AUTHOR'S NOTES: As always, thanks so much for the continued feedback. I promised to get another chapter out by the end of April, and your enthusiasm and encouragemnet definitely helped me to deliver!

Casual reminder to readers: You guys are making a lot of assumptions that just because Mary may or may not know something, Jane may or may not know it as well. Assume nothing!

I'd say we're a little more than half way through the story at this point. The pace is going to start picking up considerably, and players are going to start making some moves across the boards. Very eager to hear your thoughts on where you think this all is going!

The only promise I make is a happy ending.

Afternoon passed into the evening in the same tedious vein. The specter of Death loomed over them all, and for Jane Collins, it hung heaviest of all. She had spent a few restless hours abed after being caught in the morning rain with Mr. Bingley, but her many worries would not allow for rest. She had tossed and turned for some time, ruminating over the paradox that her husband had presented to her. He berated her for staying at Netherfield to nurse his son, yet William's injury and subsequent illness were a result of his father's actions. That he convalesced at Netherfield was a turn of fate none could have anticipated. What was Jane to do but nurse him? It was the most natural instinct in all the world, to care for one's loved ones when they fell ill. She certainly had not traveled thither for Mr. Bingley, of all things!

Now sitting at William's bedside once more, Jane held the missive from her husband, written in Hill's shaky hand. She frowned at the crumbled parchment, knowing what ugly sentiments were contained within. She had long ago realized that her husband was not a kind or easy man, but this note seemed to validate every ill thought she had ever had of his character.

From the four-poster bed, came a feverish whimper, interrupting Jane's silent reverie. The black silken strands of William's hair hung limply on either side of sunken cheeks. His round, jovial face, so often pink-cheeked from time spent out-of-doors in the parsonage garden, seemed hollow and ashen. She reached for him, pushing the hair from his forehead and fluffing the pillow beneath his head. His skin was damp and enflamed. She reached for the basin next to the bedside, and dipped a fresh rag into the stagnant pool. There was little else she could do to aid him in the moment.

Jane had not sat by many sick beds. When her mother had birthed the long awaited Bennet heir, she and her sisters had been sent to Meryton in the care of Aunt and Uncle Phillips for the duration of the labor. The child had come far too early, and both the midwife and the doctor had warned Mrs. Bennet that her body was no longer strong enough to bring a babe into the world. Jane had only been summoned back to Longbourn when the babe had passed, and it had become apparent that Mrs. Bennet would soon follow. She was just fourteen, hardly out of the school room, and she had watched her mother die. Mrs. Bennet had been almost entirely senseless to Jane's presence, so consumed as she was by fever, yet seemed to settle into restfulness when Jane would hold her hand or wipe her brow with a cool, damp, cloth.

A child no longer, Jane felt the same overwhelming hopelessness at four-and-twenty that she had at fourteen. Mr. Jones had been providing every possible care he was fit to give, and thankfully Mr. Darcy's own valet had some experience in tending to the ill from service as a batman. William's broken ankle had been set, and eventually would mend, but to what end? If he recovered from his fever, it was still impossible to know how this injury would afflict him through life…and his fever, it seemed to burn through him with a righteous fury.
Jane's nature was prone to optimism, even idealism. However her inherent character had spent most of her young life largely at odds with the realities presented to her. She had grown increasingly pragmatic with age, maturity and the many disappointments and hardships of her life. That William would succumb to his fever was an increasingly likely possibility. Ever hour that passed with no break in the onslaught against his body only gave strength to the illness which held him. All the occupants of Netherfield were deeply worried.

And yet, William's own father…he remained unperturbed.

With William's murmurings subsided, Jane dropped the rag into the basin and sunk heavily into the chair at his bedside. She would not give way to despair when William still fought for his life, but her deep concern, her fears, they ate away at her. She was exhausted.

And his father? The only concerns he had for his son were his marriage prospects!

She lifted the parchment once more, slender hands smoothing it on her lap. The light of the sick room was dim, but Jane hardly needed to see the paper any more to recount Collins' horrid words. No inquiry into how his son and heir fared. No question as to his recovery at all! Only insinuations and accusations to her own honor, threats, and money-grabbing schemes! Just when she thought she had seen the extent of her husband's arrogance and avarice, he continued to surprise her!

That Collins was so sure of William's eventual recovery only showed the depth of his foolhardy arrogance. First Miss Bingley had written so strongly that it had brought Jane and Mary to Netherfield's door step, but then Mr. Jones had also sent his own ill tidings to Longbourn, explaining the severity of William's illness. How could a Christian man be so consumed by both jealousy and greed that the life of his only child was inconsequential?

