“And that upset you?” Hearing his question, Jane gazed back at Mr. Bingley. He did not react to her statement as she had thought he would. She had thought he would think her ridiculous, but it was apparent that was not the case.
Reassured by his response, Jane only hesitated briefly before saying, “I must admit that it is something I have heard more than I would like and often from men who care for little else than my physical appearance.”
He had known that something he said had set her off, but to hear that it was calling her beautiful hurt. Not that he was insulted. No, he ached because he knew how much she was hurting from the shallowness she encountered. It was a cruel world they lived in that something that should have been a lovely compliment could be misused and thus become painful.
Bingley believed her father had inflicted the initial wound, using her beauty as a weapon to hurt her, cutting her confidence like a knife. He would simply have to prove himself. Waiting until her gaze locked onto his, he said, “I could tell you that I appreciate all that you are, but that would only be words, and you deserve more than pretty words. Would you give me the chance to continue to prove myself to you?”
“I think I would like that.” Jane faltered, biting her lip a moment before saying, “I am sorry that it is so hard for me to trust.”
At least she did not say it was hard for her to trust him specifically, only in general. Bingley thought he could work with that. Shaking his head, he said, “You are only granting me my wish to pamper you, as you have always deserved to be pampered.” As he spoke those daring words, Bingley could feel his cheeks grow warm. He longed to pamper Jane, but the words slipped out unintentionally at that moment, without him even realizing it. Clearing his throat, he moved past his slight embarrassment and added, “Though I must apologize now if I slip and call you beautiful. As much as you hate to hear it, I am not blind. Is there a word you might prefer I use instead? Pretty and glorious don't appeal to me much. What do you think of passable, or possibly tolerable?”
Jane’s eyes lit up like he had hoped they would. He would much rather see her happy than subdued. It was a loss when she took her hand back and took a sip of her coffee, but he was willing to let her go if it meant he could see that look in her eyes. Her blue gaze held joy and a glimmer of something else. It was a look that gave him hope. Then, to top that off, she offered him a genuine smile. “Are you trying to take a page from William’s book? He called Lizzie tolerable, if I do recall.”
Leaning back into his chair, Bingley pretended to have trouble thinking back to the previous autumn. Tapping his finger on his chin, he finally sat up and said, “I recall him saying he could not tolerate dancing. You know how he is around crowds.”
With a narrowing of her eyes, Jane seemed apt to play along, her smile morphing into a grin. “Yes, but the gossip was that he called her tolerable and not handsome enough to dance with,” she countered.
Stopping to take a gulp of his coffee, he bought himself some time before he said, “Whatever he said, it worked. They are happily married and deeply in love. Why not copy an obvious example of success?” Bingley delighted in the soft blush that crept across Jane’s cheeks as she took in his implication.
Bingley did not want tête-à-tête to end, but he knew it would. He could hear Lydia and Georgianna laughing as they came down the stairs. He could tell the moment that Jane realized their moment alone was nearly at an end. Raising her cup to her lips, she whispered, “I have always been fond of the effort of working towards success.”
Chapter Seven
It had taken some time for Jane to become accustomed to driving the dogcart, but now she enjoyed it. Pemberley was so much larger than Longbourn had been that it was impossible to check on the tenants on foot. At first, she had tried riding to the various homes on one of the mares that Darcy kept, but she soon found that she could not carry what she needed to with her.
Thus, she had started using the dogcart. It was easier to transport food and supplies that way. At the moment, though, she had nothing left to dispense. Everyone she had seen today had sick members of their family. There was definitely something going around, and she had quickly run out of the medicine she had brought.
On a normal day, Jane would decide who to visit, maybe two or three families, and then return to Pemberley. This was not a normal day. She was concerned about finding so many people sick. The Russell family was the last on her list, and what she found made her glad that she had come. Mrs. Russell had been run off her feet, exhausted, caring for all her ill family. Her husband, oldest son, and daughter were confined to bed with how unwell they were. Her two little ones had been trying to help, but at five and three, there was not much they could do. Mary Russell had been afraid to leave them to go to Lambton for supplies, so Jane had sent the footman who went with her to the homes back to Pemberley for medicine and provisions.
When Mrs. Russell mentioned that she was concerned for the McGregor family, Jane knew that she would have to check on them before she returned to Pemberley. Apparently, they had become ill before the Russells, and though they were normally out and about, no one had seen or heard from them. So here she was, making her way to the McGregor farm. She had met them before and had found them to be quite nice.
The trail was pleasant, providing easy transport and lovely views, but Jane’s mind was not on the scenery. Her mind kept wandering back to Mr. Bingley. It had been two weeks since that conversation with Mr. Bingley over breakfast, and it still hovered in the forefront of her mind. It was as if that one conversation had opened a door between them to allow for their relationship to develop more fully. She had slowly come to understand that he was the kind of man that she had been hoping for.
He had more than proven himself equal to her list of requirements and had shown on several occasions capable of seeing her through the mask she wore. Mr. Bingley had completely surprised her by knowing how much pain she had been in that first night. None of the other dandies who had been interested in her would have seen it. They could not even tell when she was unhappy with their actions, and yet Charles had seen her pain.
They had spent much time together in recent weeks, and now she found herself missing him when his responsibilities called him away, or he was helping William with some matter or another. He had been willing to assist her with the herb garden, getting dirty, planting seedlings and, to all appearances, he enjoyed it. Her father never would have done something with her mother just to be in her presence.
