“Oh, but…” Mary looked desperately over Kitty's shoulder towards her ill sister.
“You will be of more use to her if you are rested,” Kitty replied firmly. “I shall wake you if there is a change for the worse.” She stepped backwards and neatly closed the door in Mary's face, settling the question.
Knowing that she would not sleep immediately, Mary went downstairs and, donning her cloak and gloves, slipped out into the garden. The leaves crunched softly under her measured tread as she breathed deeply of the crisp air and willed her thoughts to peace. She meditated for some time on pleasant memories, attempting to settle her troubled spirits. When a man’s voice addressed her from the direction of the garden gate, she turned and stared in surprise at Captain Carter, who bowed to her from beneath the archway there, framed by the bare remains of the summer's ivy.
“Pardon me, Miss Mary, I did not mean to startle you. I thought, when I saw you here, I might enquire after the household without disturbing those within.”
Belatedly, Mary curtseyed, saying, “I am glad you did, Captain. We are all much as we were yesterday, but Lydia does not rest well and knocking might have disturbed her.”
“I look forward to the day you tell me that Miss Lydia is on the mend,” he replied. “Please do give her my regards. And the rest of your family, of course. Here are your letters from Miss Elizabeth.” He handed two notes to her, one each for her and Kitty.
“I shall, I thank you. She will be pleased to know that her friends remember her.” She tucked the letters into her pocket.
He regarded her curiously. “May I ask what it is you were contemplating when I interrupted you?”
“Oh…” She blushed, looking away. “Nothing that would be of interest to a gentleman, I assure you. I was only recalling the games my sisters and I would play when we were small.”
“To look back upon a happy childhood is a pleasure indeed,” he replied, smiling. “One day, when we are all at leisure to enjoy a cup of tea in Longbourn's parlour, I shall trade you stories of the mischief two boys get up to for tales of that which five girls may cause.”
“I-I shall look forward to it,” she stammered, rather shocked that this amiable and, truth be told, handsome young man should even hint at wishing to speak with her absent the necessity of passing news in a crisis. With another bow and a jaunty wave, he was off on his rounds once again.
* * *
Word came to the Bennets at both Longbourn and Netherfield via the gentlemen’s rounds—Mrs Long had died; Jenny Goulding would be well; two of the Simmons children were no more, but the rest would survive; Joanna Long had followed her aunt to the grave, while Joseph Turner, of whom all had despaired, had pulled through in the end. The Hills arose from their sickbeds and resumed light duties, and still, Lydia lingered in a twilight between life and death.
Jane grew stronger and began getting out of bed and taking a turn about the room under her own power, though Elizabeth hovered nearby every moment. The itching scabs fell away, and all the tempting morsels that the kitchens of Netherfield could provide began to fill in the deep hollows of her face and collarbones.
One morning several days after the loss of Mr Hurst, Elizabeth entered Jane’s room after dressing to find her sister before the mirror, regarding her scarred face with sombre intensity. She did not know what to say, so she said nothing, and some moments passed before Jane remarked, softly, “I am greatly altered, am I not?”
“The scars will fade,” Elizabeth offered, “in time.”
Jane took a deep breath, and let it out on a sigh, then resolutely turned her back on the glass. “It will take some getting used to, that is all,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Will you help me dress, Lizzy? I feel I have been a year in night-rails, and I would honour our mother by taking up my mourning garb.”
“Of course, dearest,” Elizabeth replied.
* * *
As Elizabeth helped Jane to dress, Mary and Kitty sat by Lydia’s bedside while their father took his turn sleeping. Kitty was reading aloud from Donne and Mary was mending a torn petticoat she had found in Lydia’s closet. They both paused in their activities when their sister stirred and opened her eyes, seeming confused for a moment as she looked from one to the other and back again. Then she rubbed a hand across her stomach and said in a soft voice, “Lord, how hungry I am!”
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Jane Bennet wasashamed of herself. She had not been used to thinking of herself as vain, but having her extraordinary beauty extolled all her life must have made its mark, for despite her dearest sister’s efforts in dressing her and arranging her hair, and also despite her own sense of obligation to her host and hostess, she could not bring herself to stand from the dressing table and bring her altered visage into company.
“Lizzy, I cannot,” she whispered, shoulders slumping. Elizabeth quickly came around to sit beside her on the long seat and pull her into a comforting embrace. Jane hid her face against her sister’s shoulder and felt very weak and stupid. She had known two days prior, when she donned a gown for the first time in weeks, that she would soon be required to behave more as a guest than an invalid, but now that the moment was upon her, she doubted that she could bear it.
“Dearest, surely you do not fear that anyone at Netherfield shall be unkind, when they have all been such great friends to us?”
“Oh, no…I do not think they would be unkind, certainly not. It is simply—” Jane gathered the courage to speak the truth. “I cannot facehim, Lizzy, and see that he no longer admires me, when I admire him more every day. And I particularly do not want to watch as all his memories of me are replaced by…this.”
“Oh, Jane…” Elizabeth murmured, her arms tightening. “I wish I knew what to say to you. I do not believe Mr Bingley would be unkind or unmannerly. And if he is worthy of you, he will not care a jot that you are a little altered by your illness.”
“A little altered?” Jane’s laugh had an edge of hysteria. “Lizzy, I hardly recognise myself.”
“I have no such difficulty, nor shall anyone who cares for you,” Elizabeth replied stoutly. “But Jane, we must go down. There can be no more excuses. Everyone knows that Mr Jones has pronounced you able to move about the house. We are expected to dinner, and Louisa has particularly asked after your favourites.”
“I suppose,” she replied slowly, “that I cannot in good conscience disappoint Louisa.”
“Indeed you cannot. She has been very much looking forward to seeing you outside of this room.”
