Chapter 10
TEN
SWEETNESS AMID SORROW
Despite having had little sleep the night prior, Elizabeth had not slept her first night in London.
She remained by Jane’s bed in a suspended state that was half awake and half a dream, her eyes heavy and grainy but wide open.
She had dozed in the chair by Jane’s bed twice, perhaps three times, and had woken each time with her neck aching and her heart already lurching towards the figure beneath the coverlets before her eyes had fully opened.
Jane was afire. That was the only word for it.
The physician had been in, as had the apothecary, and both had said it was a good thing, the best thing, and that they should stoke the fire and surround her with woollen blankets to allow the heat to take care of the illness.
Elizabeth was not certain they were correct, but neither was she a physician, so she complied with the instructions.
She tried to coax Jane to swallow water and sip broth when she was awake enough to understand her sister’s wishes.
She changed Jane’s nightgown twice, and rearranged her blankets over and over.
She combed the golden hair which was loose and damp against the pillow.
Otherwise, she was helpless and useless.
The cough was the worst of it. It came in waves, deep and racking, shaking her whole body with a violence entirely out of proportion to the slight frame that contained it, and when it passed, Jane lay spent against the pillows, her eyes closed, her chest still heaving in laboured movements that Elizabeth watched with a vigilance bordering on ferocity, silently praying and begging Jane to keep breathing.
It was startling when Mrs Gardiner entered, saying, “Lizzy? You have a caller.”
Elizabeth sat up; evidently she had fallen asleep, wedged uncomfortably into the chair such that her neck and back both screamed in immediate protest against the movement. Her gaze moved reflexively to her sister who seemed to be resting relatively more peacefully than she had the hours prior.
She looked back at Mrs Gardiner. “A caller? What time is it?”
“Before noon,” Mrs Gardiner replied. Then with a certain slyness in her tone, she added, “Apparently the gentleman was too eager to await the customary hours for calling.”
“Oh. Mr Darcy?” She yawned.
Mrs Gardiner came and perched on the side of Jane’s bed, laying her hand against Jane’s countenance. “How I wish his friend might come with him! Poor dear Jane has been so very heartbroken. Then again, she is hardly in a state to receive him anyway.”
Elizabeth stood and stumbled a little as her legs were not yet ready to move. “Another day perhaps,” she said and began to move towards Jane’s door.
“Shall I send for my maid to help you change?” Mrs Gardiner gave a pointed look at Elizabeth’s gown which was rumpled perhaps irreversibly.
“I do not think it signifies to Mr Darcy.”
“Elizabeth.” Mrs Gardiner gave her a look. “Mr Darcy is a very illustrious personage. A quick washing with a cloth and tidying of your hair and gown is the very least he ought to expect.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Mr Darcy was in possession of such a secret as made wrinkles in her skirts quite irrelevant, but she would do as her aunt asked.
By the time she had freshened her appearance, Mrs Gardiner had preceded her into the parlour, and she and Mr Darcy stood by the window awaiting her. She was grateful to her aunt for insisting she attended to her toilette, for he looked rather handsome, she had to admit.
“How do you do, Mr Darcy?”
He inclined his head. “I am well, thank you.”
She went and sat on a chair near the window and gestured to a small sofa nearby that he might claim for himself. “How fares your sister this morning?” he enquired as he sat in the offered seat.
Elizabeth glanced over at Mrs Gardiner who had taken up a spot across the room and was looking about on the floor, likely for her sewing basket.
“The same, I am afraid,” she replied. “No change.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I am sorry to hear it.”
Elizabeth smiled, and the conversation lagged.
Mr Darcy cleared his throat. “I wonder whether you might like to take a walk. Not far, nor long.”
“Would that I could.” She glanced out the window. “The day appears uncommonly fine.”
“Yes, it is,” said Mrs Gardiner across the room. “And you should go enjoy it, Elizabeth.”
“But Jane—”
“…is sleeping, and I am here, and she will still be here when you return.” Mrs Gardiner rose and went to the bell. “I will call Mrs Miller to bring your pelisse and your boots. The streets will be damp, I fear, for we had some rain last night.”
Elizabeth turned to Mr Darcy who met her eyes with perfect equanimity. Despite everything, she felt a tiny burst of anticipation in the idea. “It seems I am going for a walk.”
“It will be refreshing; I am sure of it.”
