Page 109 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Ooh, my blood is boiling,” Mrs. Hill muttered. “You should sic the drake on them. Have him burn off their hats!”
I wanted to smile, but accusations of witchcraft were no joke. “Mymotherwill do no such thing.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course, it would be Mrs. Bennet.” She drew a long breath. “Don’t you worry. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Of everything unpleasant in that visit, the presence of our parson disturbedme the most. I went to see Mamma, who was sitting up in bed, a sleeping bonnet pulled down past her eyebrows as if to help her hide.
“Have they left?” she asked timorously.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“All my friends stared when I went into town,” she said. “I thought I had worn the wrong hat. I had no wish to be a widowed wyfe, and they glare at me as if I chose it. Can we not be rid of the beast?”
“Mamma, you must not say that. To anyone. Our drake is all that keeps us in our home.”
“But that dreadful Mr. Collins did not bind. Who would take Longbourn from us?”
“Other men,” I said softly.
Four days passed.Lydia did not answer my letter about Papa’s death. I signed a draft on the estate to purchase barrels and two scythe blades, and breathed a sigh of relief when the bank honored it. Mary stole another of Lydia’s dresses, scarlet this time, but could not resist sewing a fringe of black ribbon around the skirt.
I found Kitty weeping in her room, which she had shared with Lydia.
“Poor Kitty.” I gave her a hug. “Are you missing Lydia?”
“No. But I wish I could go outside.”
“That is a strange wish. Why can you not go out?”
“When Papa was angry, he said I was not to leave the house for ten years. I wondered if he joked, but I was afraid to ask, and now…” She dissolved into sobs.
I bit my lip to hide a smile. “I am sure he did not intend ten years. You should take Mary to the shops. I feel she is bored with colors and will wish to examine all their black ribbon.”
“Do you think so?” asked Kitty with wide, watery eyes, and I sent her to find Mary.
That left me beside Lydia’s abandoned dressing table. I ran my fingers through the froth of lace, and I missed how simple things had been. Then I imagined what Papa would have said to Kitty dutifully staying home for ten years. I smiled. “Papa, you are missing the most diverting behavior.”
On the twelfth day, Jane did not know me in the morning. I woke to her screams while her feeble fists pummeled and clawed my face.
I settled her, and she twisted into a knot on the bed, thin as rope, fingers splayed like dry twigs.
I got a bite of bread from the kitchen, soaked it in her dose of medicine, and brought it up on a saucer, crooning with shamelessly false enthusiasm, “Mr. Bingley has sent a treat!” This ruse worked, but once per day, the only food she took.
Jane slipped it into her mouth, then chewed, methodical and without tasting, no longer even noticing the medicine. Her cramped muscles relaxed as the medicine worked, and she fell into a limp mass on the bed.
I sat beside her. Her eyes were roving, as if she dreamed with her eyes open. I whispered, “Dearest Jane. I do not know what to do. Our family is perched on a knife edge. To slip one way or another is to be cut. To teeter back and forth is to fall.”
Her eyes—sapphire jewels, the last vestige of my beautiful sister unravaged by disease—met mine. With a child’s trust, she said, “You will keep us safe.” I stroked her hair and tried to forget the bloody scratch she had opened over my eyebrow.
Our housemaid tapped on the doorframe. In a wavering voice, she announced, “Ma’am, Miss Lydia asks—I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham request that you join them in the parlor.”
40
THE CHILD OF THE LAKE
“It is good to be home!”exclaimed Lydia, roaming the room in a fluffy white dress. “To think I have not been back since Brighton. You are all the same as ever, but I am married. What a laugh!”
She stroked everything she passed—the clock, a table, a vase—as if anointing them with proprietary longing. She arrived back at Wickham, who lounged on the settee, and stroked him as well. “Is this not nice, Wickie?”
