Page 98 of A Most Beloved Sister
“Do. You. Like. Mr. Darcy?” Each word was spoken slowly and punctuated with a deep breath, but Elizabeth couldn’t tell if Jane was truly struggling to breathe that much or if she were simply mocking Elizabeth’s lack of sense when it came to a certain gentleman.
“Well… I… that is…” Elizabeth struggled to find a word; how was this such a difficult question to answer?
At last, she said, “I do not attempt to deny that… that… well, that I think very highly of him. I greatly esteem him. Yes, I like him, Jane.”
The last was spoken in a whisper. Jane squealed and clapped her hands, causing a bit of the broth that the nurse was still attempting to spoon into her mouth to spill onto the counterpane.
“I knew it! I told Charles that you wouldn’t be able to resist him, and I was right!”
This burst of excitement provoked a severe coughing fit. Jane’s face turned nearly purple in her attempts to draw air into her lungs, and Elizabeth leaped to her feet in alarm. The nurse swiftly placed the bowl of broth on the nearby table, then picked up a vial with a dropper in it. She held Jane’s head back and allowed three drops to drip into Jane’s open mouth.
“Laudanum, ma’am,” the nurse explained when she saw Elizabeth’s frightened expression. “It helps to calm her body so her lungs don’t need to work as hard. It will make her sleepy though.”
As if to prove her lady’s maid’s point, Jane’s eyes closed and her head lolled to one side. “How long will she be asleep?”
“Probably until tomorrow morning. She’s been sleeping a lot more the last week,” the nursemaid said. “They all do when they reach the end. ‘Tis a blessing, though.”
“How long have you worked for Dr. Carson?”
“Going on four years now, miss, but I was a nurse long before that with a Dr. Palmer in Staffordshire. A right stingy one, he was. Always giving orders to be bleeding folks and refusing to even touch a person who was sick. How can you know if a mess of spots is measles or just a rash if you won’t even look at it?”
As she spoke, the nurse removed several pillows from Jane’s bed, then gently eased her down into a more comfortable reclined position. She then gently wiped Jane’s face clean with a damp cloth before tucking the blanket around her sleeping form.
“I imagine Dr. Carson was quite the change.”
“Ay, and a right welcome one at that.”
Elizabeth watched with gratitude as the nurse refilled the cup of water near Jane’s table and moved the broth over to the door, where a house maid would collect it later for the kitchens.
We could never have been able to do this for Jane at home.
As Elizabeth returned to her rooms, she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Bingley had let Netherfield six monthsprior. He was giving Jane the best possible care in her final days, along with more love than she could have ever possibly imagined.
Everything was perfect.
Almost.
∞∞∞
With Louisa’s confinement having begun and Jane spending more time asleep than awake, Elizabeth found herself once again at Netherfield with quite a bit of time on her hands.
This time, however, was different.
As she wandered the groves and paths over the following week, she found herself yearning for Darcy’s company. In her most desperate times, she even imagined herself conducting conversations with him, similar to those they had enjoyed while walking to and from the disabilities home in London.
It wasn’t until she found herself actually speaking to him out loud, however, that she realized that she might be going just a little bit insane.
As she was not formed for ill-humor, she laughed at herself, then made her way to Longbourn to see her father. Over a game of chess, he gave a half-hearted attempt at interrogating her about the happenings in London and at Netherfield. She was able to easily assure him that all was well in both locales, and he was mollified.
The game did little to distract her however, and after he had thrashed her soundly—and mocked her for the worst defeat she’d experienced at his hand in a decade—she made her way to the parlor, recklessly hoping that her mother’s gossip could sufficiently divert her for an hour or so.
She came upon her mother and two youngest sisters holding court with several officers from the militia, including Major Wickham, as well as a few of the local young women. The soldiers all stood upon her entrance, and she gave a light laugh at their chivalry. “Now, now,” she said merrily, “I am not your commanding officer! Do sit down.”
This was met with smiles and guffaws. Major Wickham took his seat at a table with Kitty, behind the settee where Lydia sat, and quipped, “I daresay we would end this war against Old Boney much more quickly if we had a few women at the helm.”
The only empty space was another chair next to him, which Elizabeth took with alacrity, eager to debate the opening he gave. “Are you saying that women are more intelligent than men?”
“Not at all,” he said with aplomb. “Simply that they are more conniving.”
