His sister stopped.
He seemed to realize the sharpness of his reply only after it was spoken, but he did not take it back. “I mean, Caroline, you have not yet finished your breakfast. Miss Elizabeth’s first concern will be her sister’s health, not company.”
Miss Bingley’s lips parted as though she meant to protest. Then she looked at his face and appeared to reconsider. “Of course,” she said tightly, sinking back into her chair. “I shall visit Miss Bennet later.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Bingley turned to Darcy. “Come along, Darcy. I should like to speak to you about one or two estate matters afterward.”
Elizabeth could not help noticing the convenience of that excuse. Whether it had been offered for his own comfort, Mr. Darcy’s, or hers, she did not know.
Mrs. Nicholls led the way from the breakfast room. Mr. Bingley followed, speaking as they went with a nervous energy that might have been charming had Elizabeth been capable of attending to all of it. He explained that Jane had been caught by the rain, that he was excessively sorry for it, that the lane from Longbourn must be dreadful in wet weather, that Mr. Jones had been sent for, that every possible comfort should be supplied, and that if anything had been lacking, she must tell him at once.
Elizabeth answered where necessary, though half her awareness remained behind her.
Mr. Darcy walked a few paces back.
She knew without looking that he watched her. The certainty was entirely unreasonable. There were no footsteps to prove it beyond his steady tread, no words, no movement she could see. Yet the sensation of his gaze rested between her shoulders as tangibly as a hand. If she turned, she was certain she would find his eyes upon her—grave, dark, and intent as they had been at Lucas Lodge while she played.
She did not turn.
She could face his attention better when she was not also climbing stairs with muddy skirts and a worried heart.
At the door to Jane’s chamber, Mrs. Nicholls stopped. “Here she is. If there is anything she requires, anything at all—”
“I shall tell her,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening. “Thank you, Mrs. Nichols, Mr. Bingley.”
She looked at Mr. Darcy only briefly. “Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Darcy bowed. “Miss Elizabeth.”
There was more in his expression than the simple civility allowed. Elizabeth felt it, though she did not yet know what to do with it. So she turned to the door, entered Jane’s room, and found the maid within slumped half-asleep in a chair near the fire.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said quietly, waking the girl. “I shall sit with my sister now.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and slipped out, rubbing her eyes.
Elizabeth closed the door behind her, shutting Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and all the unsettled flutter of the hall on the other side. Then she crossed swiftly to Jane’s bedside and took her sister’s warm hand in her own.
“Oh, Jane, what have you gotten us into?”
Chapter 17
Elizabeth found Jane feverish, restless, and far more ill than Mrs. Bennet would have allowed herself to imagine when sending her eldest daughter out in threatening weather.
Jane tried to smile when Elizabeth took her hand, but the attempt trembled and faded almost at once. Her cheeks were too bright, her eyes heavy, and her voice little more than a whisper as she insisted that she was not so very unwell and that everyone had been excessively kind. Elizabeth answered as cheerfully as she could, though the warmth of Jane’s hand and the dry heat of her forehead made concealment difficult. She smoothed back her sister’s hair, arranged the blankets more comfortably, and sent the maid at once for fresh water, lemon, and another cloth.
By the time Mr. Jones arrived, Elizabeth had already coaxed Jane into drinking a little, changed the compress twice, and discovered that her sister’s “trifling cold” was neither trifling nor merely a cold. Mr. Jones confirmed it with his usual mixture of gravity and reassurance, declaring that Miss Bennet had taken a chill which had settled into fever and must not be moved for several days at least. She was to be kept warm, quiet, and watched carefully.
“Several days?” Jane murmured, distressed. “Oh, Lizzy, I cannot impose so long.”
“You are not imposing,” Elizabeth said firmly.
Miss Bingley, who had entered with Mrs. Hurst near the end of Mr. Jones’s examination, made a small movement as though she might dispute that point and then wisely did not. Mr. Bingley stood just beyond the doorway, propriety keeping him from entering fully while anxiety kept him from leaving. When Mr. Jones repeated his instruction that Miss Bennet must remain, his relief was almost painful to behold.
“Of course she must stay,” he said at once. “Whatever is needed shall be provided. Mrs. Nicholls will see to everything.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth tightened, but she smiled. “Naturally, Charles.”
For several hours, Elizabeth thought of nothing but Jane. She bathed her sister’s face, read softly when Jane wished to be distracted, and sat in silence when even words seemed too much. Mrs. Nicholls sent up broth, tea, toast, and every sensible comfort without waiting to be asked. Mr. Bingley sent inquiries so often that Elizabeth began to wonder whether he had stationed a footman in the passage for no purpose but carrying concern up and down the stairs.
