by Head, Gail
“Jane…here,” his garbled words came out soft and rasping.
“Yes, Father. I am here.”
“Where…doc-tor?”
“Dr. Heaton has gone for a few minutes. Shall I get him?”
“No! I…You. Must…tell…you!”
“Please do not try to speak,” she begged tearfully. “You must stay quiet now.”
“No! Lis-sen…to…me,” he insisted, struggling to make himself understood. “You…do…now. Right…now!”
“Yes, Father, anything; but please, you must not excite yourself this way!”
Panting from his efforts, Mr. Bennet pressed on. “Li-br-ry…fl…fl…floor. Let-ter. You…f-find. No…one…see! Na…no…one! Bur-r-rn…it! D-do…not read. Do…n-not…sp-eak…of it. Tell...no-o…one. You…m-mu-st…y-you…mu-st…”
“Yes, yes - I shall find it, right away; but please, Father, calm yourself.”
Dr. Heaton's return ended the conversation and Jane quickly excused herself, anxious to ease her father's agitation as soon as possible. She hurriedly descended the stairs and slipped into the library unnoticed. Inside, the eerie silence of the room revived those first horrible moments when she had seen her father sprawled on the floor, and the tears flowed once again. Brushing the wetness from her cheeks, she forced herself to concentrate on the purpose of her errand. With a determined air, her eyes passed over the sword lying on her father's desk and searched the floor for the paper that had made her father so anxious.
It did not take long to discover the single sheet of paper lying against the bottom edge of the bookcase. Jane snatched it up and ran to the fireplace, laying it on the grate with trembling hands. Stirring the embers from the morning fire, she found a small lump of coal that still glowed faintly and positioned it beneath the grate. Gently she breathed on the ember, until it flared to life. She blew a shaky breath again and again, forcing the tiny flame upward until it licked the edge of the letter. In another moment, the letter burst into flame. Watching the paper twist and curl in the heat, Jane gasped when she glimpsed the words “our secret love” as the letter was consumed.
As soon as the fire died out, Jane stirred the last bit of burnt paper to unrecognizable ashes. Doing her best to hide her astonishment at what she had seen and its implication, she hurried back to her father's room. Dr. Heaton looked up from his work when she entered and gave a reassuring smile before silently turning back to the task of packing his small black physician's box. Cautiously, Jane sat down next to her father. The lightest touch of her hand on his arm was enough to open his eyes.
“Did you…was it…” Mr. Bennet glanced furtively at the doctor as he struggled to speak.
“Yes, Father. I have done as you asked,” she answered softly.
“Good. Very good,” he sighed, relaxing into his pillow.
“He probably does not make much sense right now. I have given him something to help him sleep,” explained Dr. Heaton. “He needs rest more than anything else at this point, but you may stay if you wish, Miss Bennet. Please send for me right away if there are any changes.”
By the time the doctor gathered his things and made his departure, Jane's father was sleeping soundly. She remained by the bed, sitting in the gathering darkness for some time. At last she rose from her chair and wandered to the window, the clock in the hallway chiming the hour as she stretched the stiffness from her shoulders.
She stared at the nearly-full moon hanging in the night sky and wondered, Where are you, Lizzy? She had gone looking for her father to get directions so that she might write to her sister and now everything was changed. Her beloved father was desperately ill and the mystery of the burned letter and its shocking contents weighed heavily on her mind.
Laying her head against the window casing, she released a heavy sigh and shivered as clouds drifted across the sky, obscuring the moonlight.
“Oh, Lizzy, you must come back. We need you – I need you!”
* * * *
Mrs. Pennwyth stared thoughtfully at the letter on her table. The hand was elegant and obviously a woman's. It was curious. In the twenty years her husband had worked as steward for the Bennet family and the five years since his death, she had never known William Bennet to be so secretive as he was the day he made her promise to tell no one of the letters that would pass through Granley Cottage.