Not for the first time, Jane wondered if her husband was capable of love in any form. She had seen his greed, his pride, his lust, and perhaps he thought of those feelings as love, but Jane knew better.

She sunk her head into her hands, watching the rise and fall of her stepson's chest though a bevy of thick, wet, eyelashes. There lay the only man in her life who had not hurt her, who had done as best he could to protect her. Needing occupation, she reached into the basin, swirling the rag between her finger tips. He was as much a victim of his circumstances as herself. Born the heir of Collins, his only child from two marriages, all the burden of expectations a cruel, avaricious man could have, had been placed on his shoulders. Jane had a pleasant childhood, before tragedy had ended her girlhood. William's life had been a constant nightmare, that turned a sweet, sensitive little boy into a weak, toadying, fearful man.

She lifted the sopping fabric, twisting it between her hands in an iron grip. She brushed it against him, along his brow and against his neck, across his cracked lips. The pleasant coolness seemed to soothe him, though he did not awaken from his laudanum induced slumber. She hated that there was nothing else to be done for him by her own hand! William had tried, through the years, to ease some of Jane's burden. He was too fearful of his father to stand up to his abuse in a proper manner, but his little gifts of balms for her bruises and drops of laudanum in his father's claret had provided her with some relief. Her husband was infinitely preferable in a deep slumber to any other attitude. Jane would always be grateful to William for those little subterfuges of their mutual enemy. She would not fail him now.

"And yet," Jane thought, with some feeling akin to resentment, "for William there has been an escape from abuse and a reward for his suffering."

It was a simple truth. When Collins died, William would inherit Longbourn. Jane received nothing from his death, having no dowry of her own to put into a jointure for her when she was married. She had no real fear of the hedgerows, the way that her mother had been consumed by the notion. She knew that William would not turn her out, he was too soft hearted for that. However it was a devastating fact that for all she had spent her life enduring, she would receive nothing. The entail of Longbourn was ironclad, and the rights of a woman, very few. She would receive no respite from the law in her husband's life or death.

For the duration of his father's life, William must work, for his father demanded it. In this instance, William had found a blessing in his father's greed. His desire for his son to be earning an income had meant that William had spent years away from Longbourn in schooling, and now had a position as a Clergyman with fifty miles separating them. If his patroness had not been so demanding and meddlesome, he might have never traveled to Longbourn again until it was time to claim it.

William must have known that Collins would not react well to his sons' return to the neighborhood, simply for the cost of feeding him, if nothing else. The youngest of the Bennet sisters remained at school year round due to that very reason. They had not seen Longbourne or the elder sisters in years, though they wrote with frequency. Yet come he did, for Lady Catherine had been insistent that a clergyman with a fine living a forthcoming inheritance must be in want of a wife. Where better to procure such a person than in the county where he was to inherit, especially as it had been some years since he had returned to his family's seat. She could not have bestowed her favor on a worse object or on a more ill advised idea. William had spent so much of his formative years supplicating to his father's will that he had never developed any ability to deny the wishes of anyone stronger or more powerful than himself. Lady Catherine, knowing her parson only as he presented himself in Kent, had no idea what sort of family she was sending him to.

"She may have sent him to his grave." Jane thought, with a rising fury. "Oh that he had never come at all!"

The turn of her bedside musings was such that she could no longer remain seated. Jane rose, pacing the length of the elegant sick room in an attempt to calm her nerves. She was typically a more placid creature, but the helplessness which assaulted her gave her a restless energy that could not be placated. She was frightened, she was heart broken, and as she moved to and fro across the plush carpet, she realized, she was angry.

The revelation struck Jane like a blow. Her head spun with the dizzying acknowledgement of her reflections. Tears filled her cornflower eyes for the second time that day, and her breathe came in short, panicked, gasps. The roaring fire of the sick room made her light headed and breathless. Her knees buckled under the weight of her slender frame. There amongst the blankets, lay the only man Jane could claim to love, familial though it was, and he lay dying due to the actions of others. When would God grant her any mercy? Had she not endured enough heart ache already?

Jane was too practical a woman to give way to swooning fits. Mrs. Bennet had been a nervous woman, always with smelling salts within reach. Jane had never before had the luxury of time to allow her emotions to engulf her. There was always too much to be done, too many to care for.

As her legs wavered beneath her and the room drifted into grey, she realized what was happening with no small surprise.

"I am going to faint." The words whispered themselves from her lips unbidden, and a comforting darkness descended upon her.

