Darcy’s mouth curved despite himself. The morning had accomplished more than he had dared hope. She listened and answered honestly, and he allowed himself to hope for more than grudging politeness from Miss Elizabeth.
Elizabeth returned to the house in a state she would have found difficult to describe with any accuracy had she been asked directly.
Flustered, certainly.
Unsettled beyond reason, perhaps.
Beneath both lay something warmer and far more dangerous than either.
Mr. Darcy had apologized.
Not carelessly, not from obligation, and not with the stiff civility of a man merely repairing a social error. He had spoken plainly, earnestly, and with a degree of humility she would once have declared impossible in him. Worse still, he had listened in return. There had been no impatience when she spoke of wounded vanity, no dismissal of feelings he might easily have considered trivial. He had accepted the injury he caused and seemed genuinely troubled by it.
The realization lingered unpleasantly—and pleasantly—in equal measure.
Elizabeth walked the upper hall more slowly than usual, conscious of the glow still lingering in her cheeks whenever she recalled particular moments of the stroll. His expression when he spoke of her family. The ease with which he dismissed distinctions of birth. The steady certainty in his voice when he assured her no one who knew her would mistake her for anything less than a lady.
And then there had been the look in his eyes while he said it.
That memory alone threatened fresh embarrassment.
She paused briefly outside Jane’s chamber before composing herself sufficiently to enter.
The room had grown warmer since morning. A fresh fire burned in the grate, and the curtains had been drawn back to admit what little autumn light the weather permitted. Jane lay propped against the pillows, her complexion still pale but no longer fever-bright. Relief touched Elizabeth upon seeing her sister’s clearer eyes.
“You are improved,” she said.
Jane smiled. “I feel improved.”
Elizabeth crossed to the bedside and rested her hand lightly against Jane’s brow.
Cool.
Not wholly free from warmth, perhaps, but vastly better than the previous night.
“You have no fever.”
“Only exhaustion,” Jane replied before dissolving into a fit of coughing that seemed determined to contradict her optimism.
Elizabeth poured fresh water from the pitcher beside the bed and handed it to her. Jane drank obediently before settling back once more.
“You should still remain abed,” Elizabeth said.
“I assure you I have no wish to rise.”
“That is fortunate, for I should force you back into bed if necessary.”
Jane’s lips curved weakly. “You would make a very tyrannical nurse.”
“I have had excellent instruction from Mama.”
The mention of Mrs. Bennet eased the tension between them.
Whatever else might once have been uncertain in their family arrangement, no uncertainty had survived the years. Grace Bennet governed Longbourn with intelligence, good sense, and an affection so constant that Elizabeth sometimes forgot they did not share blood.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
One of Netherfield’s maids appeared in the doorway.
