Page 1 of Symptoms of Peculiar Regard

CHAPTER ONE

November 1812, Netherfield Park

Jane Bennet’s hands were tingling. This was not an unusual occurrence; the sensation was familiar, and not unpleasant, but today it was particularly strong. She closed her eyes briefly, hoping that Mr Bingley and his guests would set any change in her complexion down to the lingering effects of her illness.

Except for Lizzy, of course. She will know the truth of it.

Elizabeth, Jane’s nearest sister in age and dearest in attachment, was the only person who knew her secret. Though many people might claim to be able to see the signs of a couple falling in love, for Jane it was the literal truth. As admiration grew in someone’s heart, she was able to see the proof of it in plant stems coloured a dull pewter that appeared to sprout from them and grow towards the object of their affection. She had first discovered the ability when she came out at age fifteen and was thrust unceremoniously into a wider social sphere. At her first assembly, a peculiar tingling had developed in her hands and, immediately after, the assembly hall had seemed to burst into bloom. With time, she had come to realise that she could use hergift at will, but particularly strong emotion was always accompanied by the sensation in her hands. It ought to unnerve her; indeed, when she had first attempted to describe what she could see to her sister, Elizabeth had been doubtful of what seemed to her an uncanny image. Difficult as she found it to describe, however, Jane was adamant: what she could see was love, and it was beautiful. It was always romantic love, or at least that was what she preferred to believe. She could not see the bonds she shared with her sisters, or those between close friends, but tenderness, admiration—any bond that might bring two people together in marriage or romantic affection—was as clear to her as the clothes they wore. The signs would appear in the form of plants that expressed something either about the person or about the nature of their feelings—some attachments grew rapidly and boldly, spreading like ivy, whilst others were slow to develop, and might be prickly like holly or sturdy as oak. Jane was not always sure she understood the nature of the guises each sentiment took, but she delighted in both the lush growth of a newly forming love and the woodier vines of established affection. The pair need not even be present together; a sufficiently strong attachment would betray itself even when only one person was present, stretching out from them with the ends fading as though into mist. None of these, however, could compare with the beauty of the moment when two hearts found one another and understood that their love bound them together. Tentative stems would meet, coiling and combining, and in one bright moment would bloom into exquisite flowers, a visible manifestation of successful love, the colour of bright burnished silver.

As the tingling grew, Jane opened her eyes again, ready to see who had caused it. She gasped. She expected to see the delicate stems of her affection for Mr Bingley drawing towards the vines of his own, as they had done steadily for days. Instead, she sawonly her suitor himself, admiration competing with affection in his eyes, and between them a single silver rose in full bloom.

Instinctively, she reached out to touch the flower, although she was unsurprised when her fingers passed through the apparition without leaving a mark behind. At once, Mr Bingley’s expression grew concerned and he came to her side.

“Miss Bennet, are you unwell? You should not be here; you have not yet recovered from your indisposition. Perhaps sit closer to the fire? Tell me what I can do to relieve your suffering,” he said, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Thank you,” she managed to breathe. “I am not suffering, nor in need of anything. Please,” she added, smiling up at him, “sit by me, if you would? Your company is as beneficial to my recovery as any tincture could be.”

Mr Bingley beamed at her, and between them the rose shone.

The next morning, Jane ventured downstairs for an hour. She was not quite recovered, but she was certainly well enough for the private interview Mr Bingley had requested, and by the time Elizabeth came to assist her back to her room, everything had been settled between them and he, eager to support Jane’s consent with her father’s, was preparing to ride to Longbourn with a note she had written.

Her sister expressed frank delight at the news. “Dearest Jane, I could not be happier for you. Mr Bingley seems to be a good man.”

“He is the best of men!” Jane exclaimed blissfully.

“You truly think so?” Elizabeth asked, searching Jane’s face as she settled herself on her sister’s bed. “It has happened sofast—are you certain of your affection? It is not the effect of your cold, nor of Mama’s scheming to have you stay here at Netherfield?”

Jane smiled fondly at her sister’s concern, her eyes on her hands. Slowly, she stroked her fingers, feeling her cheeks heat as she remembered Mr Bingley’s caress.

“I am quite certain,” she said firmly. “My gift has never been so powerful before. You did not see the rose, and how it gleamed when it appeared yesterday. This morning when he proposed, it cast such a halo he seemed almost like an angel.”

“It is a hopeless case,” Elizabeth said with a laugh and an exaggerated sigh. “For I have heard him call you an angel, and now he is to be one too. You are both far too angelic and will reach a pinnacle of happiness inaccessible to us mere mortals, who will be left, blessed even to be permitted to bask in the reflection of your felicity.”

“Lizzy,” Jane admonished with an affectionate shake of her head. Elizabeth sat up a little straighter and leaned across as if to conspire.

“Did you tell him of your gift?”

“Mr Bingley?”

“Of course Mr Bingley! Did you believe I meant Mr Hurst?”

“Oh no, of course not!” Jane explained hastily, before being cut off by her sister’s teasing laughter. She pursed her lips, before joining the laughter despite herself. “Yes, I told him. I could not have done otherwise, for I was so overcome that he was concerned I was growing unwell again. I believe he was surprised, but, well…not unhappy.” She blushed again as she remembered just how Mr Bingley had expressed his happiness.

“How could he be? Your rose sounds beautiful. Can you see it still?”

“Yes, if I look for it. The flower dims a little when we are not together, but it is always with me. It is as steady as our love for one another.”

“Of course your love takes the form of a rose.” Elizabeth took her sister’s hand. “What more poetic expression could there be? I have no doubt he proposed to you then and there.”

Jane laughed, too delighted in her own happiness to mind her sister’s teasing. “Perhaps you are right. But I did not simply ask him to trust me. I showed him.”

Elizabeth gazed at her in sudden astonishment. “Showed him! How did you—? I had no idea such a thing was possible!”

“I did not know it either, but he took my hand before I began to describe our rose, and all of a sudden, he, too, could see it. Only whilst we were touching, but for that time he was able to describe it in perfect detail, without me ever having spoken a word.”

“I am holding your hand now, and I cannot see it,” Elizabeth said pettishly.

“Perhaps it is only because he has a share of it. The rose bloomed between us, a sign of our united happiness. Or perhaps it was because I felt it so strongly. I cannot explain it, but it was a truly beautiful moment. I wished Mr Bingley to understand that I told him the truth, and that my affection was as genuine as his own, and he had the proof of it before his own eyes.”

---