“I am certain they have warm fires and dry linen at Netherfield,” Elizabeth said, trying to sound confident.
But when bedtime came and the candles were extinguished, the house lay still and quiet—yet few inside it found sleep easily.
∞∞∞
The next morning dawned gray and heavy with mist, the rain having eased to a steady drizzle that turned the lanes to pudding. At the breakfast table, conversation was subdued—until Hill entered with a folded note upon a tray.
“For Miss Elizabeth, ma’am,” she said, presenting the envelope with a shallow curtsy.
Elizabeth wiped her hands on her napkin and broke the seal. As her eyes scanned the lines, her brow furrowed.
“She has caught a chill,” she said at last, her voice carefully even. “She writes to assure us it is nothing serious, but the Bingley ladies insisted on calling for the apothecary. She only wrote to warn us, in case we hear of it through town gossip.”
Mrs. Bennet let out a gasp and clutched at her bodice. “A chill? Oh, my poor, sweet Jane! I knew it would rain! Did I not say it would rain?”
“You did, Mama,” said Elizabeth, rising to her feet. “And now she has a fever and headache, which is why I must go see her.”
“Absolutely not,” her mother declared, placing a slice of toast firmly back on her plate. “Not in those roads. You know how they get after a night of rain—thick as mortar! I know you, Lizzy, and your hem will end up six inches deep in mud, and what will our neighbors think of us then?”
“I do not care what they think.”
“Well, I do!” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “And besides, you will not be going anywhere on foot with officers about. Mark my words, redcoats will be prowling the hedgerows before long.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Jane is ill. She is stuck in a house full of near-strangers. I am going.”
Mark, who had been buttering a scone with great diligence, looked up and gave a crooked smile. “You will not be going alone.”
Mrs. Bennet rounded on him. “And what, precisely, do you plan to do when she is stuck in the mud halfway there?”
“I shall lift her out of it, of course,” he said innocently. “I will keep her hem from getting more than an inch or two dirty, Mama. I promise.”
Mrs. Bennet gave him a fondly exasperated look and threw up her hands. “I do not know what I have done to deserve so many contrary children.”
“I am not contrary,” Lydia piped up brightly from the other end of the table, her mouth full of eggs.
Everyone laughed, even Mr. Bennet, who had until that moment been buried in his newspaper.
Mark stood and pushed back his chair. “Eat quickly, Lizzy, so we can be on our way.”
Elizabeth gave him a grateful smile and hurriedly returned to her plate. Mrs. Bennet muttered something about needing to double the servants’ laundry day, but did not object further.
As the two stepped out into the damp morning air, Elizabeth glanced at the gray clouds still lingering on the horizon. The ground squelched softly beneath their boots, and Mark tugged his greatcoat tighter across his chest.
“Before we go to Netherfield,” he said, “do you mind if we stop by the Crowleys’ cottage?” He held up a small parcel.
Elizabeth frowned. “Again? Did you not just visit them?”
“I was,” he said. “But I only spoke to Crowley. Beth stayed inside. Papa was concerned—he said he would like one of the ladies to check in on her. The men usually talk about crops and livestock, but it’s the women who see whether the house is warm enough or the children are clothed properly.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Very well. It is on the way, after all, and Jane is not in any immediate danger.”
Mark led the way along the hedgerow, and soon they reached the small stone cottage nestled just off the path. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney, and a line of damp washing hung limply in the breeze.
Why did she not remove the clothing before the rain? Elizabeth wondered.
Stepping up to the door, Mark knocked. “Hello? Mrs. Crowley? It’s Master Bennet.”
There was a beat of silence.
