Chapter 17
Elizabeth found Jane feverish, restless, and far more ill than Mrs. Bennet would have allowed herself to imagine when sending her eldest daughter out in threatening weather.
Jane tried to smile when Elizabeth took her hand, but the attempt trembled and faded almost at once.
Her cheeks were too bright, her eyes heavy, and her voice little more than a whisper as she insisted that she was not so very unwell and that everyone had been excessively kind.
Elizabeth answered as cheerfully as she could, though the warmth of Jane’s hand and the dry heat of her forehead made concealment difficult.
She smoothed back her sister’s hair, arranged the blankets more comfortably, and sent the maid at once for fresh water, lemon, and another cloth.
By the time Mr. Jones arrived, Elizabeth had already coaxed Jane into drinking a little, changed the compress twice, and discovered that her sister’s “trifling cold” was neither trifling nor merely a cold.
Mr. Jones confirmed it with his usual mixture of gravity and reassurance, declaring that Miss Bennet had taken a chill which had settled into fever and must not be moved for several days at least. She was to be kept warm, quiet, and watched carefully.
“Several days?” Jane murmured, distressed. “Oh, Lizzy, I cannot impose so long.”
“You are not imposing,” Elizabeth said firmly.
Miss Bingley, who had entered with Mrs. Hurst near the end of Mr. Jones’s examination, made a small movement as though she might dispute that point and then wisely did not.
Mr. Bingley stood just beyond the doorway, propriety keeping him from entering fully while anxiety kept him from leaving.
When Mr. Jones repeated his instruction that Miss Bennet must remain, his relief was almost painful to behold.
“Of course she must stay,” he said at once. “Whatever is needed shall be provided. Mrs. Nicholls will see to everything.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth tightened, but she smiled. “Naturally, Charles.”
For several hours, Elizabeth thought of nothing but Jane.
She bathed her sister’s face, read softly when Jane wished to be distracted, and sat in silence when even words seemed too much.
Mrs. Nicholls sent up broth, tea, toast, and every sensible comfort without waiting to be asked.
Mr. Bingley sent inquiries so often that Elizabeth began to wonder whether he had stationed a footman in the passage for no purpose but carrying concern up and down the stairs.
Miss Bingley came once with a vase of flowers and a tone of sympathy so elegant that it felt almost like a performance.
Yet when Jane thanked her in a weak, grateful voice, even Miss Bingley’s expression softened a little.
Elizabeth saw it and, against her will, gave the lady credit for possessing some portion of feeling beneath her polish.
By mid-afternoon, Jane had slept for nearly an hour and woken with renewed distress.
“Lizzy,” she whispered when Elizabeth bent near, “you should go home before it grows late.”
“I shall not leave you until you are more comfortable.”
“You must. Mama will be anxious, and I am already too much trouble. If I am to remain here, it is better that you return and tell them all is well.”
Elizabeth hesitated. She did need to send word home, and she had no change of clothes, no proper night things, nothing beyond the gown in which she had walked across the fields. Yet the moment she withdrew her hand, Jane’s eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, my dear,” Elizabeth murmured, sitting again at once. “Do not cry.”
“I am being foolish.” Jane turned her face away, but the tears slipped free regardless. “I only feel so wretched, and everything is strange, and I do not want to be left.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave way entirely. “Then you shall not be left.”
Miss Bingley, who had come in with Mrs. Hurst to ask whether Miss Bennet would take tea, stopped just inside the door. For once, she seemed to have no immediate remark prepared. Jane, in tears, looked so gentle and unhappy that even the proudest heart in Hertfordshire could scarcely remain unmoved.
Miss Bingley drew a breath. “Miss Elizabeth, if you wish to remain with your sister, you are welcome to do so.”
Elizabeth looked up in surprise.
“It would be no inconvenience,” Miss Bingley continued, with slightly more composure. “Indeed, Miss Bennet may rest easier with you near her.”
Jane closed her eyes in visible relief.
Elizabeth’s gratitude, though reluctant in origin, was sincere. “Thank you. That is very kind. If I may send word to Longbourn, a small trunk may be brought with what Jane and I require.”
“Certainly.” Miss Bingley glanced toward the door. “Mrs. Nicholls can arrange it.”
Mrs. Nicholls did more than arrange it. A note was sent to Longbourn and within the hour, Susie was shown up to Jane’s chamber, cheeks flushed from curiosity and the briskness of being summoned in a great house.
“Miss Lizzy,” she said as soon as they were alone for a moment, “I saw Mr. Bates below-stairs.”
