Chapter 29
Elizabeth settled herself inside her father’s study, a long day ahead of her and a worn copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho.
Radcliffe’s gothic novel seemed appropriate, and given the profusion of extraordinary events in her own life of late, Elizabeth could not hope to entertain herself and pass the hours with anything less than an equally spectacular tale.
Joining the heroine and her father as they crossed the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean coast, anticipating her first meeting of her love, Valancourt, Elizabeth startled when her father touched her shoulder.
“Lizzy, Miss de Bourgh is here,” he said, his expression as puzzling as his words. “She has come to call on you.”
“Am I not staying indoors to avoid being seen? How am I supposed to receive callers if I am feigning to be dead?”
Papa scratched his chin. “Yes, that is inconvenient for her.” He pushed his spectacles down, peeking at her over the rims. “Her manners are so agitated, I could not bring myself to tell her. She said her call is of an urgent nature, that she simply must speak with you.”
“Goodness gracious.” Elizabeth uncurled from her perch, setting the novel on top of the cushion to wait for her return. Pity it would not keep her seat warm. “How is our plan to keep me safe from Wickham to meet with any success if we cannot even properly fake my demise?”
“Miss de Bourgh arrived alone in a hired cart. Why would she defy propriety — and, no doubt, her mother — unless the reason for her call is of great import?”
Good points, all of them. “If you do not object, might I receive her here? With you and Dr. Sculthorpe?”
He raised his eyebrows. “She does not appear dangerous. If the lady is hiding some weapon on her person, I doubt her strong enough to lift it.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “If the reason for her call is so important, I would rather not be the only person to hear what she has to say. In case you have forgotten, I am not yet in full possession of my mental faculties, and I do not quite trust my memory well enough to relay the details to you later.”
Papa did not laugh at her joke. Not even a smile. He patted her shoulder. “Patience, my dear girl. It will come. And perhaps Miss de Bourgh will help jog your memory.”
She swallowed and blinked, regretting her poorly timed joke. “Then you had best see her in.”
Miss de Bourgh did, indeed, appear agitated.
Elizabeth soaked in her appearance and manners, from her drawn face and brittle frame to her cowed posture and apprehensive air.
No memories resurfaced, but Elizabeth did not know if that was due to her amnesia or previous lack of conversation with the lady.
Too anxious for tea, Miss de Bourgh got straight to the point. “My mother wrote to the director of Bethlem Hospital. She has convinced herself she is doing you a service and sparing Darcy.”
Sculthorpe cursed under his breath.
“Are you familiar with the gentleman?” Miss de Bourgh asked.
“It brings me no pleasure to say I am. We worked together for a time but had a falling out over methods. Dr. Slade is cold, unfeeling. He believes nothing should stand in the way of science. Not compassion. Not decency. Not human dignity.”
“How convenient that I am no more, then,” Elizabeth mumbled, explaining before Miss de Bourgh swooned.
“I am not a ghost, nor have I gone mad. I am merely frustrated to be stuck indoors when I would rather enjoy the pleasant weather out of doors. We must allow my attacker to believe her … or his … latest attempt has been successful, and so I have ensconced myself in my father’s book room.
” When her explanation did little to ease her caller’s nerves, Elizabeth explained the calamities which had recently befallen them.
Miss de Bourgh’s complexion paled, a feat which Elizabeth would not have believed possible had she not seen it with her own eyes.
Blue and green veins crawled and pulsated under the lady’s skin.
“I realize my mother has given you no reason to sympathize with her and every reason to suspect she is behind these attempts, but I cannot condemn her nor deem her responsible.”
Elizabeth was not so easily convinced. “Did she send her letter by post or messenger?” she asked.
“Post. Mr. Collins sent it.”
Papa growled. “If Darcy does not flog his hide, I will!”
Charlotte’s husband or not, Elizabeth would not spare Mr. Collins from either gentleman.
“Miss de Bourgh, you do well to defend your mother. Any loyal daughter would do the same,” began Elizabeth. “However, please do not take offense if I have to wonder if she might have hired someone to interfere in her stead?”
The lady squeezed her hands together, her knuckles white. “My mother is strong-willed and overbearing, but she is not cruel.”
Elizabeth was not so certain, but she would not contradict the daughter when she had risked her mother’s ire by driving to Longbourn.
