Page 44 of A November to Remember

“That is precisely the problem.”

Mrs Nicholls nodded to the young maid. “Sarah. Go down to the breakfast room. Inform Mr Bingley that Miss Bennet is receiving.”

Sarah dropped a hasty curtsy and rushed out of the door.

Less than two minutes later, the sound of boots thundering up the staircase echoed through the house. The footsteps did not walk; they bounded, skidded, and scrambled.

Charles Bingley burst through the doorway as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. His neckcloth had abandoned all pretence of order, and in his right hand he held a dripping cluster of red roses, evidently liberated from a vase downstairs. Water cascaded down his sleeve, forming a small but determined river on the carpet. He halted just inside the room, his entire expression fixed on Jane with single-minded devotion.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken sentiment.

Mr Bingley’s face transformed. The lines of worry that had aged him over the past few days vanished, replaced by a smile so blindingly bright it rivalled the fire in the hearth.

Elizabeth caught Mrs Nicholls’s eye. They both took three synchronised steps backwards, fading to the furthest window seat and finding the grey clouds outside utterly fascinating.

Mr Bingley stepped forward, the water from the roses dripping steadily. “Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You are out of bed.”

“I am, Mr Bingley.” Jane’s voice trembled, an answering smile blooming on her lips. “I must thank you. I have caused your household such a tremendous inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience!” Mr Bingley dropped the flowers onto the tea table, oblivious to the puddle forming around the fine porcelain. He dragged a chair dangerously close to her knees and collapsed into it. “You could burn this house to its foundations, Miss Bennet, and I would consider it an honour to provide the tinder. I only mean... I am so relieved. You were so ill. I was quite terrified.”

“I am much better. Truly.”

Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the cold windowpane, biting her lip to suppress the bubble of laughter rising in her chest. Behind her, the conversation devolved into a symphony of stammering, blushing, and unnecessary apologies from both parties.

“The flowers.” Bingley gestured to the ruined tea tray. “I brought them. They were downstairs. I thought you might like red. It is a cheerful colour. Do you like them? I can bring any colour you like.”

“They are beautiful, Mr Bingley.” Jane brightened. “Though perhaps they require a vase?”

“A vase! Yes! Absolutely! I should have brought the entire vase! I apologise, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. It was too sweet, too genuine, and too chaotic.

And then, the chaos multiplied.

A voice echoed from the entrance hall below; a voice capable of shattering glass at fifty paces and probably doing so that very moment. “My poor, dear, darling Jane! Where is my child? I demand to see my child! Oh, Lydia, do not dawdle, you sluggard!”

Elizabeth stiffened, the blood draining from her face. She spun away from the window, exchanging a horrified look with Jane.

“Mamma,” Jane whispered, shrinking into the cushions as if hoping the upholstery might defend her in her hour of need.

“Good heavens,” Elizabeth breathed.

Mrs Nicholls recoiled in horror. She shrugged apologetically to Mr Bingley, and scurried out of the door before the hurricane reached the premises.

Moments later, the sounds multiplied. The cacophony of shrill voices was accompanied by heavy footfalls.

Mrs Bennet surged into the room in a flurry of pink silk and agitated lace, her skirts billowing around her. She threw her arms wide, her gaze sweeping around the chamber, cataloguing the curtains, the gilded mirrors, and the silver tea service in a fraction of a second.

“Jane! My sweet, fragile girl!” Mrs Bennet descended on the wing chair, throwing her arms around Jane’s blanket-wrapped shoulders. “I have not slept a wink! Not one single wink! I told Mr Bennet just yesterday, ‘If Jane perishes from this damp, the fault lies with the weather!’ Oh, you are so pale. So tragically pale! It is extremely becoming. You look like death warmed over and served on a silver platter! But what a becoming death! The complexion of a martyr, Jane! Mr Bingley, do you not agree that my daughter has the most flattering deathly pallor you have ever seen?”

Mr Bingley had leaped to his feet, scrambling backwards until his shoulders hit the mantelpiece. “Ah... Yes. Certainly, Mrs Bennet. Welcome. We are delighted.”

“Oh, Mr Bingley!” Mrs Bennet released Jane and rounded on their host, clasping her hands on her bosom. “The hospitality you have shown my daughter! The luxury! The expense! I was just admiring your silver epergne downstairs. Wonderful, Lizzy!” She threw a triumphant look over her shoulder at Elizabeth. “Solid, through and through! Not a plated piece in sight. I always say, one can judge a man’s character by the weight of his serving dishes.”

“Mamma, please,” Elizabeth hissed, stepping forward in a desperate attempt to contain the damage.

She was too late; the rest of the horde poured into the room.