Chapter 30
Mama’s composure, which had held admirably steady up to now, burst. “Yes, a half of a spoon,” she sobbed.
“Perhaps a mite less”—sniffle—“Yes, I am sure of it, though I cannot understand why you should suggest such a dreadful thing.” She clutched Lydia more tightly.
“I do not know what I would do if my dear Lydia was no more.” She rocked Lydia in her arms, both of them bawling.
“Now, now, I apologize for the scare,” said Dr. Sculthorpe, adding cheerily, “If she took so little, I daresay the bread will soak up the poison, and she will be right as rain soon.”
Papa returned, shoving the last of the cake in front of Lydia. “This is all there is.”
Dr. Sculthorpe pulled a chair closer, holding the plate up when another bout of tears nearly sent the plate toppling to the floor. “Have a bite, love,” he cooed, holding the plate under her nose. “It is delicious, is it not? Now, be a good girl, and clean your plate. Every last morsel.”
Encouraged to indulge her sweet tooth, Lydia’s hysterics surrendered to soft moans and chewing.
Once her mother’s tears had dried and her wails had died down to the occasional hiccup, Elizabeth asked, “How do you know the tonic is poisoned?”
“Her pulse was too rapid, and when I saw how quickly her eyes had dilated, I knew she had imbibed belladonna.”
“Belladonna?” Papa sank into the nearest chair, rubbing his temples. “Dear Lord, this is grave indeed.”
Dr. Sculthorpe held up his hands. “Your daughter is of a … stout … disposition. I am of the opinion she will survive unscathed, but we will know for a certainty in an hour or two. The nightshade is deadly, but it works mercifully fast.”
Mary, who had read as many books on horticulture as she had pamphlets with sermons, said, “Belladonna is taken from the Italian for ‘beautiful woman.’ It grew in popularity and use during the Renaissance. Women would extract the juice, dropping it inside their eyes to enlarge their pupils. Such is vanity — a fleeting striving after the wind.”
The doctor nodded. “The berries’ menace was known even in ancient Rome.”
Mary added, “The empress Livia Drusilla was said to have used it to murder her husband.”
Lydia stopped chewing, but Mama pushed the plate toward her.
Jane asked, “What should we look for over the next hour or two until Lydia is out of danger?”
“Aside from a racing pulse and dilated eyes, the worst cases provoke hallucinations and delirium along with convulsions.”
Lydia shoved the plate away, her lips pressed into a firm, white line.
“You must eat your cake, Lydia,” insisted Mama.
Tears pooled in Lydia’s eyes, but she looked too angry to cry.
“Think of your baby,” Mama added.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Lydia screeched, “There is no baby!”
“But your stomach—” Kitty exclaimed. “Your figure—”
Bottom lip trembling, Lydia sobbed, “George only brought me here to be rid of me.”
Shocked silence filled the room before several voices burst forth at once.
How could you do such a thing?
Why did you lie to your husband? To Us?
Did you think we would not notice as the weeks and months passed?
What were you thinking?
Where is that ingrate?
Tears poured down Lydia’s face, Kitty and Mama flanking her on either side, their arms around her waist, attempting to console her.
Again, Mama asked, “Wickham has always been so attentive, such a good husband. Why would you think such a thing?”
Lydia sniffed loudly. “George was distracted. There were nights he would not come home at all, or I would return from shopping early to find him home at the strangest hours. As it turns out”—sniff sniff—“he was carrying on with the maid.”
Papa handed her his handkerchief.
Lydia buried her face in the soft linen for several minutes.
Then, drying her eyes and leveling her shoulders, she continued, her grief yielding to spite.
“I dismissed her, of course. George was angry with me, and he rarely came home after that. I thought … I thought that if I told him I was pregnant, he would pay more attention to me. That things would go back to how they were before we got married.”
Kitty whispered, “You must tell them the rest.”
Elizabeth sucked in a breath, dreading to hear more.
