Create Your Own JAFF Adventure – Post 15

Thanks for joining me on our Create Your Own JAFF Adventure! Just starting? You can catch up on previous posts collected here: https://austenvariations.com/category/sarah-courtney/ .

Feeling a little lost?  You can read a summary of what has happened so far in the story here: quick summary.

Last post, Elizabeth told Mr. Darcy her suspicions about the laudanum, but they were interrupted by her aunt and dinner. After dinner, her cousin Andrew went missing and was then discovered to be asleep–and nobody could wake him. Elizabeth believed he was dosed with laudanum just as she suspected Mr. Darcy was. Her uncle was furious at the discovery that another attack had been made on Mr. Darcy, and he insisted on speaking with Mr. Darcy and his cousin in his study and ordered Elizabeth to help her aunt with Andrew. Readers decided to have Elizabeth comply and help Aunt Gardiner, so we’ll be starting the next part there!

If you’d prefer the third person version, you can read it here. There’s a link at the bottom of the intro part that will jump you to the newest part. Just don’t forget to come back and comment to tell me what Elizabeth should do next!

As much as it pains you to be left ignorant of the discussion currently happening in your uncle’s study, you hurry to the nursery to provide what help you can.

Your cousin’s sickroom is all a bustle. Aunt Gardiner fusses over Andrew, arranging the pillows so that he is propped upright and tucking in a towel under his chin. Two other servants rush about lighting candles and moving furniture to give easy access to the small bed. Michael, who shares Andrew’s room, sits on his own bed watching the scene wide-eyed.

“Miss Hammerlin says to tell you that she is bringing the ipecac and hot water,” you say as soon as Aunt Gardiner looks up.

“Thank goodness,” Aunt Gardiner murmurs. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but no tears fall.

“Aunt, I believe Mr. Darcy’s chocolate may have been dosed with the laudanum.” You drop onto one of the children’s stools, far too low to the ground for your adult height. “We should tell Mr. Bartley when he arrives.”

“Mr. Darcy’s chocolate . . .” Aunt Gardiner says slowly, her eyes widening. “Now I remember. You were saying something before that laudanum was the reason for his relapse?”

“Rather, that it was not a relapse at all.”

Aunt Gardiner gives a little jerk, and you see that her hands are clenching at the bed coverings. “Mr. Darcy is a grown man, and he could not be wakened for some time.”

“We do not believe Andrew drank much. It was bitter, very bitter. Andrew likely also just took a sip. The cup was still mostly full.”

It is more hope than certainty, and your aunt recognizes it for what it is. Aunt Gardiner nods, but she does not relax her grip on the bed coverings.

Miss Hammerlin runs in, followed by a maid. The governess hands Aunt Gardiner a bottle and directs the maid to place a pail of steaming water on the table at the back of the room.

“Shall I do it, Mrs. Gardiner?”

“No, I will.” Aunt Gardiner puts her arm behind Andrew’s shoulders and hefts him upright, although his head wobbles on his shoulders. She brings the bottle to his lips and presses his lips open, dribbling a little in, then immediately rubbing up and down his neck just below the chin. To your relief, you can see him swallow. Aunt Gardiner repeats the action several times before lowering him just to the pillow, although he is still mostly upright.

“What can I do?” you whisper as you watch your cousin sleep far too deeply.

Aunt Gardiner, in lieu of answering, reaches across the space between you to clasp your hand. Her grip is tight, but you do not protest. If this is what comfort you can offer, you will do so.

Mr. Bartley arrives at last, hurrying into the room and holding a whispered conversation with Aunt Gardiner in which she passes on what information you have been able to share. He takes the boy’s pulse and examines the bottle of ipecac. He leaves the room several times, returning once with the cup of chocolate and touching it, then touching his lips. He makes a face and leaves again.

It seems like hours before Andrew suddenly convulses, but Aunt Gardiner and Miss Hammerlin are prepared. They hurriedly hold Andrew more upright, the towel close around his chin, and then he is vomiting. With smooth motions, they remove the soiled towels and replace them, lowering him to the bed again once he is done.

