Chapter 1 #3
“Then we must be especially careful on the back stairs,” Elizabeth said. “They pass near his study.”
They fell silent, each turning the plan over in their minds, searching for weaknesses.
The stranger shifted on the bench. “Might you not—” she paused, her manner hesitant, as though uncertain whether to proceed.
“What is it?” Jane asked gently.
“Might you not send some one ahead,” she suggested hesitantly. “To the nursery. To make a deliberate noise. Moving furniture, perhaps, or sweeping. So that if any one hears sounds later, they will suppose it is only the maid at work.”
Elizabeth stared. “That is remarkably clever.”
“We should send Lydia,” Mary suggested. “Before the family leaves. She could go up and make a clatter about tidying. Later, if some one hears footsteps or doors, they will think nothing of it.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Yes, that would answer quite well. Well done.”
The stranger’s cheeks coloured, and she lowered her eyes, but she had a look of quiet satisfaction.
“I shall make such a racket they will hear me in the village,” Lydia declared. “I shall drag furniture about and drop things and complain loudly about dust.”
“Not too loudly,” Mary cautioned. “We do not wish anyone actually to come and enquire.”
“Just loud enough to establish a reason for the noise,” Elizabeth agreed. “This will do.”
“If Mamma asks where you are, I shall say you are rehearsing the Christmas theatricals in the barn,” Lydia said, standing.
“We have no Christmas theatricals planned,” Jane pointed out.
“Mamma does not know that,” Lydia replied with a grin. She slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her.
Listening
She kept her eyes closed and listened.
The warmth of the stove had begun to seep into her frozen limbs, bringing with it a sharp, prickling pain as sensation returned to her feet and hands. She focused on breathing evenly, on not moving, on appearing asleep whilst her thoughts chased one another.
Scripture instructs wives to submit...
The words made her stomach clench. She had heard them before—from the false vicar Wickham had hired, standing in that squalid room that reeked of gin and tallow. The man had recited the words with a leering grin whilst Wickham gripped her arm hard enough to bruise.
She had said no. She had said it clearly and loudly. The vicar had ignored her.
Yet these sisters—the one called Mary, who spoke of scripture—her voice held doubt, not certainty. And the other, Elizabeth, had countered at once. A man who binds a woman with ropes has broken his covenant first.
She had not expected that. Had not expected anyone to see the marks on her wrists and conclude that she might be the wronged party.
If there was a ceremony, if there is a licence—
There had been some document. Wickham had shown her a paper with signatures she did not recognise, with her own name forged in a hand that was not hers.
He had told her it did not signify that she refused, that the law would see her as his wife regardless, that her objections only showed her to be over-excited and unreasonable.
When she had tried to run, he had caught her. When she had screamed, he had struck her hard enough that her ears rang.
We have only her word, and she will not even give us her name.
Her breath hitched slightly. She dared not give them her name. If they knew who she was, they would send for Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam would come, and he would see what she had done—how she had been so foolish, so na?ve, so easily misled.
The shame of it was worse than the cold had been.
Her wrists give testimony enough.
How were they to believe her without knowing who she was? Without proof beyond the marks Wickham had left?
The younger one—Lydia—had asked what they would do if he came. Elizabeth had said they would bar the door. There had been no hesitation in her voice, no calculation about whether helping a stranger was worth the trouble.
We need more information before any decision can be made.
She listened as they planned to send the younger girls to the village.
To discover what manner of man Wickham was pretending to be.
She knew already—charming, plausible, wronged.
He would tell them she was his difficult wife, prone to fits of temper.
Some would believe him. Most would if he smiled at them in the right way.
Yet these sisters were sending spies to test his story against hers. That meant they had not yet resolved to believe him.
The truth of the matter may lie somewhere between his account and hers.
No. The truth lay entirely in what he had done, but she understood why they might doubt. She was a stranger who had appeared in their barn, half-frozen and refusing to give her name. Wickham would arrive in a good coat, with a plausible story and a document bearing official seals.
The door opened and closed. Two of them had gone.
In the silence that followed, she heard the remaining sisters begin to plan. Not whether to help, but how. Where to hide her. When to move her. The practical considerations of keeping her safe.
The nursery would serve. It will be cold. Coal for a fire.
