Page 15 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

E lizabeth lay propped upon the pillows, watching the grey afternoon light shift across the chamber walls. She had not expected Mr. Darcy's visit earlier to weigh so heavily upon her thoughts, but she had spent the intervening hours turning over his words in her mind until her head ached.

That he should express concern for her health was natural. That he should apologise for his former pride—well, that had been unexpected.

The memory of his voice when he had inquired after her comfort was particularly vexing.

There had been a gentleness there that she had never heard from him before, a quality that had made her pulse quicken in the most inappropriate manner.

She pressed her fingers to her temples. She was allowing herself to think of him as her heroic rescuer, and it would lead her to trouble.

She would not allow herself to be foolish.

A soft knock interrupted her musings, followed by the entrance of a young housemaid carrying fresh linens. The girl—Rebecca was her name—bobbed a curtsey before setting about her work with a sort of bustling efficiency.

"Begging your pardon, miss," Rebecca said as she shook out a pillowcase, "but Cook says to tell you that Mr. Darcy has been asking particular questions about what might tempt your appetite, and she would like to know your favourite dishes."

The revelation struck her as both touching and deeply unsettling.

"Rebecca," came Jane's gentle but firm voice from the doorway, "I believe Mrs. Nicholls requires your assistance. I will send word to Cook."

The maid dropped another curtsey and scurried away, but not before Elizabeth caught the satisfaction in her expression. She would wager that she was a topic of conversation in the servants’ hall.

When Jane entered the room carrying a tray of tea, Elizabeth greeted her with a smile she hoped looked more natural than it felt.

"Thank you," she said, as her sister set down the tray. "But I am in no need of fortification. What I require is air and activity, but as those are to be denied me, perhaps you might explain what Mr. Darcy is doing, speaking to the cook. Is that not Miss Bingley's duty?"

Jane's smile was gentle but knowing. "As for air and activity, you shall have them once you are stronger. Perhaps in a day or so. Until then, you must bear my tyrannical supervision."

The notion of her sister as Caesar made Elizabeth's lips curve into a smile. "It is the only time you are a dictator. How fortunate for me that I am so rarely ill!"

Jane poured for them both and stirred her tea with a measured hand. "As for Mr. Darcy, well, he seems to be a better man than we once believed."

"Because he takes his sentiments to the kitchen?" Elizabeth studied her for a moment and then had an idea. "No, I rather believe Mr. Darcy's civility springs from the prospect of Mr. Bingley's increasing attachment to you ." Yes, this made perfect sense .

Jane's cheeks coloured delicately at this observation, and she busied herself with arranging the teacups with unnecessary precision. "You quite mistake the matter, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy's attentions to your recovery have nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Bingley’s regard for me."

"Have they not?" Elizabeth studied her sister's face with increasing interest. "Then you acknowledge that there is such a regard?"

"I acknowledge nothing of the sort," Jane replied, though her blush deepened. "Mr. Bingley has been very kind during your illness, as any gentleman would be under such circumstances."

Elizabeth set down her teacup with a soft clink. "Jane, you cannot mean to convince me that you have not observed Mr. Bingley's particular attention to you. The man can scarcely tear his eyes away when you are in the room."

"You exaggerate, as always," Jane murmured, but there was a pleased tone in her voice that she could not quite suppress.

"Do I? Then perhaps I imagined the way he inquired after your welfare no fewer than six times while you were ill." Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with affection and curiosity. "Come now, Jane. Surely you must have some opinion on the matter?"

Jane was quiet for a time, her gaze fixed upon her hands. When she spoke, her voice was so soft that Elizabeth had to strain to hear her. "I confess that Mr. Bingley has been most attentive. But I should not wish to presume upon his kindness or mistake civility for something more particular."

"Civility!" Elizabeth exclaimed with a laugh. "If that is what he calls civility, I am loath to think what excesses he might resort to when in love. Perhaps he shall build you a temple in the garden!”

A small smile played about Jane's lips despite her efforts to maintain her composure. "You are determined to tease me. "

"I am determined to see you happy," Elizabeth corrected gently. "And if Mr. Bingley can contribute to that happiness, then I am very much in favour of his doing so. But I must know—do you still find his attentions welcome? Does his company give you pleasure?"