Jane could not be certain how much time had passed when she first opened her eyes, for she had given little heed to the hours that passed in William's sick room. When her eyes opened, she was presented with the shadows of fire flickering across the expanse of the ceiling. She must not have remained unconscious for a great deal of time, but the fall was enough for her body to feel stiff, and her head somewhat muddled. On the bed some feet away, William tossed in his sleep, murmuring plaintively.

Jane squeezed her eyes shut once more, willing all her life to have been a very bad sort of dream. Perhaps, when she awoke, she would be a girl again, with two parents at home and a galley of giggling girls about the house.

She squeezed with all her might, all her heart wishing that she could have a second chance at this life she had been given.

They opened again. The same scene presented itself to her, and she sighed heavily, and remained on the floor, staring at the shadow dance above without truly seeing it.

Time drifted by as Jane lay on the carpet, uncaring of the wrinkles to her dress or her untidy hair. William's fevered groans and the crackle of the fire were only marked by the ticking clock until, out loud Jane broke the spell, saying with feeling, "Why is it that I have spent my life trying so hard to be good, to receive nothing in return for my efforts?"

In her mind, a voice rather like Mary's reminded her of the lessons of the patience of Job.

"If my life has been a test, may I not fail at some point? I am so extraordinarily tired of being good. I am ready to let the Devil come for me."

Visions of her sisters' sweet faces floated past her mind's eye. Her heart clenched at the sight. There in those four faces was all the reason in the world for keeping her goodness, her sweetness, her strength. They needed her, even Elizabeth, who had been gone so long.

Slowly, she sat up, her fingers digging into the rich fabric that cushioned her, her resentment rising once more as she felt the fine material in her hands. Netherfield was a truly well appointed house. Mr. Bingley's father had dedicated his life to raise his children into this sphere. Her own father, born a gentleman, had left his five daughters penniless. He had fortunately married a woman with some little money to bequeath on his daughters, but beyond that, the Bennet girls were left with nothing. Bitterness rose in her breast.

And her uncles? What use had they been in protecting the Bennet orphans?

Good hearted as they may try to be, they had been utterly lax in their guardianship of the children who so desperately needed them. Through their own foolishness they had sold Jane away to a brute of a man, a callous, cold hearted, monster. Like a prized piece of cattle, she had been auctioned off to the highest bidder, and expected to be meekly obedient and thankful as she was herded off to her slaughter. Collins was older than her own father, but had enough of a young man's lust to hunger for Jane's body. He had decided her would have her, and the men who could have protected her from a life of abject misery, instead trapped her in it through their own laziness and stupidity. They should have risked the breach of contract, and ended her engagement when they realized what Collins had done. Instead, they had married off a sixteen year old girl to a man who was eight-and-forty. It had been convenient at the time. A clean, respectable end to all their troubles.

It had only been the beginning of Jane's. Did good tempered girls like Jane deserve such a fate? Did any woman, whether rotten and willful, or sweet and docile?

A sharp, masculine knock on the door, roused Jane from the dark spiral of her thoughts.

"Yes?" She called, her voice wavering with the suppression of her ire.

"Mrs. Collins," came the gentle reply, "May I enter? The doctor has just arrived on the drive. Darcy is seeing to him now."

Jane rose, her cheeks flushing with shame. God certainly worked in mysterious ways, especially in Jane's own life. She had been cursing her fate, berating the lord for the lot he had given her, and lo and behold God's gift to her had been as near as Meryton.

"Oh yes, Mr. Bingley, please."

The door was opened with alacrity. Bingley stood in the doorway, the well lit hall flooding into the room and giving his feathery caramel hair the golden glow of an angel. Was it shame that flushed her cheeks now?

They were alone. He stepped into the room, leaving the door opened wide for the vestiges of propriety. Jane's heart thundered in her chest. The fireplace crackled. She brushed at her wrinkled skirts, suddenly shy. They stood facing one another, both at a loss of what to say.

"You missed tea."

"Did I? I hadn't noticed the passing time. I may have drifted asleep for a moment or two."

"Caroline wanted to ring for you, but I thought it best you remained undisturbed, just in case of that very scenario. I know you have hardly rested, sitting vigil with Reverend Collins."

"That is very thoughtful of you, sir."

"I did not mean to presumptuous. I only —- that is, we were both awake very early."

"Indeed we were, sir. Believe me, I only have ever assigned the best of motives to any action of yours. You were right not to fetch me. I would have felt some obligation to my hosts to attend them, and in truth, I have not been in a very sociable mood. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Collins."

