Chapter 15 - Stillness and Strain
Sunday, 17th November 1811
Longbourn - Breakfast Room
The Bennet breakfast table was, as ever, a noisy affair. Kitty was asking whether one might hem a gown to suit a ball one hadn't yet been invited to, Lydia was suggesting loudly that she could fit two dances into the time it took Mary to finish a sermon, and Mary was reading aloud anyway.
It was Mrs Bennet who silenced them, quite unintentionally, by tearing open a letter and gasping.
"A letter from Jane!" she declared, and then, before anyone could respond, began reading with an expression that moved from pleasure to alarm with remarkable speed. "Well! I never—Mr Jones says Lizzy may travel on Monday! They want the carriage!"
"How very reasonable," Mr Bennet murmured.
"Reasonable?" Mrs Bennet repeated. "When Lizzy cannot even walk properly? Mr Jones said her ankle will not be right for weeks yet. They cannot possibly be moved—what if the journey makes it worse?"
Mary offered, "But the letter says—"
"Never mind what the letter says," Mrs Bennet cut in. "They must not risk it. And if Mr Bingley wishes them to stay, well! It would be the height of ingratitude to refuse such kindness. I shall write back at once."
Mr Bennet gave a small, contented sigh. "Speaking of family obligations," he said mildly, "I ought to mention—we are to have a visitor tomorrow."
Mrs Bennet blinked. "A visitor?"
"Yes. I've known of it for some days, but I thought I should wait until you had sufficient energy to receive the news."
Mrs Bennet, suddenly alert, leaned forward. "Who is it?"
"Our cousin. Mr Collins."
The name fell with all the weight of the entail itself.
"Mr Collins?" Mrs Bennet gasped. "The one who—oh! But he is to inherit—! What does he want?"
"He wants, it seems, to promote harmony," Mr Bennet said. "And having been recently ordained, and installed in a living most graciously provided by Lady Catherine de Bourgh, he has decided it would be commendable to visit the family he is soon to dispossess."
Kitty and Lydia looked baffled. Mary frowned, clearly attempting to recall whether she had heard of Lady Catherine in her studies.
"And he wrote to you?" asked Mrs Bennet.
"He did. Quite at length. It was… illuminating."
"Well," said Mrs Bennet, rallying with alarming speed, "then he must be coming to make amends. And quite right too! I daresay he feels remorse for his position and means to—well—offer something in return." She clasped her hands. "Perhaps he intends to choose a wife from among our girls!"
"I would not be surprised," Mr Bennet said, buttering his toast with great care. "He has that sort of confidence."
"Tomorrow, did you say?"
"By four o'clock, if the roads are passable. He expects to remain for a se'ennight."
"Then we must be ready." Mrs Bennet turned to the girls with new purpose. "We must see to the linens. Kitty, fetch Hill. Mary, tell Cook there will be a guest. Lydia, stop talking about officers and go find the good napkins."
"And the letter to Jane?" Mr Bennet inquired, as the room shifted into movement.
Mrs Bennet waved him off. "I shall tell her the carriage is entirely unavailable. They must stay at Netherfield a little longer—it is for the best. With Jane there, and Lizzy recovering, everything may be settled."
Mr Bennet said nothing. But there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was looking forward to Mr Collins's visit far more than he ought.
ooOoo
Netherfield Park – Elizabeth's Sickroom - Jane
Jane's steps were quiet on the upper landing, but her heart felt less so. The letter from Longbourn, still tucked in her hand, had been brief—but not unexpected.
She knocked gently and stepped inside. Lizzy looked up from her book with mild curiosity.
"A letter from Mama," Jane said, closing the door softly behind her.
Lizzy's eyes narrowed just slightly. "And?"
Jane offered a rueful smile. "The carriage cannot be spared."
There was a pause.
"Of course it cannot," Lizzy said, too evenly. "And I suppose we are meant to take that as a sign of our own comfort and leisure."
"She says it is needed tomorrow," Jane added gently. "And that if Mr Bingley and his sister continue to enjoy our company, she can very well spare us for a few more days."
Lizzy let out a soft, breathless sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "How generous of her."
Jane approached the bed, perching on the edge of the chair beside it. "What shall we do?"
"I cannot walk," Lizzy said, glancing down at her propped-up ankle. "And I have no wish to be carried out like some recalcitrant luggage. I suppose we wait."
"We could ask Mr Bingley for his carriage," Jane said, hesitant. "But I… I do not like to impose again."
"I don't either," Lizzy said, then sighed. "But I like the feeling of being imposed upon even less."
She leaned back against the pillows, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. "This house has been very kind. But it is not mine. And I do not like feeling… kept."
Jane was quiet for a moment, watching her.
"I shall write to Mama again," she said softly. "Perhaps she can manage the carriage on Tuesday. Or we might speak to Mr Bingley, just once more."
