To Do Them Justice (Austen’s Magical Girls)

Beginnings

How Netherfield Park became such a Dark place.

“Netherfield was built, after all, by a man who could not seem to entice a bride any other way than by a grand house to live in, but left her a young widow who took a string of husbands who died or abandoned her, after her pregnancies ended in stillbirths or miscarriages, though she lived to a great age.

The lonely, bitter widow of a cold and unlikable man, and a grand house where terrible things happened…”

Mrs. Deirdre Palmer - now the Widow Palmer - lifted the mourning veil she wore, enjoying the brief sunlight on her face.

Odd, how the sun appeared so rarely over Netherfield Park, while the rest of the area enjoyed fine weather, but fitting for the manor’s name.

A shame, too, that she was now forced into at least a year of mourning, upon the news of her second husband’s execution as a Highwayman.

Mrs. Palmer mourned the babies she bore her second husband, who never had the chance to live, more than the faithless wretch who abandoned her, but Society had little care for whether or not a living spouse liked their deceased partner.

Mrs. Palmer still had a year and more of isolation to look forward to, before she could rejoin society and search for a better companion of her future life than the last two.

“Should I hire a Companion, my loves?”

she asked the small grove of saplings, planted as memorials where the church would not permit graves for babies who had not lived long enough to be baptised.

“You might like another person to visit you, instead of just me.”

A companion would make the days less lonely, at least until she remarried.

Re-marry she must, because women who rejected suitors often found themselves whispered about.

Outliving two husbands already had the gossips murmuring, and Mrs. Palmer did not wish to be considered a Witch, on top of her other misfortunes.

Years passed.

The Widow Palmer became the Widow Bates, and eventually the Widow Smythe.

Finally, she was Mrs. Harris, but still living alone at Netherfield after her latest husband ran off to seek his fortune in the American Colonies, leaving her behind.

Perhaps he, too, was dead now, one more unidentified body in a far-off land.

Whether he lived or died, she would never know, because no-one would know to tell her.

None of the many babies she’d conceived survived longer than a year, if they drew breath at all.

With each loss, Netherfield seemed a little darker and more dismal, as if her grief and loneliness had somehow been made manifest.

Companion after Companion deserted her.

Some married, while others left to be helpful to relations in need of care and never returned.

Friends visited once and then never again.

Guests made excuses to leave early.

Even servants proved difficult to keep, unless they had no-where else to go.

A permanent miasma seemed to settle into the estate, a gloom that seeped into everything and everyone, the longer they stayed.

Mrs. Harris pressed an ageing hand to the trunk of a tree, once a mere cutting, but now taller than she was.

“Why does everyone leave? Can not one of them stay? Is my presence such a burden?”

The only answer was the wind through the branches, laid bare by winter.

Surely it was only her imagination, a trick of the wind, that she thought she heard a whispery, malicious voice laughing at her pain.

Civil War raged throughout England, reaching even isolated estates and insignificant market towns in Hertfordshire.

A battle had been fought on the grounds of Netherfield itself, the last man dying on the threshold before a retreat was sounded.

Dozens more had died in the days and weeks after, when Mrs. Harris opened her home as a shelter for the wounded.

Sometimes Mrs. Harris wondered if the ghosts of the slain had lingered, somehow.

Sometimes, she swore that she could feel a malevolent presence, lurking just beyond her ability to see.

Every time someone died within the walls of Netherfield, it seemed to grow stronger.

Sometimes, when she was sure no human ears could hear her, she would speak to the presence.

“Who are you? What do you want here?”

It wasn’t strong enough to speak back to her.

Not yet.

Mrs. Harris didn’t know if she feared the day it could, or if she would be grateful for any kind of company, even if it was not of this world.

Finally on her deathbed, Mrs. Harris knew that she would never escape Netherfield Park.

She had tried.

Oh, how she had tried.

She’d attempted to sell Netherfield, and made it known that she was willing to negotiate the price.

No one had been willing to buy it.

She’d tried to lease it, next, asking just enough per quarter to keep herself in a comfortable cottage.

On the rare occasions that someone accepted the lease, they barely lasted past the first quarter.

Some bore out the lease at a distance, others decided that the penalties for breaking the lease were worth never having to set foot there again.

In sharp contrast, Mrs. Harris had noticed that the children of Longbourn were spending more time near Netherfield.

Mrs. Bennet had been lucky: with two each of her sons and daughters living to adulthood.

The girls had not married yet, and could often be found roaming the countryside, sometimes even venturing onto Netherfield itself.

Mrs. Harris did not mind, because they always stayed to visit a few minutes when they did.

She fancied that her spectral houseguest was far less fond of these visits that she was.

Ownership of Netherfield would pass to her sister’s children upon her death, though since her nephews had estates of their own, it was doubtful that they would live here.

A knock on the door, and the younger Miss Bennet entered, a warm, kind smile on her face.

“How are you today, Mrs. Harris?”

Mrs. Harris tried to smile back, but could barely lift her head.

A maid smoothed the covers.

“It won’t be long now, Miss Bennet, but if you’d be willing to sit with her a moment, I can see what’s keeping Susie.”

Mrs. Harris could feel herself getting weaker, each breath more of a struggle.

It would not be long at all, now, before she was finally free of the place that had tormented her for most of her life.

She’d heard of the mind playing tricks, in one’s last moments, for surely there could be no other explanation for the dark cloud that appeared, or the light that surrounded Miss Bennet, transforming her walking dress into something more like a soldier’s uniform, a sword appearing in her hand.

Then her eyes closed, a death-rattle escaping her lips, and old Mrs. Harris was no more.

But with this longed-for death, after a life of torment, the Malevolence of Netherfield roared to life, and Miss Isabella Bennet, Great-Great-Great-Aunt to another young lady who would bear a more English variant of her name, rose to meet it.

Perhaps she could not vanquish the newly-awakened Evil entirely, but she could drive it back, at least long enough for her siblings to arrive.

It would not be defeated in a single generation; evils of this magnitude rarely were.

But a journey of a thousand miles began with a single step, and a first defeat would pave the way for more.