Chapter 2 #3
“How did you accomplish the move?” she asked.
Elizabeth shifted her weight against the mantel. “We waited until the house was quiet. The servants were at supper, and everything else had already been put in place. It required a good deal of ingenuity and a certain willingness to ignore dignity.”
Mary smiled faintly. “She bore it better than I should have done.”
“The boards at the threshold creak,” Elizabeth continued. “We laid the mat across them and proceeded slowly. She stopped once, when she heard a voice in the yard.”
“It was near enough that we waited in the passage,” Mary said.
Elizabeth nodded. “She did not move or speak. When the sound passed, we continued on.”
“She managed the stairs without difficulty,” Mary said, “though she kept to the wall.”
“Once inside the nursery, we shut the door and banked the fire low.” Elizabeth's voice remained even, matter of fact. “She stood for a moment, as though listening, and then crossed to the chair.”
“Did you make up a bed for her?” Jane asked quietly.
“We did. We drew it closer to the hearth.”
“She asked whether the door should be barred,” Mary said.
Elizabeth's expression flickered briefly. “We told her it was unnecessary, but that she might bolt it if she wished.”
“We left a candle and bread and broth within reach,” Mary said, “and explained the sounds she might hear from the house settling.”
“She listened carefully and asked how often we would come.”
Jane looked between them. “What did you tell her?”
“I shall go in the mornings,” Elizabeth said. “I rise before anyone else. I can take bread from the kitchen and Mrs. Hill will not question it.”
“In the evening, after dinner, once Mamma is settled, I shall go,” Jane said.
“I can manage the middle of the day,” Lydia said. “No one questions me.”
Kitty nodded. “I shall go up as well, and watch to ensure no one sees.”
“We can each carry up food and coal in small amounts without remark,” Mary said.
Elizabeth straightened from the mantel. “And water. I shall volunteer to bring her chamber pot down in the morning. Sarah will think it mine.”
“We must be careful,” Lydia said. “Voices carry when the nursery door is open.”
“They do,” Mary agreed. “Which is why the door must be opened as seldom as possible.”
Jane was silent for a moment, her hands resting on the edge of the dressing table. Then she said, “There was talk at the Gouldings'.”
Elizabeth lifted her head at once. “About him?”
“Yes. Not openly, but enough to be gathered.” Jane's expression darkened slightly. “People are enjoying the story. Which is to say, they are improving it.”
“I heard him described as handsome,” Kitty said. “Also, as perhaps thirty.”
“He has been asking questions,” Jane continued. “Quietly, but persistently.”
“About what?” Mary asked.
“About his wife, or sometimes his ward. The particulars change with each telling.”
“Have any particulars settled?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not entirely. She is variously described. Delicate. Wilful. Older than he is, or younger. No one agrees.”
Elizabeth's gaze was sharp. “Does anyone doubt him?”
“A few,” Lydia said. “Mrs. Long thought his manner too smooth. Mr. Hales said a man who loses his wife twice in one day ought not to be trusted with her a third time.”
Jane could not quite master her countenance. “That is something.” She paused. “He is staying at the White Hart. With a woman—not the one he claims as his wife.”
“So, they continue to seek her in Meryton,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes,” Jane said quietly. “Which is why nothing must appear out of the ordinary here. We must be uncommonly dull on the morrow.”
Kitty looked puzzled. “Dull?”
“Unremarkable,” Elizabeth clarified. “Predictable. Exactly as expected.”
Lydia grinned. “I can be vapid to perfection.”
Mary frowned slightly. “I shall continue with my extracts.”
For a moment no one spoke. Then Jane reached for the lamp.
“We have done enough for one night,” she said.
Elizabeth pushed away from the mantel. “More than enough.”
Mary rose at once and gathered her book. Kitty slipped from the footstool and crossed to Jane's side, where she lingered long enough to receive a brief embrace. Lydia paused in the doorway, then returned to kiss Jane's cheek before offering Elizabeth a quick squeeze of the hand.
Elizabeth smiled. “Sleep well, all of you.”
Jane extinguished the lamp. One by one, they wished her good night and slipped into the passage, leaving the room as it had been found—warm, orderly, and watchful.
A Visitor
Mrs. Bennet swept into the morning room with Mrs. Phillips in her wake, both women flushed with the pleasure of a good gossip already begun in the hall.
“Girls, your aunt has the most extraordinary news from Meryton,” Mrs. Bennet announced, settling herself on the sofa. “Tell them, sister. Tell them about the gentleman at the White Hart.”
Mrs. Phillips required no further encouragement. She arranged her shawl and leant forward with an expression of delighted scandal. “There is a gentleman staying at the inn—quite handsome, I am told, though I have not seen him myself—who is searching for his wife.”
“His wife!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, though she had clearly already heard this part. “Imagine! A wife running away from her husband!”
“She is quite young, apparently,” Mrs. Phillips continued. “Scarcely more than a girl. He says she is not quite right in her head—that she ran off during a stop to change horses, and he has been searching for her ever since.”
Jane set aside the letter she had been writing. Elizabeth remained perfectly still, her book open in her lap.
“How dreadful,” Mrs. Bennet said. “What sort of girl runs away from her own husband?”
“That is what everyone is asking,” Mrs. Phillips replied. “Though Mr. Morris at the posting house said the gentleman seems quite patient about it. He said young wives require proper managing, but that this gentleman appears willing to forgive her once she is found.”
Lydia, who had been standing by the window staring into the garden, turned with an expression of wide-eyed interest. “What does he look like, this gentleman?”
