Chapter IV
There is nothing so disagreeable as being forced to listen to the loud lamentations of a spoiled child denied what she felt was her rightful due.
The Bennet family soon acknowledged this truth within moments of Lydia’s accident and forced confinement, though, in some ways, the servants received the brunt of Lydia’s ill humor.
With the departure of Mrs. Forster and her father still engaged in the business of directing the servants in seeing to Lydia’s effects, Elizabeth entered the house to find it in what she considered its typical chaos.
John, their manservant, had already conveyed an insensible Lydia up the stairs to her bedchamber, Mrs. Bennet following in his wake.
The wailing of her mother, audible through the hall and down the stairs from the second floor informed Elizabeth that she was not capable of acting in the decisive manner required by the situation.
Jane was nowhere in evidence, likely having followed them above stairs, but Kitty and Mary remained in the vestibule, at a loss for what to do.
“Kitty,” said Elizabeth, taking control of the situation at once, “go to the stables and have one of the stable hands ride to Meryton at once to seek Mr. Jones’s help.”
Though startled at the sudden command, Kitty did not hesitate, scurrying out the door at once.
Elizabeth turned to Mary and arched an eyebrow.
“Do you know if anyone has given instructions to the kitchen for Lydia’s succor?
She appeared to have a nasty gash on her forehead—at the very least, Mr. Jones will require clean linens and hot water. ”
Mary nodded, her manner becoming businesslike, much as Kitty before her. “And we will wish to wash the cut as soon as may be. I shall speak to cook directly.”
As Mary hurried from the room, Elizabeth took herself to the stairs, climbing swiftly, and reached Lydia’s room a moment later.
The situation was as she had expected, with Mrs. Bennet standing over her youngest daughter’s bed and wailing her horror at what had just happened.
Jane pleaded with her mother ineffectually while holding a bloodied cloth to Lydia’s forehead, but Mrs. Bennet was having no part of it.
John, the footman, stood nearby, uncertain of what he should do. Elizabeth attended to him first.
“John, Mr. Bennet would appreciate your presence outside, for we must transport Lydia’s effects back into the house.”
With a grateful nod, the lanky man departed, leaving the three women of the Bennet family with their fallen member. Elizabeth thought her father had Lydia’s possessions well in hand, but she knew he appreciated having some occupation that did not involve remaining in Lydia’s room.
“Mama!” said Elizabeth in a loud voice, turning her attention to the primary source of the disturbance.
Mrs. Bennet turned to her in shock, as if she had never heard such tones directed to her in her life.
“Please calm yourself, for we must determine what is to be done. I have sent for the apothecary.”
“Oh, Lizzy!” keened her mother. “Whatever shall we do? Lydia shall never recover, and we shall be the lesser because of her loss!”
“I hardly think she is in danger of expiring, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “Come, let us wait until Mr. Jones comes before we fret over such concerns.”
Try as she might, there was little Elizabeth could do to calm her mother, who continued to fuss and weep, bemoaning her daughter’s state.
Listening to her mother served no other purpose than to raise Elizabeth’s ire, for the largest part of her lamentations concerned Lydia’s lost opportunity to go to Brighton and make herself ridiculous with the officers.
A moment later, Mary arrived with Mrs. Hill, who carried a basin of water, eddying hints of steam rising from its surface.
She set it down on a nearby table, and Elizabeth took a clean cloth from within, wringing it out and then applying it to Lydia’s forehead.
Mrs. Hill, at Elizabeth’s pointed look, turned her attention to Mrs. Bennet, and with a skill borne of much experience, calmed her to the extent that Mrs. Bennet whimpered and cried, rather than howled and moaned.
It was a slight improvement, but welcome, nonetheless.
“Thank heavens for Mrs. Hill,” said Jane in a low voice to Elizabeth as they worked over Lydia’s form. “Even I had no luck in calming her.”
Elizabeth nodded to her sister. “When Mr. Jones comes, I shall ask him to prescribe a calming draught for her.”
