Chapter 15
Elizabeth arose early the following morning and spent the majority of it tending to her sister.
The blue room was, as promised, far more comfortable than the chilly corner where Jane had been originally placed.
A fire had been lit and maintained since the night before, and the bed linens were fresh and fragrant.
Mrs. Nicholls had seen to everything with quiet efficiency, and Elizabeth had found herself touched—once again—by the thoughtfulness of the housekeeper.
Jane, though still weak, was improved. Her fever had abated slightly, her cough less wracking.
Elizabeth helped her sit up to take some warm broth and coaxed a few spoonfuls past her lips.
Jane smiled faintly and leaned back against the pillows, her golden hair fanned across the case like a silken halo.
“You are an angel,” Jane whispered. “I do not know how you always know exactly what to do.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “That description is more appropriate for yourself than for me.”
She reached for the cloth and gently dabbed her sister’s brow, smoothing a stray lock from her temple, and Jane closed her eyes wearily. The silence that fell between them was companionable.
A knock came at the door.
Elizabeth rose from Jane’s side, surprised. She opened it cautiously and found Mrs. Hurst, dressed more simply than usual and looking, to Elizabeth’s great astonishment, rather nervous.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Hurst said stiffly. “May I come in?”
Elizabeth stepped aside to allow her entrance.
The woman glanced around the room, her eyes settling on Jane before returning to Elizabeth. “I—I wanted to… that is, I thought it appropriate to offer my apologies.”
Elizabeth said nothing, waiting.
“I should have questioned my sister’s account,” Mrs. Hurst continued, her voice tight with restraint. “She told me Miss Bennet had refused assistance. I see now that I ought not to have taken her at her word.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of surprise. The speech was not graceful, but it felt real.
And then, without warning, a strange image rose in her mind—of Kitty, sweet and uncertain, standing beside Lydia’s commanding presence. Of Kitty deferring, following, even when she ought to know better.
She looked at Mrs. Hurst again.
The woman was older than she was, but in that moment, she looked uncertain—more like a younger sister than Elizabeth had ever seen her.
“I appreciate your coming,” Elizabeth said slowly. “It is no easy thing to offer an apology. I understand how difficult it can be to speak against those who lead.”
Mrs. Hurst’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Yes… well.”
“Please,” Jane said softly from the bed. “There is no need to feel poorly. I am sure it was all a mistake.”
Mrs. Hurst blinked and turned to her, a furrow appearing between her brows.
Elizabeth watched as their guest took in Jane’s open expression, her sincere eyes, her ready forgiveness.
Their gazes met for a long moment, and Elizabeth gave the smallest nod—resigned and a little weary, as if to say, Yes. She really is that good.
Mrs. Hurst gave a small exhale of something like amazement. “There was no mistake, Miss Bennet,” she said at last. “Only indifference.”
Jane’s expression crumpled, just a little. Her mouth parted in a quiet breath, and Elizabeth reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Mrs. Hurst looked as though she wanted to say more, but she only dipped into a shallow curtsy. “Good day.”
She left without waiting for a reply.
As the door closed behind her, Jane sighed and blinked rapidly. A few tears slid quietly down her cheek.
“Oh, Jane,” Elizabeth murmured, brushing them away. “You must not waste sorrow on people who do not deserve it.”
“I am not sorry for them,” Jane whispered. “Only… only for the world to be so unkind.”
She closed her eyes, and once Jane’s breath had settled into the even rhythm of sleep, Elizabeth gently released her hand and stood, stretching her aching limbs. She had been sitting beside her sister for hours, and while the quiet was soothing, her mind longed for a diversion.
She glanced at the trunk that had been brought from Longbourn earlier that morning. Though grateful for the clean clothes and hairbrush it contained, her smile faded slightly when she spotted the lone book atop the neatly folded linen: The Improvement of the Mind, by Isaac Watts.
Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. “Mary,” she muttered under her breath. “Ever hopeful that I might one day match her own standard of moral perfection.”
With a sigh, she rose and slipped quietly from the room. A housemaid passed in the hall, carrying fresh linens. Elizabeth paused her. “Excuse me—could you direct me to the library?”
The girl curtsied. “Of course, miss. Downstairs, west corridor. The door is usually open.”