Jane's response was barely audible. "It does."

Elizabeth's heart lifted at this admission, small though it was.

To anyone else, Jane's response might seem tepid, but Elizabeth knew her sister well enough to recognize the depth of feeling contained in those words.

Jane's very reticence on the subject spoke volumes about the strength of her attachment.

"Then I hope," Elizabeth said warmly, recalling something her friend Charlotte Lucas had once said, "that you will not allow excessive modesty to prevent you from encouraging his regard.

A gentleman of Mr. Bingley's temperament might easily mistake reserve for indifference, and that would be a tragedy indeed. "

Jane shook her head, but Elizabeth could see that her words had given her sister much to consider. There was a brightness in Jane's countenance that had not been there before, a hope that she was trying very hard to suppress but that showed itself nonetheless in the softness of her expression.

"You changed the subject very adeptly," Jane replied with an arch look, perhaps hoping to deflect attention from her own feelings, "but I think that this is quite enough discussion of gentlemen. Drink your tea, Lizzy."

After another night’s rest, Elizabeth was allowed to join everyone after dinner in the music room.

It was an elegant chamber dominated by a magnificent pianoforte that gleamed in the candlelight.

Elizabeth took her seat carefully and accepted Mr. Bingley's solicitous inquiries about her health with good grace.

Mr. Darcy greeted her. "You are looking much improved, Miss Elizabeth."

"Thank you," she replied, surprised by how much his simple reassurance meant to her. "I am feeling considerably stronger."

"I am pleased to hear it" was his serious reply.

Miss Bingley had positioned herself near the pianoforte with obvious intent, her fingers already tracing idle patterns across the keys. "I thought we might enjoy some music this evening," she announced with bright enthusiasm. "Nothing too taxing, of course, given that we have an invalid among us."

Elizabeth felt her spine straighten, but before she could respond, Miss Bingley had launched into her next observation.

"Miss Eliza," she said with that particular smile that never failed to put Elizabeth on guard, "I recall your charming performance at Lucas Lodge—such spirit!

And though I daresay you have not the advantage of regular instruction with a master, I should be delighted to share one or two little refinements that my sister and I have picked up in Town. "

Mr. Darcy frowned slightly.

"How very generous," Elizabeth replied politely. "I shall certainly keep your kind offer in mind."

Miss Bingley's smile grew more predatory. "Perhaps you would favour us with a performance this evening? I am sure we would all be most . . . entertained."

The pause before “entertained” was so slight that only Elizabeth seemed to catch it, but it was enough to engender a bit of mischief.

"I should be delighted," she replied, imagining a deliberately dreadful rendition of some simple country air, played with such theatrical incompetence that Miss Bingley might actually swoon from the horror of it.

“Lizzy,” Jane said quietly. “Are you certain? I thought you might simply sit by the fire and have some conversation.”

“I am well enough for one song,” Elizabeth replied.

"How lovely," Miss Bingley purred. "Though perhaps I might begin. I have been practicing a particularly challenging piece that I think you might find instructive."

As Miss Bingley settled herself at the instrument with obvious satisfaction, Elizabeth caught Jane's concerned glance. Her sister disliked the undercurrents of the exchange, though she could not intervene without creating a scene.

Miss Bingley's performance was technically flawless, as Elizabeth had expected.

Every note was precise, every rhythmic flourish perfectly executed, every passage delivered with the mechanical perfection that came from years of expensive instruction.

It was also utterly devoid of feeling, a showcase of technical skill that left Elizabeth wondering why anyone would bother to learn music if they intended to drain it of all emotion.

The applause that followed was polite. Mr. Bingley praised his sister's accomplishment, while Mr. Hurst grunted and Mr. Darcy offered the mild compliments expected of a gentleman.

"I beg you, do take a turn, Miss Eliza," Miss Bingley announced, rising from the instrument with obvious satisfaction.

Elizabeth approached the pianoforte with outward calm, though she was acutely aware of every eye upon her. She was too tired and her back ached too much for her to do credit to one of the more difficult pieces she had mastered, but it was no matter.