Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE LYRICAL LINE
I returned to Longbourn dangerously chilled, and out of necessity, I suspended the unceasing impulse to fretfully review every detail of my work yet to come on Mary King’s behalf.
I also deferred the necessary whispered instructions to my accomplices until I had a hot bath, a strong pot of tea, a bowl of soup, and a muffin pulled fresh from the oven.
Against my will, my eyes began to droop, and for a blissful hour, I slept deeply until Mary came to wake me.
“Mama is terribly put out with you,” she said in a low voice of pure sympathy.
“Is she? I should go to her and take my scolding willingly, then. But first, dearest, I must speak to you and Kitty. Might you find her while I put my hair in braids? I do not want Mama to see that it is still so wet.”
Our conference of whispers was soon concluded, and Mary went upstairs to paint , and to alert Mary King to the news of her impending rescue. I then stood meekly in front of my mother at her dressing table while she finished her toilet in preparation for dinner. I listened half in sympathy, for she was not wrong to rail at me for driving in a rainstorm.
As soon as was seemly, however, I changed the subject. “But you are looking fine for an ordinary dinner at home, Mama.”
“Well, if you had been here,” she said with slightly narrowed eyes, “perhaps you might have recalled that we are having a little dinner party. Sir William and his family, the Philipses, of course, and poor Mrs Long.”
I stood stoically before my mother and considered that of all days for a party, she had chosen this one, most likely a week ago when I was otherwise preoccupied and not attending to her as she spoke of doing so. Such was my unrelenting agitation that I had precious little left in the way of reserves of energy, yet if I asked to be excused, I would be forbidden to leave the house any time soon. Therefore, I forced my spine to bear me in a straight, upright position and similarly reconciled in my mind that a show of happy chatter would be required of me, regardless of how little inclined I was to be gay.
Inwardly, however, throughout what remained of that very long day, I was as grim as could be.
My sister Mary was also understandably sober, and she went up to the attic for a spell to speak to our ghost , taking with her a tray, and coming back down for a pitcher of water. The two had invariably become acquainted, but perhaps because my plain sister found much to relate to in Mary King’s plight, she had become almost possessively attached to her.
“I suppose if I had had ten thousand pounds, I could have just as easily partaken of her fate,” she said when she came back down from the attic.
We were taking the stairs down to the parlour before dinner, speaking in low voices, and I said, “You would not have been his victim, dearest. You are not as romantic as she.”
“But I am becoming more so, Lizzy,” she confessed with an endearing frown of dismay.
“Are you?”
“When I am drawing and a line appears from under my pen, if is particularly perfect, I feel it to be almost lyrical, and I am much moved.”
With some effort, I dragged my mind away from the most lyrical line I had heard in my life. ‘This flute of mine shall pipe the softest song it knows to sing…’ But perhaps it was only lyrical because he meant—no, I could not allow myself the luxury of speculation and instead, offered my sister the reassurance she seemed to require.
“That you have begun to develop some sensibility is to your credit, Mary. But in your soul, you are too fair minded and too much aware of your integrity to be moved by gross flattery. Poor Miss King, you recall, was made to feel ugly by her neighbours, and perhaps she longed for any approval, even the suspicious compliments such as he must have heaped upon her, causing such blindness as to remake her into his victim.”
“Then it is well that we mean to help her,” she said with a deep breath of resolution, “for we must have added to her misery.”
“Certainly we did, for though you and I did not disparage her publicly, neither did we befriend her. But come, let us smile before we are seen whispering secrets, shall we?” I grasped her hand with great feeling, for she had become so dear to me, and we went down to the parlour to await our guests.
My sisters and I managed to behave unremarkably despite our conspiratorial guilt, and we only suffered one moment of horror when later, during the dessert course, our mother said to Lady Lucas, “You will never guess what my Mary has done now, for she has set up the attic for her painting so she can work day and night. What is that French word for it, Lizzy?”
“An atelier , ma’am.”
Maria Lucas had overheard this and predictably begged to see it.
“I cannot take you up there tonight!” Mary blurted out in ill-considered alarm.
“It is terribly dusty, Maria,” I quickly interjected, “and you might dirty the hem of your dinner dress. Besides which, Mama swears there is a ghost in residence.” For good measure, I winked at her brother, who sat across from me and earned from him a boyish grin.
“I do not care about ghosts,” Kitty declared, bravely adding her mite, “but the spiders are not to my liking at all.”
Our efforts of deflection had given Mary the moment she required to come about.
“Come next week in one of the gowns you use for work,” she said to her friend, “so that we may spend a happy hour or two over a project I have undertaken for my aunt.”
John Lucas, meanwhile, having forgotten the grave injury I had done him by refusing to marry him, later cornered me for a gleeful announcement. Sir William had given him leave to buy his own curricle. No, it was not a high-perch phaeton which, he had defensively explained, was unsuitable for anything but a promenade and would never do for the sort of sporting exploits he had in mind.
“Such as racing, you mean?” I asked with a touch of amusement.
“Of a surety, only there are no fellows anywhere within ten miles to offer me more than a tepid challenge. But I do mean to go to every mill on offer and, when the weather is fine again, to go to the fair, and even to Newmarket.”
For once I was wise enough to show a particle of circumspection, for I was in sufficient trouble with my mother that I did not wish to be overheard challenging John Lucas to a race to the Lea bridge.
Many hours later, I went to bed, blew out my candle, and stared at the darkness above my head. I said a prayer for Miss King and another for myself and forced shut my eyes.