Page 45 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“Read this, Lizzy.”My father passed me theTimes, his finger marking an article titled “The Monster of Meryton.”
He had called me into his library. It was ten days after the horrible events in the meadow.
I read, afraid my name had been printed. An unmarried lady mentioned in a newspaper would be branded with scandal for life. Context was irrelevant.
No names appeared.
If I had not known better, I would have called the story lurid. In reality, it trivialized the horror. Draca were not mentioned. It ended by quoting an expert from the British Museum, who speculated the monster was a wild boar.
“It was nothing like this,” I said softly. The events at the meadow were burned into my mind.
Of our return to Longbourn, though, I remembered only shards. Kitty crying in another room. Myself standing in the scullery while Mrs. Hill and a maid dropped layer after layer of bloody cloth in a sink. Washing my arms and hands over the butcher drains.
“I know the truth,” Papa replied. “The colonel gave me his own account. He was astonished by your bravery.”
“Bravery?” My voice cracked in disbelief.
“TheTimeshas one fact correct.” His finger tapped the story’s title. “The monster escaped within a mile of Longbourn. I thought it prudent tocorrespond with Mr. Collins and speed your visit with Charlotte. An iron-barred carriage is hired for tomorrow. It was difficult to book. People are fleeing Hertfordshire in every direction. You can speak with Mrs. Hill to arrange a maid as companion for the ride.”
“All right, Papa.” Charlotte had already suggested a visit in early March, so this would be three weeks sooner.
“And I am sending Lydia to visit Colonel and Mrs. Forster in Brighton.”
“What? Papa, you must not!”
A few days before, I had privately asked Papa to decline Mrs. Forster’s invitation. I cited Lydia’s immaturity, but I did not share my most serious fear.
I thought I had convinced him.
Papa rubbed his eyes. “Lydia is deeply affected by Denny’s death. When I told her she could not go, she broke down. She begged to visit her friend.”
Begged? I knew my sister well. She pouted, cajoled, and shouted. She did not beg.
I had seen no hint of the distress Papa described. In fact, I had seen no reaction at all, which worried me. Had Lydia suppressed her pain?
Regardless, Lydia unsupervised in Brighton could be disastrous.
“I am certain she should not go,” I said. “She is young and—”
“I have decided, Lizzy,” he said firmly.
I swallowed, caught by my own omission.
After Mr. Wickham had grabbed me—had assaulted me—I said nothing. One reason was fear of the result. Approaching Papa would be a tremendous escalation. Men dueled over less, although I doubted my father had ever held a pistol. And ladies’ reputations were destroyed by such allegations.
Now I faced the result of my cowardice.
I breathed deep, hunting for words. My credibility had been damaged by waiting, but if any man would believe me, it was my father.
And again, I hesitated. The accusation could destroy me and taint my family with scandal. Shame my sisters, particularly Lydia, whom I sought to protect.
What if I stayed silent? That was horrible in its own way. Imagine if Wickham did this over and over, and every woman kept his secret out of fear. But that was impossible. This was 1812. I had grown up in a century freed from outdated, authoritarian beliefs. Despite Mary’s tirades at the corrupt patriarchy, I could not believe the modern world would permit a man to repeat vile acts and avoid the consequences.
“What is it, Lizzy?” asked Papa.
I trusted Colonel Forster. And I could not judge what pain Lydia concealed.
So, I shook my head and tried to believe that, for once, all would be well.
