home.”
“I’ll see to it at once,” said Charles.
“Have you had the mumps, Elizabeth?” said Emma anxiously.
“I believe so, yes. I do pity Caroline. I have heard that it is worse when one is older.”
And so it was that Elizabeth found herself deposited in front of Longbourn House, as the wind howled and rain stung her skin. The bright fire in the drawing room soon set her to rights.
“Rain and more rain,” lamented Lydia, gazing out of the windows at the downpour. “I do hope the officers will come this evening. Denney and Wickham promised so faithfully.”
Elizabeth’s lips compressed into a line. She had forgotten about Mr. Wickham—and the unjust treatment he had received at Mr. Darcy’s hands. It was a very good thing to be gone from Netherfield.
“No bracelet, alas,” Elizabeth whispered to Jane, “but my search was interrupted. The housekeeper knows of it, and when the rooms are more thoroughly cleaned, I daresay the bracelet will be found.”
Jane’s face crumpled. “Oh, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth put her arms around her sister. “Do not cry, dearest. It was an accident. And just think, poor Caroline has contracted the mumps.”
Mrs. Bennet came into the drawing room, with Mr. Collins hard on her heels. “Lizzy, where have you been? Whose coach was that?”
“I’ve been to Netherfield, Mama. The Hursts have kindly brought me home, because of the rain.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “But that coach was loaded for travel.”
“It was, yes.” Elizabeth paused. “It so happens, Mama, that Caroline Bingley has contracted the mumps. Mrs. Hurst has not had it, so she and her husband were off at once.”
“A most sensible thing,” announced Mr. Collins. “We do not want mumps here.”
Mrs. Bennet kept silent, gazing at Elizabeth and Jane. “Mumps,” she said at last, “spreads through a household like wildfire, the vilest thing.”
“If that is so,” said Elizabeth, “then it is likely that we have all had it.”
Mr. Collins’s eyes narrowed. “But are you certain? Because you, Miss Elizabeth, have brought disease into this house. And,” he went on, “by embracing your sister, you have likely passed it to her.”
“Mr. Collins—”
“Communicable disease is treacherous,” he warned. “How it spreads from person to person is a mystery, but it is nothing to be trifled with.”
“Why, that is very true,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Lizzy, what have you done?”
“Mama, we had the mumps as babies.”
“Did you? We dare not take the risk. I agree with Mrs. Hurst, whom I have always thought to be a most prudent, sensible woman. You cannot stay here, either of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“If there is mumps at Netherfield, then to Netherfield you must return.”
“Mama! You cannot be serious!”
Mrs. Bennet gave the bell pull a series of tugs. “Hill will pack your things, girls, and Ned will drive you to Netherfield in the carriage.”
“In the middle of a storm?”
“Indeed yes. What do the Bingleys mean by passing this highly contagious illness to you, and then sending you home like so much baggage? There you are, Hill. We need Jane’s and Lizzy’s best gowns and night things packed up right away—enough for three weeks.”
“Mama, no!”
“For three weeks,” repeated Mrs. Bennet. “Do you think a mother forgets how long her babies were ill? Mumps runs its course in three weeks. If we are lucky,” she added with a smile, “perhaps you will be well again by the New Year.”