Page 3 of The Marriage Articles

Mrs Hurst came in upon the tail of this and took her seat. She heard the last of it, and concurred. “I was remarking to Mr Hurst only this morning that nobody in town would dream of stirring at such an hour. I am glad to find we are of one mind, Caroline. We generally are.”

Mr Hurst followed his wife by some minutes. He took his place at the table, helped himself abundantly to cold ham, cold beef, and toast, and ate in a silence that nothing in the morning could disturb. Elizabeth, who had not heard him speak since Tuesday, had begun to wonder whether he had a single thought that had not first passed through his stomach.

Mr Bingley came last, and came in like a change of weather. “Miss Elizabeth, good morning. You are the very person I hoped to find. And how does your sister this morning? She is better, I am certain of it. Mrs Nicholls tells me she slept the night through, and sleeping is the very thing for a fever, everybody says so. The apothecary shall confirm it the moment he calls, and I have left word he is to be shown up directly, and then we shall have Miss Bennet downstairs within the week and all this nonsense forgotten.”

“You are very good, Mr Bingley. Jane owes her comfort to this house, and so do I.”

“Nonsense, it is no more than anyone would do, and half of what she deserves. Will you take more tea?”

“Charles, do let Miss Eliza finish her breakfast in peace.” Miss Bingley stirred her chocolate. “She must be weary of illness, I am sure, and longing for her home. You must forgive us, Miss Eliza, if we have not been able to make Netherfield very lively for you.”

“You are very good, Miss Bingley.” Elizabeth set her cup down. “We have wanted nothing that attention could supply.”

Mr Hurst applied himself to his plate. Mrs Hurst confided to the table that she could not bear chocolate that was not freshly poured, and took another cup. Bingley wanted to know whether the ice on the pond would bear, and answered himself that it would, by Sunday, if the frost kept on. Through all of it Mr Darcy sat staring into his coffee cup and said nothing at all.

She finished her tea and rose. Jane would be waking, and she would be upstairs before Mr Jones called. She gave the table a general curtsy and her good mornings, and Mr Bingley’s hopes for the afternoon followed her across the room. She climbed the stairs to Jane’s room with the carriage to hope for and Longbourn to look forward to.

Chapter Two

Elizabeth had settled into the chair by Jane’s bed with every expectation of a quiet afternoon. The fire was well-tended, the curtains drawn against the grey day, and Jane’s colour had improved enough that she could sit up against the pillows without tiring. A single book lay open on Elizabeth’s lap, unread.

She had determined to be useful and composed, a model of propriety in a house that had already tested both qualities, and she believed, with the comfortable certainty of one who has not yet been contradicted, that the worst of the visit was behind her. All that remained was to sit with Jane until the evening, perhaps take a turn about the room, and return to Longbourn with her sister. It was, Elizabeth told herself, a very tolerable plan.

The footman’s knock at the door came not ten minutes later. He hesitated, then bowed. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth: Mrs Bennet and the Misses Bennet.”

Elizabeth’s book slid shut. She looked at Jane, who had gone very still, and in that shared silence the first crack appeared in Elizabeth’s composure.

Mrs Bennet entered as though the room were a stage and the curtains had just risen. “My dear Jane!” she cried, her voice filling the small chamber before she had crossed the threshold. “Look at you, so pale, so thin! Illness does not agree with you at all, and no wonder, for you are a very great way from home, and you have no mother to nurse you. But we are come at last, and you shall have every attention.”

She swept past Elizabeth without a glance and settled herself on the edge of the bed, seizing Jane’s hand with a tenderness that would have been touching had it not been performed at such volume. Mary followed, her face set in the grave expression she reserved for occasions of illness or moral instruction, and took the straight chair nearest the window. Kitty and Lydia pressed in behind her, already chattering, their cloaks still fastened and their cheeks bright from the cold air outside.

“What a room!” Lydia exclaimed, turning about with her arms spread wide. “I had no idea Jane had such a chamber. It is twice the size of ours at home, and the hangings are new. I would not mind taking a fever myself if it meant such lodgings.”

“Lydia!” Elizabeth admonished, but her sister was already at the looking-glass, adjusting her bonnet and admiring her own reflection.

“It is very fine,” Kitty agreed, a moment behind, as she always was. “Much finer than Longbourn. I should like to have such a room.”

Mary cleared her throat. She had positioned herself apart from the rest, her hands folded in her lap, and when she spoke it was in the gravity of a prepared address. “Idleness, as we are taught by those wiser than ourselves, is the root of all moral decay. A sickroom, properly considered, is a place of reflection and improvement, not of envy or worldly admiration. I trust, Elizabeth, that you have not neglected your own duties in the indulgence of sisterly affection.”

She paused, evidently awaiting a response. None came. Lydia had moved on to the window, Kitty was examining the pattern of the carpet, and Mrs Bennet was too occupied with Jane’s forehead to attend. Mary’s observation hung in the air, complete and unregarded, and Elizabeth felt a twinge of pity that she knew her sister would resent more than any contradiction.

“You are very warm, my love,” Mrs Bennet was saying, her hand pressed to Jane’s cheek with theatrical concern. “Very warm indeed. I do not like the look of you at all. You must stay here three days longer at least, until you are quite recovered. The apothecary must come again, and we shall see what he says. I am sure Mr Bingley would not hear of your leaving before you are fit.”

Jane withdrew her hand. “I am much better today, Mama. We were fully prepared to leave this evening, had the carriage come. I mean to return home today.”

“The carriage is full, my dear,” Mrs Bennet said, as though explaining a simple fact to a child. “I brought your three sisters, and there is no room for two more. You must stay three days longer, until you are quite recovered.”

“No, Mama.” Elizabeth stood. “I must beg you to send the carriage to come back for us. We will not trouble the house longer than necessary.”

“Nonsense, nonsense. A relapse would be far worse than a little patience, and Mr Bingley is all politeness. He would not think of letting you go before you are strong. I am sure he has said as much himself.”

He had not, of course. Elizabeth had been present at every exchange between her sister and their host, and Mr Bingley’s politeness, though genuine, had never extended to prescribing Jane’s recovery.

“You have been gone four days and missed everything,” Lydia announced, having abandoned the window for the foot of Jane’s bed. “Maria Lucas came to Longbourn yesterday, and you will never guess what she told me. The militia is to be stationed in Meryton come spring. Maria said there will be assemblies every week. Can you imagine, Jane? Every week!” Elizabeth pressed her lips together not to smile, in spite of herself.

“I have a new ribbon for my gown, and I mean to dance every set. Kitty shall have my old blue, for it does not become her as it does me, but she will do well enough.”

“I do not see why you should have the new ribbon and I the old one,” Kitty said, with a peevishness that was her nearest approach to original thought. “It is not at all fair, and I am sure Mama thinks so too.”