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.”