Voice raw, Lydia began, “I was convinced I had grown rather clumsy. I suffered many accidents — little things like tripping over carpets, falling down stairs, and walking into doors.”
Elizabeth clutched her stomach, nauseous in sympathy for her sister and hatred for her useless husband.
“However, I am beginning to think that George provoked these ‘accidents.’” She blew her nose.
Kitty added gravely, “She has bruises all over.”
What sort of man inflicted harm on a woman who he thought bore his own child? A monster. A sick, detestable monster.
“Why did you not say anything sooner?” asked Jane, tears flooding her eyes as she leaned over to take her sister’s hands. “We would have helped you.”
Mama cooed and coddled. “I always said that George Wickham was no good, did I not? All that soldiering. It incites men of weak character to violence.”
“He hates me! He abandoned me, and now he is trying to kill me!” Lydia flared.
“He does not hate you. You are imagining things.” Mama turned abruptly to the doctor, plastering her hand against Lydia’s forehead. “Is this a hallucination?”
Lydia swatted her hand away. “I am perfectly sane — only sick from so much cake.”
Papa rose to stand behind her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said, “You may stay here as long as you like, Lydia. If Wickham dares show his face, I will run him off myself.”
“Not you, Mr. Bennet!” screeched Mama. “You would be honor-bound to call him out, and you would be certain to die in a duel. Let one of the other, younger men run him through.”
He chuckled. “It is a consolation to know you are not so eager to be rid of me.”
“To the contrary! I intend on many more years in your company.”
“Some men may take that as a threat, my dear.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
As much as Elizabeth enjoyed the flirtatious banter between her mother and father, something Lydia had said troubled her.
“Aside from the poisoned tonic, do you have any other reason to think Wickham was trying to kill you? Assuming he went to the trouble of bringing a hive to Longbourn, why did he not put it in your room?”
Lydia hiccupped. “He asked me to wave from my window. By the time we arrived, I thought for certain you had married and would depart for London … and I had planned on occupying your bedchamber.” She shrugged. “It is much larger than mine.”
The curtains billowing outside her open window. Mrs. Hill had closed her window. Elizabeth had not imagined it after all.
The bees, the tonic … Elizabeth’s mind reeled. “Have you taken any of the tonic before today?”
Lydia thought for a moment. “My first night, I fell asleep on the couch and was carried to my room. Then, Mr. Darcy brought that lovely machine.” Shaking her head, she said, “I have not needed it until today.”
Elizabeth chewed on her bottom lip, talking aloud. “Belladonna is a common plant here. Wickham must have squeezed some of the juice into your bottle. Was there an occasion when he might have done so without you noticing?”
Lydia’s eyes doubled in size. “When we recently arrived at Meryton. He left me at the inn while he disappeared for just over an hour.” She put her hands over her mouth. “You do not think he is responsible for the carriage, too, do you? He said he only wanted to make certain you were away.”
Wickham could have done more than poison his wife’s tonic in that time.
But why? Elizabeth forced herself to concentrate on what she knew, on the facts.
The carriage did not fit — not yet — so she focused on the tonic.
“I do not know yet. He must have hoped you would take your tonic and die in your sleep. When that did not work … he had to think of something else.”
Papa frowned. “Thatcher said someone has been lurking behind the carriage house.”
Again, another connection to the carriage. It had to have been Wickham. But why? The question would not go away.
“It is most likely,” Papa continued, “he observed me tending to my bees and stole Mrs. Bennet’s tablecloth to imitate my protective clothing.
” He exhaled deeply. “I must write to his commanding officer immediately.” He locked Lydia’s bottle of nerve tonic inside the cabinet.
“There is enough evidence to condemn him.”
Dr. Sculthorpe agreed. “Let us hope the young men have had success with his capture.”
Elizabeth prayed as much, while she also feared for Fitzwilliam’s life. A crazed man capable of murdering his expecting wife would not submit to an easy capture.