Useful Hands
Elizabeth let out a slow breath. “Controlled is worse,” she said. “Anger spends itself. Control keeps accounts.”
Jane’s arm lay lightly across the coverlet, not restraining, only there. “Then we will keep our own accounts,” she murmured. “Tomorrow.”
Elizabeth’s eyelids grew heavy at last, her body yielding where her mind still resisted. The candle guttered, then steadied.
“Tomorrow,” Elizabeth repeated, though the word already seemed far away.
Jane’s hand gave Elizabeth’s a final, gentle squeeze. “Tomorrow,” she whispered again, fastening the word in place.
Elizabeth meant to answer. The effort of it felt distant. Her eyes closed, and the last thing she saw was Jane’s face in the candlelight, steady as ever.
For a little while Jane remained where she was, watching Elizabeth’s breathing even out and the tightness ease from her brow. Pudding, disturbed by nothing more than peace, curled closer beneath the coverlet and began to purr in earnest.
Jane rose at last, careful not to jolt the bed. She took up her candle, shielded the flame, and moved to the door with the quiet skill of someone long practised in not waking a restless house.
At the threshold she looked back once.
Elizabeth slept.
Jane slipped out and drew the door with a soft, precise click.
Elizabeth woke to pale light and the quiet stir of a house already ordered. The candle had been pinched out, and the place beside her was cold, the counterpane smoothed by careful hands.
Pudding stretched beneath the coverlet, yawned with vulgar satisfaction, and pressed her head against Elizabeth’s wrist, claiming the morning.
At last she swung her feet to the floor and reached for her gown.
A few minutes later she was dressed and on her way down the passage, bonnet in hand. Fresh air and exercise were what she needed.
She let herself out and took the path that curved away from the house, choosing it without much thought beyond the wish to be out of doors. The morning was cool and bright. Dew lay on the grass like a thin glaze, and the air tasted clean, untouched now by smoke.
The lake appeared between the trees, still as glass, holding the pale sky upon its surface. Elizabeth walked along its edge where the ground was firm, listening to the quiet lap of water against stone.
Near a large tree whose branches spread wide and patient over the bank, she stopped and sat.
The trunk was rough beneath her palm, solid in a way that required nothing of her.
For a little while she only breathed and watched the slow movement of light on the water, and let the peace of it settle, unasked, upon her shoulders.
A pair of ducks cut across the lake in a line as tidy as a thought, their wake widening behind them and then fading into nothing.
In the reeds near the bank something rustled and went still again.
Above her, small birds moved through the branches with quick, bright confidence, calling to one another as though the morning needed no explanation.
Elizabeth leaned back against the tree and let her gaze follow them. The world here did not hurry. It did not demand explanations or gratitude. It simply went on: water, leaf, feather, and the quiet labour of living.
Her breathing eased without her noticing at first. The tightness in her chest loosened a fraction. For a few minutes she was only a woman sitting beneath a tree, watching the lake, and it was enough.
After half an hour, she went back inside, calmer than she had been in a long time. In the breakfast-room Jane was already dressed and seated at the table, a cup before her, her hands folded with her usual quiet patience. The rest of the party had not yet appeared.
“You look better,” Jane said at once.
“I walked,” Elizabeth replied, taking the chair opposite. “It appears I am still capable of being improved by air.”
Jane’s smile was quiet. “Then we must contrive to have you improved every day.”
A servant brought in the dishes and withdrew again. Elizabeth poured her tea and found she could eat without effort, which felt like a small triumph.
Jane waited until they were alone. “Shall we speak of what is to be done?”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “If we do not, it will be done for us.”
“We must be useful,” Jane said simply.
“Without being in the way,” Elizabeth returned.
“Without being burdens,” Jane agreed. “There are always small labours a household will permit. The poor-basket, for one.”
Elizabeth looked up. “Mending. Linen set aside for those who need it.”
Jane’s expression softened into real pleasure. “Yes. We can speak to Georgiana and Mrs Reynolds this morning.” She took up her toast, the simple motion suddenly purposeful.
Georgiana and Mary joined them soon after, both quiet, with sleep still lingering. Mrs Younge was with them, attentive without appearing so, and took her place near Georgiana with the ease of long habit. Caroline and Louisa were still abed, and the room felt easier for their absence.
