Chapter 19
Elizabeth spent nearly the whole of the day in Jane’s room.
It was not unpleasant employment, though it was anxious.
Jane slept often, woke apologetic, drank what Elizabeth pressed upon her, and insisted at regular intervals that she was quite well enough to be no trouble.
Elizabeth answered such declarations by smoothing her sister’s hair, changing the cool cloth upon her forehead, and reminding her that if she wished to convince anyone of her recovery, she must begin by ceasing to look like a pale angel expiring upon a pillow.
Jane had smiled at that, which Elizabeth considered a decided improvement.
In the afternoon, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst came up together.
Elizabeth had expected elegance, condescension, and perhaps one or two speeches about the superior air of town houses, but Jane’s sweet gratitude seemed to soften even Miss Bingley.
The sisters sat with her for nearly half an hour, spoke gently, adjusted the fire screen, praised her patience, and offered to send for anything that might amuse her when she felt equal to it.
Mrs. Hurst even took Jane’s hand for a moment and said, with more feeling than Elizabeth had yet heard from her, that illness was always worse away from home.
Elizabeth, who had not wished to be grateful to them, was forced into it all the same.
By evening, Jane had fallen into a more settled sleep, and Susie agreed to remain with her while Elizabeth went down to dinner.
“You need food, miss,” Susie said, with the same sternness Mrs. Nicholls employed when command wore the costume of concern.
“And Miss Bennet will fret if she wakes and hears you have not eaten.”
That was enough to decide her.
Elizabeth changed quickly into a simple gown and descended with the uncomfortable awareness that she was more pleased than she ought to be at the prospect of seeing Darcy again.
She told herself it was only because their conversation in the library had been agreeable.
That was true, as far as it went. It was also not the whole truth, which made it less useful as a defense.
At dinner, Mr. Bingley asked after Jane with so much sincerity that Elizabeth’s hopes for her sister’s future happiness could not help but be raised.
“She has slept more peacefully this afternoon,” she told him. “Mr. Jones will not yet call her better, but he appears less solemn, which I take as encouragement.”
“Then I shall be encouraged as well,” Mr. Bingley said at once. “You must tell Miss Bennet that we all wish for her recovery.”
“I shall.”
“Not that she is to hasten it,” he added quickly. “She must not think we wish her gone.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I shall word it very carefully.”
Miss Bingley gave a graceful little laugh. “Charles is in danger of becoming so anxious a host that Miss Bennet may begin to fear recovery would disappoint him.”
Mr. Bingley colored, but not enough to hide his pleasure at any mention of Jane. “I merely wish her comfortable.”
“She is,” Elizabeth said, and meant it. “You have all been very kind.”
Miss Bingley’s expression softened a little, as it had upstairs. “Your sister makes kindness very easy, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth was surprised into silence for half a moment. “Yes,” she said at last. “She does.”
“I do hope she will be well enough soon to perhaps join us for a short time,” Bingley said.
“I believe she will, provided she obeys Mr. Jones and does not attempt to persuade everyone she may go home tomorrow.”
“I shall command the carriage horses to be unavailable,” Bingley said with a laugh.
For a time, conversation moved harmlessly enough through the weather, the state of the roads, the possibility of Jane being moved in a few days, and Mr. Bingley’s growing acquaintance with the neighborhood and familiarity with Netherfield.
“Netherfield is adequate, of course,” Miss Bingley said, “but some of the household arrangements are a bit curious. We are not in town, however, and one cannot expect London polish in servants who do not regularly accompany their masters to town.”
“Nor do they need to,” Darcy said. “The Pemberley housekeeper scarcely goes to London, but I have found that polish is sometimes less valuable than judgment.”
Elizabeth looked at him then, and the warmth in her eyes was so swift and private that Darcy’s breath caught.
She knew he spoke not only of servants and their duties.
Somehow, she knew about the small conspiracy of Mrs. Nicholls informing Bates, Bates informing Darcy, Darcy informing Bingley about Miss Bennet’s illness the first morning she was there.
It was another shared thing between them, not spoken aloud but present all the same.
Miss Bingley did not miss the glance. Her posture straightened. “I confess,” she said, with sudden brightness, “that I admire ladies who can make themselves useful in so many ways. Nursing, walking, estate matters, housekeeper consultations—Miss Elizabeth, you put us all quite to shame.”
Bingley looked uneasy. Mrs. Hurst looked down at her plate. Hurst ate.
