Read Online Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) by Anna Elliott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Elliott
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hurl at him—but before he could say anything, I hurried on. “My sister Mrs. Bingley has been taken ill.” I gestured behind me to the chaise where Jane sat. “Do you think you could assist me in helping her to someplace she might lie down?”
As it turned out, I was thankful that I had asked Mr. Dalton’s help, because he responded without hesitation. “Of course.”
He followed me back to Jane, who was once more hunched over, clasping her middle and breathing hard. Mr. Dalton knelt down beside her.
“Mrs. Bingley?”
At the address, Jane opened her eyes. She must have met Mr. Dalton before, because she seemed to recognise him and said, “Oh, Mr … Dalton, was it? I do not think— That is—”
I could see a touch of embarrassed colour creeping into her waxy-pale face; above all else, Jane hates to inconvenience others or to create a spectacle.
Mr. Dalton gave her no time to object, though. “I am going to lift you and carry you out of here. Can you put your arms around my neck, do you think?”
Jane was still flushed. But she must have been feeling truly dreadful, because she complied without further protest, and Mr. Dalton lifted her into his arms. He is very strong. Jane is tall and of course bulky with the child, but he picked her up seemingly without effort and turned to look questioningly at me.
“Where shall I take her?”
I started to shake my head. “I’m not sure. I don’t know this house well—”
Jane interrupted. Her eyes were scrunched shut again, but she said, between ragged breaths, “My room upstairs. Please. I ought to look in on Amelia, and—”
Her words ended in a sharply indrawn breath, so I took her hand again and said, quickly, “Of course. Don’t worry.”
There was a door nearby at the back of the ballroom. I took a chance on opening it and discovered that it led into what looked like the library, lined with tall mahogany shelves of books. From there, I found the doorway back to the main entrance hall and the front stairs, and Mr. Dalton followed, carrying Jane up to the second floor.
Jane had recovered a little by then—enough at least that she could tell us which door was hers. Mr. Dalton carried her in and set her down on the big four-poster bed, and I found and lighted a lamp.
Jane’s bedroom was just as elegant as the rest of the house, with a pretty blue and gold carpet on the floor and pale blue paper on the walls. Through the half-open doorway into the small dressing room next door, I could see two-year-old Amelia, sound asleep in the small wooden bed that must have been set there especially for her. Her thumb was in her mouth, and her golden curls—exactly the shade of Jane’s—were tousled against the pillow.
Jane looked in, too, and relaxed a bit at the sight of her sleeping child. But then she gave another gasp, biting her lip and tensing again.
“Jane?” I perched on the edge of the bed. “Is it another pain?”
Jane could not speak, but nodded her head. When the pain had passed, she managed to gasp, “But I am sure it is not serious—”
I did not let her finish. I may not know a great deal about confinements and childbirth—I was only two when Lydia was born, and Lizzy and Jane never talked to me about their confinements at all—but even I know the dangers to both the child and mother if the baby is born more than a month early—as Jane’s baby would be if it came tonight.
More than likely Jane would die, and the child too.
I went back to Mr. Dalton, who still stood by the doorway. “Please—could you go and fetch Georgiana for me? And ask her whether there is a physician who may be called?”
Mr. Dalton glanced up at Jane, then said, “Certainly—at once,” and went back downstairs, closing Jane’s door behind him. I went back to Jane and helped her out of her evening gown and into a nightdress. Her face was still sticky with perspiration, so I found a
As it turned out, I was thankful that I had asked Mr. Dalton’s help, because he responded without hesitation. “Of course.”
He followed me back to Jane, who was once more hunched over, clasping her middle and breathing hard. Mr. Dalton knelt down beside her.
“Mrs. Bingley?”
At the address, Jane opened her eyes. She must have met Mr. Dalton before, because she seemed to recognise him and said, “Oh, Mr … Dalton, was it? I do not think— That is—”
I could see a touch of embarrassed colour creeping into her waxy-pale face; above all else, Jane hates to inconvenience others or to create a spectacle.
Mr. Dalton gave her no time to object, though. “I am going to lift you and carry you out of here. Can you put your arms around my neck, do you think?”
Jane was still flushed. But she must have been feeling truly dreadful, because she complied without further protest, and Mr. Dalton lifted her into his arms. He is very strong. Jane is tall and of course bulky with the child, but he picked her up seemingly without effort and turned to look questioningly at me.
“Where shall I take her?”
I started to shake my head. “I’m not sure. I don’t know this house well—”
Jane interrupted. Her eyes were scrunched shut again, but she said, between ragged breaths, “My room upstairs. Please. I ought to look in on Amelia, and—”
Her words ended in a sharply indrawn breath, so I took her hand again and said, quickly, “Of course. Don’t worry.”
There was a door nearby at the back of the ballroom. I took a chance on opening it and discovered that it led into what looked like the library, lined with tall mahogany shelves of books. From there, I found the doorway back to the main entrance hall and the front stairs, and Mr. Dalton followed, carrying Jane up to the second floor.
Jane had recovered a little by then—enough at least that she could tell us which door was hers. Mr. Dalton carried her in and set her down on the big four-poster bed, and I found and lighted a lamp.
Jane’s bedroom was just as elegant as the rest of the house, with a pretty blue and gold carpet on the floor and pale blue paper on the walls. Through the half-open doorway into the small dressing room next door, I could see two-year-old Amelia, sound asleep in the small wooden bed that must have been set there especially for her. Her thumb was in her mouth, and her golden curls—exactly the shade of Jane’s—were tousled against the pillow.
Jane looked in, too, and relaxed a bit at the sight of her sleeping child. But then she gave another gasp, biting her lip and tensing again.
“Jane?” I perched on the edge of the bed. “Is it another pain?”
Jane could not speak, but nodded her head. When the pain had passed, she managed to gasp, “But I am sure it is not serious—”
I did not let her finish. I may not know a great deal about confinements and childbirth—I was only two when Lydia was born, and Lizzy and Jane never talked to me about their confinements at all—but even I know the dangers to both the child and mother if the baby is born more than a month early—as Jane’s baby would be if it came tonight.
More than likely Jane would die, and the child too.
I went back to Mr. Dalton, who still stood by the doorway. “Please—could you go and fetch Georgiana for me? And ask her whether there is a physician who may be called?”
Mr. Dalton glanced up at Jane, then said, “Certainly—at once,” and went back downstairs, closing Jane’s door behind him. I went back to Jane and helped her out of her evening gown and into a nightdress. Her face was still sticky with perspiration, so I found a
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