“Very fine, from what I hear. Dark-haired, well-dressed, though Mrs. Long's maid said his coat wanted pressing. He wore a bandage on his hand.”
“A bandage?” Lydia asked innocently. “How romantic! Perhaps he injured it rescuing someone.”
Mrs. Phillips looked pleased to have an appreciative audience. “I could not say. But he called in every shop in Meryton asking after a young lady in a blue pelisse. He describes her as tall, with fair hair, wearing fine clothing.”
“Fair hair and a blue pelisse,” Elizabeth said quietly. “That describes any number of young ladies.”
“True enough,” Mrs. Phillips agreed. “But he is quite specific about the pelisse—blue velvet, he says, and quite expensive.”
Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “I still cannot fathom why a wife would run from her husband. Unless he was cruel to her?”
“Oh, he does not seem cruel at all,” Mrs. Phillips assured her. “Quite the opposite. He speaks of her with great patience. He says she is wilful and requires a firm hand, but that he loves her dearly.”
Kitty, who had been sketching in her notebook, paused and looked up. Mary closed her book of sermons with more force than necessary.
“Is he still searching?” Lydia asked, her tone light and curious. “Or has he given up?”
“Oh, he is still about,” Mrs. Phillips said. “Though he has taken to drinking rather heavily at the inn. Mr. Clarke saw him in the taproom last night, quite in his cups.”
“Poor man,” Mrs. Bennet said. “It must be so distressing.”
“There is also a woman with him,” Mrs. Phillips added, lowering her voice slightly. “Older, rather fine in her dress. He says she is the girl's aunt. She has been helping him search, going to the shops and asking after her niece.”
Jane's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her pen. A drop of ink fell onto the page.
“Are you well, Jane?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“Quite well, Mamma. I was careless.”
Lydia had moved closer to her aunt, her expression one of rapt attention. “Has anyone seen the wife? The girl who ran away?”
“Not a soul,” Mrs. Phillips replied. “It is as though she vanished entirely. Some think she may have perished in the snow—it was dreadful weather that night. Others believe she found shelter somewhere and is too frightened to come forward.”
“Too frightened of her own husband?” Lydia said, as though the idea were novel. “How terrible that would be.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Phillips agreed. “Though one must wonder what she did to make him angry in the first place.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Her eyes remained on Mrs. Phillips face.
“Will he remain in Meryton?” Lydia asked. “Or will he move on to search elsewhere?”
“I could not say,” Mrs. Phillips replied. “Though he has paid for another night at the inn, so it seems he intends to stay for now.”
Mrs. Bennet shuddered dramatically. “I do hope he finds her soon. The poor man must be beside himself with worry.”
The conversation drifted to other topics—Mrs. Long's new bonnet, the price of mutton, a scandal involving the butcher's daughter—but Elizabeth noticed that Lydia continued to ask casual questions, drawing out every detail Mrs. Phillips possessed about the mysterious gentleman and his missing wife.
When their aunt finally took her leave, the girls remained in the morning room whilst Mrs. Bennet went to consult with Cook about dinner.
The moment the door closed behind her, Jane turned to Lydia.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice low but fierce. “All those questions—you drew far too much attention.”
“I was gathering information,” Lydia replied calmly.
“You were taking an enormous risk,” Elizabeth said. “If Aunt Phillips suspects—”
“She does not suspect,” Lydia interrupted. “She thinks I am silly and romantic. Everyone does. It makes me useful.”
“Useful?” Mary said sharply. “Or reckless?”
Lydia met her eyes steadily. “We needed to know if he is still searching, where he is staying, what story he is telling. Now we know all of that. Aunt Phillips will think nothing of my questions because she believes me too foolish to have any purpose behind them.”
Elizabeth studied her youngest sister with new consideration. “You did that deliberately. You played the role she expects of you.”
“Yes,” Lydia said simply. “Papa taught me this morning that showing one's understanding can be dangerous. So, I showed the opposite instead.”
“Well. It was effective, if alarming.”
“We have a more immediate problem,” Jane said quietly. “He is searching for a girl in a blue velvet pelisse. Anne's pelisse is upstairs, ruined and muddy, but still recognisable as blue velvet.”
The room fell silent.
“We must hide it,” Mary said. “Or better yet, destroy it.”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth said slowly. “It may serve as evidence if we need to prove what happened to her. But we cannot leave it where anyone might find it.”
“We can hide it in the trunk in the schoolroom,” Kitty suggested. “The one with our old summer things. No one opens it except when the seasons change.”
“That would do,” Jane agreed. “But we must move it today, before any servant happens to go near there.”
“Anne needs proper clothing,” Elizabeth added. “She cannot remain in that ruined gown. Jane, you said you were gathering some things for her?”
“A chemise, a petticoat, one of my older gowns,” Jane replied. “I have them bundled in my wardrobe, ready to bring up when I visit her this evening.”
“I have stockings and a shawl,” Kitty offered. “They are plain enough not to be missed.”
“Good,” Elizabeth said. “Jane, when you go up to-night, take the pelisse away with you. Wrap it in something so it is not visible. We shall hide it in the trunk to-morrow when the house is quiet.”
“Should we not burn it?” Mary asked.
“Not without Anne's consent,” Jane said firmly. “It may be evidence of his violence, and we have no right to destroy it without asking her first.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Agreed. For now, we hide it. The important thing is that no one—not a servant, not Mamma, and certainly not any visitor—should have cause to see it or wonder whose it might be.”