seven | 07.

NETHERFIELD.

    Elizabeth and Mary finally arrived at Netherfield, their breath hitching with the exertion of their brisk walk. The estate loomed before them, a grand structure framed by a sweep of lush gardens that stretched on either side.

Elizabeth moved with purpose, her gaze sharp as she glanced at the ornate iron knocker set against the heavy wooden door.

Without hesitation, she lifted her hand and struck the iron against the wood, the sound reverberating through the still morning air like the tolling of a distant bell.

The silence that followed felt unnaturally long. No one came to answer. Elizabeth's jaw tightened with impatience, and she rapped on the door again, harder this time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the silence.

A tall, thin man stood in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the two sisters standing before him, their skirts muddied and their cheeks flushed with exertion.

He regarded them with a look that seemed to wither the very air around him, his mouth set in a tight line. "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded, his voice low and clipped, as though their presence were a personal affront.

    But Elizabeth was not to be deterred. She pushed past him with a single-minded intensity, her shoulders squared, her chin held high.

    "We are here to see our sister; Jane Bennet." She declared, her voice making no room for argument as she swept into the entryway, her eyes already scanning the grand, high-ceilinged foyer beyond.

    Mary followed close behind, her heart pounding as she took in the opulence of the space—the polished marble floors, the gleam of gilded frames lining the walls, the faint, lingering scent of incense that spoke of a household accustomed to luxury and leisure.

    The man, his expression still reading displeasure, stepped aside with a reluctant sigh, clearly realizing that his protests would fall on deaf ears.

    He shut the door with a soft click and turned to lead them through the sprawling corridors, his back rigid.

    They were ushered into the dining room, a stuffy room where the light filtered haphazardly through the tall windows, casting jagged, golden stripes across the elegant furnishings.

    The room was filled with the muted clink of porcelain and the soft murmur of conversation.

    Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, and one of the sisters' husbands were seated around a beautifully set breakfast table, the remnants of their meal spread before them on delicate china plates.

    The room stilled as Elizabeth and Mary entered, the unexpected intrusion drawing all eyes to them.

    "Goodness... did you walk all the way here?" Caroline Bingley's voice dripped with barely veiled disdain, each syllable enunciated as if the very act of speaking to them was an ordeal.

Her eyes swept over Elizabeth and Mary, lingering on the mud-streaked hems of their skirts, the dirt smudged on their boots and the faint sheen of perspiration on their foreheads.

Mary felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her cheeks, her skin prickling under Caroline's scrutiny.

    She glanced down at herself, at the mud spattered across her gown, at the dark stain marring the soft blue fabric near her knee, evidence of her stumble to help Elizabeth in the woods.

    Without thinking, she swiped at the place underneath her glasses, her fingers brushing against the rough patch of dried mud on her cheek, the texture gritty and unwelcome beneath her touch.

    She dropped her hand quickly, resisting the urge to fidget further, to make some futile attempt to tidy herself under Caroline's critical gaze.

    She shouldn't care what that woman thought of her anyway.

    Beside her, Elizabeth seemed entirely unbothered, her expression calm as she ran her hands along the front of her dress, smoothing the fabric as if it were the finest silk instead of sodden and splattered with mud.

    She met Caroline's gaze, her lips curving into a faint, challenging smile. Then, with a casual shrug that somehow managed to convey both indifference and defiance, she simply said, "Yes."

    Caroline's eyes narrowed, the muscles around her mouth tightening as she struggled to maintain her veneer of polite condescension. Her gaze darted briefly to Mr. Darcy, as if seeking an ally in her disdain, but he avoided her.

    Mr. Darcy's dark eyes lingered on Mary instead, his face unreadable as he took in the sight of her, disheveled and breathless from the journey.

    His brow furrowed slightly, the faintest crease appearing between his eyebrows as he seemed to study her with an intensity that made the air around her feel suddenly suffocating.