More than that, he had been respectful of her decisions. She knew that he loved her, and despite his feelings that were so obvious to her and basically everyone, he never pushed her to return his affection. He was allowing her the time to come to know her own feelings and build her courage, something Jane decided she was going to need in abundance. Though she was finally coming to terms with the fact that Mr. Bingley was the man of her dreams, it had not lessened her fear of voluntarily putting herself under a man’s power.
To be fair, Mr. Bingley was not just any man—he was her ideal man. He had proven himself to her, and now it was her turn. She would have to find a way to show him that she was receptive to his feelings, that she was willing to marry him. Jane was not the kind of girl who could easily break convention. She would not ask him to marry her. Was there a way to encourage him to ask her?
Shaking her head, Jane admitted that her confusion was all her own fault. She had been hesitant for so long that she was unsure of how to move forward. Setting her shoulders, Jane decided it was a problem for another time. She had a family to see to. She would simply have to fret later. Turning down the lane that would take her directly to the McGregor home, she welcomed the more pleasant thoughts as she considered how they were such a lovely family.
They were a family of six—Mr. and Mrs. McGregor and their three small children, as well as Mr. McGregor’s widowed mother. Jane only hoped that they were not as badly off as the Russell family. They had always been so kind and grateful when she had visited. Though they were always careful to say they had been well taken care of by Mr. Darcy in the past, the personal touch of Mrs. Darcy and her sisters coming to visit had a blessing for them.
Hopping down from her conveyance, Jane looked around the yard with concern. Things were visibly not being taken care of. The water trough was empty, and a chicken was pecking at it in frustration. It was customary for Jane to be warmly welcomed upon her arrival, but this time, things took a different turn. Feeling an uneasy terror settle into her stomach, Jane called out, “Mercy? Mr. McGregor?”
Nothing. Listening carefully, Jane tried to work up the courage to go into the house, knowing deep inside that something was horribly wrong. That was when she heard the plaintive crying, and her feet moved towards the sound.
It was worse than she could have possibly imagined.
The little kitchen area was empty of people but full of dirty clutter, and the smell of decay hung in the air. The stove had long ago gone cold, and there were a number of dirty pots in the small work area with congealed and moldy remains of food. Flies buzzed dully on the edge of her awareness as she continued further into the house, searching for the weak cry. There were two bedrooms beyond the empty sitting area, and coming to the first one, she opened the door.
There in the bed, unmoving, lay old Mrs. McGregor. Curled on her side facing the door with her arm outstretched, Jane could tell she was not breathing, but she had to be sure. Creeping towards her still form, Jane forced herself to inspect the woman. With a shaking hand, she managed to feel the woman’s wrist. Finding her cold and stiff, Jane knew she was beyond help and had passed some time ago.
Unable to react as she would wish, Jane turned and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. She knew she had heard crying, so there was someone she could help, even if she was too late to help old Mrs. McGregor. Walking down the short hall and into the other room, Jane somehow found the courage to push open the door that had stood ajar.
This room was bigger, with a large bed in the corner and a small pallet near the door. It was on the pallet that she found the source of the crying. The McGregors had three children: a six-month-old baby girl, a three-year-old boy, and a seven-year-old girl. The older two children were huddled together on the pallet, their eyes wide at her presence. Kneeling down, Jane checked them over. Both seemed unwell, with a disheveled and pallid appearance.
She struggled for a moment, trying to remember their names before saying, “Hello, Grace and Allen. Do you remember me? My name is Jane, and I have come to check on you. How are you feeling?” Grace patted her little brother on the shoulder in a reassuring fashion that cast Jane’s mind back to her own childhood when she and Elizabeth would try their best, even as children, to protect their younger siblings.
“I have been trying to care for ‘im, miss. But thers no more bread, an’ I ain’t strong enough to draw more water.” Tears welled up in Grace’s worried brown eyes before trailing tracks down her grimy cheeks.
Allen did not speak, but only stared. It seemed that he was either too sick to speak or too overwhelmed. Jane felt it was probably the latter. Glancing to the bed where Allen had trained his gaze, her eyes widened before she forced herself to turn back and smile at them both. Reaching out, she ruffled Allen’s hair before speaking to Grace. “You have done a remarkable job thus far do you mind if I try to help?”
“Please.” Grace bit her lip before glancing at the bed and back at Jane.
“Why don’t I check on your parents?” Bolstering her courage, Jane stood and walked over to the bed.
The sight that greeted her struck her like a blow. In the bed lay the three remaining McGregors. It was obvious to her, even without checking, that Mr. McGregor was dead. Several flies were flying around his boated and discolored face. He might have passed before even his mother and was most likely the source of the horrid smell the permeated the room. Forcing herself to move closer, Jane was startled to realize that Mrs. Mercy McGregor was still breathing, albeit in a shallow, raspy way. The sound of her labored breaths was more akin to a gurgled rattle than healthy breathing. Tapping her lightly, she tried to get her to respond. Calling her name did nothing, nor did shaking her. Jane wondered idly how long she had been lying in her bed next to her dead husband.
Swallowing hard, Jane leaned over and unwrapped the small bundle in Mercy’s arms to check on baby Patience. It only took a glance before Jane covered the poor thing back up. Looking back at the two frightened children, Jane was all at once overcome by the enormity of the situation. Offering a warm smile, Jane said, “I am just going to go outside and draw some water. Wait right here. I will be back soon.”
Dashing from the room and the house, Jane barely made it across the yard before she started vomiting.
