Page 43 of A November to Remember

Chapter Ten: The Silence of the Matriarch

November 4th, 1811

The fever finally surrendered its lease on Jane’s body somewhere around four in the morning, retreating with all the grace of a disgruntled tenant evicted at dawn. By the time the weak November sun dragged itself over the horizon, the yellow guest chamber had transformed from a bleak medical ward into a theatre of culinary rebellion.

Jane was propped against a fluffed mountain of white pillows, her complexion returning to its customary porcelain perfection. She possessed the fragile beauty of a snowdrop emerging from frost, and the stubborn resistance of a mule who had just been informed it must now eat its hay with a spoon.

Elizabeth sat in the bedside chair, nudging that spoon to her sister’s mouth with the patience of a saint who had long since abandoned hope.

Jane turned her face away, her lips pressed together with immovable resolve. “I am not eating that, Lizzy. If I consume one more drop of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s beef elixir, I shall develop hooves, a swishing tail, and the urge to graze on Netherfield’s fine lawns.”

Elizabeth lowered the spoon, her lips twitching. “The colonel was most insistent. He maintains his beef broth is the sole barrier between you and a relapse so disastrous it would make the Black Death a mild inconvenience. He considers this soup nothing short of divine intervention.”

“The colonel is a man who marches thirty miles a day and carries a sabre,” Jane countered, eyeing the bowl with deep suspicion. “I am a woman lying still under three quilts, not a plough horse. My requirements are significantly less robust. I want toast. A dry, un-beefy piece of toast.”

Elizabeth set the bowl on the bedside table. “I shall petition Mrs Nicholls for toast. However, before I launch a riot in the kitchens, I have a message to deliver.” She leaned forward, smoothing a stray golden curl from Jane’s forehead. “Mr Bingley has requested an audience. He wishes to ascertain, with his own eyes, that you have not dissolved into the mattress.”

Jane’s pale cheeks bloomed with a vivid rose that owed nothing to the departing fever. Her hands flew to her hair, attempting to tuck loose strands behind her ears. “Mr Bingley? Here? Oh, Lizzy, absolutely not. Look at me. I am a fright. My hair is a disaster, and the nightrail I am wearing is so awfully creased.”

Elizabeth grasped her sister’s hands, pulling them away from the quilt. “You look like an angel who has been mildly inconvenienced by a raincloud. And Mr Bingley would not care if you were wearing a burlap sack and a pair of Hessian boots. The man is beside himself.”

Jane bit her lower lip, the blush crawling all the way to her hairline. “He asked to see me?”

“He begged. I promised him I would arrange it the moment you were strong enough. Are you strong enough, Jane? Truly?”

Jane offered a shy nod. “I think seeing him might be somewhat more restorative than the soup.”

The door opened after a firm knock, interrupting them. Mr Jones bustled into the room, deposited his medical case on a side table and walked to the bed.

“Good morning, ladies. How are we faring today?” His gaze swept over Jane with professional assessment. “I can see your colour has improved, Miss Bennet.”

“I feel better, I think, Mr Jones,” Jane said.

“Good morning, sir.” Elizabeth stood, clearing the path for the good apothecary.

Mr Jones pressed the back of his hand against Jane’s cheek, timed her pulse with his pocket watch, and peered intently into her eyes. A satisfied grunt rumbled deep in his chest, a sound which meant he had just confirmed his own brilliance.

“The fever is gone.” He snapped his watch shut. “You have an excellent constitution, Miss Bennet. I expected you to be fighting that chill for another forty-eight hours at least.”

“May she leave the bed, Mr Jones?” Elizabeth crossed her arms, adopting her best negotiating posture. “She is in desperate need of a change of scenery. And toast.”

Mr Jones looked over his wire-rimmed spectacles, fully aware that Elizabeth Bennet was not a woman to be trifled with. “You may sit in a chair. Out of all draughts, mind you, wrapped in blankets. I will permit you to be moved if you wish, Miss Bennet, provided you do not attempt to walk down the stairs. As for toast, you may have it. But you must finish the broth.”

Jane shot a look of betrayal at the apothecary, but did not argue.

“Thank you, Mr Jones.” Elizabeth smiled brightly, ushering him to the door before he could prescribe anything involving leeches or further humiliation. “We shall follow your orders to the letter.”

The moment his footsteps faded down the passage, Elizabeth lunged for the bell rope. Mrs Nicholls appeared with an alacrity suggesting she had been plastered against the landing wall, eavesdropping as though she considered it her civic duty.

“Jane is permitted to move. I saw a drawing-room two doors down, Mrs Nicholls. Can we use it?” Elizabeth stepped back into the bedchamber. “She wishes to receive a very brief, chaperoned visit from our host.”

Mrs Nicholls clasped her hands in front of her, her face breaking into a wide grin. “I shall have the fire built up immediately. Sarah!” The housekeeper turned and bellowed down the back stairs with the lungs of a fishwife. “Bring the blue woollen blankets! The good ones! We have a gentleman calling!”

The next twenty minutes were a masterpiece in domestic efficiency.

With Sarah supporting one arm and Elizabeth the other, Jane, now covered by a warm wrapper, was carefully escorted into the private upstairs drawing-room. It was a cosy, circular chamber, draped in silk that had likely cost more than the entire Bennet household’s annual income, and boasting a roaring fire in the grate. Jane was deposited into a wing chair, wrapped in two thick blankets, and propped up with cushions until she resembled a fragile jewel displayed in a very expensive box. Sarah ruthlessly brushed Jane’s hair and pinned it into a knot, while Mrs Nicholls arranged a fresh tea tray on the low table.

Elizabeth stepped back, assessing the tableau. “You look perfect. Breathe, Jane. He is only a man.”