Chapter Fourteen #2
Jane must not suspect—not because there was anything to hide, but because she did not yet know how to name what she felt. Until she did, it was simpler to let her sister believe the illness lingered.
Elizabeth crossed to the looking glass and adjusted her hair with deliberate imperfection. A pin left slightly loose. A curl allowed to escape. She looked—if not unwell—then at least not perfectly restored.
It would do.
Elizabeth had just finished fastening the last pin at her shoulder when the door moved. Not a draft. Not the soft complaint of settling wood. It opened—slowly, with unmistakable pressure from the other side—until the latch yielded and the door swung inward by a careful hand’s breadth.
The dog stood in the passage, one great paw braced against the panel as if he had pushed it there and was now considering whether further effort was required.
He did not cross the threshold. He did not lower his head.
He simply looked at her, dark eyes intent, his stillness so complete it felt deliberate.
“Well,” she said faintly. “That is exceedingly improper.”
Brutus withdrew his paw and sat.
“You have the wrong room, sir. No doubt your master is downstairs. Shoo!”
He only blinked at her.
Elizabeth did not move. Nor, she realised a moment later, did she feel the least inclination to shut it. The dog’s presence filled the narrow space without urgency, without threat. He was not asking. He was not waiting for permission. He was simply guarding her.
“Go on,” she told him, summoning more firmness than she felt. “I am quite capable of managing my own whereabouts.”
He did not stir.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice came from the adjoining room. “Are you dressed? I thought I heard—” Jane appeared at the threshold just as the dog rose.
Brutus stepped back into the passage, clearing the doorway entirely, then turned and sat again, this time angled toward the corridor beyond, as if the matter had been resolved.
Elizabeth looked from the open door to the dog and found, to her own irritation, that the answer had arrived before the question was finished.
Jane glanced between them, smiling faintly. “I suppose he has decided you are presentable at last.”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. She took one step toward the door. Brutus pricked his ears, and his tail fanned slowly in welcome.
Jane put a hand on her arm. “Wait… Lizzy, are you quite sure you are well enough?”
Elizabeth nodded, very carefully. “I am.”
The dog rose again, tail moving once, then turned down the corridor; unhurried, confident they would follow when ready.
The drawing room was warm with lamplight and conversation. Bingley, who had been standing near the hearth with his back half-turned, looked up first and brightened as though someone had struck a match behind his eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. “Well! This is a victory indeed. I had nearly resigned myself to another evening of worrying in silence.” He crossed the room at once, all animation and concern. “You look vastly improved—vastly. Pray, sit—do sit. Caroline, will you not—?”
Miss Bingley had already risen. “Miss Elizabeth, how very glad I am to see you,” she said, advancing with hands lightly extended. “You quite astonish us. I hope you have not been persuaded downstairs against your better judgment?”
Elizabeth returned the smile. “I persuaded myself. Which I find generally answers better.”
Bingley laughed outright. “Spoken like a woman restored! Come, be seated. You must tell us how you feel.”
“I feel,” Elizabeth said, as she was guided forward, “remarkably surrounded.”
Brutus entered last.
He did not bound, nor linger uncertainly at the threshold. He walked in with purpose, paused just inside the room, and sat—not near Elizabeth, but near Darcy, who had been standing by the writing desk with one hand resting upon it, as though he had been about to take his leave.
He inclined his head to Elizabeth, but his eyes moved—not to her face, but briefly, to the dog, then back again. He was staring, nearly open-mouthed, before he clamped his jaw.
“Well,” he said, in a tone of dry civility, “it appears Brutus has decided we all require supervision.”
Elizabeth glanced at the dog, then back at Darcy. “I had not realised I was in need of it, but he is a very gallant companion.”
His mouth firmed as he gave a very slight inclination of his head. “I am very glad you were able to join us, Miss Elizabeth.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “Your dog is quite devoted tonight, Mr Darcy. One would think Miss Elizabeth had secured a noble escort.”
Darcy’s mouth curved—barely. “He has been known to choose his own company.”
Elizabeth nodded and chose her seat. Or rather, she was about to when Miss Bingley intervened with graceful urgency, one hand already extended.
“Here, Miss Elizabeth—by me,” she said, indicating the chair nearest her own, angled carefully towards the hearth and away from the writing desk beyond.
“You must not be exposed to drafts, and I insist you be comfortable. Louisa, you will agree—this seat is far better for one who has been unwell.” She cast a look over her shoulder towards Mrs Hurst, one that plainly requested reinforcement.
Mrs Hurst, however, had sunk back into her chair with a look of placid detachment, her attention apparently fixed on the fire. If she noticed her sister’s appeal, she gave no sign of it.
Bingley, meanwhile, had already pulled forward another chair—this one even nearer the hearth—and was ushering the elder sister into it with cheerful solicitude. “Here, Miss Bennet—this will be very comfortable. Darcy, do move that table, will you? There. We shall all be quite snug.”
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened by a degree almost too small to be seen.
Elizabeth accepted the seat offered her, because refusal would have turned courtesy into contest. She settled herself with an air of obedience that concealed amusement, noting the careful distance Miss Bingley had achieved—not merely from the hearth, but from Darcy as well.
