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Netherfield - Elizabeth’s Sickroom - Elizabeth

E lizabeth woke early, as was her habit, though her body protested even the slight movement of turning her head. The room was still dim, but her mind felt clearer than it had in days. When exactly had she fallen ill? She had lost all sense of time during her fever.

Jane slept peacefully beside her, fair hair spread across the pillow, and Elizabeth wondered how many hours-or days-her sister had spent watching over her.

The room was pleasantly warm, the hearth fire built high and glowing steadily.

The bed was larger, softer, and far more comfortable than the one she slept in at Longbourn.

Beneath the gentle crackle of flames, she caught the faint scent of beeswax and hearth-smoke-unfamiliar, but oddly comforting.

Through the partially open door came the hushed rustle of the household stirring to life. Her early-rising tendencies, coupled with what must have been nearly two days of sleep, made her perhaps the only person besides the servants awake at this hour.

“Did you see how Miss Bingley went on at dinner last night?” a voice whispered as the maids passed by. “All those comments about the room arrangements.”

“Well, what do you expect?” came the reply. “Him giving up his own rooms like that. Though after carrying her through all that rain himself-”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. His rooms?

The elegant room around her suddenly took on a new, startling significance. Miss Bingley’s pointed remarks about the room’s private nature, the servants’ particular attention to the fire, the carefully chosen books-it all made a mortifying kind of sense.

Her cheeks burned as she took in the room again-with new, mortifying clarity.

Every object seemed suddenly, intensely personal-the precisely arranged correspondence on the desk, the leather-bound volumes she had been perusing so freely, even the very bed in which she now lay.

She had been occupying Mr Darcy’s private rooms. For days.

And he had carried her here himself, through the storm.

The sound of Jane stirring beside her provided a welcome distraction from the tide of embarrassment rising within her. Her sister’s eyes fluttered open and immediately found Elizabeth’s face with concern.

“Lizzy? Are you feverish again? Your cheeks are quite flushed.”

“No, I…” Elizabeth hesitated, unsure how to voice her mortification. “Jane, why did no one tell me these were Mr Darcy’s rooms?”

Jane’s expression grew cautious. “We thought it best not to distress you while you were still unwell. Mr Jones insisted you not be moved, and Mr Darcy was most adamant that you have the warmest room with the best fire. ”

“But surely there were other suitable rooms? The impropriety of…” Her voice trailed off as another thought struck her. “Is this why Miss Bingley has been so… attentive to the furnishings?”

“She has been… concerned about the irregular nature of the situation,” Jane admitted carefully. “Though Mr Darcy insisted that your comfort and recovery take precedence over any other consideration.”

* * *

Netherfield Park - Oak Wood - Darcy

Darcy’s shot went wide, the bird escaping through the canopy.

He did not flinch, did not curse. Barnes, handing him a fresh gun, hesitated a fraction longer than usual, clearly waiting for some sign of frustration.

But Darcy merely took the weapon without comment, his gaze already straying toward the distant house.

Despite the perfect morning, his thoughts continually wandered back to Netherfield.

Bingley’s shots sounded from the next stand, Hurst’s from further along the wood. Even the familiar rhythm of a morning’s sport - dogs working through fallen leaves, birds rising, guns firing - failed to hold his attention.

“The birds are showing particularly well,” Hurst observed, accepting a fresh gun from his loader. “We might make a record bag if we press on through the next copse.”

“Bad luck, Darcy,” Bingley called, checking his pocket watch yet again. “Perhaps we should head back for some refreshments?”

“Already?” Hurst protested. “But the birds are just beginning to-”

“Capital idea,” Darcy agreed, handing his gun to Barnes. They’d had word of Elizabeth’s improvement at breakfast, yet here he was, as eager as Bingley to return.

The walk back to the house took longer than usual, with Hurst stopping frequently to point out promising spots for tomorrow’s sport. As they entered the hall, they found Miss Bingley directing maids with fresh flowers for tonight’s dinner.

“The servants have set out refreshments in the morning room,” she informed them, her attention fixed on adjusting a particularly stubborn bloom.

Later, the sound of Miss Bennet’s gentle laugh drew him early to the drawing room. She and Bingley were engaged in conversation by the fire, both rising at his entrance - Jane to make her curtsy, Bingley to add another log to the already blazing fire.

