Chapter 41

Elizabeth woke, very early, to the worst possible news: Jane had grown feverish in the night.

“The girl as who lights the fires heard her moaning, and fetched me,” the maid explained, as Elizabeth hurriedly donned a wrapper. “I’ll go now to tell Mrs Reynolds, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, hurrying into her sister’s room.

Jane was burning hot and apologetic, protesting about anyone making a fuss. The next hours were a blur. The doctor was called for, and heartened Elizabeth with many reassurances and a new tonic. The fire was built up until the room was a furnace—necessary, he said, for the patient’s health. But as the day wore on, despite following his advice to the letter, Jane grew progressively worse. She was not hungry, she said, and would not take more than the occasional spoonful of sustenance. Sometimes, Elizabeth managed to get her to drink a little bit of liquid. Sometimes, she did not seem to understand how to do it, and it spilt uselessly onto the bedclothes.

At some point Georgiana came, and then Sarah, offering to sit with Jane while Elizabeth ate or rested, but she refused assistance. Mabel, a maid with some experience nursing, was brought in at night, but even so, Elizabeth only curled up at the end of her sister’s bed, telling the servant to waken her if there was any change. But when Mabel left for her own bed in the morning, Jane was still very ill.

At times she was sensible, if weak; other moments, she was out of her mind with delirium. The hours passed slowly. Georgiana and Sarah both took turns sitting beside Elizabeth, sometimes engaging her in conversation, sometimes sitting quietly—but always ensuring that she ate something from the trays sent up regularly from Pemberley’s excellent kitchens, no matter how little she felt like it.

On the second night, Elizabeth wakened with a start, not sure what had disturbed her. She looked over at Mabel, who was dozing in her chair; Jane, however, was stirring restlessly. Elizabeth rose, changed the cloths on Jane’s forehead to new, cool, wet ones, and watched for an hour, praying, willing her to recover.

“Lizzy.” Jane’s voice broke the silence, a mere hollow whisper.

“I am right here beside you.”

Jane moved her head towards the sound of Elizabeth’s voice; Elizabeth took her hand.

“You…should sleep,” Jane said.

“Do not worry for me. Can you take a drink?”

Jane nodded, allowing Elizabeth to spoon some liquid into her mouth, but the effort seemed to exhaust her. For a few minutes, Elizabeth thought she had fallen back asleep.

“I—I did not love Mr Harrington,” Jane blurted weakly, opening her eyes again.

Elizabeth bit her lip, guilt, and memories of the past flooding her. She clasped Jane’s hand, unable to think of how best to respond.

“Only thought I did,” Jane said, still in that faint murmur. “Mr Bingley…so different. So…better. Know what love is, now.”

“I am glad, Jane,” Elizabeth said, choking a little on the words.

“Sorry…so sorry. I blamed you that he-he loved you. I wish I had not.”

“I am the one who must apologise. I ought never to have spoken to him. You are the best sister in the world.”

Jane tried to squeeze her hand, but there was hardly any strength to it.

“If I cannot…cannot…” Jane muttered, not finishing her sentence. “At least…I know now. Am…happy, Lizzy. Happy to know.”

“You will recover,” Elizabeth assured her softly, a tear escaping to trickle down her cheek. “You must fix your mind upon that recovery, and do not let go of it. Mr Bingley has been asking after you, several times a day. You are not to disappoint him. Be strong, and do not give up.”

But Jane only sighed, her eyes drifting shut. She did not waken again, although Elizabeth watched, and waited.

At around two o’clock in the afternoon of the third day of Jane’s illness, Elizabeth sat by her bedside almost in a stupor. There had been no change in her sister’s condition; at the doctor’s latest visit, he had shaken his head over her. Gone were all his smiles and jolly reassurances, replaced by warnings and more noxious tonics and talk of leeches and perhaps bleedings. She tried to be heartened by the few teaspoons of barley water she had managed to get Jane to swallow, but it was difficult to keep up her spirits upon such little evidence.

Sarah strode in, Georgiana behind her; there was something more of determination in their expressions than in past visits. Sarah marched over to the nearest window, flung back the draperies, and raised the sash. Fresh, cool air flowed into the room.

“Elizabeth,” Sarah said. “You are under orders of the master of Pemberley to leave this sickroom for one hour. During that time, I, and Georgiana, two young ladies of sensible character—who, I will add, have both had two full nights of sleep and are rested and alert—will watch your sister. I daresay, we will not even blink.”

“My brother threatens that if you do not take one hour to refresh yourself and either nap or go for a brief walk in the out of doors, he will come in and carry you out himself,” Georgiana added.

“That is very—” Elizabeth began, but Sarah finished the sentence.

“Kind of him, we know,” she said. “Elizabeth, you will do Jane no good at all if you make yourself ill. Look how lovely is the afternoon. Think how soft and inviting is your bed. Please, dear, pick one. Trust us.”

“Please, Elizabeth,” Georgiana pleaded.

Elizabeth sighed. A cool stream of air flowed in from the open window, relief from the overwarm room, bringing with it the scents of late summer on its breeze. It was beyond tempting to take them up on it.

“What if she calls for me?”

Sarah glanced at the sleeping Jane. “Then we will have you fetched.”

“Are you certain the window should remain open? I admit that it feels wonderful to me, but?—”

“Mrs Figg—whom you have met—and who is an expert nurse, in addition to her many other talents, claims that fresh air is the best cure, as long as it is not too cold out. Which, as you can tell, it is not.”

With more reassurances and a bit more insistence, they carried their point, and a few minutes later, Elizabeth found herself out amongst the flower beds on one of Pemberley’s pretty paths. She felt more than a bit guilty. Should she have left her sister? What if she wakened? Would she wonder if Elizabeth had abandoned her—again? She nearly turned back, her fear overwhelming, when she was joined suddenly by Mr Darcy.

“Might I join you in your walk?”

There was nothing to do but continue her stroll. No conversation occurred to her, however. The greater part of her sensibilities remained in the fog of the past, reflecting on how it continuously and repeatedly poked the present with the sharp pinch of painful memory.

“I am very happy to see you outdoors.” His voice, though at its usual low timbre, had the ability to abruptly recollect her to the present.

“At your insistence,” she reminded him, a bit sheepishly.

“I was concerned that you, too, might take ill, if you had no respite. My sister and her friend were both willing to accommodate my wishes.”

“They are very kind,” Elizabeth agreed. “As are you. I know I ought to be grateful. The guilt rides me, however. It is nagging me with reminders that I ought to be by her side, assuring her recovery by any means possible.”

“Guilt? Of what could you possibly be guilty?”

“Jane and I had a…a disagreement, about my decision to leave Pemberley. It was why she set off on the wilder edge of your property, leading her to neglect notice of her direction, growing disoriented and lost in the midst of a storm.”

“Relations disagree at times,” he said. “We cannot be blamed for every decision another person makes in consequence of a difference of opinion, however.”

For several moments she could not decide whether to say anything more. He had shown great trust in her. It was difficult for her to return that trust, but perhaps this was a small way forward. Not that she had any hopes in his direction; she never had. But she had treasured his friendship, however briefly she had possessed it, and appreciated all he had done for both her and her sister. Another man would have been glad of her departure, never mind pursuing her and returning her to Pemberley. How long might it have been before Jane was missed? Satisfying his curiosity seemed minor in comparison.

“My guilt where Jane is concerned has much deeper roots,” she said at last. “But to truly understand, I must share some part of my family history. You will find it very dull.”

“I would be honoured to listen.”