Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE GHOST IN THE ATTIC
E arly the next morning while I was still in my night gown, Mrs Hill returned to my room, and once again, her face betrayed her extreme misgivings as she pulled the upstairs maid behind her none too gently.
“Tell Miss Elizabeth what you said to me just now,” she commanded ominously. But when Martha would only mumble that she could not say such to one of the ladies of the house, Mrs Hill turned angrily away from her and back to me. With her hands on her hips, she said, “This girl claims there is a stranger in the attic.”
My word! Did everyone but me have the instincts of a ferret?
“How so?” I coldly asked.
“She cleans the pots,” Hill said succinctly.
“And?”
“There is an extra pot, miss.” Martha finally dared to explain, darting a faintly sly glance at my face .
“My sister has one for use when she paints,” I explained with little patience for this sordid topic.
“Aye, miss. Only…” she hedged and stared at her shoes.
“Hill?” I asked wearily.
“The case is, miss, the maids know who is who on account of familiarity, if you will.”
After a pause, I said, “Leave her here, Mrs Hill.”
When we were alone, I surveyed the girl. Well, in truth, she was no longer young and was likely somewhat older than I. She was sturdily built and a hard worker, but there was something about her, a stubbornness perhaps, that had kept me from warming to her ever since she had come to us from Mrs Philips’s house four years ago.
“You may as well tell me what you think is happening here,” I said grimly.
She stammered, darted a few glances at my face and strove to outmanoeuvre me by playing up her general ignorance which, having seen a certain glint in her eye, I did not believe. Upon being reminded that it was I who had persuaded Hill not to tell my mother when a porcelain doll went missing from Lydia’s vacant room—and even though it had suddenly reappeared as if by magic, the incident could still come to Mrs Bennet’s attention—she became more forthcoming.
A gentleman on horseback had made enquiries here and there as to whether anyone had seen a woman with shocking red hair. “So’s I hear, miss,” she added.
“And you began to think perhaps this person is at Longbourn, did you?”
“Well, seein’ as how it can hardly be missed as someone is …”
“Where is this gentleman on horseback now? ”
“Word is he is at the Fettermans’ cottage, paying ten pence a night for a bed.”
“And is he also paying for information?”
“Suppose so, miss.”
“How much, then?”
She shrugged, and I sat in silence for a minute, my mind in a whirling state of calculation.
“I will pay you twice what he is, Martha, if you agree to aid my cause. But how might I know I can trust you? Would it perhaps help if you knew this lady is in grave danger?”
“Is she?” she asked with salacious glee.
“Do you doubt it? She is huddled in our attic in fear for her life, and she has done nothing to deserve her terror. Now,” I said gravely, “you must swear a blood oath to me that you will do just as I say and not betray my friend.”
This sort of morbid, superstitious gesture worked a kind of magic on sly Martha. She pricked her finger, and as I instructed, made a cross with a trace of blood on her throat. It was my turn then for salacious glee as I improvised, explaining to her with sombre conviction that should she speak one wrong word now that she had made the blood cross on her throat, it would close up like a bear’s jaw and she would starve for air.
“I swear, miss,” she said almost tearfully, for the ceremony had been suitably profound as to cause both dread and awe in a person whose life was primarily one of common drudgery.
“Good. Now, I am going to send you on a false errand to deliver a small blanket to Mrs Brown. Do you know who she is?”
“The wife of the cottager next to Fettermans?”
“Yes. You will take a blanket, for she has an infant newly born. But then you must wander over to Fettermans and offer the gentleman, as you call him, the information he seeks.”
“What, miss?” she asked, much startled.
“He already knows she is here,” I explained, “but I wish him to believe you intend to tell him when she plans to leave this house and that you have some reason to think it might be soon. Agree to alert him if you have more news, Martha, and grasp what coins he gives you greedily. I wish him to believe he has a friend at Longbourn.”
At breakfast, as I fretted over the intricacies of my plan and counted the minutes until I could meet Mr Darcy, my preoccupation did not go unnoticed.
“You may as well tell us why you are in the sulks today, Lizzy,” my mother said.
“It is the rain, ma’am,” Kitty interjected helpfully. “You know she only ever wants to drive her Zephyr past Lucas Lodge to tease her friend.”
I threw a grateful grin at her and went back to my plate in silent confirmation.
Mary also came to my aid. “If it clears and you do go out today, Lizzy, might you stop at Aunt Philips’s house? She has a plain walnut box she would like me to embellish. What design do you recommend Mama?”
“Perhaps an owl,” my father suggested at his driest, “or a cat.”
“You may tease me all you like, Mr Bennet,” Mama said with a good-natured sniff. “I slept quite well last night, though we do have a ghost. I am certain it is your great uncle Harold. He died in the room you occupy did he not?”
“Indeed he did,” he replied with a smirk of surprise. “ Most likely in the same bed, my dear. Does that not give you the frights?”
“On the contrary,” she said smugly. “I take comfort from the fact he will haunt Mr Collins when he comes to sleep in your room.”
“My word, Mrs Bennet,” he said, making use of his napkin, “to what do we owe this flash of humour? I believe I may yet fall in love with you.”
These alternating open squabbles and notes of affectionate teasing between our parents had become more common since Lydia’s unfortunate episode. They had grown closer because of it. Even my father’s refusal to help me shield Mary King from Mr Wickham was evidence of a strong impulse to protect my mother from ever having to confront the villain. My mother rarely had nervous spasms these days, likely because she felt she had her husband’s support, and I often wondered if the fact she had largely desisted from fretting unceasingly over the entail had made her more tolerable to him. If so, then her horrified comprehension of the folly that had nearly taken her youngest child must be credited with both her alteration in manner and a better understanding between them.
That said, their intimacy was still awkward to witness, and I was, as were my sisters, grateful when my father went back to reading and our mother hummed a little tune as she scribbled out the menus for the next three days. I finished my breakfast undisturbed as talk did not veer back to any harassing observations about my mood which I must confess remained a touch grim.
A fresh bout of rain had been an unfortunate development on the heels of several other unfortunate developments standing between me and a successful rescue of Mary King. I stood with my arms crossed and peered out the window at one of those clouds—the ones that sat mulishly above our heads and wept unceasingly, particularly in late February.
I would go, of course, and against any and all objections, I intended to meet Mr Darcy. A little rain would not deter him, would it? The interior of Lindbury Wood, however, might. It was likely to be a quagmire.