Chapter 2

Elizabeth Bennet stood before the fireplace, her damp dress steaming. Curiosity about what would happen in the next chapter of her novel, and a bit of rain, had forced her to return to Longbourn before she had walked as far as she would have liked over the fields. Her mother and sisters had not yet returned from making calls in Meryton, meaning that Elizabeth had a few glorious, uninterrupted minutes to read in peace by the warmth of the fire.
She nestled into the nearest chair, pulling her stockinged feet up under her skirts, and opened the novel. Her finger skimmed down the page, searching for the spot where her spent candle had forced her to stop reading the night before.
Ah, yes. Lady Gwendolyn was locked in the cellar of an abandoned castle while her evil stepfather arranged for her to marry a man in whose debt he had fallen. Isolated and without a protector, her only hope lay in Sir Knightly.
Lady Gwendolyn pulled on the chains binding her wrists, the irons biting into her flesh. Cold seeped through her torn slippers. Would Sir Knightly reach her in time?
Elizabeth’s concentration was interrupted when someone stepped on a squeaky floorboard. Ancient stone castles did not squeak as Longbourn did.
Mrs. Hill greeted Elizabeth with a smile. “Your father asks for you. He is in his book room,” she said.
Elizabeth sighed. Lady Gwendolyn’s fate would have to hang in the balance a while longer. Closing her book with an air of resignation, Elizabeth thanked Mrs. Hill and made her way down the hall to her father’s sanctuary. It was not often an invitation was extended to join him there, but Elizabeth prided herself in being the recipient of the majority of his invitations amongst her sisters. She was his favorite.
Father sipped from a wine glass, breathing with his hand over his chest as she entered the room and sat in the chair beside his desk.
“Is your cough improving, Papa?” she asked, following his gaze when he glanced at the door. Father enjoyed the peace his book room provided from the usual noise of his household, and he had trained her well. She had closed the door behind her.
His bushy eyebrows knit together, and he frowned.
Suspecting she knew the source of his melancholy, for they often thought so much alike, Elizabeth said, “It is much quieter without Lydia here. Sometimes I miss her, too.”
Lydia, her youngest sister, had eloped with Mr. Denny, a dashing officer who had arrived to Meryton the year before with the militia. Father had disapproved of the match, but Mr. Denny had proved over the past few months to be steadier and more level-headed than his impulsive marriage to Lydia had suggested. They would never have enough money, but they loved each other. Elizabeth prayed they would be happy.
Father smiled sadly. “I wish all my girls were comfortably settled.” He cleared his throat, reaching for the wine bottle when he started coughing again.
Elizabeth jumped to her feet, pouring the wine for him before he spilled it over his desk and stained the manuscripts he toiled over.
Holding the glass up to his lips, she helped him drink.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” he wheezed.
“The draughts Mr. Jones prepared are not strong enough. I will write immediately to Aunt Gardiner. There must be a physician in London who has better medicine. If she cannot send it, I will collect it myself,” she said, noting how pale his skin was that morning and how much deeper his cough sounded. Where his collar had fit snuggly around his neck the month before, it now sagged.
Father held up his hand, attempting to dismiss her concerns. “Do not trouble yourself, Lizzy. I am only agitated because I have received a letter from Mr. Collins. He has a talent for putting me out of sorts.”
Elizabeth dropped back into her chair. She liked Mr. Collins as much as her father did. That the clergyman had managed to marry Elizabeth’s best friend, Charlotte, eight months prior (after she herself had refused him) did nothing to put the gentleman into her good graces.
“Does he write of Charlotte?” she asked.
“He implied — with the utmost delicacy, of course — that she is well despite her present condition. I remember how miserable Mrs. Bennet was toward the end of her confinement, and I suspect Mr. Collins would never admit to his wife’s suffering, lest it reflect poorly on either of them. He wishes to visit us before the birth of his first child. Is that not considerate of him?” Father added sarcastically.
“All the more reason for you to get well. You must live forever and frustrate his plans of ever inheriting Longbourn,” Elizabeth said cheerily.
Father did not laugh. He rubbed his hands against his face.
Elizabeth’s smile suddenly felt out of place. Her imagination ran wild with explanations for his strange behavior, each one more dramatic than the last. Leaping from one conclusion to the next left her short of breath. “Papa, what is wrong?”
He took off his spectacles, laying them on top of his open book. Looking up at her with watery blue eyes, he said, “My dearest girl, I am dying.”
