Chapter 15 Loch Bairn
LOCH BAIRN
The next morning, Charlotte called to suggest a private stroll, as she had news.
“I wished to speak with you,” she said once we were out of the house, “before Mr. Collins makes any announcement.”
“Announcement?” I asked, puzzled.
Since Mr. Collins’s unexpected and unsuccessful proposal to me, he had launched an extensive social tour of our neighbors, returning late each evening to pay brief regards to my father before retiring. I felt this was a superb outcome.
“Mr. Collins and I are engaged,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
I laughed. “Impossible.” We took several steps before Charlotte’s silence made me stop. “You cannot be serious?”
“I suppose you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should win a woman’s good opinion when he was unable to succeed with you.”
I blinked, then I was mortified. “You have surprised me, that is all. It has been only—” I gulped back the rest, realizing it was wildly rude.
“Only two days since his proposal to you,” she finished for me, but with a smile. “Yes, I am aware. I knew you would be surprised.”
I learned that Mr. Collins’s social efforts were visits to Lucas Lodge.
He had expressed great sympathy for the loss of their tunnelworm, even suggesting that Lady Catherine de Bourgh would express her condolences if only she knew, and that he was certain this tragedy would encourage a wonderful binding when Charlotte wed.
“He is very eager to bind,” Charlotte explained, now sounding uncomfortable. “It is all in deference to Lady Catherine’s interest in draca, not any other goal, as we shall have a good house and living of our own. But this places me in a most uncomfortable position with you, dear Lizzy.”
The entailment. Once Charlotte and Mr. Collins bound a draca, they would, eventually, inherit Longbourn.
“Odious, pontificating Mr. Collins!” I cried. “How can she?”
I had run to Jane the instant Charlotte left.
“Charlotte has always been practical about marriage,” Jane said. “Not everyone is romantic, you know. Mr. Collins has good connections and a secure position.”
“I am hardly ‘romantic’ when I call Mr. Collins conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, and silly. You know he is. No woman who marries him is sensible, and you should not defend her!”
“I defend you from yourself, Lizzy. Charlotte is happy. It is you who are aggravated.”
I harrumphed but could not think of a clever response.
Finally, I settled for, “I am quite sick of men interfering in women’s lives.
Mr. Bingley will return, but I am vexed with him for being so influenced by his sister.
And now, Mr. Collins has… has proposed again, and Charlotte’s acceptance is troublesome. ”
“It seems you are complaining of women.”
“Men are the root of it all.” I flopped onto our bed, and the quilt puffed up around me. “And Mr. Darcy has run away.”
“Surely you desired that?”
“Of course.” I was not even sure why I had said that. “But I shall need a new partner for arguing.”
“There is still Mr. Wickham. Or do you have other plans for him than arguing?”
I had told Mr. Wickham’s story to Jane. That was a dilemma for her, who was so sweet-hearted that she could not believe Mr. Darcy would do something that dreadful, nor could she believe Mr. Wickham would say anything but the truth.
“I have no idea what my plans are for Mr. Wickham.” I sighed at the ceiling.
Still, at least Mr. Wickham would not be missing any more balls. I should challenge Lydia to see who achieved more dances with dashing officers. That would be both vain and complacent. I may as well be efficient in my shallow pursuits.
And, I did enjoy him. I was impressed when we first met. Should I be entranced by now? Or in love?
If I put my mind to it, perhaps I could become in love. But a strategy of self-coercion, or worse, self-deception, scraped even more than Charlotte’s philosophy of practicality.
There was a tentative knock at our door, and a Scottish brogue said, “Ma’am?”
I sat up. “Oh! Please come in.” The Scottish laundry maid entered, curtsying. I stood, smiling in welcome. “Jane, do you remember…”
I realized I had never asked her name. Not even from Mrs. Hill. How idiotic. And complacent.
Jane rose and took her hand. “Of course, I remember. I have seen you at Longbourn often, and you helped when I was ill at Netherfield. I must have been a great inconvenience.”
Only Jane could have such perfect grace while rescuing her foolish sister.
Determined to make amends, I stepped in and gave the maid a hug, feeling her astonishment.
“You have done more than help. I owe you my sister’s health, or more likely, her life.