“I know you do not believe me, Miss Bennet, nor would I if our roles were reversed. I have no better proof than my own word, which is as useless to you as it would be to anyone. I wish to be of assistance if I may in some small way, but I realize how unqualified I am in presuming to help you.”
The tremble of sincerity in Miss de Bourgh’s tone, the way she belittled herself as though she held no more esteem for herself than a frayed ribbon, stirred Elizabeth’s compassion.
“You do not give yourself enough credit. It took a great deal of bravery to hire a cart and drive here on your own to warn me when you have not been given leave to act independently.” Elizabeth did not remember Lady Catherine clearly, but she sensed she was an imposing figure.
Miss de Bourgh smiled softly, her wide eyes glistening. “I dream of more independence.” She pressed her lips together, her owlish eyes showing how deeply she regretted expressing her own opinion aloud.
Elizabeth could not allow for Miss de Bourgh to regret her boldness when she ought to be encouraged. Gesturing at the bookshelves surrounding them, she said, “Book rooms are for dreaming, Miss de Bourgh. You are in the safest place in the world.”
Her caller nodded, the color of her knuckles warming to a pinker hue.
Papa took his cue. “It is also incomplete without a cup of tea and a plate of cake. I will rouse Mrs. Hill to see what Cook has hidden from Lydia in the pantry.” He caught Sculthorpe’s eye and, in an effective-if-not-subtle gesture, he jerked his head toward the door.
Once they were alone, Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice light, conspiratorial. “What would you do with more independence?”
She caught a glimpse of color in Miss de Bourgh’s cheeks, and for the first time, Elizabeth saw how she might have been a beauty had her health (or her mother) permitted it.
“I would take up residence in Bath and drink tea and eat cake every day at a fashionable shop where I could observe the striking frocks and outlandish styles of the ton. It is marvelous — like a living, moving painting.” She blinked, looking down at her hands, the spell broken.
“It is more colorful than the dark rooms at Rosings. My mother insists on drawing the curtains when I would rather see everything.”
If anyone needed a reprieve from their mother, it was Anne de Bourgh. Elizabeth asked, “Do you know anyone at Bath?”
“No.”
Phrasing her question so as not to be overly indelicate, Elizabeth asked, “Is there anyone who might be able to offer you a degree of independence?”
Miss de Bourgh blushed in reply.
Elizabeth was intrigued. Miss de Bourgh did know someone — a gentleman she would wager. How very interesting. How very … hopeful.
Miss de Bourgh was so timid, so ill-used and abused, Elizabeth wished she could help her.
Especially if she were to be truly happy with Fitzwilliam.
Knowing his cousin withered away at Rosings would cast a shadow over the contentedness Elizabeth wanted with Fitzwilliam.
She would rather see Miss de Bourgh happy … or, at least, free.
“A gentleman, perhaps?” Elizabeth pressed. Hearing no denial, she smiled, adding, “You cannot imagine how pleased I am to hear it, Miss de Bourgh. My conscience could not be at ease if I thought you held designs toward Mr. Darcy.”
Her gaze shot up to meet Elizabeth’s. “No! … That is to say, I could never agree to marry Darcy, knowing he loves another as much as he loves you.”
Elizabeth warmed. Fitzwilliam had reassured her many times of his constancy, but it was quite another matter to hear another’s observation of it. Such affirmation, so necessary and welcome, determined Elizabeth all the more to see to Miss de Bourgh’s happiness.
“What of you?” she asked softly. “Is there someone you prefer? Someone of whom Lady Catherine certainly disapproves?” she added with a hint of merriment.
Miss de Bourgh smiled, as Elizabeth had hoped she would. Her hands lay open in her lap. “I used to think there was. We grew up together.”
“At Rosings?” Elizabeth asked after Miss de Bourgh had fallen silent.
“Yes.”
More silence. She was not easy to converse with, but with a mother such as Lady Catherine, it was possible that Miss de Bourgh merely lacked sufficient practice.
Elizabeth attempted to draw her out, but Miss de Bourgh must have felt that she had said enough for one day.
She uttered nothing more than farewells, forgoing tea and cake, saying she must return before her mother noted her absence.
Apparently, Miss de Bourgh had slipped some nerve tonic into her mother’s tea to ensure her escape went unnoticed, thus reinforcing Elizabeth’s heightened opinion of the lady. Miss de Bourgh was much bolder than she let on.