Jane had heard the name, her name, spoken to her hundreds of times in a day. Only from Mr. Bingley's lips did it make her flinch. Perhaps away from Netherfield, away from death and disease and temptation, she would find it tolerable once more. Embarrassment at her earlier request for intimacy flooded her. Of course Mr. Bingley would not call her by her Christian name! The man barely knew her. Foolish, fanciful girl!

"I must look a fright. Please, excuse me Mr. Bingley." She murmured in reply, curtsying stiffly.

He bowed, and turned slightly, allowing her to pass. She walked by, lip trembling slightly, but head held high. As she turned away from him to walk down the hall to her own chambers, she heard a murmur on his lips.

Her steps faltered, and deep blue eyes gave him a searching glance. "I apologize, did you speak, Mr. Bingley?"

He was crimson from his hair line to his cravat. His eyes wide as a saucer. "What!?" He asked, feigning ignorance. Jane watched his expressive face as a series of thoughts seemed to play across it. Suddenly he straightened his back where he stood, his voice taking on a deeper tone. "I uh, pardon me. Yes. I did. I only asked that you would take your leave to call me Charles when we are alone as we are now. I did not have the opportunity to extend to you the same curtesy that you offered me this morning. I did not want you walk away without doing so."

Jane smiled then, a watery, soulful smile that came from the very depths of her good natured heart. She smiled with the power of every smile that had been denied to her through her years of heartbreak and drudgery. She smiled with the joy of God in her heart, she smiled with the serenity of peace.

"It would be my honor, Charles." She said wistfully.

And with those words, Jane Collins strode down the hall to freshen her toilette. The doctor was here. The rain would soon end. And Charles Bingley was her friend.

vVvVvVvVvVv

Elizabeth Bennet, more commonly known in London by her stage name, Adelaide Bernard, was becoming increasingly frustrated by the gathering of gentlemen that sat before her in what had become her very own drawing room only a few days prior. That she was even receiving these callers while dressed in black already went against every notion of propriety that she had been brought up with, but she could hardly be pressed to put off these men of business any further. What had been proposed by them was perhaps some of the most incredulous nonsense she had ever heard uttered by supposedly sensible men.

"My dear Mr. Thompson, surely you and your esteemed colleagues can not be serious about this matter?" She said, her speaking eyes flashing with irritation even as she smiled prettily to the group.

Of the group assembled, Harold Thompson was the only one who knew Adelaide with any real sort of intimacy. Some fifteen years her senior, he had been a great friend to Signore Forelli for most of his adult life, and it was through that mutual connection the pair had been introduced. It was Thompson who had realized that Adelaide had a greater talent to share with the world than sitting for paintings, he who had introduced her to the stage and begged Forelli to allow her the opportunity to make her own choices about her future. He had been half in love with her since they had met. While she was a striking figure, it was her passionate nature that had so drawn him in. She was a rare woman, and Thompson had seen the potential in her and what she could give to the world at large.

Whatever irritation Adelaide was experienced was mirrored in the countenance of her friend. "It is not our intention to be dismissive of your grief, Miss Bernard." Thompson replied gingerly, "You know I loved the old man nearly as well as yourself! But there is much at stake. Think of your countless hours already spent in rehearsal, of the sets already built, of the other actors who are relying on your name to generate much needed ticket sales. Think of the investments made by your friends, the Matlocks."

"Such a practiced and pretty speech, Mr. Thompson. I wonder with your affinity for theatre that you did not strive to grant it more credibility. You speak of the others affected by my decision to enter into mourning, all the while ignoring the one most injured by my choice - your own pocket book!"

"Adelaide!" The older man spat, truly shocked, "It wounds me to hear you speak so!"

The men before her exchanged uncomfortable glances, unsure of how to continue to appeal to her. Discussing finances with a lady was so rarely done, and they had been aghast to learn that she had no agent in her employ to speak on her behalf. To be accused of base motives so openly and abruptly was almost more than they could bare. That these accusations were entirely correct did not effect them. The men were entirely out of their depth.

The actress surveyed her audience and knew her fiery performance was winning none of them to her side. Oh to be a man! To speak freely of unpleasant truths with firm direction! There was nothing she desired more in that moment than to tell lot of them to be gone from her presence, but instead she would have to simper, and smirk, and make love to them all. Then perhaps they would finally come to the recognition of what uncouth louts they were in requesting her to set aside a mourning period in favor of continuing with her scheduled performances in the new year. The words of a woman only carried weight with men such as these when they were presented through the vessel of feminine emotion.