When Jane explained their plan, Georgiana brightened at once, plainly relieved to be given something ordinary and safe to do. Mary agreed more gravely, but with equal firmness, and Mrs Younge assented with mild approval, in the manner of one willing to think well of a sensible idea.
By the time their plates were cleared, the four of them had agreed upon it. They would ask after the poor-basket, offer their hands for mending, and keep Georgiana with them in something safe and ordinary.
Georgiana could hardly keep her seat when the gentlemen entered.
She rose at once, colour high with purpose, and explained their intention with such earnestness that it sounded almost like an expedition.
They meant to find Mrs Reynolds, to ask after the poor-basket, and to be useful in a way that did not weary anyone.
Mr Bingley’s face lit. “Capital. Nothing improves a morning like a plan.”
Mr Darcy’s expression softened, though his attention went first to his sister. “You have chosen wisely,” he said. “Mrs Reynolds will be pleased to have willing hands.”
Georgiana clasped her own together to keep them still. “And it is not… too much?” she asked, glancing towards Mrs Younge.
“Not if you are sensible,” Mr Darcy replied. “Begin with a little, and see how you find it. Mrs Reynolds will know what may be done in comfort, and what may be left for another day. She will be grateful for any assistance you choose to offer.”
Then his gaze returned to Elizabeth. “Since you are so determined upon usefulness, you may be glad to hear that the work at the cottage is nearly finished.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened on her cup.
“The men will have done all that is necessary for safety by this afternoon,” he continued, calm and exact. “What remains after that is the slower business: airing, washing down what the smoke has touched, and making it fit to be lived in again. That may begin tomorrow.”
Mr Bingley’s expression brightened at once. “Then it is no longer alarming.”
“It is no longer dangerous,” Mr Darcy corrected, without harshness. “Comfort will take longer.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, accepting the truth of it.
Georgiana drew a quick breath, relieved at last to have a definite answer. “Then we may be useful here, while we wait,” she said. “May we speak to Mrs Reynolds?”
Jane rose. “That was our intention.”
Mrs Younge murmured assent, and Mary stood with quiet readiness.
Mr Darcy rose as well. “Mrs Reynolds will be in the still-room. If you go now, you will find her.”
Elizabeth hesitated before she followed the others, and turned back.
“Mr Darcy,” she said, keeping her voice light, “may I ask a favour?”
“Certainly.”
“I should like to see the cottage again,” she said. “Only to understand what remains. I can walk, of course, if you would rather not be troubled—”
“I would rather you did not feel obliged,” he replied, steady. “If you wish to go, the carriage may be ordered at whatever hour suits you.”
The simplicity of it, permission given without making it a debt, caught her off guard. Elizabeth dipped her head.
“You are very obliging,” she said, and before the warmth in her cheeks could betray her, she turned and followed the others.
They found Mrs Reynolds where Mr Darcy had said, in a room that smelled of herbs and clean linen, with jars ranged in orderly rows.
She looked startled at first to see the party descend upon her, then composed herself at once with respectful attention.
Georgiana explained their request with breathless earnestness, Mary added a grave assurance, and Jane’s gentle steadiness carried it through.
Mrs Reynolds listened, still doubtful that they ought to exert themselves, but could not refuse such willing hands.
Mrs Reynolds hesitated. “Miss Bennet, ladies, there is no expectation that you should exert yourselves. You have had shock enough. You ought to rest.”
Jane’s expression did not change, but her voice was steadier than before. “We do not seek exertion, only occupation. If there is something small that may be done in comfort, it would oblige us.”
Georgiana’s hands clasped together. “It would make me very happy,” she added, breathless.
Mary inclined her head. “And it will be properly done, ma’am.”
Mrs Reynolds’s face softened. “Very well,” she said at last. “If you are resolved upon it, I will not stand in your way.”
She glanced at Georgiana, then at Jane. “If you will go to the morning-room, I will bring you such work as may be done in comfort. There is mending, and some linen that may be set to rights for the poor. One of the tenants’ wives is near her time, and there are little things that will be of real use. ”
Georgiana brightened. “Thank you,” she said, receiving it more like a favour than a task.
In the morning-room they settled at once, glad of a place that asked only quiet. Georgiana drew a chair nearer the window, Mary positioned herself with composed purpose, and Jane sat with her hands folded, ready for whatever was required.