Brutus remained where he was, seated near Darcy, his broad back angled toward the room, as though the arrangement of persons required no further comment.
“Truly, how are you feeling this evening, Miss Elizabeth?” Miss Bingley asked. “You look remarkably restored. I trust the quiet upstairs has done you good.”
“I am much improved, thank you. The house has been very obliging.”
Miss Bingley gave a light, musical laugh at once. “Obliging! The house? Such an enchanting turn of phrase, Miss Elizabeth. Netherfield prides itself on being comfortable, but I did not know the walls had cultivated manners as well.”
There was a polite ripple of amusement. Elizabeth smiled, neither apologetic nor corrected.
“Well,” Miss Bingley continued briskly, as though tidying the moment she had just unpicked, “that is excellent news. Nothing is so fatiguing as prolonged confinement. One does begin to long for one’s own comforts again.”
Elizabeth heard it clearly enough. Jane met her eye with a look of anxious questioning.
Bingley, who had been hovering near the card table with a deck already half-shuffled, brightened at once. “If Miss Elizabeth is feeling better, we must celebrate it properly. A little loo, perhaps? Or commerce? Though I confess my enthusiasm for cards wanes without sufficient competition.”
Mrs Hurst murmured something agreeable without conviction.
“I doubt Miss Elizabeth should be overstimulated,” Miss Bingley said, with a quick glance toward the sofa she had so carefully selected for her. “Recovery must be managed sensibly. A short visit to the drawing room is one thing. An evening of play quite another.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I should not wish to exhaust anyone.”
Bingley laughed. “You could hardly do that, I assure you. Well, perhaps a bit of conversation?” He glanced toward Darcy. “You were out this afternoon, were you not? Did you find anything of interest? Any new coverts worth our attention?”
Darcy, who had remained near the escritoire with his hand resting on its edge, did not answer at once.
His very silence struck Elizabeth’s notice, and she turned her head.
He was not distracted—he was too still for that.
While Bingley waited and Miss Bingley arranged her patience into something decorative, Darcy’s attention had slipped elsewhere, downward somehow, as though the question had missed him entirely and landed beneath the room instead.
“Nothing conclusive,” he said at last.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “That suggests you expected something conclusive. May I ask what you were looking for?”
Darcy seemed to catch himself. “I was verifying something I had read,” he said, then stopped. “Which proved unnecessary.”
Miss Bingley waved a hand lightly. “There, you see. Nothing to detain us, save to prove it was a fine day for walking. Which is why I think it would be wisest for Miss Elizabeth to return home tomorrow, while the weather holds. She is in such excellent spirits now, but would it not be a pity if we delayed and her carriage were caught out in a storm? One recovers best among one’s own things, I always say. ”
Jane opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Elizabeth felt the pull of the idea keenly. Longbourn. Familiar rooms. Her father’s library. Chaos and noise and expectations, to be sure. But no need to interpret the meaning of staircases or dogs or glances that lingered longer than courtesy required.
“Yes,” she said slowly, glancing at the dog who was still ignoring her. “Home would be most welcome. If I am… able.”
Darcy looked at her then with an attention that made the word “able” feel provisional, as though it had been placed upon the table for examination rather than accepted at face value.
Miss Bingley saw the look and moved at once to claim the moment. “Excellent. Then it is settled. We shall send word to Mrs Bennet first thing tomorrow and arrange—”
“Perhaps,” Darcy said quietly, “it need not be decided this evening.”
The interruption was mild. Perfectly civil. And utterly unexpected.
Miss Bingley turned toward him, her smile intact but strained at the edges. “I merely meant—”
“I know what you meant.” His tone remained even. “I only suggest that Miss Elizabeth’s comfort be considered without haste. She has done very well today. There is no need to undo that by hasty provisions.”
Bingley glanced between them, clearly uncertain whether a decision had been made or avoided. “Indeed! There’s sense in that. No reason to rush anything. We may leave it till morning, when everyone is refreshed.”
Miss Bingley’s smile had failed utterly. “Well! There we have it.” She rose at once, smoothing her sleeves as she turned toward the bell. “Shall we have tea brought in? The room has grown quite dull without it.”
Brutus, who had moved to settle himself some minutes earlier near the hearth, rose and crossed the room with unhurried purpose. He did not return to Darcy. He did not go to Elizabeth.
Instead, he moved toward the door, then glanced back with a look that somehow encompassed them both.
Elizabeth glanced away swiftly, her gaze accidentally blundering across Darcy’s as she did so. “I think,” she said, rising, “that I shall go upstairs again. This has been… quite enough for one evening.”
Jane was on her feet at once. “Of course, Lizzy. I will come with you.”
A chorus of polite dismay met their ears, with Mr Bingley rising in offer of escort, Miss Bingley promising to send up tea.
But it was Darcy who stepped across her path with a simple bow. “Good night, Miss Elizabeth.”
She met his gaze briefly. There was nothing remarkable in it—only the unmistakable sense that he had seen her choose, and had chosen not to contest it.
“Good night, Mr Darcy.”