“And he is…?”
“Mr. Darcy’s valet. He is from Lambton. I knew him years ago, though he was older than I and already in service. My aunt thought very well of him.” Susie busied herself unnecessarily with folding a towel. “He looks much changed.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Changed?”
“Older, of course.”
“Dreadful fate.”
“And taller.”
“Alarming.”
“And…” Susie’s color deepened. “Very well-looking.”
Elizabeth, despite Jane’s illness and the strangeness of the day, could not help smiling. “Ah. That sort of change.”
Susie gave her a reproachful look. “Miss Lizzy.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were thinking a great deal.”
“That is one of my faults.”
Susie folded the towel with more care than any towel had ever required. “He was very civil. Asked after my aunt. Said he was glad to see someone from home.”
“And you are pleased?”
A soft, unguarded smile touched Susie’s mouth before she could hide it. “Yes. Though none of the others are from Pemberley, which is a pity. I had hoped perhaps to see more familiar faces.”
“One familiar face may be enough to begin with.”
Susie’s blush answered more than words could have done. Elizabeth laughed quietly, then immediately glanced toward Jane, but her sister had drifted again into a light doze.
“Go, before I tease you into forgetting my nightgown,” Elizabeth whispered.
Susie curtsied, still pink-cheeked, and left on her errand.
Elizabeth returned to Jane’s bedside, but the exchange had unsettled a very different part of her mind.
Bates below-stairs meant another connection between Netherfield and Pemberley, between her secret and Mr. Darcy’s world.
Yet instead of fear rising as it had that morning, she felt something much more inconvenient.
Anticipation.
She was to remain at Netherfield.
Under the same roof as Mr. Darcy.
The thought was improper enough that Elizabeth immediately scolded herself for it.
She was staying because Jane was ill. Her first concern must be Jane, and it was.
Yet beneath all the anxiety, beneath the practical arrangements and sisterly care, a small traitorous gladness kept stirring.
She would see him at dinner. Perhaps in the drawing room.
Perhaps in the passage. Perhaps he would look at her again as he had at Lucas Lodge, not with disdain but with that careful, wondering attention that made her feel as though a secret door had opened somewhere inside her.
It was very foolish.
She was far too pleased.
By the time Elizabeth allowed Susie to help her dress for dinner, exhaustion had settled into her bones.
The gown Susie chose was simple but fresh, a soft muslin with a narrow ribbon at the waist. It was not new, nor fashionable enough to impress Miss Bingley, but it was clean, becoming, and entirely respectable.
Susie arranged Elizabeth’s hair with deft fingers. “There. You look very well.”
Elizabeth studied her reflection. Her cheeks were a little pale from the day’s worry, and her eyes seemed brighter than usual, though whether from fatigue or anticipation she would not admit.
“I look like a woman who has spent the day arguing with illness and propriety.”
“You look like a lady going down to dinner.”
“With mud removed.”
“That generally helps.”
Elizabeth smiled, then sobered as Susie fastened the final pin. “How is my sister?”
“Asleep, miss.”
Elizabeth drew one breath, then another. Beyond the door lay Miss Bingley’s cold civility, Mr. Bingley’s anxious kindness, Mrs. Hurst’s indolent curiosity, and Mr. Darcy.
Especially Mr. Darcy.
She ought not to care that she would see him again within moments.
She cared very much.
With that inconvenient truth pressing warmly beneath her ribs, Elizabeth lifted her chin and went down to dinner.
∞∞∞
Dinner ought to have been a trial.
Darcy had expected Miss Bingley’s resentment, Bingley’s anxiety, Mrs. Hurst’s indolent civility, and the unavoidable awkwardness of sitting at table with the sister of an invalid guest. He had also expected Elizabeth to look tired after a day of nursing, walking, and worry.
He had not expected her to look lovely.
That morning she had been all brightness and motion, her eyes sharpened by fresh air and exercise, her cheeks warmed from the walk across damp fields.
There had been mud upon her hem then, and something in the sight had stirred an unreasonable pleasure in him, perhaps because it proved the young woman from Gracechurch Street had not been an accident of circumstance.
She still moved through the world as though difficulty were an invitation rather than a barrier.
Now she stood in the drawing room in a simple gown, her hair arranged neatly, her color softer, her expression composed.
She looked entirely proper, entirely gentle, and yet Darcy could not forget what lay beneath the quiet muslin and smooth curls: spirit, courage, wit, and some wild, ardent force that seemed always to be held in check only because she chose it. He liked both versions of her equally.
Perhaps too much.