At this point, Mrs. Hurst appeared in the doorway behind Mr. Darcy. “Oh dear, that cough doesn’t sound good, does it?”
“I’m fine, truly, Mrs. Hurst,” said Elizabeth. “I think I must simply make haste home. I shall go directly to the stables to get the horse I rode here, and if you could convey my thanks and my goodbyes—”
“Bed,” interrupted Mr. Darcy firmly. “You, Miss Bennet, are going nowhere except bed.”
“Oh, if she thinks she’s all right to ride, then perhaps she is,” said Mrs. Hurst.
Mr. Darcy rounded on her, giving her a severe look.
Mrs. Hurst cringed from him. “No, no, of course not. Mr. Darcy is right, Miss Bennet. You are not well, and you must go back to bed directly. We shall send for the doctor to come and look in on you.”
“No, I tell you,” said Elizabeth, “I must go home.”
“Out of the question,” said Mr. Darcy. “If anything happened to you, Miss Bennet, I should hold myself personally responsible for allowing it. I won’t hear another word of argument.”
“I CAN’T BEtoo disappointed, I’m afraid,” Mr. Bingley said, scooting a chair closer to the foot of her bed. “Now, here you are, under my roof, for some time, and it is perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
Elizabeth knew she should encourage him, but she felt remarkably terrible.
She had a fever, nothing too awful, but just enough of one to make her feel chilled and tired. Her throat was raw. She huddled in the covers, feeling too tired to do anything at all and wishing that she could think of something to say to Mr. Bingley.
“I shall do anything in my power to take care of you,” said Mr. Bingley. “I had thought perhaps you might like it if I read to you?”
“NotRobinson Crusoe, I take it,” she said wanly.
He laughed heartily, as if she’d made a very hilarious joke. “I thought perhaps Wordsworth.”
“Oh?” she said, with a yawn. This surprised her. She had not thought Mr. Bingley one for poetry. “You like Wordsworth?”
“I’m not one for poetry, truly,” said Bingley.
Of course not.
“Wordsworth doesn’t quite read much like poetry, however, just like a person’s journal.”
Truly? That was what he thought of William Wordsworth?
“So, anyway, I can’t say I like it, exactly,” said Bingley. “But at least I don’t hate it. Do you like it?”
“If you don’t wish to read to me, Mr. Bingley, I’d be happy enough to doze,” she said, because this was quite true.
“I wish to read to you,” said Mr. Bingley and began to read.
Oh.
Lord.
He was terrible at it. He read in monotone. He paused at the end of every line, not at the at end of the sentence. (“Fiveyears have past five summers with the length—pause—of five long winters and again I hear—pause—these waters rolling from their mountain-springs—pause—with a soft inland murmur once again”) He mispronounced sycamore and then caught himself. And then he said “bounteous” instead of “beauteous,” which she really thought she ought to have forgiven him, for anyone could make such a mistake, but she wasn’t feeling charitable, only rather put upon by being forced to listen to his droning voice.
She pretended to go to sleep, hoping he would just stop.
Eventually, he did, though not until they had gotten three-quarters of the way into the rather long poem.
He closed the book and murmured, “Aren’t you pretty, then, even while you are ill? I’ve never seen such a woman as you, Miss Elizabeth. You’re like a force, you are.”
She was warmed by this.
He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, and she wondered if she should be flattered by this or worried that he was taking liberties while she was sleeping and when she was ill.
