Page 45 of A November to Remember

Lydia and Kitty burst through the door like a pair of giggling hyenas who had just discovered wine, shaking damp drops from their pelisses onto the silk chairs. “The roads are an absolute swamp!” Lydia declared, throwing herself onto a settee with the grace of a startled pheasant. “We passed Captain Carter on the way, but the carriage was moving too fast, and I could not even wave my handkerchief! It was a tragedy of Shakespearian proportions!”

Kitty, never to be outdone in the drama stakes, added, “He was riding a brown horse. A very muddy brown horse. He looked right at us—right at me, in fact—but Mamma would not let the driver stop. I believe it was a personal slight.”

Lydia huffed, jumping up and walking to the window. “I saw Captain Carter’s horse first, and I swear it winked at me! A winking horse, Lizzy! What does it mean?”

Kitty coughed delicately. “It means you are losing your mind, Lydia. But do continue.”

Mary Bennet was clutching a small book to her chest as if it were the only thing standing between her sisters and moral ruin. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, gathering strength from the very air. “Sickness is a powerful reminder of our mortal frailty,” she intoned. “Dr Fordyce notes that physical suffering often purifies the soul, stripping away the vain desires of the flesh. Though vain,” she added, opening one eye to survey the silk drapes, “is the wallpaper’s colour in this room.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Elizabeth rubbed her temples, a headache setting up a permanent residence behind her eyes. “Jane’s soul is clean. It is her lungs we were worried about.”

Viscount Keathley, who had evidently escorted the horde up the stairs only to step aside and allow them to enter first, was leaning against the doorframe, crossing one booted ankle over the other with effortless elegance, his expression conveying that he had just been handed a front-row box to the most entertaining spectacle in Christendom.

“A veritable family reunion,” he said. “How very intimate. We encountered your charming family in the entrance hall, Miss Bennet. Your mother expressed such anxiety that I took the liberty of escorting her up the stairs myself. Miss Bingley attempted to claim the honours, but the colonel”—he gestured behind him—“asked her for a sandwich.”

From her place by the window, Elizabeth watched her sister closely. The moment the viscount spoke, Jane stiffened. Her hands, previously resting calmly in her lap, fluttered to her hair, attempting to smooth the golden strands.

Lord Keathley pushed off the doorframe. He bowed to Elizabeth and then, ignoring the soaked carpet, he walked to Jane’s chair. He stopped in front of her, and Elizabeth was startled to see his customary amusement drop away.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, after a bow. “Are you truly recovering?”

Jane raised her face to him, her fingers freezing in her hair. “I am much improved, my lord, I thank you.”

Elizabeth saw the tightness around the viscount’s mouth vanish, relief replacing it.

Mr Bingley laughed from his position by the mantelpiece. “Miss Bennet was worried about the inconvenience, but I told her she could burn Netherfield to the ground, Keathley, and I would provide the tinder!”

“A sentiment we all share,” Lord Keathley murmured, not bothering to look at Mr Bingley. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a small, beautifully bound volume of green leather. “I brought you a distraction, Miss Bennet. I find the hours of convalescence pass slowly without occupation. It is a volume of William Cowper’s poetry.”

Jane took the book hesitantly, her fingers brushing his. “It is beautiful.”

“It is from my personal collection,” he explained. “His reflections on quiet landscapes and the soul... I thought it might suit your disposition.”

“You will not find anything like that in my library, Miss Bennet!” Bingley declared happily, missing the intimacy of the gesture, a fact that made Elizabeth want to bury her face in her hands. “Unless you have a desire to read the racing calendars from last season, or a treatise on agricultural drainage.”

“Poetry is romantic, I suppose, if one likes trees,” Lydia chimed in loudly from the settee.

Jane ignored the interruption, her eyes shining as she kept looking up at the viscount. “It is a very thoughtful gesture, my lord. I shall take great care of it and return it to you the moment I have finished.”

“There is no need to return it,” he demurred, his voice carrying a strange weight. “Consider it yours.”

Jane swallowed, holding the book to her chest. “I... I must also thank you, my lord. I was informed that you went out into the tempest to bring Mr Jones.”

Mr Bingley turned away, looking guilty.

Lord Keathley, however, went still. “Nothing could have stopped me,” he declared quietly.

Jane’s breath caught as she searched his face.

He appeared to realise his error instantly. He blinked away the intensity, gathered his composure, and took a swift step back. As he turned, Elizabeth noticed her mother watching him. Mrs Bennet’s fan was not moving, her eyes had narrowed, and she was observing the exchange with a strange, calculating quality.

Elizabeth braced herself for her mother to open her mouth and interrogate the gentleman, but before Mrs Bennet could speak, the colonel entered, swept his gaze over the room once—furniture, no; fireplace, no; tea tray, yes—and locked onto the abandoned bowl beside the teapot.

“Is that the broth?”

“It is,” Elizabeth replied.

“Did she take it?”