Page 3 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

"Where did this come from?" she asked Sarah.

"Mr. McKeever brought it up, miss. His master thought the quieter pieces might suit an invalid."

"His master thought correctly."

Sarah lowered her gaze, but not quickly enough to hide something like satisfaction. "Mr. McKeever often does."

Elizabeth opened the volume. A narrow strip of blue silk marked a page, and it matched the thread Sarah had chosen for the shawl not an hour before.

She looked up.

The maid had become intensely absorbed in arranging medicine bottles that did not require arranging.

"Sarah."

"Miss?"

"Did you choose this poem?"

"Mr. McKeever asked whether Miss Bennet preferred cheerful verse or solemn verse. I recommended cheerful. Illness supplies solemnity without any help from Cowper."

There was sense in that. There was also, Elizabeth thought, rather a lot of design in it.

Elizabeth read to Jane until her sister slept again, Cowper's mild wit settling the room like a hand smoothing a rumpled coverlet. Outside, the storm strengthened and branches scraped the panes with a sound like something asking to be let in. When Sarah carried the empty tea tray downstairs, Elizabeth watched her go and turned the day over in her mind. The maid had known exactly which poem to choose. Mr. Darcy's valet had known exactly which volume to send. Mr. Darcy himself had thought, had actually troubled to think, about what might ease Jane's evening.

Three small facts. None of them proved kindness, let alone regard.

They did, however, make dislike considerably less comfortable to hold onto.

Jane woke near eleven, thirsty and confused, blinking at the low fire as though she could not place the room. Elizabeth helped her drink while Sarah rebuilt the fire at a gentler heat.

"Are we still at Netherfield?" Jane asked.

"We are. Mr. Bingley has offered half the house to your recovery."

"His sisters must be pleased."

"Their joy has been very well disciplined."

Jane's amusement softened her tired face, colour rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with fever. She closed her eyes. "He was kind before you came."

"Mr. Bingley?"

"All of them, in different proportions."

"Mr. Hurst's proportion appears to live in the cellar."

Sarah turned away from the fire too quickly, her shoulders betraying her.

"You may laugh. A sickroom need not become a chapel."

The maid glanced towards Jane before letting her mouth twitch properly this time. "Mr. Hurst asked the kitchen for a tray at four and forgot he had ordered it. Cook found it congealing on the sideboard an hour later and nearly wept."

"That is extremely useful intelligence. We shall hide Jane's broth from him at once."

Jane drifted back to sleep, her breathing evening out. Elizabeth carried the candle into the sitting room and found Sarah folding linen with the brisk, unthinking competence of someone whose hands rarely stopped moving.

"You need not remain all night."