    Mary met his gaze squarely, her heart pounding in her chest, though she refused to let it show.

    She would not flinch, would not look away, no matter how keenly aware she was of the mud on her cheeks, the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid and now clung damply to her temples.

    Her spine straightened, her chin lifting just a fraction higher as she forced her features into an expression of calm detachment.

    She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort, of thinking that his opinion of her—his judgment—held any weight.

    She was Mary Bennet, practical and steadfast, and she would not be swayed by the likes of Fitzwilliam Darcy, no matter how piercing his stare, no matter how strangely magnetic the pull of his presence seemed at this moment.

    And so she held her ground, her eyes locked on his, her expression unwavering, as if daring him to say something, to make some cutting remark. But he said nothing.

    Mr. Bingley's expression, by contrast, was one of open surprise, his cheerful demeanor momentarily clouded with concern as he glanced from Elizabeth to Mary and back again.

"Miss Bennet, Miss Mary!" Mr. Bingley greeted them, his voice tinged with a note of confusion, though his smile remained polite. "Are you here to see your sister?"

    Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst exchanged a quick look, their perfectly arched brows lifting in unison, a silent communication that Mary knew meant they disproved.

    Louisa's husband, Mr. Hurst, barely looked up from his plate, disinterested as he continued to chew methodically, his gaze fixed on the food before him.

Elizabeth did not bother with the niceties, her eyes locking onto Mr. Bingley's with intensity. "We received your letter about her and we could not rest until we knew how she was."

Mr. Bingley's expression softened, his concern deepening as he rose from his seat. "Of course," he said, his tone genuine. "I understand completely. She is resting now as she slept ill last night, but I'm sure she will be glad to see you."

Mary's gaze flicked briefly to Mr. Darcy, whose eyes remained fixed on her.

There was something in the way he watched her, something intense and focused, as if he were trying to decipher a puzzle only he could see.

But Mary had no time to ponder his thoughts. Her own were racing, her worry for Jane overriding everything else.

As they followed Mr. Bingley out of the parlor and up the grand staircase, she could not shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

____________

Mary stood by the bedside, watching as Elizabeth tenderly brushed her fingers through Jane's tangled hair.

Jane lay cocooned beneath a heavy pile of blankets, her body trembling as she wrestled against the fever that consumed her. Her face was ashen, beads of sweat clinging to her brow and cheeks, giving her skin a ghastly sheen.

Each shallow breath came with a faint whimper, her lips cracked and raw from the relentless heat that seemed determined to burn through her.

The room felt stifling, the air thick with the sharp tang of sickness and the faint, acrid scent of damp fabric.

Mary's gaze flickered to the clock on the dresser, its hands crawling with agonizing slowness. The seconds seemed to stretch endlessly, each tick a reminder of the physician's absence.

The muffled sounds of Jane's fevered mutterings filled the room, her words incoherent, slipping through the cracks of her consciousness.

Mary's eyes returned to her sister's face, taking in the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the way her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as if even in sleep she could find no peace.

And then, as if in answer to her silent plea, a firm knock echoed from the hallway, breaking the unbearable sounds of Jane's suffering.

Mary moved swiftly to the door, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she grasped the handle and flung it open, her words of relief catching in her throat as she came face-to-face with Mr. Darcy.

His eyes darted away from her, the muscles in his throat tightening as he swallowed. Mary felt her own breath hitch, the sudden, unwelcome awareness of him filling the small space between them.

"The physician has arrived." He said, his voice low. Without waiting for a response, he stepped past her, his coat brushing against her arm as he moved into the room.

Mary watched him go, a strange, tight sensation settling in her chest, her hand still gripping the edge of the door.

She blinked, forcing herself to turn and follow, her eyes landing on the physician as he entered behind Mr. Darcy, his bag swinging heavily from his hand.