They were planning to hide her in their own home. To deceive their parents, to risk discovery, to smuggle food and fuel past servants. For her. A stranger.
Her eyes burnt behind her closed lids.
We cannot leave her here another night, and to-morrow there may not be another opportunity.
The urgency in Elizabeth's voice was real. They understood that time was against them, that Wickham was searching, that every hour increased the danger.
Blankets. Candles.
A chamber pot.
She shifted despite herself. The need had been growing more urgent for the past hour, but she had been too frightened to speak, too uncertain of what would happen if she revealed she was awake.
Now it was unbearable.
She drew her knees up slightly, trying to ease the pressure. Her face burnt with mortification, but the discomfort was becoming pain.
The kind one—Jane—had noticed. “Are you well?”
She opened her eyes. Both sisters were looking at her with concern, not suspicion. Not anger that she had been pretending.
She could not wait any longer. “I...” Her voice came out as a croak. “Pray, I must attend to—I cannot—”
Understanding flooded Jane's face. No judgement, no disgust. Just immediate, practical kindness.
Elizabeth was already moving toward the door.
Jane knelt beside her. “I am Jane Bennet. That was my sister, Elizabeth. We will help you, I promise.”
The words were simple, but she heard the truth in them. These women would help her. They had already helped her—pulled her from the hay, wrapped her in warmth, stood between her and the man who had used her ill.
She could trust them.
Yet she could not tell them who she was. Not yet. Not until she understood what Wickham had done, what papers he truly had, whether Fitzwilliam would be forced in honour or by law to return her to a man who claimed her as wife.
“I am Ge—”
The name caught in her throat. Her real name, the one Fitzwilliam used, would reveal too much.
She swallowed it back. “Anne,” she said. “I am Anne.”
Her mother's name. The first that came to mind that was not her own.
The one called Elizabeth returned, a plain earthenware chamber pot in her hands. She set it behind a stack of saddles in the corner, creating a makeshift screen. Jane helped Anne to her feet and then to the chamber pot when her feet would not obey.
“We shall step outside,” Jane said, rising. “Take your time.”
I Thought I Would Die
Anne waited until the door closed behind them before struggling to attend to her need.
Her legs barely held her weight, and she leant against the wall.
When she called them back, her voice was hoarse.
Elizabeth entered first, averting her eyes as she removed the pot and disappeared again.
Jane helped Anne back to her place beside the bench.
“I am so sorry. Walking is like treading on needles.” Anne whispered.
Jane poured fresh tea into a cup and pressed it into Anne's hands.
Anne wrapped her fingers around the cup, welcoming the warmth. The tea was strong and sweet. She sipped it slowly, feeling the heat spread through her chest. Her shivering was subsiding at last.
Jane settled onto the upturned crate, saying nothing. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind howled.
“You are warmer now?” Jane asked at last.
Anne nodded. Then, without warning, her face crumpled. “I thought I would die,” she whispered. “In the barn. I thought—when my feet grew so numb that all feeling left them, I thought—”
The cup tilted dangerously. Jane caught it, setting it aside, and Anne buried her face in her hands. Great, shuddering sobs shook her thin frame.
“I am sorry,” she gasped between sobs. “I am so—I should not—”
“Hush,” Jane said, drawing the girl against her shoulder. “You are safe now. Cry if you need to.”
Anne wept into Jane's dress, days of terror and shame pouring out in great, gulping cries. Jane simply held her, one hand stroking her tangled hair, murmuring soft reassurances.
The door opened and Elizabeth returned, brushing snow from her sleeves. She sat on the saddle stand quietly as the storm of grief subsided.
When Anne finally drew back, wiping at her eyes with the corner of the blanket, her voice was hoarse. “Forgive me. You have been so kind, and I—I have not even thanked you properly. You saved my life.”
“We did what anyone ought to do,” Jane said, extending her handkerchief.
“No.” Anne’s voice was firm despite its hoarseness. “Not everyone. You might have sent for the magistrate, or turned me from your door. Instead, you have let me sit by your fire.”
She looked from Jane to Elizabeth, her fingers clutching the handkerchief, as if she did not yet believe such favour.
Jane squeezed her hand briefly. “You need not think of that now.”
Elizabeth's expression had grown thoughtful. She glanced at Jane, then back to Anne, seeming to weigh her words.