Whatever his reasons, it was none of her business what a gentleman did on the side, especially one married to a woman like Mrs. Bennet. Hearing a knock at the door, she placed the letter in the drawer of a side table, and hurried to answer it.
“John! It's good to see you, but I had thought to see Mr. Bennet today.”
“Yes, Mrs. Pennwyth, I know; but Mr. Bennet won't be coming,” he apologized, handing her a basket. “You have a nice cut of pork this week.”
“I thank you, and I'm sorry for Mr. Bennet's absence. I hope all is well at Longbourn. Shall I see him next week?”
“No, ma'am. I don't think so. Mr. Bennet has taken ill.”
“My goodness! What happened?”
“He was found collapsed in his library four days ago. Dr. Heaton was called in, and for a while it seemed Mr. Bennet was in a fair way of recovering; but during the night he took a turn. He is much worse and can't speak as could be understood.”
“How terrible! Is it the end for dear Mr. Bennet, then?”
“We don't know. The doctor has done all he can. He says we have to wait and see. It's in God's hands now.”
“Poor Mr. Bennet! Poor Mrs. Bennet and the girls!”
“It's a sad state of affairs all around, I say. Well, I best be getting back now, Mrs. Pennwyth. I bid you good day.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” she exclaimed, lost in her thoughts. “I thank you, John, for bringing the basket. It is most welcome, as always. Please convey my condolences to the family and do let me know of any more news.”
Watching John turn down the lane, Mrs. Pennwyth returned to the side table and opened the drawer. Staring at the letter, she wondered aloud, “What am I do to with you now?”
* * * *
“Well, Darcy, tell me,” Bingley sat down across the breakfast table from his friend, “was it as bad as you thought it would be?”
“Good morning, Charles,” Darcy smiled as he took another sip of coffee.
“I did try to smooth the way a bit. I sent a note to Caroline suggesting she moderate her, uh, sentiments during the journey. I know she can be quite trying at times.”
“I appreciate the effort, but I am afraid it was ineffectual. Your sister scarce drew two breaths the entire time,” Darcy smirked. He refrained from expressing his amazement at how one woman could talk so much and convey so little. “The journey was a little more than Georgiana expected. She has not had much experience with that level of conversation.”
“Living with you, I can imagine not!” Bingley quipped good-naturedly.
“And what of you? Was your return to Hertfordshire as bad as you thought it would be?”
“I am pleased to say it was not. Everyone has been most cordial.” Bingley's smile waned. “Miss Bennet seemed happy to see me; but there is a definite reserve in her manner and conversation. It is not quite the same as it was.” He drew a quick, fortifying breath. “Understandable, I suppose, given how abruptly things ended last November.”
“Yes, understandable,” Darcy flinched at the reminder of the fruits of his interference, “but it sounds like she has not shunned you all together and you have made a good beginning. If you remain steadfast and prove your constancy to the lady, I believe you will be rewarded.”
“It is not as simple as that. There are other circumstances that have complicated the matter.” Bingley paused a moment as if unwilling to continue, then finished in a rush of words. “I discovered yesterday that Miss Bennet has been misled into believing I am romantically connected to your sister.”
“What?” Darcy snapped. “How did she get such an idea?”
“Caroline,” Charles replied fla
tly. “I gave my utmost assurances that it was not the case, but I am uncertain if Jane believes me.”
Darcy let out an involuntary growl. “Bingley, I realize you have a certain duty to your sister, but you really must find a way to check her. I must be clear, I tolerate her less than desirable behavior toward me for the sake of our friendship; however, I will not allow it to extend to Georgiana – here or anywhere else. If your sister does not amend her ways, I shall be forced to withdraw Georgiana from her influence.”
“I hope it will not come to that; but you are quite right, Darcy. I intend to speak with her this very morning and put a stop to all this nonsense.”
Darcy eyed his friend skeptically. “I hope you can.”
“She will – ” Bingley began.
“She will what?” Caroline inquired as she swept into the room, giving Darcy a brilliant smile. “To whom are your referring, dear brother?”
