Chapter 18 The Monster of Meryton
THE MONSTER OF MERYTON
“Read this, Lizzy.” My father passed me the Times, his finger marking an article titled “The Monster of Meryton.”
He had called me into his library. It was ten days after the horrible events in the meadow.
I read, afraid my name had been printed. An unmarried lady mentioned in a newspaper would be branded with scandal for life. Context was irrelevant.
No names appeared.
If I had not known better, I would have called the story lurid. In reality, it trivialized the horror. Draca were not mentioned. It ended by quoting an expert from the British Museum, who speculated the monster was a wild boar.
“It was nothing like this,” I said softly. The events at the meadow were burned into my mind.
Of our return to Longbourn, though, I remembered only shards. Kitty crying in another room. Myself standing in the scullery while Mrs. Hill and a maid dropped layer after layer of bloody cloth in a sink. Washing my arms and hands over the butcher drains.
“I know the truth,” Papa replied. “The colonel gave me his own account. He was astonished by your bravery.”
“Bravery?” My voice cracked in disbelief.
“The Times has one fact correct.” His finger tapped the story’s title.
“The monster escaped within a mile of Longbourn. I thought it prudent to correspond with Mr. Collins and speed your visit with Charlotte. An iron-barred carriage is hired for tomorrow. It was difficult to book. People are fleeing Hertfordshire in every direction. You can speak with Mrs. Hill to arrange a maid as companion for the ride.”
“All right, Papa.” Charlotte had already suggested a visit in early March, so this would be three weeks sooner.
“And I am sending Lydia to visit Colonel and Mrs. Forster in Brighton.”
“What? Papa, you must not!”
A few days before, I had privately asked Papa to decline Mrs. Forster’s invitation. I cited Lydia’s immaturity, but I did not share my most serious fear.
I thought I had convinced him.
Papa rubbed his eyes. “Lydia is deeply affected by Denny’s death. When I told her she could not go, she broke down. She begged to visit her friend.”
Begged? I knew my sister well. She pouted, cajoled, and shouted. She did not beg.
I had seen no hint of the distress Papa described. In fact, I had seen no reaction at all, which worried me. Had Lydia suppressed her pain?
Regardless, Lydia unsupervised in Brighton could be disastrous.
“I am certain she should not go,” I said. “She is young and—”
“I have decided, Lizzy,” he said firmly.
I swallowed, caught by my own omission.
After Mr. Wickham had grabbed me—had assaulted me—I said nothing. One reason was fear of the result. Approaching Papa would be a tremendous escalation. Men dueled over less, although I doubted my father had ever held a pistol. And ladies’ reputations were destroyed by such allegations.
Now I faced the result of my cowardice.
I breathed deep, hunting for words. My credibility had been damaged by waiting, but if any man would believe me, it was my father.
And again, I hesitated. The accusation could destroy me and taint my family with scandal. Shame my sisters, particularly Lydia, whom I sought to protect.
What if I stayed silent? That was horrible in its own way.
Imagine if Wickham did this over and over, and every woman kept his secret out of fear.
But that was impossible. This was 1812. I had grown up in a century freed from outdated, authoritarian beliefs.
Despite Mary’s tirades at the corrupt patriarchy, I could not believe the modern world would permit a man to repeat vile acts and avoid the consequences.
“What is it, Lizzy?” asked Papa.
I trusted Colonel Forster. And I could not judge what pain Lydia concealed.
So, I shook my head and tried to believe that, for once, all would be well.
As Lydia and I would depart soon, all five sisters went for a walk. We were a quiet group. Jane said not a word, and my few comments about packing did not spark conversation.
Kitty began to cry.
“Oh, do stop snuffling over Brighton,” snapped Lydia. “If you wished to go, you should have made friends with Harriet yourself.”
“I would have, if I had known,” Kitty said, wiping her cheeks. “But that is not why I am sad. I cannot stop thinking of poor Denny.”
“Still? It has been more than a week.”
