Mr. Darcy's Poetry of the Heart: A Pride and Prejudice Variation by Charlotte Weatherby

Author:Charlotte Weatherby [Weatherby, Charlotte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pemberley Playground Press
Published: 2024-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Elizabeth crept into Mr. Bennet's study, the space saturated with the musty scent of aging leather and ink. Afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting a warm glow on her father's pallid face. He lay on the sofa, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths that seemed to struggle against an invisible weight.

Jane stood beside him, a bowl of broth cradled in her hands, her blonde hair escaping its ribbon in wisps of worry. She whispered encouragements to him, each word dipped in a mixture of hope and fear. Mr. Bennet's illness had indeed taken a cruel twist. The fever had broken, yet he seemed even weaker now, a mere shadow of his usual self.

"Father," Jane coaxed softly, "you must try to eat."

Elizabeth watched as Jane gently pressed the spoon to their father's lips.

At that moment, Mrs. Hill entered, her voice low but urgent. "Miss Jane, Mr. Bingley has arrived at Longbourn and wishes to inquire after you."

Jane's eyes widened with distress. "I am in no state for visitors," she protested, glancing down at her stained apron.

Elizabeth laid a hand on Jane's shoulder. "I can take over here," she offered. "Mr. Bingley's visit could be a welcome distraction for you."

"But Papa..." Jane's voice trembled.

"He will not be alone." Elizabeth’s touch was firm yet comforting. "I will be here."

Reluctantly, Jane nodded and placed the bowl in Elizabeth's hands before smoothing out her apron and starting towards the door.

Elizabeth settled by her father's side as Jane departed. She took up the spoon and continued where Jane had left off, each motion deliberate as she coaxed their father to swallow the nourishing liquid.

Mr. Bennet's gaze met hers briefly, a flicker of his usual wit buried deep within those weary eyes. He swallowed with effort, his throat working against the broth's warmth.

Perhaps five minutes later, a soft knock at the door preceded Jane, followed by Mr. Bingley.

"I hope I do not intrude," Mr. Bingley said, stepping further into the room with tentative grace.

"Not at all." Elizabeth’s response was automatic, and her focus remained fixed on Mr. Bennet as she offered another spoonful of broth.

"How is he?" Mr. Bingley asked.

"Eating," Elizabeth explained.

"Ah, Mr. Bingley?" Mr. Bennet began, his chest rising in a laborious effort before a rasping cough broke the silence. "Ever the…” Another round of coughing followed. “Ever the vigilant sentinel of the infirm, I see."

Mr. Bingley's lips curved into a smile, his gaze drifting towards Jane. "Indeed, Mr. Bennet, your words hold more truth than jest. In the wealth of your daughters' spirits, you possess a fortune far surpassing any sum."

At least some color had returned to Mr. Bennet's cheeks as he sipped the broth. Elizabeth held another spoonful to his mouth. "I feel like a child," Mr. Bennet complained.

Mr. Bingley stepped forward, his expression earnest. "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

Jane twisted the fabric of her dress between her fingers. "Father will recover, he must," she said, her voice carrying a note of desperation thinly veiled by optimism.

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