“Good morning, Caroline, Louisa,” Bingley greeted his sisters coolly. “I trust you slept well?”
“Yes, as well as can be expected in the country. Entirely too many twittering birds for my taste. You look so stern, Charles; apparently you did not sleep well.”
“You are right, Caroline,” Louisa pronounced solemnly. “He does look a little off this morning! Brother, you must allow me to have Mrs. Middleton make up a sleeping draught for you. It is one Mr. Hurst uses frequently, and I daresay it is most effective.”
“That will not be necessary. I sleep quite well, thank you.” Bingley was doing his best to stay in control of the conversation, but he was losing ground rapidly.
“Very well, but you really should try to get more rest. This mood does not suit you at all,” Louisa observed lightly.
“No, it certainly does not,” Caroline chimed in. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy can offer some advice on the subject. What do you say, Mr. Darcy?” she cooed sweetly.
Darcy threw his friend a meaningful glance – see what I mean? – and Bingley cleared his throat, forcefully bringing the conversation back to himself.
“When you are finished with breakfast, Caroline, I should like to have a private word with you in my study.”
“I am so sorry, Charles. Louisa and I are going into Meryton this morning and I have a very busy schedule this afternoon. Perhaps after supper there would be time.”
“No, Caroline. I will speak with you before Miss Bennet arrives for tea.”
“Miss Bennet? Oh, dear, did I forget to tell you? I received a note this morning with her regrets. She will not be joining us for tea after all.”
Bingley's countenance crumbled, his mission to curtail his sister instantly forgotten. “Not coming? Why? What did she say? Did she offer any explanation?”
“Hmm, let me see. I believe it had something to do with her father. He has a cold or something. Honestly, the Bennet family seems to have a peculiar susceptibility to ill health, do they not?”
Bingley soon left the room in a decidedly melancholy state and Darcy could barely contain his contempt for the superior sisters' callous disregard for their brother's feelings. With a barely polite “excuse me” he went in search of his friend.
He found Bingley sitting in his study, absently twisting a bit of paper in his fingers.
“I wish I had never come back to Hertfordshire! A lifetime of uncertainty would have been vastly preferable to this agony of certain rejection.”
Darcy's presence did nothing to stir him from his stupor.
“A cold? Her father has a cold?!” he cried in anguish.
“Bingley, there may be other circumstances –”
“Yes, I am certain of that. She is decided against me. She does not wish for me to renew my addresses.”
“You do not know for certain.”
“Yes, I do. I could see her hesitation, but I pressed her anyway. She is too kind and sweet-tempered to reject me openly.”
Both men fell silent and the air became thick with somber reflection. At length, Bingley heaved a great sigh.
“This is unbearable! I cannot stay at Netherfield another day. I shall leave for London this afternoon. Darcy, I am sorry to have caused you and your sister a wasted trip.”
“It is not a wasted trip, my friend; but if Miss Bennet is as you say, then she cannot be so cruel as to dismiss you without a word. I urge you to wait a little longer and see if there is yet another misunderstanding.”
“No, it is too late. Whatever affection she may have felt for me last November is gone.”
“Think what you are doing!” Darcy declared. “Miss Bennet's sister was quite adamant on the point of her regard for you, and I cannot believe her feelings would be so easily changed. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by staying the week at least.”
“Another week is out of the question. My presence only makes her uncomfortable!” Bingley replied morosely. “I will return to London on Sunday, as soon as we have been to church.”
Chapter 8
At precisely seven o'clock, Elizabeth entered the breakfast room at Everton Manor with determined optimism.
“Good morning, sir. Miss Ballard, how are you this morning?” she greeted them cheerfully.
Rebecca's silent study of her plate did not go unnoticed by Lord Grissholm. When it became apparent there would be no response to Elizabeth's greeting, Grissholm lowered his paper and eyed the girl at the other end of the table. “Rebecca, Miss Bennet has addressed you.”
“Good morning, Miss Bennet. I am well, thank you,” she replied tersely and then put another bite of eggs into her mouth, chewing very slowly.