“Good, good,” Mr. Bartley says from the door of the room. “That may help, if it hasn’t been too long since the laudanum was ingested. Miss Elizabeth, may I speak with you?”

You stand, stiff from your position on the low stool and from Aunt Gardiner’s surprisingly strong grip. You follow the physician into the passage.

“I understand that you are the one who first mentioned laudanum, both in Mr. Darcy’s case and in Master Gardiner’s. May I ask what led you to that conclusion?”

You think back. Has it been only this afternoon that you observed Mr. Darcy? “I was initially surprised at Mr. Darcy’s apparent relapse,” you say slowly. “He had been doing so well that it seemed unlikely. He came downstairs, and I happened to notice that he was breathing rather quickly and that his pupils were very small, much as if he were gazing into bright sunlight, despite facing away from the light. My sister once received too much laudanum after an injury, sir, and she had similar symptoms. I told Mr. Darcy about my concerns, and I . . .” Here you hesitate. Is it your own guilt that makes you hesitate to mention you had almost asked Andrew to search Mr. Darcy’s room? Your face heats, and you find you cannot bear mentioning it.

“And?” Mr. Bartley leans a little closer. “And then Andrew took ill?”

You clear your throat. “Yes. Andrew had been speaking to me of wishing he could play hide and seek in the gentlemen’s rooms, so when he went missing, I thought he might be there. After we found him sleeping so deeply, we found the cup of chocolate in Mr. Darcy’s room.”

“Ah, yes, the chocolate. It is almost certainly dosed. I can taste it.” At your alarmed look, he adds hastily, “I tasted only enough to be certain. It will not put me into a stupor immediately. I will say that the taste was very strong, implying a great deal of laudanum was in his cup. Far more than, say, a gentleman would add to his own bedtime drink to deal with nighttime aches.” His look is meaningful, but then he cocks his head. “Mr. Darcy did not drink it, though. The cup was almost full.”

“Mr. Darcy did say he took a sip or perhaps a few. He does not remember for certain, only that it was too bitter and he did not drink more.”

“Ah.” The physician’s face clears. “That answers my point of concern about our theory, because it looked as if he had very little. The amount of laudanum must be very high, then, for it to have such an effect on a grown man from a few sips.” He frowns. “We will have to hope the boy only tasted it, or that the ipecac has good effect. It is a good sign that he was able to expel so much.”

“Then you think he will be well?”

“As a physician, I do not as a rule like to make predictions, especially in such a case as this where I do not know the dosage. But I will remain hopeful, and so should you be.” He adjusts his spectacles and looks toward the door to the boys’ room. “I suppose your uncle will be investigating where the laudanum came from?” His forehead creases with concern.

You nod, a pang in your chest at the thought that the gentlemen are discussing this without you.

“Do you have any idea how much it was?” you ask.

Mr. Bartley shrugs. “Perhaps most of a bottle. I cannot say without knowing exactly how many ‘sips’ Mr. Darcy had, and even then it would be only a guess.” He bows. “Thank you, Miss Bennet, for the information. I have another call now, but I have spoken with Mrs. Gardiner about how to care for Andrew for the next few hours, and I will return when I can.”

When you return to the boys’ room, Miss Hammerlin is busily removing another soiled towel, and Aunt Gardiner is cleaning Andrew’s face with a damp cloth. But your attention is drawn to little Michael. He lies in bed, under the blankets now, but he is trembling from head to toe and tears are streaming silently from his face.

“Oh, Michael,” you whisper, climbing onto the bed and wrapping your arms around him.

“Is Andrew dying?” Michael whispers.

“No! Your mama has given him medicine, and Mr. Bartley is taking special care of him.” You give Michael a squeeze. “Andrew will probably sleep for a while, like Mr. Darcy did when he was . . . when he was ill.” You want to reassure him that Andrew will awake, but you do not dare make such a promise. “Come, I will hold you until you are asleep.”

