Chapter 17 #2
Is she staring at my reticule? Fearing that the shape of the stolen letter might be obvious through the silk bag upon her lap, Hannah pressed her hand over it and gasped when the filched item inside crinkled.
Why did it sound so loud? She glanced at the others.
Had anyone else heard it? Well, why should I not have paper in my reticule?
She tried to subdue her anxiety, but the knowledge that she had done something terribly wrong was exposing her to a myriad of inquietudes. Had guilt made her anxious to such a degree that it might be perceived by others, particularly Althea? Dear God, I must put this letter back!
“You misunderstood me, Miss Bennet. What I meant is that it is lovely to see you up and about after yesterday’s mishap.
Although…perhaps it would be advisable to remain abed awhile, at least until”—Mr Darcy and I are, in truth, engaged—“we are certain that you are free from some horrid affliction. It might take considerable time for symptoms of disease to appear after one has been submerged in murky water. Heaven knows what evils thrive at the bottom of that mere.”
Across the room, Althea glared at her.
“Evils, indeed.” Miss Bennet gave a little laugh. “I thought it might be a toothy pike when Hector clamped onto my wrist. And what I had feared was a nasty lamprey was, in fact, Mr Darcy’s arm sliding round my waist.”
“His…arm. Round your waist, you say? My, my.” Behind Hannah’s eyes, everything went red.
Elizabeth Bennet will never know the contents of this letter!
“How fortunate you were to have such a hero. Mr Darcy, the man who saved you from shallow water.” Her quick, high-pitched laughter sounded shrill, even to Hannah’s own ears, and she caught another glimpse of Althea’s scorn.
“My brother estimated it was six feet deep.” Miss Darcy spoke in a direct manner and looked Hannah in the eye. “And a person can drown in far less than that.”
And who would dare argue with a Darcy? It was on the tip of Hannah’s tongue to do so, but she abstained.
The same maid who had placed the accursed letter in temptation’s way entered with a tea service, and while Miss Hughes poured, Miss Bennet spoke.
“Miss Wright, I have been remiss in thanking you for the lovely little watercolour you made for my album amicorum. Oh, would you like to see the delightful message Mr Darcy wrote in it?” She rose from her chair and crossed the room.
You take great pleasure in adding insult to injury, do you?
“There is nothing I would like better.” …
than for you to leave Somerset and go back to Herefordshire or wherever you belong.
The welts on Hannah’s arms chose that moment to itch like the dickens, and she thought she might go mad if she could not scratch them.
Following Miss Bennet with her eyes, Miss Darcy said, “I was asked by Miss Margaret to extend to you her best wishes for your good health.”
“Then please thank her for me. Now, Miss Wright, here is my friendship book, open to the pertinent page.”
Hannah read Mr Darcy’s entry, and it was evident that he had put some thought into it, for his message referenced both debates and the game of shuttlecock and battledore. “How nice.” She closed the book and passed it back to her enemy.
Resisting the impulse to fidget or scratch, Hannah realised her mouth had gone so terribly dry that she could scarcely swallow.
Taking an indecorous gulp of the tea that she had been given, she found it strong and bitter.
Did I not ask for milk? Is Miss Hughes smirking at me? She placed the cup and saucer aside.
When a startling sound came from above her head, Hannah’s short, sharp shriek was delivered in the same manner as the painful yelp Hector had uttered when she had purposely stepped upon his paw.
Thankful that the cup of hot tea was no longer in her hand, she cried, “What on earth was that ungodly racket?”
“All I heard was your indecorous yelp, Sister.” Althea smirked at her.
“I think she meant the sound the cuckoo clock made when it struck half past one.” Miss Hughes pointed to the hideous timepiece. “It was a gift to my aunt and uncle from some distant cousin of theirs in Germany.”
“It did take quite a while to become accustomed to the sound.” Miss Bennet took a sip of tea.
I swear she is hiding a smirk behind that cup. “Well, my goodness, half past one. How our time here has flown.” Hannah stood. “Miss Darcy, Thea, shall we?”
Miss Darcy requested that the carriage be brought round. “Miss Hughes, Miss Bennet, you and the Bakers must dine at Strandsmere soon. After consulting with my brother and Mrs Carter, I shall send round an invitation on the morrow stating the date and time.”
“Capital! Capital!” Miss Hughes had affected a deep, masculine tone of voice, then she turned to Miss Bennet. “Was that not a good impression of Sir William Lucas?”
Whatever was henceforth said went unheard by Hannah. Capital! She felt the blood draining from her face and thought she might swoon. Somehow, she had to find a way to take the letter from her reticule and return it without anyone witnessing her doing so.
When they reached the vestibule, she knew it would be impossible. The factotum, Tom—whose name had inexplicably come to her—was stationed there, waiting to assist them. Beside him was his employer, Mr Baker, with one letter in his hand. The console table was empty.
Pacing in her bedchamber while awaiting her younger sister, Hannah scratched at her arms. What to do? What to do?
“Hannah?” Margaret slipped into the room. “My dear sister, you look poorly. Are you unwell?”
“I am both conscience-stricken and, I fear, as good as dead.”
“Surely whatever the problem is, it cannot be as dire as all that. Have your bites become infected?” Margaret rolled up Hannah’s sleeves and gasped at all the angry welts.
“I am accustomed to watching grooms add poultices to a horse’s limbs, but I have never done such a thing myself.
I shall instruct Mrs Carter to see to the preparation of something for your poor arms. Lavender, chamomile, and diluted camphor or peppermint.
She will know. For now, though, I shall apply cold cloths and hope for the abatement of your discomfort. ”
“Do not fuss, Meg. These bites are but a trifle in comparison to what I fear is to come.”
“Please do not keep me in further suspense, Sister. Tell me now, for surely this curiosity will be the death of me.” Margaret busied herself at the wash-stand, pouring water from a ewer onto cloths, then gestured for Hannah to sit upon the bed.
“Here. The water is cool rather than cold, but it may be somewhat soothing.”
Once the cloths were applied, instead of confessing her crime, Hannah simply handed the purloined letter to her sister.
“I do not understand. This is addressed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Why do you have it?” Margaret turned the letter over. “The seal is broken.”
Hannah wailed, “Yes, I know! I stole it, then tried to put it back but could not. As soon as I returned here, the temptation was so great that I opened another person’s letter and read it.” Hanging her head, she wept. “Meg, stealing post is a capital offence.”
“Then we shall burn the evidence.”
“Destroying post is also punishable by death.”
“How can they prove anything if we reduce the letter to ashes?”
Hannah jumped to her feet and paced about the room. “I do not want to destroy it. The letter is from her ‘loving sister Jane’, who must be a dependable source. And within is information that will ensure Mr Darcy shuns Elizabeth Bennet forevermore.”
“Show me.”
Heads together, they unfolded the letter, and holding it close to the window, Margaret silently read the section to which Hannah pointed.
“Do you comprehend the significance of this, Meg?”
“Yes. You must show it to Mr Darcy.”
“And what would you have me say to him? How can I possibly explain having that Jezebel’s letter in my possession? I cannot admit that I stole it.”
“Keep this page and fold it as many times as you can. I shall burn the rest. Tell Mr Darcy you found the paper on his punt, tucked between the gunwale and the thwart. Say that you discovered it while sitting on the boat, waiting for him to rescue Miss Bennet. He will think she hid it there.”
“Slow down, Meg. I know what thwart means. But what is a gunnel?”
“The gunwale is the topmost edge of a boat’s side. The thwart is the plank one sits upon.”
“Oh. I thought thwart was what I intend to do about Elizabeth Bennet’s designs on Mr Darcy.”