Page 46 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
As Lydiaand I would depart soon, all five sisters went for a walk. We were a quiet group. Jane said not a word, and my few comments about packing did not spark conversation.
Kitty began to cry.
“Oh, do stop snuffling over Brighton,” snapped Lydia. “If you wished to go, you should have made friends with Harriet yourself.”
“I would have, if I had known,” Kitty said, wiping her cheeks. “But that is not why I am sad. I cannot stop thinking of poor Denny.”
“Still? It has been more than a week.”
“Lydia!” I said, shocked.
“What of it? Why areyouall upset? He was my friend more than yours. We danced… oh, a dozen times at least.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “Denny isdead.”
“Must you remind us endlessly?” Lydia grimaced. “It’s a form of bragging, you know. The way you crouched there, pretending to nurse him.”
I grabbed her arm, and we turned to each other. Disbelief and anger fought in my mind.
Lydia pulled herself free. She was inches taller than me, the tallest of all of us although the youngest, and she frowned down, petulant as a child. “Do not make superior faces at me! Denny was quite horrid that day.Anda bad friend to Wickham. I cannot imagine why you miss him.”
She stomped off. Kitty burst into tears again, and Mary said something that sounded dire but in Latin I did not recognize.
Jane had stopped to wait, but I was not even sure she had heard. For weeks now, walking with Jane was like walking with a ghost.
My disbelief and anger mixed and left a disturbed sensation. It took a moment to recognize it was fear. But I could not be afraid of Lydia.
Denny had been Lydia’s favorite. A real friend among her many flirtations, and a sweet, honest man who brought out her best. I had even wondered if they would have a serious relationship when she was older.
Lydia reached the manor and entered without a backward glance.
It was like I had never known my sister.
“Papa,”I said next morning while our footman carried my luggage to a coach crudely armored with strips of iron. “I am worried to leave. I feel as if our family is untethered. Our lives are teetering, each of us, in some way.”
“That is what you get fornotmarrying Mr. Collins,” Mamma inserted primly. But she straightened my bonnet and gave me a solid kiss on my cheek.
“Your trip will reduce my worry,” Papa said. He looked tired, and he had spilled his tea at breakfast, twice. “Be safe. Enjoy your visit. Other than remembering I am abandoned here with Kitty and Lydia’s silliness.”
“Lydia left yesterday, Papa,” I said, smiling.
“So she did. Mary will perform in her stead. She scolds me mercilessly over the health of my diet.”
Mary, gaily clothed in her dullest black for my departure, stood beside him. Papa waited for her response with unabashed affection. Something had happened between them since that painful night at the ball. Perhaps when Mary defended me from Mr. Collins’s proposal. There was a new closeness which I loved to see.
Mary said, “I shall do my best,” which was raucous wit for her.
Papa’s smile turned serious. “I will miss you, Lizzy. Greatly. What did Hamlet say? Neither a borrower…” He paused, pretending to forget the rest.
“It was Polonius, Papa,” I said. This was an old joke. Nothing irritated my father more than self-important people attributing Polonius’s words to the star of the play.
I waited for him to finish.
“Do not correct me,” he said querulously. “It was Hamlet. Neither a borrower…” He licked his lips, blinking. Becoming distressed.
He did not remember.
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” I said, as casually as I could. But my heart sank. Papa had recounted Polonius’s full speech a hundred times. Still, anyone’s memory could stick on a phrase.