“Lydia!” I said, shocked.
“What of it? Why are you all upset? He was my friend more than yours. We danced… oh, a dozen times at least.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “Denny is dead.”
“Must you remind us endlessly?” Lydia grimaced. “It’s a form of bragging, you know. The way you crouched there, pretending to nurse him.”
I grabbed her arm, and we turned to each other. Disbelief and anger fought in my mind.
Lydia pulled herself free. She was inches taller than me, the tallest of all of us although the youngest, and she frowned down, petulant as a child. “Do not make superior faces at me! Denny was quite horrid that day. And a bad friend to Wickham. I cannot imagine why you miss him.”
She stomped off. Kitty burst into tears again, and Mary said something that sounded dire but in Latin I did not recognize.
Jane had stopped to wait, but I was not even sure she had heard. For weeks now, walking with Jane was like walking with a ghost.
My disbelief and anger mixed and left a disturbed sensation. It took a moment to recognize it was fear. But I could not be afraid of Lydia.
Denny had been Lydia’s favorite. A real friend among her many flirtations, and a sweet, honest man who brought out her best. I had even wondered if they would have a serious relationship when she was older.
Lydia reached the manor and entered without a backward glance.
It was like I had never known my sister.
“Papa,” I said next morning while our footman carried my luggage to a coach crudely armored with strips of iron. “I am worried to leave. I feel as if our family is untethered. Our lives are teetering, each of us, in some way.”
“That is what you get for not marrying Mr. Collins,” Mamma inserted primly. But she straightened my bonnet and gave me a solid kiss on my cheek.
“Your trip will reduce my worry,” Papa said. He looked tired, and he had spilled his tea at breakfast, twice. “Be safe. Enjoy your visit. Other than remembering I am abandoned here with Kitty and Lydia’s silliness.”
“Lydia left yesterday, Papa,” I said, smiling.
“So she did. Mary will perform in her stead. She scolds me mercilessly over the health of my diet.”
Mary, gaily clothed in her dullest black for my departure, stood beside him.
Papa waited for her response with unabashed affection.
Something had happened between them since that painful night at the ball.
Perhaps when Mary defended me from Mr. Collins’s proposal.
There was a new closeness which I loved to see.
Mary said, “I shall do my best,” which was raucous wit for her.
Papa’s smile turned serious. “I will miss you, Lizzy. Greatly. What did Hamlet say? Neither a borrower…” He paused, pretending to forget the rest.
“It was Polonius, Papa,” I said. This was an old joke. Nothing irritated my father more than self-important people attributing Polonius’s words to the star of the play.
I waited for him to finish.
“Do not correct me,” he said querulously. “It was Hamlet. Neither a borrower…” He licked his lips, blinking. Becoming distressed.
He did not remember.
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” I said, as casually as I could. But my heart sank. Papa had recounted Polonius’s full speech a hundred times. Still, anyone’s memory could stick on a phrase.
I took Jane’s hands last. If Papa looked tired, Jane was a wraith. Heavy shadows clung below her eyes.
“Promise me you will go out,” I said. “And please take a trip of your own.”
I had suggested that Jane visit our aunt and uncle in London.
Papa would not object while the “Monster of Meryton” lurked, and that would put Jane close enough to call on Miss Bingley.
But Jane had refused, saying if Miss Bingley had not answered two letters, calling in person would be improper. Even desperate.
Privately, I was becoming desperate on Jane’s behalf. But I had not convinced her.
I hugged everyone and waved to our firedrake, mostly for humor although I would miss him. However, I would not miss his profound inattention while I stood on my new wooden platform in the freezing dawn.
The driver whistled, and the coach set out with groaning traces and rattling bolts. A four-horse team was harnessed to haul all that metal, and we would change teams twice.
I was on my way to visit Charlotte, observe Mr. Collins in his natural setting—which I expected to be amusing—and, perhaps, meet the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the only widowed wyfe to hold a wyvern.