Your aunt twists in her chair to give you a grateful look. You can only imagine how terrifying and painful it must be, to be torn between an ill son who desperately needs you as well as his confused and frightened younger brother who needs comfort.

“I will sing you both a lullaby,” Aunt Gardiner says, turning a little to include Michael.

“‘Lavender’s green?’” Michael asks, sniffling a little and rubbing at his nose. You pull out a handkerchief to wipe his face.

“If you wish.” Aunt Gardiner clears her throat. She begins to sing a little hoarsely, “Lavender’s green, diddle diddle, lavender’s blue. You must love me, diddle diddle, cause I love you.”

You close your eyes as you snuggle close to Michael and listen to the lullaby and let the room fade away around you.

When you wake, it is to find your aunt lying peacefully in bed next to Andrew. Miss Hammerlin is gone, perhaps with the girls. You sit up and lean over to see how Andrew sleeps, and your aunt opens her eyes. She smiles.

“He woke a little,” she whispers. “Enough to open his eyes. Mr. Bartley examined him and is certain he will recover. He is sleeping more lightly now—you see, he has already kicked me once in his sleep.”

You smile with relief. “The sweetest kick you will receive, except perhaps for the quickening.”

“I thought the same.” Aunt Gardiner kisses Andrew on his forehead. “You might as well go on to your bed, Lizzy. Come back after breakfast, and I believe we will have good news.”

You nod and gingerly get up, stroking Michael’s hair one last time before making your way through the early morning darkness to your room and collapsing fully clothed into your cold bed. The fire has long since died down, but it does not matter. You fall back asleep quickly, worn out by the strain of the last few days as much as by lack of sleep.

By the time you wake for the second time and make your way down to breakfast, you have a new pit of anxiety in your stomach. What will Uncle Gardiner say? You have not spoken to him about the Bingleys and Hursts, and you have no idea what the conversation last night consisted of.

To your surprise, only Uncle Gardiner is at breakfast. “Sit, my dear,” he says, raising a cup of coffee to his mouth.

“Where are Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam?” you ask as you obey.

The serving girl takes up Uncle Gardiner’s cup to refill it.

“Mr. Darcy,” Uncle Gardiner says, leaning back a little in his chair, “is very ill again this morning.”

You look up with a start. “Pardon?” Ill? What has happened? More laudanum? But the Netherfield party has not been to the house again. How could they have done anything? Have you been on the wrong track the entire time?

How ill is he? Your heartbeats are thunderous as you meet your uncle’s surprisingly calm gaze.

Your uncle flicks his eyes to the serving girl, who has turned away. And to your astonishment, he winks. In the next moment, his gaze flicks away to the butler, who is taking a tray from the maid and turning down the passage.

“I shall tell you more after breakfast,” he says. “But yes, very ill. His cousin is tending him, and his prognosis does not look good.”

Your fork clatters to the table, and you blush as the maid jerks and turns to eye you. But your uncle’s gaze is still untroubled, and you remember that wink. What is going on?

“Perhaps we shall speak in my study now.” Uncle Gardiner stands. “If you are finished breakfast.”

While you have barely started it, you would never manage a bite now. “Yes, Uncle.”

By some extreme forbearance, you manage to make it until you are enclosed in your uncle’s study with the door shut before speaking.

“Uncle! Tell me the truth,” you say. “Is Mr. Darcy truly ill?”

Uncle Gardiner takes your hand and squeezes it gently. “No, my dear.” He sighs and lowers himself into one of the chairs next to his desk. “He is not. However, we have determined it might be best to pretend it is so. And so the man who brought calamity to my house is now languishing upstairs, feigning poisoning.”

You take the other chair gingerly. “I assume there is some reason for it.”

“We had an . . . interesting discussion last night.” Uncle Gardiner’s face darkens. “I was furious. I may have suggested that Mr. Darcy’s recovery would be best at Darcy House and away from my family.”

“Uncle!”