Any leading-lady must know how to deploy her femininity as a weapon when engaging in battle with stubborn men. Welling her famed eyes with the tears her audience so longed for, she looked over the assembled group behind the armor of thick, damp lashes. Her pleasant, lilting voice trembled with repressed emotion, if the audience thought it to be grief rather than exasperation, it was their own fault for not giving her sound and logical arguments the credit they deserved. If they wished to be beguiled by her charms rather than convinced by her sense, that was their prerogative. "Forgive me," she said, with a very pretty softness, "I am so very overwhelmed by the many changes that have come about so rapidly. My dear Padre always handled matters of finance on my behalf. We all knew he was aging and tired, but I would have never presumed him to be so close to death. I do not know how to proceed."

Hot tears slid down her pretty cheeks. Handkerchiefs were being pressed toward her with rapidity. The gentleman shifted uncomfortably, but in the manner of discomfort they were familiar with. They expected silly little girls to be lost and to cry. They did not expect to be confronted by young women about their own greed and lack of sensitivity.

For her own part, Adelaide was pleased with the speech. It only contained one lie. She knew exactly how to proceed, for both the sake of propriety and her own broken heart. It was time to mourn the darling man she had lost, and to mourn him heartily. She had loved him, and he was gone. There was nothing more natural in all the world than to mourn.

As they clamored around her, talking over one another and her tears, the Butler appeared in the door way.

"Lady Matlock, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, madam."

The group rose to receive the distinguished guests. Lady Matlock dipped her head to them, and crossed the room hurriedly, hands out stretched to her favorite pet.

"I have only just returned to Town, Miss Bernard, and I was so hoping that I would not find you entirely shut out to guests just yet. I am so terribly sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, your Ladyship." came the actress' gentle reply as she dipped into her most reverent curtesy.

"It is a loss for all of England, indeed for the civilized world, to have lost so great a talent, and sometimes it is easy when a great man dies to forget that he was, first and foremost, a man. You must be hurting terribly, child."

The well meaning words struck Adelaide to the core where Elizabeth lay. The tears that followed did not have to be produced, but arrived quite organically. "Indeed I am, your Ladyship. My sorrow is boundless."

In the presence of such tears, the assembled group of Covent Garden businessmen felt their discomfort shifting to something too closely resembling shame. If Lady Matlock did not seemed concerned about her investment in the upcoming production, perhaps all was not as lost as they had feared, and they were over reacting. And yet, they could not move forward in uncertainty.

Mr. Thompson interjected himself into the tete-a-tete with his practiced charms. "It truly is a great loss, your Ladyship. We meet here today to not only mourn the loss of this great man, but to strategize as to how Miss Bernard can continue his legacy. He was, after all, devoted to the arts."

The great lady looked over the group occupying the drawing room as if she was noticing them for the very first time. As she assessed them it began to occur to her that only members of the theatre were represented. "I am sure Miss Bernard will have ample time in her mourning period to best decide how she wishes Signore Forelli to be memorialized. It is her right as his heir."

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward with a deep bow, a simple floral arrangement in hand. "Miss Bernard, I beg you will forgive my intrusion into your home during this difficult time. I have used my mother being included amongst those admitted to my own advantage. Seeing you now, so bereft, it occurs to me how selfish it is of me to press my acquaintance on you so newly in your grief." Here he paused with a side long glance at Thompson.

With a watery smile she addressed him. "There is no need to apologize Colonel. We are old friends, are we not? I have only been thinking of attempting to protect my reputation in restricting who may call, now that I am alone in the world. There can be nothing improper in you conveying your respects in the company of your honorable mother."

With kind eyes, he answered saying, "You are graciousness itself, Miss Bernard. Please accept this posey as token of my friendship during this trying time. I will see myself out and await Lady Matlock in the carriage."

He crossed the threshold of the space, and in doing so stood in such a way as to block half the room from seeing her figure. He pressed the delicate bouquet into her hand, and with a soft wink, allowed a carefully folded piece of parchment to slide from his hand and into center of the arrangement. A consummate actress, Adelaide did not allow her face to give her surprise away to the group at large, though her brow raised slightly in question as she curtsied to him. He bowed and left them all. Arranged comfortably by Lady Matlock and with a face freshly wet with tears, the hard hearted men would have to pause in their attack.

Soon enough the proper time for a social call had passed, and with pointed looks from the Countess, the entire group departed. Elizabeth was glad for it. Lady Matlock was very kind, but once her son had placed his note in her hand, she had no thoughts for any other matter.

Letting the staff know that she was not at-home for any other callers, she raced to her bedroom, and tore her missive open to read words that would astonish her.

Author's Notes: Would you believe me that when I started this story I thought it was going to be largely Lizzy/Darcy focused? It's turning out that Jane really has quite the story to tell.