Elizabeth lifted her glass and took a small sip before answering. “Then I must hope the shame is temporary, Miss Bingley. I would not wish to create lasting discomfort.”
Darcy pressed his lips together.
Bingley coughed into his napkin.
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “I only meant that your talents are so very practical. In London, true female accomplishment requires a more elevated cultivation. Music, languages, drawing, a graceful manner, a well-informed mind, and extensive reading. Such things fit a lady for elegant society.”
“Do they?” Elizabeth asked.
“Surely.”
“Then I must be grateful I have so little elegant society to fit myself for. It saves a great deal of labor.”
Bingley grinned. “Come, Miss Elizabeth, you read very well. Darcy would not have emerged from the library this morning with one of your recommended books if your taste were suspect.”
Miss Bingley turned to Darcy. “A recommended book?”
Darcy inwardly cursed Bingley’s cheerful innocence.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Miss Elizabeth was kind enough to suggest a volume of essays.”
“How studious you both were before breakfast.”
“Not excessively,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Darcy required distraction, and I thought a foolish essay might suit.”
Miss Bingley arched a brow. “Foolish essays?”
“Only one in the volume. I warned him fairly.”
“And Mr. Darcy accepted such a recommendation?”
“I did,” Darcy said. “I found Miss Elizabeth’s reasoning persuasive.”
Miss Bingley’s gaze flickered between them. “And what reasoning was that?”
“That bad arguments may sharpen good thinking, if they are interestingly wrong.”
Hurst looked up. “That sounds like politics.”
“For once, Mr. Hurst,” Elizabeth said, “I cannot disagree.”
Hurst gave a short laugh and returned to his plate, apparently satisfied with his contribution.
Mrs. Hurst smiled faintly. “I should not like a book that wished me to argue before breakfast.”
“Nor should I, ordinarily,” Bingley said. “Before breakfast I prefer agreement. After breakfast I can perhaps be persuaded into mild opposition, if the subject is not too taxing.”
“You are wise,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing ruins digestion so quickly as a determined opinion too early in the day.”
Darcy felt the conversation settle into something lighter, and admired the ease with which she had guided it there.
Miss Bingley’s attempt to expose her as provincial had only allowed Elizabeth to appear both sensible and amusing.
Yet she had not humiliated her opponent.
That, he thought, required more restraint than victory.
Miss Bingley, however, was not finished. “I suppose novels also have a place in this expansive education of yours?”
Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. “Only when they are entertaining.”
“How undemanding.”
“Not at all. To entertain well is very demanding. Many authors attempt it and fail.”
Darcy said, “Miss Elizabeth argued this morning that a novel honest in its intention may be preferable to a sermon chiefly interested in being admired for scolding.”
Bingley laughed. “An excellent argument. I have been scolded by sermons often enough and entertained by too few.”
Miss Bingley looked displeased by Darcy’s support, though she could hardly rebuke him for it. “Surely improvement must be the object of reading.”
“Must it be the only object?” Elizabeth asked. “A walk may improve health, but I do not think one wicked if one also enjoys the view.”
Darcy turned his glass slowly, watching her over the rim. “Then reading may delight and improve at once.”
“When the author is generous.”
“And when he is not?”
“Then one must take what one can and supply the rest by argument.”
He smiled. “You are very fond of argument.”
“I am fond of conversation that does not faint at the first sign of disagreement.”
Bingley looked between them with delighted bewilderment. “I should never keep pace with either of you, but I must say I enjoy watching the attempt.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That is because you are wise enough not to stand in the road when carriages are racing.”
“Are they racing?” Bingley asked.
Darcy met her gaze. “Not yet.”
The words were quiet. Too quiet, perhaps, but Elizabeth heard them. Her smile changed—not disappearing, only softening in a way that made Darcy wish that the meal contained far fewer observers.
Miss Bingley, perhaps tiring of topics in which Hertfordshire could not be wholly disparaged, turned the subject to London.
“I own,” she said, arranging her fork beside her plate, “I begin to miss town already. The country has its charms, of course, but one soon feels the want of variety. In London there is always something to do, somewhere to go, someone worth seeing.”
“Country society must feel very small by comparison,” Mrs. Hurst said.
“Precisely. Assemblies, calls, walks, a few dinners—one exhausts the possibilities rather quickly. Do you not find it so, Miss Elizabeth?”