Lizzy closed her eyes. "Thank you."
A beat of silence passed before she added, "Was there any other news?"
Jane smiled faintly. "Only that Kitty and Lydia are desperate to hear gossip about officers, and Mary believes you've suffered just punishment for vanity."
Lizzy opened one eye. "Then all is well at Longbourn."
ooOoo
Netherfield Park – Elizabeth's Sickroom – Elizabeth
After Jane left, the hush returned—not oppressive, exactly, but too complete. Elizabeth sat by the window now, wrapped in a shawl, her feet resting on a low stool, her ankle propped on a cushion. Sarah had helped her into the chair earlier, and the effort had left her tired but quietly proud.
It was her first time seeing the room from this vantage.
From the bed, everything had seemed distant: the desk, the books, the world beyond the window. But now, seated upright and still, Elizabeth could take in the whole space—and notice what she had been too feverish, too tired, or too grateful to see before.
It was his room.
The desk was neat, but not impersonally so—papers stacked with care, the inkstand uncapped, as if recently used. A pair of gloves rested on a nearby table. The armchair across the hearth bore the slight impression of regular use. The titles on the bookshelf were varied and carefully chosen, the sort of library that had grown with its owner, not been assembled for show.
She felt like an intruder again.
The letter in her lap—her mother's brisk hand declaring that the carriage was not to be spared—might as well have been stamped You must remain.
But it wasn't only the delay that unsettled her.
It was the thought of the carriage itself.
Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the letter. It had been just under a week since the accident. She had not left this room since—had not even crossed the threshold without assistance. And though she had spoken lightly of returning home, she had carefully avoided thinking how she would get there.
The thought of the chaise—of any carriage—made her breath catch.
The lurch. The sudden slide of wheels in the mud. The scream of the horses. The helpless tilt of the world around her, as wood and leather closed in like a trap.
She had told no one—not even Jane—that the thought of returning to a carriage made her stomach twist. That her waking hours were shadowed not by pain, but by the memory of being trapped—unable to move, unable to escape, the world tilting wildly beyond her control.
Of being helpless.
And now, with her ankle still tender, her body dependent, and her choices narrowed by someone else's decision—she did not know whether she longed more to leave… or to stay.
She turned toward the window, trying to focus on the softened lines of trees, the distant blur of orange leaves. Somewhere below, a door opened and shut. The house stirred again, moving gently without her.
This room had been a kindness. A haven.
But it had never been hers. And she was no longer sure where home would feel like safety again.
ooOoo
Netherfield Park – Road to Meryton - Jane
The air was crisp but gentle, the late-morning sun casting long shadows on the path ahead. Church had passed in peaceful quiet, and Jane, though a little tired from the effort, was glad for the fresh air. The walk back from the village was not far, and she'd assured them all she was perfectly able.
Still, Mr Bingley had offered his arm the moment they stepped outside—and when she hesitated for only half a breath, he added softly, "If only for my peace of mind, Miss Bennet."
So she had taken it.
Now they walked in a quiet rhythm, her gloved hand resting lightly against his sleeve, the cool breeze tugging faintly at the hem of her pelisse. Caroline was just ahead with Mr Darcy, and Mrs Hurst had returned by carriage, claiming the walk would only aggravate her nerves.
"You are quite certain you feel well?" Mr Bingley asked, looking down at her with concern.
"I promise I do," Jane said. "A little tired, perhaps, but nothing serious."
"Then I am glad. And your sister?"
"She improves daily. I believe she'll be ready to return home soon."
"I'm very pleased to hear it," he said. "Though of course I shall be sorry to lose your company—and I do hope Miss Elizabeth continues to improve."
Jane looked away, a soft flush rising in her cheeks. "You are too kind."
He smiled. "Not kind at all, I'm afraid. Only honest."
They walked a little farther in companionable silence. A small flock of birds scattered from the hedge as they passed, and the path curved slightly uphill, just enough to make Jane shift her weight more firmly against his arm.
"I did write to Mama this morning," she said after a pause. "To ask if she might send the carriage for us tomorrow, if it can be spared."
"Ah," he said, and glanced at her. "But if it cannot, Miss Bennet, I hope you know my carriage is at your disposal. Without hesitation."
Jane hesitated. "You have already done so much."
He stopped just short of frowning. "But not enough to see you both safely home? That would trouble me, I confess."
His sincerity was so quiet, so unadorned, that she couldn't help smiling. "Then thank you. Truly."
Caroline turned just then, her voice bright and just a little too loud. "Do you not find it brisk, Jane? I expect I'll catch a chill and be forced to spend the evening beneath shawls."
"I rather enjoy the air," Jane replied, still smiling.
"Of course you do," Caroline said with a note of good-natured exasperation. "You are forever strong and serene. I should melt into a heap if I had spent a week in a sickroom—but you always make it seem effortless."