“Nonsense!” she replied violently, her stomach sinking. “You only require different medicine. I will write to Aunt Gardiner this moment, and I will go to London myself to fetch a better draught.” She rose, her need to act stronger than her desire to understand.
“Sit, Lizzy. You must listen to me.”
“But you are wrong. Surely, you are wrong.” He had to be wrong. People did not die of colds.
Father held her gaze, his eyes sunken and his cheeks gaunt. “Sit, Lizzy. You will listen.”
“I must write to Aunt. There is no time to lose,” she repeated, determined to make herself useful. Father only had a cold. He would be well in no time. She only needed to write to her aunt in London. The best doctors were to be found there. She turned toward the door.
“I already wrote to your uncle Gardiner.”
Elizabeth froze.
“There is no medicine to help me.”
She reached for her chair, all the strength of purpose seeping out of her limbs.
He continued, “I wrote my symptoms in detail, and your uncle did me the immense favor of inquiring several physicians of good repute their educated opinions. They all agreed. I do not have a cold.”
“Would it not have been better for you to go to London for a proper examination?” she asked, her voice echoing in her own head as if someone else spoke.
“Every movement brings on another fit of coughs. No, my dear. I could never make the trip.”
Elizabeth shook her head. It buzzed. “We could send for a doctor to come here. Surely, if we paid enough—”
“It is no use, Lizzy. Were I an ignorant man, I might have more hope, but I read the list of symptoms. I have all of them.”
The clock ticked several seconds, each one rebounding through the room more loudly than the last until the deafening noise pounded against Elizabeth’s temples.
“I have consumption.” With one sentence the clamor silenced.
She pressed her eyes together, her throat tight. She dropped her elbows to her knees, her forehead pressed against her palms.
Consumption. People died of consumption.
Father was beside her, pressing a teacup full of wine into her hands. “Drink, Lizzy. You must keep your strength up. You will need it. I need you to stay strong.”
Powerless to do anything but obey and already missing the beloved father she would soon lose, Elizabeth took the cup and drank while he settled back in his chair. What would she do without him? All the conversations they had? The humor only he understood?
“I swore I would never use your refusal of Mr. Collins against you, and I would not mention it now were I not desperate. When I die, your mother and sisters…” his voice shook and his chin trembled, “…they will be without a home. I have kept the true nature of my illness from your mother, and I wish for you to do the same.” Taking a raspy breath, he continued, “The Gardiners have kindly offered to take Jane, but with their large family, they cannot receive Mary or Kitty.”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and strained to listen. The drums in her head had calmed, but the buzz resumed.
“I have said nothing to your aunt Phillips. She is a terrible gossip and would only worry your mother before it is time. But I trust she will take Mrs. Bennet and Kitty in.” Father’s voice warbled, as he added, “I have not been able to secure a place for Mary … nor for you, my dear, dear girl.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, rubbing it against his eyes. “Your aunt Gardiner has family in Derbyshire who might be able to help. The Bambers. Some of them are in service, and the rest are in trade, so they are only to be sought out as a last resource.”
“You speak to me of status as if I care? When you tell me you are dying?”
“I will not risk ruining your prospects when your happiness is my priority.”
They were words Elizabeth was grateful to hear her father pronounce, but not like this.
Father continued, “Mrs. Gardiner’s assistance has been invaluable to me of late, and I know she will not rest until you and Mary are properly provided for, should I die before you have a chance to see to your own futures.”
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. Pressing her cold fingers against her burning cheeks, she said, “Do not say such things, Papa. You have always recovered your health before.”
“Not this time,” he said, repeating with his shoulders slumped in defeat, “Not this time.”
“Not if you give up so easily. You must fight!” Elizabeth insisted, her tone shrill in her ears.
She would take the evening coach to London, and she would drag a physician back to Meryton to see her father or her name was not Elizabeth Bennet. She would do what she must, but she would not let her father die if she could prevent it.
Reaching forward to clasp her hands between his own, Father said, “You must promise you will look after your mother and sisters. I am sorrier than you can ever know to charge you with this great burden, but you are clever, Lizzy. I trust you. I know you will find a way—”
A violent cough interrupted his plea, and his hands tugged away from Elizabeth’s in his haste to cover his mouth with the handkerchief.
That was when Elizabeth saw it. The blood.

Ooh … the plot thickens!

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