Page 47 of A November to Remember

“Well!” the colonel boomed, the metallic scrape of his spoon hitting the bottom of the bowl ringing through the room. He wiped his mouth with a delicate napkin, heedless of the silent exchange occurring above his head. “The broth is superb. But we are draining the air from this room. Look at the patient. She is wilting.”

Elizabeth turned to Jane. Her sister did indeed seem overwhelmed, her hands holding the book of poetry tight, her eyes darting between her sisters and mother.

“My brother is correct,” the viscount said, taking up control. “Mrs Bennet, your motherly devotion is admirable, but I believe we must withdraw. Bingley, you have played the worried host admirably. Come along.”

Mr Bingley was horrified at the prospect of leaving. “But I have only just arrived!”

“And you have delivered the flora.” The viscount gestured to the roses on the tea tray. “A triumph. Now, let us withdraw before Mr Jones returns and gives leeches to all of us for tiring his patient.”

Mrs Bennet, surprisingly, did not argue. The purposeful gleam was still dancing in her eyes as she scrutinised Darcy. “Yes, yes, we must let the dear child rest. Come, girls! We shall return tomorrow! And the day after! Lydia, leave the cushion, we have cushions.”

“Not like these,” Lydia replied, but left it.

Mary pronounced a final sentence on the brevity of life, and was ushered out mid-clause by the colonel, who held the firm conviction that no sermon should outlast a boiled egg.

Mr Bingley lingered by the chair, bowing awkwardly. “I shall send up more tea, Miss Bennet. Without the water from the flowers this time.”

“Thank you, Mr Bingley.”

The viscount hooked Mr Bingley by the elbow and dragged him backward into the passage.

Mr Darcy, however, did not immediately follow.

He lingered, letting the tide wash out into the hall. He took a measured step closer to Elizabeth.

“Are you quite well, Miss Elizabeth?” he murmured, keeping his tone low enough that it could not carry to the passage.

“I am enduring, sir.” Elizabeth maintained her composure with effort, her pulse performing a strange dance at her wrists. “Though my nerves may require a strong cup of tea.”

He glanced at Jane, ensuring she was resting with her eyes closed, before turning his full attention back to Elizabeth. “Will you come down to dinner this evening? Or do you intend to remain enclosed in the yellow quarters?”

Elizabeth looked up at him. The memory of him in his shirtsleeves with his wild hair rushed back, making it difficult to breathe. “That depends on how my sister fares. If she sleeps, I may venture down to the dining room. I cannot allow Colonel Fitzwilliam to eat the entire larder alone.”

“A noble sacrifice.” Mr Darcy’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then snapped back to her eyes. “I shall look forward to your arrival.”

A sharp rustle of silk sounded from the doorway.

Elizabeth flinched, stepping back. Mr Darcy instantly retreated, his spine straightening.

Mrs Bennet was standing on the threshold. Her eyes darted between Darcy’s stiff shoulders and Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks.

For an endless moment, Elizabeth braced herself for the inevitable, waiting for her mother to launch into a vulgar monologue about the Pemberley income. She waited for a hint about a double wedding at Christmas or on Valentine’s Day, or a boastful comment about Elizabeth’s cleverness.

Mrs Bennet simply stood there, having just discovered the concept of silence. Then, in a display of restraint that defied the laws of nature, twenty years of established history, and possibly the will of God, she smiled. It did not reach her eyes, which were busy calculating the dimensions of Pemberley. A muscle twitched in her cheek, and she pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white. Then, with visible effort, she turned and walked silently down the passage, her fan clutched in a death grip as if it were the only thing preventing her from speaking.

Good God, Elizabeth thought. She is thinking.

She kept staring at the empty doorway, a cold prickle of dread creeping down her spine. Her mother talking was an embarrassment; her mother thinking was a threat.

Mr Darcy offered a formal bow. “Until this evening, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mr Darcy.”

He turned and followed the rest of the party, his boots making not a sound on the stairs.

Elizabeth sank into the chair opposite Jane, her hands trembling in her lap. The room was finally, blessedly quiet, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant echo of her mother’s thoughts, which were doubtless composing wedding vows in her head.

Jane opened one eye. “Are they truly gone?”