"Miss Bennet has more strength than most of us," said Mr Bingley warmly.
Jane said nothing, only looked up at the thinning clouds and the sun just beginning to press through.
ooOoo
Netherfield Park – Grounds – Darcy
The moment the ladies retired to their rooms and Bingley disappeared into his study, Darcy slipped outside. No announcement. No companion. No explanation.
The air was cold and clean, and that, at least, did not ask anything of him.
He walked without direction at first—past the stable yard, along the edge of the low meadow where the land dipped gently toward the hedgerow. The grass was still damp underfoot, the sky the colour of cold pewter. Somewhere behind him, he imagined Caroline remarking upon the strain of walking in damp weather and insisting on shawls indoors.
He let the thought fade.
The service had been ordinary, the company as expected. Jane Bennet's quiet loveliness had kept Bingley in a state of barely restrained brightness, and Darcy had watched them with a mix of relief and discomfort. It seemed so simple, for some.
Caroline had attached herself to his arm the entire walk back. Her conversation had been prenticed and polished, each word chosen to reinforce their supposed intimacy. He had not encouraged it. But nor had he shaken her off. It would have caused talk.
Now, finally alone, he let the stillness settle.
He did not think of Elizabeth.
Except he did.
The memory of her voice—her calm strength, her dry wit—felt at odds with the still, fire-warmed room she'd been cloistered in for days. He had asked after her that morning. Quietly. Briefly. He had seen to the rose salve again. And then he had turned away, as he always did, when something began to press too closely.
But the truth was this: he wanted to see her again.
Not as she was in the rain, injured and shivering. Not even as she'd been in sleep, caught in the nightmare that made her cry out.
He wanted to speak with her. To look her in the eye and see… what, exactly?
He did not know. Only that the house felt different in her absence. And the stillness of the fields now felt preferable to the drawing room without her in it.
ooOoo
Netherfield Park – Drawing Room – Elizabeth
The house was quiet, hushed with the usual shuffle and murmurs that marked the hour before dinner. Upstairs, the others had gone to change. Somewhere, doors were closing softly, water being poured, voices low behind polished wood.
Elizabeth remained seated in her armchair near the window, her shawl gathered around her shoulders. Less than five days had passed since the accident, but the stretch of time felt curiously elastic—too brief to be well, and yet long enough that the walls of the sickroom had begun to press.
She turned her gaze toward Jane. "I should like to go down, if I may."
Jane's brows rose, concerned. "Are you sure, Lizzy? You're still pale."
"I won't stay long," Elizabeth replied. "Just a little while. I should like to see something beyond the bedposts."
Martha was summoned—not Sarah, whose tongue was too often loose in the wrong corners of the house. Martha was brisk, capable, and quiet. With the help of two footmen, she oversaw the descent with practised hands. Elizabeth said little as they moved, her ankle carefully cradled, the steps negotiated one by one.
When they reached the drawing room, it was warm with firelight, the tea things set and untouched. Martha arranged the pillows, folded a soft blanket across her lap, and adjusted the small footstool with the same precision she might offer a duchess. Then, with a quiet bob of a curtsy, she vanished.
Elizabeth remained, still and thoughtful.
She had not been in this room since the day after her arrival. It felt strange to be here again—not as a guest among many, but as one who had been absent long enough for her presence to feel… notable.
Her day dress was borrowed from Jane, simple and soft, but even that had felt like armour. She was not entirely herself yet. Not entirely certain she wanted to be seen.
The fire crackled steadily. Outside, the light was beginning to fade, and the corners of the room seemed gentler for it.
She folded her hands in her lap and watched the flames, listening to the distant hum of the household just beyond the doors.
She was here.
She could leave again, if needed.
But for now—she had come back to the world.
Note - So yes the title has changed, originally it Six Inches Deep in Mud and then I discovered another book called Six Inches Deep in Love also a Pride & Prejudice Variation. Which means I need to change the name of this story. Then I was going to go for Six Inches Deep in Mud, but I cant do that as the title here, or AHA or Amazon etc, then I thought it would work to drop the Mud and just got with Six Inches Deep in Love, then someone suggested that might be taken as a wink for a spicy book. Which this isn't (not while my mother is live and reading the books I write) so I added A Closed-Door Pride & Prejudice Variation - which you will see in the cover. But that doesn't seem to be enough.
So I have been thinking about giving it a completely different name:
1. Such an Exhibition
From that same conversation about Elizabeth walking to Netherfield.
2. Brightened by the Exercise
My concern here is this also might be taken to be a nod to a spicy book
3. Fine Eyes and Muddy Petticoats
Might be a little long
4. More Than Tolerable
Not really feeling this one.
5. Six Inches Deep in Love
6. Six Inches Deep in Mud
Totally not confusing having 2 books in the same catagory with the same name
7. Something else
Please let me know your thoughts?