It was painfully obvious there would be no conversation from either end of the table this morning.
Sighing to herself, Elizabeth sat down a little disheartened. This morning's exchange was essentially the same as every other morning since her arrival two weeks previous. The oppressive silence as they ate was broken only by the sounds of knife and fork upon china, and Lord Grissholm turning the pages of the London Times. For her two tablemates, it seemed to be an acceptable arrangement, but for Elizabeth, who was accustomed to lively conversation and energetic exchanges between her sisters, it was a trying ordeal. Lord Grissholm was as aloof as Rebecca was shy. It seemed an impossible situation but she was not about to give up.
“My Lord,” Elizabeth began, watching Rebecca's sullen expression. “Mrs. Moore tells me there is a trunk containing art supplies in the storage room. Would it be possible to have it taken down and brought to the morning room for our use?” She was rewarded with the faintest flicker of interest in the girl's face.
“What do you want with art supplies?” he barked from behind his paper.
“I have seen a few of Miss Ballard's sketches and I thought perhaps she would enjoy expanding her talents.”
“It is a waste of time,” he snapped.
“Indeed, sir,” Elizabeth's eyebrow rose. “I should think it good use of time for any accomplished young lady to pursue whatever talent she may have, be it pianoforte or needle and thread – or paint and canvas.”
After a long moment, Lord Grissholm lowered his paper. “I suppose it may be done. Just see that you do not indulge too much of her time in such a wasted endeavor.”
Elizabeth wondered at his obvious dislike for the activity since she had observed many beautiful paintings adorning the walls of Everton, including one particularly charming collection of watercolors in the east wing. Nevertheless, she was grateful for his consent for she hoped to use the 'wasted endeavor' to breach Rebecca's implacable wall of resentment.
The two young women spent the afternoon unpacking and inventorying the contents of the trunk. When it was finally emptied, Elizabeth straightened and surveyed the massive amount of supplies that had been concealed in the deceptively small trunk.
“I think that is the extent of the secrets of this chest,” Elizabeth announced cheerfully, placing the last packet of paint on the table and sweeping an errant lock of hair from her face. “What shall we do with our treasures?”
> Rebecca was silently straightening the stack of sketch books in front of her. Elizabeth could see the girl struggling against an obvious desire to paint. Would this gambit be enough to win Rebecca over, to break down the barrier and provide an opportunity to prove she could be trusted?
“We have charcoal, watercolor, oil paint, and – I believe this is more charcoal,” Elizabeth offered.
“I would like to try watercolors,” came the quiet reply.
“That is an ambitious endeavor, indeed!”
“Perhaps not, then,” Rebecca answered quickly, retreating behind her resentment once more.
“Not at all! I am only praising your courage for attempting such a difficult medium,” exclaimed Elizabeth. It would not do to lose what little ground she had just won. She smiled encouragingly. “Have you worked with watercolor before?”
“Only a little,” Rebecca replied curtly.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Rebecca spoke again, exhibiting the first real effort to converse since Elizabeth had come to Everton.
“A few years ago, Mrs. Holiby invited a gentleman from a nearby estate to give me lessons; but they did not last long. When the viscount found out, he sent him away immediately.” Rebecca's keen disappointment played on her face. “The supplies were packed away and I never knew what happened to them until today.”
“Well, you shall have another opportunity. I am not a proficient at painting by any means, but as with any endeavor, I believe practice will bring accomplishment. We can do it together. Based upon your previous instruction, where do you recommend we begin?”
“It helps to have an example to look at while you work,” she offered tentatively. “There is a painting I admire very much.”
“And which one would that be?” Elizabeth smiled with excitement.
“It is part of a collection in the east wing – a small watercolor of wild violets.”
Elizabeth knew exactly the one Rebecca was describing for it was her favorite of the collection as well. “An excellent choice, Miss Ballard. We shall begin at once!”
Triumphantly she started for the east wing to retrieve the painting. She was almost out the door when Rebecca's quiet voice stopped her.