"I've no idea. But I can assure you this was made by Mrs Reeves, not myself."
She grimaced as he held another spoonful for her. "Then there is hope for it."
"A great deal. If it had been mine, we should both be in despair."
"You attempted it?"
"This morning. In ignorance and presumption. Another."
A small heave moved through her, and she eyed the spoon without comfort. "I do not think—"
"Mrs. Reeves holds waste to be a moral failing," he said. "If I return this bowl untouched, I shall lose what standing remains to me in my own kitchen."
Her eyes narrowed against the pillow. The retort came on what air she had. "Then you must protect your standing."
"At any cost."
"Even mine."
"Especially yours. You are the one refusing to cooperate."
The corner of her mouth altered. A smile would have cost her more than she had to spend. She opened her mouth dutifully, swallowed, and let her head fall back against the pillow.
Her lashes were sinking. He spoke before they could close.
"It has begun to snow again."
She gave a faint sound and did not lift her eyes.
"Miss Bennet, you must take a little more. Here."
Her lashes opened by half. The swallow went down at the back of her throat slowly, and he watched the work of it.
He lowered the hand holding the spoon and let out a breath. "Do you prefer honesty or flattery, Miss Bennet?"
That brought her eyes open. "That sounds an ominous subject. What danger threatens?"
"I may say the broth is good, which is true, or that you are taking it with angelic patience, which would be falsehood and an insult besides."
"Then keep to the truth."
"Very well. You are troublesome, half frozen, and exceedingly difficult to feed. The only thing that seems to provoke you to wakefulness is when I manage to say something to startle you."
She gathered herself. "Sir, you overwhelm me with your flattery."
"I have not yet begun. Another."
The corner of her mouth altered again. He fed her another spoonful on the strength of it.
Half the bowl went by such means. A gentleman of eight-and-twenty, proprietor of Pemberley, arguing the merits of provincial bread to keep a woman from slipping under his hand like a candle guttering in wind.
When at last she could take no more, her head turned weakly upon the pillow.
“Enough.”
It was scarcely a breath, yet he obeyed it. To press further would be folly. He set the bowl aside and drew the coverlet higher where it had fallen from her shoulder.
"You have done what was required. Sleep now."
