Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
She surfaced slowly, as though from a great depth, the return to herself marked first by sound and then by light.
Mr Jones’s voice murmured near her ear, and something cool touched her brow.
She opened her eyes to the familiar ceiling of the library and, beyond it, the tall shelves that had always seemed to her a kind of quiet protection.
She slid her eyes from one side to the other, trying to make sense of the room’s new aspect. The desk was gone. She was reclining where it should have been, in a narrow bed moved from Heaven knew where, but with her own coverlet smoothed over her lap.
Her father’s chair sat close by, angled as though he had scarcely left it. A small escritoire had been drawn up near the window, its surface cleared except for a single candle and a glass of water.
Mr Jones straightened as he noticed her attention sharpen.
“Ah. Awake now, are we?” He peered at her with mild satisfaction, as though this were the best outcome he had allowed himself to hope for.
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Elizabeth. You fainted again, nothing more. Your pulse is—well, not robust, but serviceable.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “How long—?”
“Long enough to frighten your family,” he said, with a wry glance toward the door.
“But not so long as to justify my staying further. You are to rest. Quietly. And you are not to exert yourself. I think this little arrangement here, where you need not manage the stairs, and your family may all be close to hand, is the very thing.”
She did not argue. She was too aware of how little strength she had to spare.
Her father murmured something at the threshold, and Mr Jones gathered his things, promising to return if summoned. When the door closed behind him, the room seemed to exhale.
A moment later, it opened again. Jane slipped inside and came at once to her side. “Oh, Lizzy,” she said softly. “You gave us such a fright.”
Elizabeth managed a small smile. “I seem to have made a habit of that.”
“Do not jest,” Jane said, though she smiled too. “Mama has scarcely sat down since. And…” She hesitated, then added, “Mr Wickham has been asking after you repeatedly.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted faintly. “Has he?”
Jane nodded, her look gently knowing. “It is only natural. Everyone has thought for some time that he favours you. A feeling, I think, that might be… mutual?”
Elizabeth let her head sink back against the pillow.
She closed her eyes, obliging herself to picture him as she had known him best—smiling, animated, leaning close as they danced at Netherfield.
The image would not hold. It slipped away, uncooperative, and in its place rose another: darker eyes, a stiller expression, a hand closing over hers with that inexplicable, shocking certainty.
Her stomach eased.
She drew a careful breath and opened her eyes again.
Jane brightened. “There you are. Why, Lizzy, does your head feel better? That was rather a sudden return of colour to your cheeks.”
“I think,” Elizabeth said slowly, testing the truth of it, “that I might sit up.”
Jane reached for her instinctively, but Elizabeth waved her back and gathered herself with deliberate care. The dizziness lingered, but the nausea had retreated, as though it had been listening for something and had been satisfied.
“You look rather in need of refreshment. I shall go and call for some tea,” Jane said, already halfway to the door. “You have had nothing since yesterday, and Mr Jones was quite firm on that point.”
Elizabeth nodded and let her go.
Her father remained where he was, seated in the chair near her bed, his hands folded, his attention fixed not on her face but somewhere just beyond it, as though listening for something he did not entirely expect to hear. He said nothing.
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
The room darkened behind her lids, and for a moment she drifted—neither asleep nor fully awake—until a sharp, unmistakable sound cut through it.
A bark.
Not the yapping of a small dog, nor the distant echo of something outdoors, but a deep, resonant sound that seemed to belong very near, very present.
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. “Did you hear that?”
Her father looked up at once. “Hear what?”
“The dog. A large one. The sort of bark a dog makes when he is guarding something.”
He listened, his head tipped slightly. Then he shook it. “There is no dog anywhere near the house, Lizzy. Although with recent events, I might take it into consideration.” He lifted his book. “Perhaps Mr Bingley knows where I may find a litter of mastiffs nearby.”
She frowned. Was she hearing things now? But before she could reply, Jane appeared in the doorway, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. A teapot steamed faintly; a cup rattled softly against its saucer. She hesitated, then asked, “Lizzy, do you think you might bear a visitor?”
Elizabeth had barely time to wonder who it might be before Mr Wickham stepped in behind her, reaching to help catch the tray. He relieved Jane of it at once and set it down upon the escritoire, arranging the cup and plate with a care that suggested both concern and good breeding.
