Chapter 16 #2
“She passed a restless night, miss, but she is warm and properly attended. Miss Bingley did see that she had a good room, a clean nightgown, and a fire kept up, to give her her due.” Mrs. Nicholls’s mouth tightened.
“Though I rather suspect she hoped Miss Bennet would wake well enough to be packed off before Mr. Bingley was troubled with knowing she had ever been ill.”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Mr. Bingley does not know?”
“Not until this morning. The servants were ordered not to bother the master with it.”
“Not bother him?” Elizabeth repeated, her voice low with disbelief.
“That was the phrase reported to me.” Mrs. Nicholls glanced toward the breakfast room door at the far end of the passage. “I sent word to him by Mr. Darcy’s valet, however. Bates seems to be a sensible man, and I thought if Mr. Darcy knew, Mr. Bingley would not long remain ignorant.”
Elizabeth released a breath through her nose, only half in patience. “And did he?”
“The moment Mr. Bingley learned of Miss Bennet’s presence, he ordered Mr. Jones sent for. Another message has gone already.”
Some of the tension eased from Elizabeth’s shoulders. Mr. Bingley, then, was not careless. That comforted her, though it did nothing to improve her opinion of his sister.
“I am grateful for your care, Mrs. Nicholls. But pray remember—”
“That you are not to be treated as mistress of Netherfield,” Mrs. Nicholls finished quietly. “Yes, miss. I know. None of the old servants will forget it, and none of the new ones know enough to suspect it.”
“I trust you. It is only that the house is fuller now, and servants talk.”
“They do,” Mrs. Nicholls said, with the frankness of one who had spent her life among them. “But they must first have something to talk about. To them, you are Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, come to see her sister and perhaps to speak of tenant matters, as you have often done.”
Elizabeth nodded, though the reminder did not wholly settle her nerves. Netherfield had begun to feel less like a secret these last days and more like a candle shielded by two hands in a rising wind.
They reached the breakfast room door, and Elizabeth looked down at herself with sudden consternation.
Her sisters had taken the carriage into Meryton, and Elizabeth did not wish to wait for their return, so she had walked.
The fields had not been kind. Her hem was spattered with mud, her half-boots bore obvious evidence of damp lanes, and a few strands of hair had escaped beneath her bonnet despite Susie’s careful work.
A laugh, silent and wry, rose within her.
This would now be the second time Mr. Darcy saw her disheveled.
At least she could take comfort in knowing he had seen worse. Much worse. No amount of Hertfordshire mud could rival Gracechurch Street cellar mud, and if he had not been frightened away by that spectacle, a stained hem could hardly complete the work.
She squared her shoulders and gave Mrs. Nicholls a nod.
The housekeeper opened the door. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Every eye in the room turned toward her.
Mr. Bingley rose at once, all concern and eagerness.
Mr. Darcy stood almost in the same instant, more slowly but no less certainly, and Elizabeth felt his attention before she allowed herself to meet it.
Miss Bingley, seated with one hand near her coffee cup, looked from Elizabeth’s bonnet to her hem and gave a small gasp.
“Good heavens,” she said. “Is it truly so muddy out of doors? You look as if you walked from Longbourn.”
She gave a delicate titter, as though this were a jest too refined to require good nature.
Elizabeth untied her bonnet strings with perfect calm. “I did. The carriage was unavailable.”
Mr. Bingley sent his sister a look so unusually severe that Elizabeth’s opinion of him rose several degrees. “Miss Elizabeth, I am very glad to see you. I am only sorry the occasion is your sister’s illness.”
“How is Jane?” Elizabeth asked, turning to him at once.
His face clouded. “I am ashamed to say I do not know for myself. I only learned very recently that she had remained in the house.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered, despite herself, toward Miss Bingley. That lady had become very interested in spreading marmalade upon a piece of toast.
“I should like to see her immediately, if I may,” Elizabeth said.
“Of course.” Mr. Bingley stepped forward at once. “I shall show you the way myself.”
There was such open anxiety in his manner that Elizabeth could not resent his offer. He wanted to know how Jane did. Perhaps he hoped to catch even a glimpse, or hear a word from the maid, or reassure himself that the lady he admired had not suffered through neglect in his house.
“I will accompany you,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth looked at him then.
It was a mistake, perhaps. His expression was composed, but not indifferent. There was something intent in his gaze, something restrained and searching, and the sight of it made her stomach give a small, foolish flutter.
Miss Bingley rose with sudden alacrity. “Then I shall join you.”
“No,” Mr. Bingley said.
His sister stopped.
He seemed to realize the sharpness of his reply only after it was spoken, but he did not take it back. “I mean, Caroline, you have not yet finished your breakfast. Miss Elizabeth’s first concern will be her sister’s health, not company.”
Miss Bingley’s lips parted as though she meant to protest. Then she looked at his face and appeared to reconsider. “Of course,” she said tightly, sinking back into her chair. “I shall visit Miss Bennet later.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Bingley turned to Darcy. “Come along, Darcy. I should like to speak to you about one or two estate matters afterward.”
Elizabeth could not help noticing the convenience of that excuse. Whether it had been offered for his own comfort, Mr. Darcy’s, or hers, she did not know.
Mrs. Nicholls led the way from the breakfast room.
Mr. Bingley followed, speaking as they went with a nervous energy that might have been charming had Elizabeth been capable of attending to all of it.
He explained that Jane had been caught by the rain, that he was excessively sorry for it, that the lane from Longbourn must be dreadful in wet weather, that Mr. Jones had been sent for, that every possible comfort should be supplied, and that if anything had been lacking, she must tell him at once.
Elizabeth answered where necessary, though half her awareness remained behind her.
Mr. Darcy walked a few paces back.
She knew without looking that he watched her.
The certainty was entirely unreasonable.
There were no footsteps to prove it beyond his steady tread, no words, no movement she could see.
Yet the sensation of his gaze rested between her shoulders as tangibly as a hand.
If she turned, she was certain she would find his eyes upon her—grave, dark, and intent as they had been at Lucas Lodge while she played.
She did not turn.
She could face his attention better when she was not also climbing stairs with muddy skirts and a worried heart.
At the door to Jane’s chamber, Mrs. Nicholls stopped. “Here she is. If there is anything she requires, anything at all—”
“I shall tell her,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening. “Thank you, Mrs. Nichols, Mr. Bingley.”
She looked at Mr. Darcy only briefly. “Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Darcy bowed. “Miss Elizabeth.”
There was more in his expression than the simple civility allowed. Elizabeth felt it, though she did not yet know what to do with it. So she turned to the door, entered Jane’s room, and found the maid within slumped half-asleep in a chair near the fire.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said quietly, waking the girl. “I shall sit with my sister now.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and slipped out, rubbing her eyes.
Elizabeth closed the door behind her, shutting Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and all the unsettled flutter of the hall on the other side. Then she crossed swiftly to Jane’s bedside and took her sister’s warm hand in her own.
“Oh, Jane, what have you gotten us into?”