Reborn as 8yo Regency Girl, OP All the Way

"Oh my goodness, Elara's forehead is still burning up, Mr. Harrington! We must take her to the doctor!" Mrs. Harrington lifted her skirts and hurried down the staircase. Mr. Harrington sat on the sofa, and at the sight, he reminded her calmly: "My dear, mind your etiquette. A lady ought not to scurry about with her skirts hiked up." "Oh, Arthur, you’re being dreadfuly cold!" she exclaimed. "Our daughter is ill—she needs a physician!" With that, Mrs. Harrington rushed off to summon the stable hand and fetch the doctor. Mr. Harrington shrugged, then instructed the maid to check on Elara. He lifted his young son, Theodore, into his arms—better to keep the boy away, in case Elara’s illness was contagious. When the maid brought down three-year-old Theodore, Mr. Harrington asked: "How is Elara? Do you think a warm cup of cinnamon water might ease her fever?" The maid hesitated. As the only servant in the Harrington household, she already had laundry to do and dinner to prepare—she had no time for such errands. "Fear not, sir," she replied evasively. "I’m certain it’s nothing serious. Mrs. Harrington is simply overwrought about Miss Elara." Reassured by her words, Mr. Harrington assumed his daughter’s illness was a minor ailment. He took Theodore out to go fishing with their neighbor, Mr. Bennet. With the only manservant having left with Mrs. Harrington, Mr. Harrington carried Theodore in one arm and his walking cane in the other as he stepped out the door. Once the household was empty, the maid turned to her chores—laundry first, then dinner preparations. Upstairs, Elara lay in bed, her mind a muddled haze. The high fever had clouded her senses, and strange yet familiar memories flooded in. Voices called out in a language she didn’t recognize but somehow understood: "Xia Luo! Xia Luo!" "Xia Luo, run!" "Murder! Murder!" "Call the police!" "Xia Luo? Xia Luo!" There were cries, shouts, and chaos. Then came fragments of odd knowledge—rhymes about farming, ancient poems, mathematical formulas... Foreign faces flashed before her eyes, and she saw a small black rectangular object with a glowing surface, filled with pictures and words. What was it? A... mobile phone? Mrs. Harrington returned with the doctor just as Elara’s cheeks flushed bright red, her short hair damp with sweat. When Mrs. Harrington touched her daughter’s gown, it was soaked through. "My word, this is severe!" the doctor exclaimed. He pulled out a small knife and made a tiny incision on Elara’s wrist; blood trickled down. "The fever is far too high, Mrs. Harrington. Bloodletting is the only way to bring it down." At his words, Mrs. Harrington fainted on the spot. If bloodletting was necessary, her daughter might not survive. The stable hand quickly lifted her to a chair, and the doctor pulled a vial of smelling salts from his pocket. After waving it under her nose for a few moments, Mrs. Harrington finally regained consciousness—much to the stable hand’s relief. The fever raged for a full day, but at last, the bloodletting worked, and Elara’s temperature began to drop. In her delirium, Elara witnessed the entire life of a woman named Xia Luo. As a child, Xia Luo had a happy family—she was an only child, doted on by her parents. She loved painting, so they sent her to art lessons; she enjoyed embroidery, so they found her a teacher... But that happiness ended abruptly when Xia Luo was seventeen, in a terrible car crash. Xia Luo lost her parents and failed her college entrance exams, only managing to get into a modest university. She used the compensation money to pay off the family’s mortgage and finish her studies, then passed the civil service exam to become a clerk at a neighborhood office in China. The job was quiet, so Xia Luo took up a side hustle as a hairpin maker. But the industry was fiercely competitive—fighting over materials and quantity—so she switched to handcrafted lace. Her exquisite quality and original intricate patterns earned her a loyal clientele. Her life was simple but fulfilling—until she intervened in a domestic violence case for the women’s federation. She helped a abused woman escape her husband, and in retaliation, the man stabbed her to death. And then, she became Elara Harrington, eight years old. When Elara woke again, her mind was still foggy. Was this a dream, or reality? Was she Elara of Longbourn, or Xia Luo of China? The illness kept her confined to bed for over two weeks. During that time, Mrs. Bennet—their neighbor—visited with her eldest daughter, Jane Bennet. Seeing how much quieter Elara was than before, Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Poor Elara. She was never the prettiest child, but now she’s so haggard—her cheeks are sunken in." She stroked Elara’s hair gently, her tone full of sympathy. Elara: ... She knew Mrs. Bennet meant no harm—otherwise, she might have thought it was a deliberate insult. Elara looked at little Jane, who was as beautiful as an angel. With her bright blue eyes, fair skin, and chubby, blushing cheeks, she was utterly adorable. At just four years old, Jane had inherited her mother’s beauty and was loved by everyone. Sensing Elara’s gaze, Jane offered a sweet, shy smile. So cute! Elara thought, though her face remained calm as she smiled back. Unfortunately, the illness had left her gaunt. Her attempt at a smile only looked eerie—so eerie that Jane shrank back behind her mother, peeking out at Elara timidly. Elara touched her own face in disappointment. In this life, she was plain-looking—amber eyes, dark hair, and merely passable features. The illness had made her even thinner, and with her sharp Western cheekbones, she did look a bit startling. She’d glanced in the mirror once after waking up and had frightened herself, so she’d avoided it ever since—but she could imagine how bad she looked. Mrs. Bennet was a chatty woman, and she and Mrs. Harrington got on well. They chatted for a while, then headed downstairs to avoid disturbing Elara’s rest. Mrs. Bennet’s voice was loud enough that Elara could still hear her from upstairs. "Mrs. Harrington, poor Elara is far too thin! You ought to feed her more beef—plenty of beef will make her strong again." "I’ve tried, but she refuses it," Mrs. Harrington replied. "She says she wants porridge..." Elara sighed to herself. It wasn’t porridge she wanted—it was congee. She couldn’t stand the metallic taste of undercooked beef, and honestly, English food was abysmal. To her, it served only one purpose: keeping her alive. As someone who’d grown up valuing good food, Elara hated the dry bread and cloyingly sweet pastries of this era. Before regaining her memories, she’d thought she was just a picky eater. Now she realized—she wasn’t picky. The food here was simply inedible. Thinking of the rock-hard bread, Elara stared into space. A world without delicious food was truly terrifying.