But until she was free of her mother, she would have no freedom. And, like most ladies of a domineering character, Lady Catherine was likely to disregard her own mortality and live longer than her daughter.
That left only one option. Miss de Bourgh must marry. And Elizabeth had a good idea whom she would ask for more information about the lady’s mysterious gentleman.
Her father’s study, normally a quiet haven for reading and contemplation, fluttered with activity as her mother and sisters returned from Meryton.
They flitted in and out of the room, full of gossip and releasing themselves of the merriment they had suppressed with shows of grief.
They had not gone so far as to claim Elizabeth deceased to the world, but they felt certain they had achieved their objective of suggesting that tragedy had befallen her.
They were tremendous actresses, well, except for Mary who was generally considered to be somber anyway.
She said very little, but her participation in the scheme displayed a chink in her piety Elizabeth was relieved to discover.
She decided that after Miss de Bourgh, Mary would be the next to benefit from her interference.
Lydia gladly plucked at the cake Miss de Bourgh left behind while Kitty informed Elizabeth about Maria Lucas’ new gown of pink silk and the charming straw bonnets in the milliner’s shop window.
Jane called not one hour after Miss de Bourgh departed, looking somber in a mauve gown.
“Mr. Darcy and the colonel asked Charles for help searching for Mr. Wickham. They said he had been staying at an old, flea-infested cottage. But, Lizzy, I do not understand it,” Jane said.
Lydia shoved away the plate of cake, spilling her tea all over the surface.
“Have a care, Lydia,” Mama gently admonished.
Jane continued her questioning. ”Why should Wickham have anything against you? If anything, he would wish to take advantage of the connection you will give him with Mr. Darcy.”
Lydia’s lips were now pursed together, her nostrils flared as she sucked air through her nose.
“Lydia, calm yourself,” Mama cajoled. “Fits and tantrums are not good for the baby.”
Elizabeth watched her youngest sister’s face crumple. “I will kill him! I will do it myself, I swear!” she wailed, collapsing against Mama’s side, her weeping echoing amidst the shocked silence.
Mama whispered to Mary, “Fetch Dr. Sculthorpe. I daresay I succumbed to hysterics when I was with child, but it makes no sense to house a doctor if he cannot help her.”
The doctor tried to soothe Lydia. They all did. But she was beyond the ability to reason.
“Does she have a calming tonic?” Dr. Sculthorpe finally asked.
Kitty lunged toward the hall. “I will fetch it!” she said, returning in short time with a spoon and the bottle of tonic of which Lydia had bragged about earlier to Mama.
Taking the bottle and balancing the spoon in one hand while consoling Lydia with the other, Mama poured the liquid like a seasoned master.
Getting the spoonful into Lydia was another matter, though, and after several attempts with an equal number of spills, Mama huffed.
“That is quite enough, Lydia. Hold still and open up.”
Startled to hear Mama scold her so firmly, Lydia did as she was bid.
Mama shoved what was left of the dose into Lydia’s mouth, provoking a fit of coughs to which she smacked her daughter’s back, saying, “That will do for now, I suppose. You will get more when you are calm enough to take it properly.”
After a cup of tepid tea leftover from the dregs of the teapot, Lydia finally calmed.
Mama asked, “Dr. Sculthorpe, shall I give her more? I do not know what is in it besides bilberries. They are not harmful to her unborn child, are they?”
Dr. Sculthorpe indulged her concern, standing by Lydia and placing his fingers against her wrist. Next thing, he knelt on the floor in front of her, holding her chin up to look into her eyes. Her pupils were so large, her eyes looked black. “You say you do not know what is in that tonic?” he asked.
“No,” Mama answered, her arm tightening around Lydia.
“Where did she get it?” he asked, lifting her chin and insisting, “Who gave this to you?”
More than alarmed, he sounded angry.
“A doctor from the north,” Lydia said, her face turning red again, preparing for another bout of tears.
He turned to Papa. “Is there more cake or bread in the house? She must eat immediately.”
Papa ran out to the hall, calling for Mrs. Hill.
The doctor turned to Lydia. “There, there. We will fill your stomach, and you will be well. Would you say the spoon was only half-full, Mrs. Bennet?”
“I hardly know!”
“Pray try to remember. Your daughter’s life depends upon it. This tonic is poison!”