Mrs Miller was quick to bring Elizabeth’s things and to return that which she took from Mr Darcy when he entered. In a very short time, they were out of doors. Mr Darcy offered his arm, and she took it.
“Have you any favourite walks hereabouts?” he asked as they walked down the steps onto the street.
“I confess, when I am in London, I spend so much time studying the people, I rarely remember to see where it is I am going,” she said. “Have you been down this way before?”
He laughed, the sound ringing out. “Yes, many times. Did you think I spent the whole of my existence in Mayfair?”
“Well…” She peeped at him around the edge of her bonnet. “I confess I did. Is it yet another thing I got wrong about you?”
“Yes, I am afraid you did. I am also afraid I shall have to confess here a shade in my character, and that is a delight in all things sweet. There is a certain baker down here who has the best bread and finest cakes I have ever tasted.”
“You would not mean Mrs Digby’s Bake Shop?”
“The very one,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“I do indeed. My uncle is an ardent fan of their wares. He, too, boasts that particular shade in his character.”
“Something else he and I have in common,” said Mr Darcy.
“Oh? What else did you find in common with him?”
“We are both,” he said, “exceedingly fond of you.”
Elizabeth hardly knew what to say to that and only blushed.
Then, as if to move her from consternation to true embarrassment, her stomach grumbled loudly.
Her blush grew hotter, and she hoped that he had not heard it.
Alas, he did, and said, with no little concern, “When is the last time you have eaten anything?”
“Judging from that unladylike eruption, you might think it a week ago at least,” she said with a giggle.
He did not join her in the laugh. “You did not come for dinner,” he said. “Nor did you eat in the carriage.”
“No matter,” she said with a little wave of her hand. “I find it hard to eat when I am worried about something.”
“Then let us get you fed at once,” he said. “To the bake shop, it is.”
They walked without urgency. This was, Elizabeth thought, one of the things she had come to value in him—his willingness to simply move at the pace of the moment, without filling every silence with the determined pleasantness of someone uncomfortable with quiet.
The street was busy enough: carters and shopkeepers and women with baskets, a boy sweeping mud from a doorstep, a cat watching the world from a windowsill with the self-possession of a minor deity.
Elizabeth found it a relief to rest her eyes on something other than the visage of her ill sister, and to put aside her worries of the day.
The bakery, when they arrived there, was small and warm and smelt extraordinary.
A little bell above the door announced them, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the frank assessment of a shopkeeper who had seen all kinds.
She settled her gaze on Mr Darcy with an expression that moved swiftly from evaluation to welcome. Mr Darcy did not seem to notice.
“What will you have?” he asked, looking at the display with what appeared to be genuine interest. “Have you any favourites?”
“My favourite is all of it,” Elizabeth admitted. She felt, within, the incipient rumbling of another embarrassing grumble and surreptitiously pressed her reticule into her midsection.
Laid out on trays were small, iced buns and currant pastries and almond biscuits and something glazed and golden that she could not immediately identify. “Mrs Digby? What is this?”
“That is a honey cake,” said Mrs Digby. “A favourite and as fresh as can be without burning your mouth eating it.”
“It sounds positively delightful, ma’am,” Elizabeth said with a smile. Turning to Mr Darcy, she said, “Is there something here to suit your fancy, sir?”
He studied the tray very seriously. “Let us have one of each,” he decided.
“One of each!” Elizabeth exclaimed with a laugh.
“You raise an excellent point,” he said, mockingly pensive. “Two, madam, with the duplicates boxed. Your dear aunt seemed as if she might enjoy a treat as much as we shall.”
Mrs Digby was well pleased with the transaction and even insisted on adding a few extra things to the box. They took their purchases outside, and Elizabeth mentioned a churchyard nearby where they could sit and enjoy the food.
The tiny yard was enclosed by stone walls and was, as such, a relatively private space. Most people likely had no idea it was even there. The sounds of the street faded away as they moved towards a large tree with a little bench that ringed it. “Shall we sit?” she asked him, and he nodded.
Mr Darcy was quick to eat the currant bun, and Elizabeth ate her honey cake without any pretence of delicacy. It was positively delicious, and she felt almost immediately better, a slight headache she had not noticed easing. She took a deep breath. “I hope yours is as delicious as mine was.”
He had already taken up an almond biscuit. “In fact, I disliked it. Could you not tell by the speed with which it disappeared?”
She laughed. “Yes, quite a struggle to get it down, it seems. What think you of the almond biscuit?”