Uncle Gardiner holds up his hand. “Now, Lizzy. You are your father’s daughter and under my protection. You do not know what it is to be the one with the responsibility for a family you must keep safe. I know that Andrew is recovering—but I cannot describe to you the helplessness I felt at the knowledge I had failed to protect my son from a danger within his own house. And I will admit, I ranted and raved a bit to both men last night over their own failure to warn me of the danger.”

He narrows his eyes. “You, too, knew more than you let on.”

“Mr. Darcy told me he was attacked on Netherfield Park grounds,” you admit. “That led me to wonder—only wonder, I promise you—whether someone in the Bingley party might have been involved. Now, it seems almost certain.”

He closes his eyes. “I am beginning to think it a very good thing that Mr. Bingley has been removed from Meryton and your sister.”

You slowly nod. “I am, too. But Mr. Bingley may not be the villain. His sisters and brother-in-law were at Netherfield Park, too, and they were here for dinner. I did not have the chance to speak to you last night, but I noticed at the dinner that all of them except for Miss Bingley left the room for some time during the evening.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Mrs. Hurst as well?”

“She needed to refresh herself before joining the ladies when we withdrew.”

“Hmm.” There is a world of meaning in that hmm. “I will pass this along to Mr. Darcy, as we were not aware of that possibility when we spoke last evening.”

“That was the reason I asked to join you last night,” you say, but there is no bitterness in your voice. You have not helped much, perhaps, but you have been able to comfort your aunt and little Michael a bit, and you are grateful you have been able to be there.

“Hmm.” Uncle Gardiner purses his lips. “I would appreciate it if you shared further suspicions with me, Lizzy. A man should know the dangers to his house. That said.” He clears his throat. “While I did entertain the idea of sending off both men immediately, or at least at first light—I did not.”

You cock your head. “May I ask why?”

“Because the anger I feel toward your Mr. Darcy for keeping secrets is nothing to the fury I feel at the villain who almost murdered my son.” His voice trembles with rage, and for a moment, even you are afraid.

Uncle Gardiner takes several breaths until his reddened face has returned to something closer to normal. “Sending Mr. Darcy away would be the fastest way to get the danger away from my house. But it would mean risking his life, and possibly never catching the man—or woman—who hurt him. Instead, we discussed the possibility of bringing the Bingleys and Hursts here again and allowing them to think their plan succeeded.”

“Letting them think Mr. Darcy is dead?” You frown. “Surely not, Uncle. If Mr. Darcy were dead, his sister and family members would come to say their farewells. A funeral would be planned. Certainly the Bingleys and Hursts would not be invited to a house of mourning.”

Uncle Gardiner clears his throat. “Well. Perhaps not dead.” He sighs. “The truth is, we were all too tired—and shocked at Andrew’s condition—to design a good plan. But we did think it best to keep up the fiction that Mr. Darcy did become seriously ill, as that is what the poisoner would expect. We do not want to let on our suspicions just yet.”

There is a tap on the door, and at Uncle Gardiner’s call, the butler enters with several letters on a tray, giving Uncle Gardiner a bow before he leaves.

Your uncle sighs as he flips through them. “Business,” he mutters. “I will see to it later. It is time I made my way upstairs to see the children and send my wife to bed. Mr. Bartley should be here again soon.” He pushes back his chair and stands. “You might go to see Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. I believe they are in Mr. Darcy’s sitting room. Perhaps you might aid us in determining a plan to lure those fiends into a trap.”

You smile a little at this. “Yes, Uncle.”

“This one is for you.” He hands you the last letter before he leaves the room, and you smile to see that it is from Jane. You are anxious to hear the further news from Meryton, but just as anxious to meet with Mr. Darcy and his cousin to see what might be done to catch the poisoner. The sooner you all develop a plan, the better.

What should you do first?

Should you read the letter from Jane

or

go upstairs to speak with the men about a plan?

Special thanks to my amazing beta-reader, the excellent Bethy! She made me rewrite the last third of this story, which was a lot of hair pulling out on my part but was also totally necessary. You are getting a much better story part than you would have otherwise thanks to her help. Even if it means some romantic musings got moved to the next part. 🙂