Jane gingerly took a sip of her tea, wincing when her tongue smarted from the heat. She took her teaspoon and filled it with the dark liquid, blowing upon it with her fevered breath. She continued in this manner—blowing and drinking, blowing and drinking—until Elizabeth entered the room with a blanket in her hands.
"You're up," Elizabeth said in surprise. The last time she had been in the room Jane was in a deep sleep and could not be woken. Now she sat propped up with numerous pillows, her bangs damp and a weak smile playing upon her pale lips.
"I feel like I could eat a horse," Jane said. She reached for the biscuit on the tray beside her. Her sister crossed the room and sat beside her, leaning forward to place her hand on Jane's forehead. Though still warm, Jane's forehead was considerably cooler.
"Your fever is down," Elizabeth observed. She was pleased. The sooner Jane got better, the sooner they could flee Netherfield. Not having Jane with her downstairs every night was very trying. She was getting sick of Miss Bingley fawning over Mr. Darcy and blatantly insulting her family.
"Thank heavens, Elizabeth," sighed Jane, breaking her sister's train of thought. "I've sat in this bed for too long. I stare at the sun coming through the window sometimes, wishing I could be outside walking—just walking."
Elizabeth smiled at Jane's words. "If you are better tomorrow I could set you up beside the window. You should see the garden outside—I've never seen lovelier flowers. I will gather some for you tomorrow."
"Would you? I feel I've missed the arrival of spring."
"You haven't really. The trees are still blooming and the grass is just getting greener."
"Isn't it about time for you to go down for dinner?" Jane asked when the clock in the room chimed the hour.
"Yes, but I would rather eat up here with you, sister. The only pleasant thing about dinner is your Mr. Bingley's engaging manners—."
"Do not call him mine, Elizabeth."
"He is yours, Jane, and I shan't deny it. How can he not be yours if, whenever you're in the same room, he never stops staring at you? It's so obvious that you can't possibly not see it." Elizabeth gave a firm nod and went to stand before the vanity. She tugged at the bodice of her dress and smoothed the curls at her temples.
"You look lovely," Jane observed with a sigh. "Mr. Darcy will have eyes only for you."
"Don't say that!"
"And why not?"
"Because, because..." sputtered Elizabeth. "Because!"
"Why do you hate him so? He may act prideful, but he isn't a beast."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "Don't tell me you like him! I can't believe you, Jane. You always like people, no matter how vile they are."
"And Mr. Darcy is vile? That's a bit harsh."
A pause—the young women stared at each other. Elizabeth broke the silence. "Alright, so maybe he isn't vile. That doesn't change how I think of him, though."
Jane closed her eyes wearily. There was no use in arguing with her sister, for she was always determined to be right. She watched as Elizabeth finished her toilette.
"Now, if you need anything, Jane, just ring the bell," reminded Elizabeth. She kissed her sister on the cheek and left the room, her gown whispering as she made her way down the hall. She had left the door open.
Jane pushed herself up from the pillows and slowly walked to the door. It will be nice to be home again, thought Jane, shutting it and settling down on the bed. With the draft from the open door gone, Jane was thoroughly warm with her blankets and tea. She lay back contentedly and gazed up at the flower decoration on the ceiling. "How pretty," Jane murmured to herself. She would close her eyes for just a moment, and then she'd catch up on her embroidery.
dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp
Jane woke with a chill skittering across her body sending goose bumps up and down her skin. She pulled the tangled bed sheets over her again and tried to sleep. No matter how deep she burrowed in her bed she could not get warm. She saw the fire had gone out. Jane got up to light her lamp and was surprised to see that it was half past eleven—nearly midnight. She rang the bell and waited—and waited.
No one came for the half hour that she waited. Jane drew a shawl over her petite shoulders. She'd have to fetch the maid herself; Elizabeth would not take kindly to being woken up. Jane carefully opened her door and winced when it creaked. The hallway was cooler than her room, but not by much, and her toes burned with the cold. Though it was officially spring, the crisp, winter-like nights were still ongoing. Jane skittered back to her room as fast as her weak legs could go and fetched her bed slippers. She was halfway back down the hall when she stumbled on a bump in the carpet. She grabbed at the door beside her, latching her fingers onto a doorknob—and accidentally turning it. Light spilled from the crack in the door and a rush of air from inside the room warmed Jane's cheeks.
Before she could stop herself, Jane peeked inside. She was never one for eavesdropping or spying on people, and what Jane saw made her wish she had locked her curiosity in a box and left it in her room. A steaming bath was situated before a flickering fire. Mr. Bingley was washing himself. Jane closed her eyes as her breath caught in her chest. Her hands lifted to cool the blush that flared up on her cheeks. She fought the thoughts in her head that told her to keep watching and tried to walk away. She really didn't need a fire in her room. I'll just use more of my blankets, she advised herself. I should go back now. But she didn't. She found herself before the door again, gazing at how his red hair caught the firelight and practically glowed. She was so entranced with it that she was caught unawares when he stood up, baring his back and rear to her. All she saw was a flash of flesh before she turned away for good, mortified beyond belief.
Jane practically ran back to her room and launched herself into the deep layer of blankets that had gone cold on her bed. She hugged a pillow to her chest and shook her head back and forth, over and over, trying to get the image out of her head. Each time she thought it was gone for good, the sight of Mr. Bingley's buttocks flashed before her eyes. A furious blush burned itself into Jane's cheeks. She had a hard time falling asleep...partly because she was chilled and partly because she couldn't stop thinking of him.
dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdp
The morning found everyone at the breakfast table—including Jane, who was deemed strong enough to make it downstairs. Elizabeth was exchanging frigid looks with Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy was leaning his head up on his hand, every once in a while moving his eyes towards Elizabeth. Mrs. Hurst was wiping crumbs from her dress, and her husband was shoving a crumbling slice of cake into his open mouth. Mr. Bingley was looking at Jane while drinking his tea. Jane was boring a hole into her plate with her eyes.
"Are you feeling well, Jane?" Elizabeth suddenly asked, for she noticed the red countenance of her sister.
Jane's head snapped up and she admitted, "I feel a bit warm."
"Would you please excuse us, Mr. Bingley?" Elizabeth asked. "I think Jane needs to get back to bed. She shouldn't be up."
Mr. Bingley shot up from his chair and nearly sent it to the floor. "Of course, of course!" he exclaimed. "She must go—not that I don't enjoy her company, for I do."
Miss Bingley rolled her eyes at her brother. "We all want Miss Bennet to get better as soon as can be," she said. She got up and handed Jane her shawl, chancing a glance at Mr. Darcy to see if he saw how kind she could be. He was staring at Elizabeth's back.
Jane's heart swelled with gratitude towards Miss Bingley, even though she didn't need a shawl. She was warm enough, for her fever was back again. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her back.
"Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Bingley. I hope that I am not imposing upon your hospitality," she said and avoided his warm gaze. She had a hard time keeping her eyes from straying to his body which she had so shamefully scrutinized the night before.
"Nonsense! I only wish that you would get better, Miss Bennet. Being ill is so very unpleasant," replied Mr. Bingley, his cheeks flaming. Everyone murmured in agreement, and she was led back upstairs to her room by her sister. She was grateful for the solitude where she might cool her cheeks and compose herself. She hoped she would never have to spend such a long time at Netherfield again—who knew what things she might accidentally see.