“Mr Darcy,” she greeted him warmly, resuming her seat. “I must thank you again for all your kindness to my sister.”

He bowed. “Miss Bennet. You are feeling stronger, I trust?” Behind her chair, Bingley busied himself carefully arranging the fresh log.

“Much better, thank you,” Jane replied with her gentle smile. “Though I fear I have been quite a burden to everyone’s kindness.”

“Not at all,” Bingley interjected quickly, straightening from the fire. “That is-” He caught himself, turning back to adjust another log that hardly needed attention.

“And Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, after a suitable pause. “She continues to recover?”

“Yes, though Mr Jones insists she must not yet leave her bed.”

“She has been well enough to read, I trust?” The question was perhaps too eager, but he could hardly retract it now.

“Indeed,” Miss Bennet smiled. “I believe she was most pleased to find Gibbon among the volumes.”

Darcy turned toward the window to hide his satisfaction at this intelligence. To think of Elizabeth reading his books, perhaps sharing his own marginal notes… He was saved from this dangerous line of th ought by Miss Bingley’s entrance.

Miss Bingley’s entrance prevented any response, though her occasional glances toward the door suggested she shared his awareness of who was missing.

“My dear Jane!” Caroline’s affectionate greeting interrupted any further discussion as she swept into the room. “You must not tire yourself. Charles, surely that fire is quite warm enough now?”

Bingley finally abandoned his task as his sister settled herself beside Jane, taking her hand warmly. “I have had the blue drawing room arranged for dinner - so much cosier for an intimate party. Though we shall miss dear Eliza’s company, of course.”

Dinner was a quiet affair in the blue drawing room, with Miss Bingley attending particularly to Jane’s comfort while Hurst dozed in his chair and his wife occupied herself with her embroidery.

Bingley managed to direct most of the conversation toward subjects that allowed his guest to speak without tiring herself, though he was frequently required to repeat things for Mr Hurst, who roused occasionally to request clarification about the topics under discussion.

When Miss Bennet excused herself shortly after the meal, pleading the need to check on her sister, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst immediately rose to accompany her.

Their warm expressions of concern for both sisters’ welfare followed the ladies from the room, while Mr Hurst merely grunted his goodnight without opening his eyes.

Darcy watched their departure with poorly concealed envy. While he was confined to propriety in the drawing room with Bingley and a snoring Hurst, the ladies alone had the freedom to visit Elizabeth’s sickroom.

“Cards?” Hurst suggested, already reaching for the deck. Darcy was not in the mood, but Darcy found himself nodding at the suggestion. Anything to occupy his thoughts.

Bingley made no pretence of interest in the game, openly watching the door whenever voices drifted down from above. Their attempt at whist failed quickly - Hurst’s increasingly pointed comments about technique went largely unheeded as Darcy kept losing count of trumps.

When the ladies returned without Miss Bennet who’d gone to bed, but with news of Miss Elizabeth’s improvement, Mr Hurst and Bingley settled to piquet, with Mrs Hurst observing their game.

Darcy took up his pen to write, and Miss Bingley, seating herself near him, watched the progress of his letter with great attention.

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” she exclaimed.

When this earned no response, she continued, “Though perhaps you might mention our neighbours to her. The Phillips’s, for instance - I dare say she would be most interested to hear about Miss Elizabeth’s relations.

Her uncle the attorney would make such a charming addition to the Pemberley gallery, situated next to your great-uncle the judge.

They are in the same profession, you know,” she added with a significant look at her sister, “only in different lines.”

Darcy continued writing, hoping his silence would discourage further commentary. But Miss Bingley was not to be deterred.

“You write uncommonly fast tonight, Mr Darcy.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” He tried to focus on his letter to Georgiana, though Miss Bingley’s presence at his elbow made it increasingly difficult.

“And yet how many letters you must have occasion to write, with all your business matters at Pemberley! How odious I should think them.”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.” Perhaps shortness of manner would succeed where silence had failed.

But Miss Bingley merely leaned closer to observe his writing. “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you, but I always mend my own.”

Finding it impossible to complete his letter under such persistent attention, Darcy made his excuses.