Page 29 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Longbourn, the following day…

Jane sat by the window and turned the note over in her hands. “Mama, Miss Bingley has invited me to tea.”

“Tea? Just tea?”

Jane unfolded the note.

We so long for your company, dear Miss Bennet. Do not disappoint us, for we shall be inconsolable. The gentlemen dine with the officers, so we shall have the pleasure of a quiet tête-à-tête amongst ourselves. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this.

Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Officers.”

Kitty smirked. “No doubt they shall recount their victories over cakes and syllabub.”

Mrs Ecclestone, seated beside the hearth, inclined her head. “It is good to see you appreciate a proper uniform. But remember: admiration is not license.”

Kitty and Lydia exchanged smiles and returned to their reading.

Mrs Bennet pressed her hands together. “A most fortunate invitation. An excellent opportunity. You must go, Jane.”

“I should like to—”

“But the weather,” Elizabeth interrupted. Through the window, grey clouds threatened the horizon. “It may rain.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs Bennet said. “Even if it should drizzle, a mere three miles will not see you drowned.”

Mr Bennet set Tristram Shandy aside. “Should you accept, Jane, I advise you to go on horseback. If the rain holds, you will arrive in comfort. If it begins, you’ll reach the house more assuredly than our carriage could manage.”

Kitty glanced at the window. “Do you think she can outride the rain?”

Lydia giggled over a worn copy of Metamorphoses . “Only if she borrows Pegasus.”

“Have you reached the part where Pegasus was caught?”

“We need not catch him,” Lydia said loftily. “Jane need only borrow him.”

“I do not mind the rain,” Jane said. “And should I need to stay the night, I will not be a burden.”

Mrs Bennet beamed. “There, you see? Quite perfect.”

Elizabeth looked to Jane. “You are the best rider among us.”

“As long as she does not ride Eirene ,” said Mr Bennet, casting a pointed look at Elizabeth.

Five voices—four octaves—rang out in harmony: “Papa!”

Mr Bennet returned to his book with a faint smile. “I merely speak from experience.”

Jane rose. “I shall send word to Miss Bingley.”

Less than an hour later, Jane departed, as planned, bundled in her cloak, a carpetbag beside her. The wind had picked up, and a distant rumble of thunder chased her down the lane.

By afternoon, a note arrived. Her oilskin had proved no match for the downpour. Rain had seeped through the folds; by the time she arrived at Netherfield, she was soaked to the bone and shivering. By nightfall, she had fallen ill.

Mrs Bennet pursed her lips. “I should think her well-tended. Mr Bingley would not let her suffer for a moment.”

“I would see for myself,” Elizabeth said. “Mary. Kitty. Will you accompany me?”

Mary inclined her head. “Of course.”

Kitty looked at the rain. “I shall fetch my cloak.”

“Mr Bennet, surely the carriage can be arranged.”

“No. Given who leads this expedition, I trust two feet more than four.” He folded his newspaper and departed.

The rain had steadied to a fine mist as the girls stepped into the lane.

“How concerned are you for Jane?” Kitty asked.

“I cannot think ill of Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth replied. “My hopes lie with Mrs Hurst.”

“She was very kind on her last visit,” Mary remarked.

A few minutes later, they parted at the fork: to the right, High Street and its rooftops; to the left, the road to Netherfield Park.

“Tell Jane she is in our prayers,” Mary said. She and Kitty waved as they veered down the right-side path.

Elizabeth continued alone. She picked up her pace, left the road, and crossed the fields; her boots greeting each stile and puddle. Her thoughts were full: concern for Jane, distrust of Miss Bingley, and uncertainty regarding Mrs Hurst.

She dabbed at her neck with a linen, ignoring her weary ankles, muddy boots, and sodden hem.

The manor house came into view. Moments later, she ascended the front steps. The door opened. The Netherfield Park butler, Mr Hudson, his expression as unreadable as she remembered, stood at the threshold. His aire was tan.

“I must see my sister.”

“Miss Bennet is in the east guest chamber.” He gestured, and a footman stepped forward. Then the butler glanced down at her muddy boots and raised a single eyebrow. “She is well cared for.”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. Without a word, she reached into her reticule and produced a neatly folded pair of indoor slippers. “Thank you, Mr Hudson.”