You have my deepest and most heartfelt thanks. ”
“Your sweet sister Jane is up an’ about. I am as happy for that as could be. What else is there?”
“Forgive me, but I have not had occasion to ask your name?”
“Bruichladdich, ma’am.”
Good gracious. Perhaps I should not have asked. I took a breath and tried my best.
“Mrs. Brook-ladder,” I said. “I was most concerned to discover you lost your position at Netherfield. I am fully responsible.”
“ ’Tain’t so serious, lassie,” she replied, relaxing into a smile. “I go bout t’ all the manors on wash days. That was just one of ’em, na’ much. And not my favorite. I been washing for Longbourn since you were wee ’uns.”
I had struggled to follow her, but I thought I understood. “Would you like a position? Here, at Longbourn?”
“Are you needing laundry every day, then, ma’am? I see you dirtying even more petticoats than you used ta, and you were a terror as a girl.” I felt myself coloring as she continued, “But laundry is na’ a daily chore.”
“But… some other position?”
“I wash laundry, ma’am. I wouldn’t know what else to do.”
We had reached my other reason to meet. “Perhaps I could engage your services to advise on draca?”
“Ma’am?” She seemed very taken aback.
“You are so knowledgeable. We have been attempting to interpret our family’s journal…” I showed her the journal and the rubbing Jane had taken of the cover.
“I’m not for books, ma’am. I know only what any good Scot would know.”
“But even that is so interesting. You say that draca are Scottish. I was told they were Chinese.”
Her eyebrows rose. “They do na’ look Chinese to me, ma’am. All Scots know draca hail from Scotland.” She pointed, not to the journal but to the rubbing. “ ’Tis in front of your nose, as well.”
I looked where she pointed. “Longbourn?”
She laughed. “It does not say ‘Longbourn,’ lassie. Can you na’ read?” She traced the first part, Long, before the space that Jane had noted. “That is Loch, not Long.”
“Loch bourn?” I said in disbelief, trying to copy her Scottish pronunciation.
“Loch bairn, it says.” She pointed to the ou, which, as if by magic, shifted in my eyes to an intertwined ai.
She was right. The elaborate, stylized g in Long, which rose both high and low, was an h preceded by a c.
“Is that Scottish?” I asked in a stunned tone.
“Aye, lassie. Loch bairn. It means, Child of the lake.”
“It cannot be Scottish!” Scottish was… well, foreign.
“Bennet is a Scottish name, lassie. We’re awash in Bennets in the north.”
“You mean, both Bennets and draca are Scottish? Next, Mary will tell me Bennets are Chinese as well!”
She cackled with delight. “And what’s wrong with being a Scot? I can show ye to dance proper, without all that silly clapping of the English dances.”
“But we are English!”
My tone was sharp, and her gaze dropped—a servant disciplined by her better. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No… I am sorry. You have been a tremendous help. It is just… unexpected.” This had been a day for surprises.
“It is charming we have Scottish ancestors,” Jane said. “What a delightful discovery.”
“I must get back to washing, ma’am.” The maid seemed eager to go. I hoped it was not because of my reaction.
“Of course, if you must. I would like to speak again. Wait, I have something…”
I went to my dressing table, where I had wrapped a little package in velvet and tied it with ribbon, as ladies wrap the gifts they exchange for amusement.
I pressed it into her hand. “I know you helped from your own goodness, but please accept my gift. I feel inadequate offering so little when what you provided was priceless.”
“All right, ma’am,” she said and left with a hasty curtsy.
I hoped I had made the right choice. Even though money would be unthinkably gauche within society, gentlemen did give farthings or pennies to servants on occasion.
Money must be more helpful than an embroidered scarf or hand-painted saucer, which would be ridiculous.
So, I had wrapped up four pounds, or more exactly, sixteen crown coins—four months’ wages for a laundry maid, as I knew from assisting with my father’s books.
It was most of the money I had saved from my allowance, and all I could provide without asking Papa, which would have been difficult to explain.
“Loch bairn,” Jane said. “Child of the lake. Could that be the original name of our estate? Or is it the ancestral name of an older estate? We have no lakes, after all.”