Elizabeth thanked her and made her way through the hall, pleased to find herself largely unobserved. She had no desire to endure another encounter with Miss Bingley’s allies, and the tranquility of the morning had fortified her enough to brave even a meager country collection of books.
When she reached the library, however, she found it already occupied.
Mr. Darcy sat near the hearth, a leather-bound volume in hand and a cup of tea cooling beside him. He looked up at the sound of the door and blinked in surprise.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, standing at once. “I—did not expect company.”
“Nor did I, sir,” she replied with a smile. “Pray forgive the intrusion. I was simply in search of something to read.”
He glanced at the shelves with a rueful expression. “Then I fear you are in for a disappointment.”
Elizabeth stepped further into the room, taking in the thin rows of books, arranged more for display than actual use. “Indeed,” she said with mock solemnity, “this collection looks rather like a gentleman’s cravat: chosen for appearance rather than function.”
Darcy chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “That is an apt comparison. Bingley is a man of good taste but… not wide reading.”
“So, I gather.” She tilted her head, scanning the spines. “The only novel I see is The Castle of Otranto—and that looks untouched.”
“I believe Miss Bingley purchased it because she was told it was fashionable. She read the first page and declared it too fantastical to be proper.”
Elizabeth laughed. “She would rather a novel where nothing happens and the heroine ends up with a suitable match, no doubt.”
“Indeed.” His lips twitched. “I, on the other hand, found it oddly entertaining.”
She looked at him with exaggerated suspicion. “You, sir, enjoy Gothic romances?”
“I enjoy good writing, wherever it may be found,” he said, a little defensively. At her raised eyebrow, he sighed and said, “I read it when my cousin purchased it for my younger sister. I wished to ensure that it would not frighten her too much.”
“Then you must be a very patient man.”
“Only selectively.”
Elizabeth smiled. “And which books, Mr. Darcy, receive your select patience?”
He hesitated, then gestured to the book in his hand. “This, for instance—Plutarch. I find the moral questions raised in his biographies compelling.”
She grimaced. “That is very admirable of you, but I confess, I prefer characters with a bit more warmth. Some passion, some wit—something that reminds me the writer knew what it was to be human. A good gothic novel is best enjoyed on a stormy night with weak nerves.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened slightly, and something thoughtful flickered in his expression. “And what do you read when you wish to be reminded of humanity?”
Elizabeth walked to the shelf and plucked out a volume. “Well, this,” she said, holding up a worn copy of The Vicar of Wakefield, “is one of my favorites. The vicar’s naiveté is maddening, but the heart of the story is family and endurance—and that I find very worth reading.”
“I would not have guessed it.”
She raised a brow. “Oh? What would you have guessed?”
Darcy considered her. “Something clever. Perhaps something satirical. Swift, or Addison.”
Elizabeth tilted her head in mock offense. “And you think me incapable of appreciating sentiment?”
“I think you far too discerning to tolerate it when it is poorly done.”
She narrowed her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched. “That, Mr. Darcy, is dangerously close to being a compliment.”
He smiled—truly smiled—for the first time she could remember. “Then I am pleased to be guilty of it.”
The moment held for an instant too long before Elizabeth broke it, turning back to the shelves. “Still,” she said lightly, “if the selection is this poor, perhaps I will read the book Mary sent over. It may do me good to be reminded of my sins.”
Darcy laughed again, and this time it came more easily.
“You are welcome to take anything you like,” he said, stepping aside to let her peruse. “Though I fear you may soon be composing your own literary work on the poverty of provincial libraries.”
Elizabeth cast him a sidelong glance. “Ah, but then I should have to dedicate it to you.”
His eyes gleamed. “I think I should be honored.”
She bit her lip to hold back a smile and turned to the shelf once more, unsure which of the titles she might borrow—but very certain that, whatever she read that afternoon, the company had already been the most intriguing part.
∞∞∞
As the door closed softly behind her, Darcy remained still, eyes fixed on the space where Elizabeth had stood only a moment before.
The echo of her voice still lingered in the quiet of the room, the cadence of her wit looping through his thoughts like a refrain he had not known he longed to hear again.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers resting on the spine of the book he had abandoned the moment she entered. Plutarch suddenly felt exceedingly dry.