By the time the ladies withdrew, with Elizabeth declaring her need to check on her sister, Darcy felt as though he had emerged from a room brighter than the one he still occupied. He watched Elizabeth rise and glance once toward him before following Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and felt the look settle somewhere deep within him.
Bingley leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Well. That was a very pleasant dinner.”
Darcy reached for his glass, though he did not drink.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “It was.”
Chapter 18
Elizabeth woke with a crick in her neck, one hand still wrapped around Jane’s.
For a moment she did not know where she was. The room was dim, the curtains only partly drawn, and the fire had burned low enough that the shadows gathered in the corners like patient old women waiting for gossip. Then Jane stirred beneath the counterpane, and memory returned at once: Netherfield, rain, fever, Mr. Jones’s grave assurances, and the peculiar discomfort of being a guest in one’s own house.
Jane slept.
That was the first comfort of the morning. Her sister’s breathing was still too warm and shallow for Elizabeth’s liking, but it was more regular than it had been in the night, and the fretful crease between her brows had eased. One pale hand lay upon the coverlet, and Elizabeth, reluctant to disturb even so small a peace, released it carefully.
She flexed her fingers, wincing as feeling returned to them. She had sat beside Jane far longer than she meant to, first reading a little, then bathing her temples, then dozing in the chair despite every resolution to remain vigilant. Susie had offered to take a watch, as had the maid Mrs. Nicholls sent, but Elizabeth had found herself unwilling to leave. Jane, when ill,was still Jane—gentle, apologetic, and far too ready to imagine herself a burden.
Elizabeth could not mend everything, but she could at least be there when her sister woke.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Elizabeth rose quickly and crossed the room before the sound could disturb Jane. Mrs. Nicholls stood in the passage with a small tray, her expression composed but kind. Behind her, a housemaid carried fresh water and linens.
“How does Miss Bennet do?” the housekeeper whispered.
“Asleep, thank heaven. I think she rested better toward morning.”
“That is good news.” Mrs. Nicholls glanced past her toward the bed, then lowered her voice further. “Mr. Jones is expected again before noon. Mr. Bingley sent down to ask whether there had been any change, but I told the footman not to carry up every anxious inquiry unless it had legs and hands enough to be useful.”
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched despite her weariness. “A wise restriction. At that rate, Mr. Bingley may soon be forced to come himself with broth.”
“He would, I think, if propriety allowed it.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said softly, looking back at Jane. “I believe he would.”
Mrs. Nicholls set the tray upon a small table near the hearth. “Tea, miss. And toast, though I shall not ask you to admire it. Cook says toast sent to a sickroom is rarely eaten by the sick and therefore ought to be made with the nurse in mind.”
“Cook is a woman of excellent principles.”
“She is. And she says you cannot tend Miss Bennet on air and worry.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Nicholls gave her such a look that she shut it again and took the cupoffered her. The first sip was hot and strong enough to make her feel almost human.
“There,” Mrs. Nicholls said with satisfaction. “Now, miss, I mean no disrespect, but you look as though you have spent the night losing an argument with that chair.”
“I do not deny it was a most uncomfortable opponent.”
“Then you should take half an hour while Miss Bennet sleeps. The maid can sit here, and I shall have Susie look in as soon as she is awake.”
Elizabeth immediately shook her head. “No, I cannot leave Jane.”
“You can leave her sleeping in a warm room with a maid at hand, a bell within reach, and half the house prepared to run should she so much as sigh too loudly.” Mrs. Nicholls’s tone was respectful, but it held the firmness Elizabeth had long ago learned to recognize in capable servants. “You will be of more use to her if you do not wear yourself to a thread before breakfast.”
Elizabeth looked toward the bed again. Jane had not moved. Her breathing remained steady, her face turned slightly toward the pillow, one fair curl loose against her cheek.
“I should only sit here and stare at her,” Elizabeth admitted.