As the footman took her boots away, Mr Hudson led her towards an open set of doors. Miss Bingley’s voice carried like a cat’s paw across a schoolroom slate. “Arriving in the rain? How very provincial.”

Elizabeth did not falter. Miss Bingley’s words were as hollow as her hospitality. Jane needed her. And she followed Mr Hudson into a large drawing room. Her slippers whispered against the polished floor; the air smelled of beeswax and fresh arrangements. She schooled her expression.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Miss Bingley reclined upon a settee, her aire a vibrant green.

What do I have for her to envy?

“What an unexpected pleasure. I had thought the weather quite prohibitive.”

Elizabeth removed her damp gloves. “It was. Yet here I am.”

“Indeed. And what brings you to Netherfield Park, might I ask?”

“My sister, of course.”

Mrs Hurst, seated near the fire, gave a light cough though her aire deepened. Amusement? At whom, Elizabeth knew not.

Miss Bingley sighed long and theatrically. “You must not distress yourself. Your sister is in excellent hands.”

“That is most reassuring. You will not mind if I see her?”

“Surely you cannot think such a visit wise? You have just arrived, and the rain. Good heavens, you are positively dripping.”

“I fear I make a poor entrance. The rain came on rather suddenly. I could not remain at home, knowing Jane was unwell.”

Miss Bingley’s face stiffened as her green aire deepened. “I do wonder,” she said, her tone sickly sweet, “Mr Darcy, if you find such exertions admirable.”

Elizabeth had not noticed him. He sat apart, composed, his hands resting upon his thighs. His expression was unreadable. And still no aire.

Miss Bingley leant forward. “To arrive in such weather. How very…intrepid. I daresay few ladies would risk a spoiled hem for a morning visit.”

“It is nothing that cannot be mended.”

Miss Bingley’s gaze drifted from Elizabeth’s slippers to her chin. “Still, I suppose in the country, one grows used to managing.”

Mrs Hurst rose. “Charles was called away to the steward’s office.” She gestured towards the door. “Shall I take you to your sister?”

* * *

Elizabeth entered the chamber, met by the scent of lavender and fresh linen. Jane lay propped against a mound of pillows, her hair loosely braided, the fever painted high on her cheeks. A Father’s Legacy to His Daughters rested closed on her lap, though Elizabeth doubted she had read a word of it.

“Good heavens, Jane, you look dreadful.” Elizabeth sat in the chair closest to the bed.

Jane managed a weak laugh. “Is that the greeting of a devoted sister?”

“Of one who speaks plainly, yes. You are flushed. Miss Bingley tells me you are in excellent hands. I trust she speaks the truth?”

“She does.”

Elizabeth remained unconvinced. “Truly, Jane. How are you?”

Jane reached for her hand. Elizabeth let her take it, startled by the heat of her skin. As always, Elizabeth marvelled at the purity of Jane’s aire.

Her gaze drifted to the side table. “Lovely flowers.” A neat bouquet of cyclamen rested in a slender glass vase.

“They are. From Mr Bingley. He has been quite attentive.”

“I contradict myself, I know. Even ill, your beauty shines. Would that we all had such advantage.”

“Do not tease me, Lizzy.”

“I only wonder—has he always been so devoted? Or has his concern deepened now that you are unwell?”

Jane looked away. “I am well enough.”

Elizabeth removed the book from her lap. “Well enough to speak of Mr Bingley?”

“What a question. He has been nothing but kind.”

“That much is plain. But does his kindness stir your heart?”

Jane smoothed the coverlet.

“You are careful with your words, Jane. So much so that I sometimes do not know what you truly feel.”

Elizabeth leant forward. “You need not speak it for my sake. Only for yours.”

“He is the first gentleman whose attentions I dared to accept without fearing they would bring reproach.”

Elizabeth crossed to the window and pressed her fingers against the cold glass. Rain streaked the panes in steady rivulets. “Jane. Do not let fear silence what might be good.”

“And what of you, Lizzy? Will you heed your own advice? ”