He was a tall, graying man with sharp features softened by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. His coat was damp from the rain, droplets still clinging to his hair as he gave a perfunctory nod to Elizabeth and then turned his full attention to Jane.

Mary closed the door quietly and leaned back against the wood for a moment, gathering herself, her eyes fixed on the floor as she tried to steady her breathing, to silence the erratic pounding of her heart.

"Caught in the downpour, was she?" The physician asked, his voice carrying a hint of professional detachment as he approached the bed.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose, his gaze sweeping over Jane's form with a clinical precision.

Elizabeth nodded, her fingers still gently combing through Jane's hair, her voice filled with a determined calm that Mary envied. "Yes, we believe that's what set this fever off."

The physician hummed thoughtfully, leaning closer to examine Jane, his hands moving with the careful confidence of someone who had faced countless such crises.

    The physician gently lifted Jane's right hand from beneath the layers of blankets, his brow furrowing as he glanced at Elizabeth with a perplexed look.

    His fingers hesitated over the gauze wrapped around her palm, clearly uncertain whether to proceed.

    "Her musket backfired." Elizabeth explained softly, her voice steady despite the worry etched in her features. The physician nodded, his expression shifting to one of understanding.

    He began to carefully unwind the bandages, the fabric peeling away to reveal the raw, angry wound beneath. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in, scrutinizing the injury.

    Mary hovered near the door, her heart hammering in her chest, her eyes fixed on the physician's hands as they turned Jane's palm this way and that, exposing the torn flesh to the light.

   She swallowed, trying to calm the tumult of emotions roiling inside her, but her attention was abruptly pulled away by a faint sound—an almost inaudible metallic clink.

    Her gaze shifted slowly, drawn to the figure standing just ahead of her. Her eyes moved down, her breath catching in her throat as she noticed the glint of steel in his hand.

    Mr. Darcy was gripping a hunting knife, its blade gleaming wickedly in the dim light, poised and ready.

    A cold, hard fury flared in Mary's chest, mingling with the terror that coursed through her veins.

    The realization hit her like a punch to the gut: Mr. Darcy was prepared to end Jane's life if there was any suspicion that her wound was more than a simple musket misfire.

    The audacity of it, the sheer arrogance, made her hands clench into fists at her sides.

    Her pulse thundered in her ears as she fought to keep her composure, the urge to lash out at him almost overwhelming.

    She cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the heavy silence of the room, her eyes narrowing as she directed a fierce, unflinching glare at his back. It took every ounce of restraint not to hurl a scathing remark at him, not to demand he put the weapon away.

    He must have sensed her anger, for he turned his head slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet. His gaze was taunting, and Mary felt a jolt of something—disgust, disdain, she wasn't sure—course through her.

    But he didn't flinch, didn't lower the knife. Instead, his gaze held hers for a long, tense moment, as if daring her to say something, to challenge him openly.

    Then, with maddening calmness, he turned back to face the physician, his grip on the knife never wavering.

    "I see no indication of a bite." The physician murmured. He turned Jane's hand carefully in the light, examining the wound from every angle, his expression thoughtful and assured. "The injury is consistent with a firearm misfire."

    Mary let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, the relief washing over her in a sudden, dizzying wave. But the anger didn't dissipate. It lingered, simmering beneath the surface, her frustration at Mr. Darcy's readiness to act as executioner burning through her like acid.

    "That was never in question." She said sharply, her voice cutting through the quiet. Her gaze bored into the back of Mr. Darcy's head, her words heavy with reproach.

    Mr. Darcy said nothing in his defense. He merely inclined his head ever so slightly, acknowledging her words without conceding anything, before he slipped the knife back into the hidden sheath beneath his coat sleeve. The motion was smooth, practiced, his face a mask of cool detachment.

    Mary's lips pressed into a thin line, her anger still hot in her chest.

    But there was nothing more to say, nothing she could do now but swallow her resentment and wait for the storm inside her to pass.

END OF CHAPTER VII.