Elizabeth lay back against the pillows. “That sounds suspiciously like him attempting to look cheerful and failing.”
Jane laughed. “He sent these.” She reached for the small stack of books arranged at the edge of the table and brought them nearer.
Elizabeth recognised her father’s taste at once: the selection was unmistakable. Humorous essays. A history she had once remarked upon and never found in the house. Two volumes still stiff at the spine, their pages uncut. And at least two books that had certainly not come from Longbourn.
“He went into Meryton himself,” Jane said. “This morning. He said the shopkeeper was very obliging, though he did not approve of being forbidden to recommend anything ‘improving.’”
Elizabeth stared at the books. For a moment, she could not think what to say.
“Papa?” she said at last. “Went into Meryton? And he purchased these just for me?”
Jane nodded. “He would not hear of sending anyone else.”
That did not fit. Her father was many things—observant, indulgent, quietly fond—but he was not given to displays or expenditures. Elizabeth had expected concern, yes, and perhaps a wry remark delivered afterward to reassure himself that the world remained sensible. She had not expected effort.
“He was… upset, then,” she said, more question than assertion.
Jane’s expression softened. “Very.”
Elizabeth looked away, unsettled by the word. It sat oddly beside her image of him, as though someone had spoken of a familiar landscape under an unfamiliar light.
“And Mama?” she asked, bracing herself.
Jane hesitated.
“Jane?”
“She was delighted.” Jane cleared her throat. “Quite delighted, in fact. She said it was the best possible arrangement, that Netherfield was far superior to Longbourn for recovery, and that she had always maintained you would benefit from a change of air.”
Elizabeth shut her eyes briefly. “Of course she did. I shouldn’t wonder that she will be here herself to oversee my ‘recovery’ as soon as I can stir from the bed.”
“Not at all, for Papa forbade her to come,” Jane added quickly. “Very firmly. He said—” She paused, then smiled despite herself. “He said that you wanted quiet, not fresh lace.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, despite her fatigue. Surprise flickered beneath it—her father setting his foot down so decisively—but relief followed close behind. The thought of her mother sweeping into the room, voice raised with concern and satisfaction in equal measure, was more exhausting than the faint ache still lingering behind her eyes.
“I am grateful,” she said. “For once, I believe Papa and I are of precisely the same mind.”
Jane reached out and touched her hand. “Indeed. And if you did not hear me before, I shall repeat it—Papa asked me to tell you that you are not to hurry yourself on his account. Or Mama’s. Or anyone’s.”
Elizabeth absorbed that in silence.
“I shouldlike to go home as soon as I may,” she said finally. “Not because I am uncomfortable here. Everyone has been exceedingly kind. But I would rather be ill at Longbourn than well anywhere else.”
Jane’s eyes shone with understanding. “I know.”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted back to the books. The thought of reading—of losing herself in familiar argument and voice—was tempting. Comforting, even. But as soon as she imagined opening one, the weight behind her eyes deepened, heavy and insistent.
“I should like to read,” she admitted. “But I do not think I should make it past the first page.”
“Then do not attempt it.”
“You need not stay and watch me stare at the walls,” Elizabeth added gently. “Go downstairs. Mr Bingley is beside himself with the desire to be useful, and Miss Bingley will no doubt be relieved to have someone sensible to impress.”
Jane hesitated. “Are you certain?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I am. I shall sleep better knowing you are not hovering.”
Jane laughed softly at that, rose, and bent to press a kiss to her sister’s temple. “Very well. But I shall not be far.”