They turned their attention to Lydia, and after Elizabeth had dabbed at her sister’s injury for some time, she removed the cloth to inspect it.
The lump marring the left side of Lydia’s forehead just below her hairline was beginning to purple, and the gash in the middle was angry and red, welling with crimson blood.
It did not look deep, but Elizabeth pressed the cloth down again to keep it from dripping.
The new gown that Lydia had wheedled from her mother was ruined, for it endured the indignity of becoming smudged and stained from her fall into the gravel of the drive, and dark flecks of blood had already dried on the bodice.
Knowing it was best to leave her as she was, Elizabeth made no move to disrobe her, choosing instead to keep the pressure on Lydia’s forehead to staunch the bleeding.
Jane concentrated her efforts on inspecting Lydia for any other damage.
It appeared there was little else to discover, for Lydia had not even had time to stretch out her hands to cushion her fall, such that she did not even have any scrapes on her hands.
Jane did point to a worrisome swelling of one ankle, unsurprising considering how her foot had slipped to the side, leading to her fall.
It was best, however, to leave the examination of her ankle to the apothecary, so Elizabeth and Jane contented themselves with mopping Lydia’s brow, applying pressure to the cut, and ensuring she was comfortable as they could make her.
Accompanied by the sounds of their mother’s continued, though softer, lamentations, they continued in this manner until Mr. Jones stepped into the room, followed by their father, less than thirty minutes later.
“Well, what do we have here?” asked the genial gentleman upon seeing Lydia on the bed.
While he had delivered his comment with entirely too much cheer given the situation, she told him at once what had transpired.
The apothecary listened intently, and when she had finished, thanked her.
Mrs. Bennet keened yet again, and taking one look at her, Mr. Jones produced a pouch of powder from his bag and offered it to Mrs. Hill.
“Dissolve this in water and ensure your mistress drinks it down. It will calm her for the nonce.”
Mrs. Hill nodded and, taking her mistress by the arm, helped her to her feet and led her from the room.
Mrs. Bennet was almost docile in following her longtime servant; soon blessed quiet settled over the room.
Mr. Jones chuckled and shook his head, then took up his work.
He inspected the cut on Lydia’s forehead first, clucking over it, but saying nothing as he placed a bandage there, securing it with a length of fabric wrapped around her head.
“Now, let us see to the ankle,” said Mr. Jones.
Deftly, he loosened the laces of Lydia’s short boot and eased it off her foot. Unfortunately, the activity was painful enough to jolt Lydia to consciousness.
“W-What?” asked the girl, her eyes popping open. “Where is Harriet?” asked she, her words slurred as one waking from a deep sleep.
Mr. Jones ignored her while Jane appeared to comfort Lydia with soothing sounds. Unfortunately, this did nothing but provoke Lydia’s agitation.
“Unhand me!” exclaimed she, coming to full wakefulness.
Lydia attempted to sit up, but a wave of nausea hit her, and she groaned, falling back onto the mattress. Mr. Jones was an elderly man, having tended to the community for many years, and thus he was familiar with all the Bennet girls and their characters.
“You have my apologies, Miss Lydia, but I am afraid you will go nowhere for the foreseeable future.”
It was no shock when Lydia peered at the gentleman through the haze of pain and voiced her displeasure. “But I am to go to Brighton! I must make haste before Harriet departs without me!”
“Your friend has been gone these forty-five minutes or more,” said Mr. Bennet, his amusement not hidden despite his daughter’s misfortune.
While Lydia regarded him with something akin to terror, Mr. Jones continued to inspect her ankle.
That, of course, led to the commencement of Lydia’s loud complaints nearly driving them all from the room.
Jane, dear soul that she was, looked on her youngest sister with compassion, though all Elizabeth could summon was exasperation.
Their father, it seemed, was enjoying the scene, for he watched with more than a hint of sardonic amusement.
When he had finished, Mr. Jones produced more of the powder and instructed them to give it to Lydia to manage the pain. Then Mr. Bennet invited him out of the sick room into a quieter part of the house. Interested to learn what he would say, Elizabeth followed them.