Preoccupied, I wandered, ending in our drawing room. The longcase clock, granite chimneypiece, and birch-framed mirror sketched an elegant triangle around me and the graceful furniture.
Charlotte and Mr. Collins would take all this.
Presumably, they would remain at Mr. Collins’s parish; the entailment was satisfied by a short stay at Longbourn.
Would they lease the manor? It made no difference to my family’s prospects.
Without the income provided by the estate, we could never afford it.
I was not sure we could afford anything.
For all that I scorned Mamma’s pursuit of husbands for her daughters, she might be the most sensible of any of us.
There was no other way for a gentlewoman to support herself.
A governess was closest to a respectable position, and even that was little more than servantry.
I imagined applying with lowered eyes and great deference for the privilege of educating the Hursts’ children. I could boast of my expertise in the exotic study of draca, explaining they were both Chinese and Scottish, and promise to keep my petticoats clean.
“You are being excessively morbid, Lizzy Bennet,” I said out loud.
Outside the window, a horse with regimental markings was tethered by our entrance. An officer’s horse.
Curious, I went out and walked around the manor. As I approached the rear, I heard Lydia’s excited voice through the overgrown laurel hedge.
“The dog was utterly mad, barking and jumping and very terrifying. I was so frightened! You would not believe the way my chest pounded. And then, like a bolt from the blue, our drake swooped in! And… the dog was dead! Just like that! I thought I should scream!”
Lydia was telling the story of Mary’s and my encounter with the mad dog, revised as if she were present. I was amused more than anything. Lydia was sixteen. Her exuberant personality turned heads, but she was still a child.
“And then… fire! It whooshed, and then I did scream! But from excitement. I was not afraid at all. He was protecting me!” Her excited tone became curious. “Is this what you mean, about power? I should like to tell draca what to do.”
“I dare say you have a gift with drakes,” a man’s voice answered, sodden with flattery. “Perhaps I can encourage it.”
My next step skidded on the gravel. I knew the voice.
Lydia and Mr. Wickham came into view. Together. Intimately close. Lydia was wearing short sleeves, a fashion fresh from London that I had not yet adopted. With astonishment—disbelief more than anything—I saw Wickham’s hand cradling her bare elbow.
“Mr. Wickham.” I heard the words. I must have said them.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, turning with a charming smile. There was not even a hint of embarrassment, although his hand was now at his side. “We have been exploring Longbourn’s park.”
“Go inside, Lydia,” I said. My voice tasted strange and stiff on my lips. “You should not explore alone with a gentleman.”
“Oh, that is very nice,” she said. “Are you a chaperone, now? You are not so old as that, Lizzy.”
“Go inside.”
“You are jealous!”
“Lydia! Go inside.” I snapped it with all the authority I could summon from four years of seniority and my favored standing with Papa.
Lydia stomped off.
Wickham grinned as if this were a great joke. When the manor’s rear door slammed behind Lydia, he came toward me—closer even than Mr. Darcy had been after carrying me away from the river.
“Are you jealous?” he asked in a teasing voice. His hands enclosed my arms.
“Mr. Wickham!” I tried to free my arms, but his grip was tight. “You forget yourself.”
“Is forgetfulness so bad?” He pulled me closer. His leg brushed my skirts.
I slammed both hands hard against his chest, driving us apart. “That is enough. Leave now. You are not welcome at Longbourn.”
“Who are you to say whether I am welcome?” He was annoyed now.
“I shall happily fetch Papa. I assure you he will agree. Or Mr. Hill can summon the footman to lead you to your horse.”
He laughed and strolled away toward the front of the house.
I stood, rigid with fury and fear and dismay. An hour ago, I had lain on my bed and fancied whether I could love Mr. Wickham. The memory turned my stomach and climbed like bile in my throat. I was as angry with myself as with him. Almost.
A wide, sharp shadow flashed over the shrubs, and again. Our firedrake soared to an elegant, soundless landing in front of me.
“A little late,” I said. I was shaking like a leaf. The drake spread his wings and gave a trilling cry. “But thank you for coming.”
It was good he had not come sooner. I did not wish to raise dangerous questions in the mind of a man I could not trust. Questions I could not answer, even for myself.