Page 29 of Colour My World
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “There is none to be made.” She slipped from the room, her bare feet soft against the wooden floors as she hurried down the servants’ corridor to ask for ginger tea.
* * *
Mrs Hill arrived without ceremony, a fresh bundle of linens in her arms. “’Tis nothing to fret over, Miss Jane, Miss Elizabeth,” she said as she pulled back the soiled sheets. “A woman’s burden, nothing more.”
She hardly looked at the stain. She replaced the linen, smoothed it, and eased Jane back into bed.
Jane murmured thanks as she sank into the pillows.
“Now, rest easy, my duckling. A warming pan and some hot tea will set you right.”
Elizabeth tucked the covers as Mrs Hill gathered the soiled linen. “We can’t have the younger ones make a spectacle.”
Mrs Bennet arrived in her wrapper: plain, neatly belted, her nightcap snug over curling papers. “My dear girl, my sweet Jane.You must not strain yourself today!” She hovered beside the bed and pressed a hand to Jane’s cheek.
Elizabeth remained in the window seat. When it was her mother, she had always braced for the storm, never the calm.How different I see her now.
No frantic flickering, no sharp bursts of amber and fire. She fussed, as she always did. She smoothed Jane’s hair. “You shall have broth and honey tea, and the girls will not disturb you.”
Her mother’s colours held steady. Warm. A quiet sort of tenderness. Perhaps it had always been there. Elizabeth had simply never seen it.
* * *
The following morning, Elizabeth woke at her usual early hour.
Jane remained abed. “I feel much better this morning. Later, I shall walk with you.”
“Never you mind. I will appeal to Mary. You must rest.”
At the base of the stairs, Elizabeth shivered. She fetched a shawl from the sitting room chair. With her shoulders warmly covered, she found Mary at the table buttering her toast.
“Good morning, Mary.”
“Good morning. How does Jane fare?”
“She has assured me she shall be herself again soon. Would you walk with me after our meal?”
“Of course.” She took a bite of her toast. Swallowed. Grimaced. Belched into her hand. She looked about, her face red with embarrassment.
Then, a cloud of tiny golden flecks appeared above Mary’s head. They moved exactly as the ones she had seen around Jane.
Elizabeth, distracted, patted her hand. “No one is here.”
“Lizzy,” she whispered.
“Yes?” What could it mean? Jane’s monthly had come thenext morning. But Mary? She is newly fourteen.
“Why do you stare?” Mary dabbed at her mouth as if a crumb or two lingered.
The ladybirds flittered back and forth. “It is nothing, dear,” she said and forced a smile. “Nothing at all.”
But it was not nothing. She ought to speak with Mrs Hill. Again.
* * *
A week later, Charlotte Lucas called. Elizabeth greeted her warmly, grateful for the steadying presence of a friend less inclined to dramatics than her younger sisters. They spoke of parish events, the rhythm of the season, and small village matters that touched neither pride nor vanity.
Charlotte’s voice, even in amusement, carried its usual composure. Elizabeth noted a pale-yellow mist around her—steady, unhurried—tinted with soft gold whenever she laughed. No artifice. Only tempered good sense. Elizabeth smiled.