“I hope you will forgive the intrusion,” he said, turning to Elizabeth. His voice was low, considerate. “I heard you were awake and could not resist asking after you myself. Are you improved?”
Elizabeth smiled, genuinely this time. “Somewhat,” she said, surprised to find it true.
“Though I must protest at all this fuss. Really, a special bed set up just for me in the library? I would have begged for such an indulgence as a child, and now I find myself feeling a bit more conspicuous than I should like.”
Wickham laughed. “There, making jokes already. I told you she would be well, Mr Bennet. All she wanted was a bit of a respite after so much excitement.”
A chair was drawn up for him; another for Jane beside him.
“You must not think this her usual state, Mr Wickham,” Jane said with a warm smile.
“Elizabeth is ordinarily the strongest among us—always walking, climbing, laughing at weather that sends the rest of us indoors. It is quite unlike her to be laid low, particularly for so long.”
Wickham’s brows drew together at once, his expression assuming a look of injured reason. “Then something must have occasioned it,” he said. “Such a change does not come without cause. It seems unjust, somehow, that Miss Elizabeth should suffer so without explanation. How long has this gone on?”
Elizabeth shifted slightly, heat rising into her cheeks. “I am sure it is nothing one can—”
“How can you say that, Lizzy?” Jane interrupted her.
“We were all so frightened for her when she was at Netherfield. You must have heard of it—when she was found insensate by Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley, and obliged to remain there more than a week. We thought it only fatigue at the time, but perhaps that was when it began.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth again, but Jane had already carried on, her thoughts moving quickly now that they were engaged.
“And before that—oh!—the thorn. Do you remember, Lizzy? It festered so dreadfully. Nearly a month it troubled you. Perhaps there is something lingering still—some corruption in the blood? Surely you have mentioned that to Mr Jones.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “Jane, you make me sound as though I have been poisoned.”
Mr Wickham smiled at her, sympathetic and amused. “A thorn that lingers a month is no trifling matter. I should have been quite alarmed.”
“And then there was the Assembly,” Jane continued. “You gave such a start that evening for no apparent reason. I thought at first you had been struck. Very unlike you, Lizzy.”
“Jane, you make too much of it,” Elizabeth said lightly. “I merely surprised myself.”
Jane frowned. “It was most peculiar. And you have complained of odd pains and headaches since—surely it cannot be rheumatism at your age?”
Papa leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped, his eyes intent upon Elizabeth’s face. He did not speak.
Elizabeth felt their attention keenly now and raised her cup as though it might serve as a shield. “Nonsense! If we are listing my supposed ailments, we may as well include my tendency to trip over nothing and my deplorable habit of forgetting my gloves.”
Wickham laughed. “Still, you must allow that a moment of surprise or intrigue at an Assembly is rather more romantic than most mishaps.”
Elizabeth waved a hand. “It was only a spark. No more than one gets from dragging one’s feet across a carpet on a dry day.”
“A spark?” Wickham echoed. “From what, may I ask?”
She hesitated—only a fraction—but it was enough. Papa’s eyes narrowed.
Elizabeth sighed, resigned. “From shaking hands with Mr Darcy,” she said with forced casualness. “Nothing more than that.”
Wickham’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair slightly, as though weighing that statement—not for scandal, but for sense. When he did speak, his tone was easy, almost relieved.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “That does explain a great deal.”
Elizabeth tilted her head in curiosity. “How does that explain anything?”
“Oh, not illness—at least, not in the ordinary way.” He glanced between Jane and her father, inviting their attention without demanding it.
“I have known men whose mere presence seemed to destabilise an entire room, and others who, through no fault of their own, you understand, did the same to a person. Darcy is one such man, you know. It is not always intentional. Some people carry… a sort of burden with them.”
Jane frowned slightly. “A burden? What could possibly—?”
“Expectation, if you prefer,” Wickham amended smoothly. “Or authority. Or simply a manner that intrudes upon those more sensitive than themselves.” His eyes returned to Elizabeth, kind and observant. “Miss Elizabeth strikes me as particularly alive to her surroundings.”
Elizabeth let out a small, uncertain laugh. “You make me sound fragile.”