Chapter 39 Accusations
ACCUSATIONS
I blew over the paper, drying the glistening ink to dull black. The loops in my signature, Elizabeth Bennet, looked like the lace on my ebony sleeve.
This last note ordered a bolt of cloth for mourning dress.
We all had dark outfits for calling on bereaved friends and had worn those for the funeral, but mourning required more than one gown.
The traditional fabric was bombazine, a twill of dark silk.
It was expensive, so I hoped one bolt would stretch to fashion dresses for six ladies.
No, it was dresses for five. Lydia was gone to Newcastle and would not return.
I sealed the note and dropped it on a stack of correspondence, a mix of social notes required after Papa’s funeral and business affairs too urgent to defer.
I stretched to unwind my shoulders, then laid my fingers on the old walnut of Papa’s desk.
I was using his library. The business journals were here, and Papa would have told me to make it my own, doubtless adding some dark joke.
He had little patience for what he called the “social pretense of mourning.”
But I had never sat in his chair before. That thought caught me off guard, and I dabbed some tears into my handkerchief before I finished cleaning the pen.
I left the library, met Mary in the hall, and stared in disbelief.
Mary was wearing a vibrant canary-yellow dress printed with little flowers, brighter than anything she had worn since she was a child.
“What are you wearing?” I burst out, even as part of my mind recalled that Mary had an armoire full of black clothes, so it was dresses for four, not five.
“I am mourning Papa,” Mary said. “He was cross when I began wearing black, so it seems wrong to wear it now. He would like this more.” She held out the skirt, considering. “He was angry with Lydia, so I stole this from her clothes. I took in the bosom myself.”
An unexpected laugh reached my lips. “You are right. Papa would applaud.”
Mrs. Hill joined our hallway assembly. “Ma’am, the parson is here with other gentlemen, calling on Mrs. Bennet. But she does not wish to see them.”
“Very well.” I blew out an unenthusiastic breath, but with some sympathy for my mother.
Our parson was a petty gossip and dismissive of the women in his congregation.
He had been priggishly disapproving when we provided a single male mourner for the funeral—my mother’s brother—and had added a five-shilling charge for “another man to attend the committal.”
I asked Mrs. Hill to accompany me. Our uncle had departed yesterday, and I did not wish to face unfamiliar gentlemen alone. Mary could not come as her dress would raise eyebrows, while Kitty would be little help, and Jane was impossible.
The men rose as we entered our drawing room. I curtsied and sat, while Mrs. Hill stood to one side, looking nicely formidable.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” the parson said. “We had hoped to speak with Mrs. Bennet?”
“My mother is resting. May I help you?”
A notch appeared in the parson’s narrow brow. Apparently, my mother’s absence was an issue.
I knew his two companions by sight, gentlemen who held estates in Hertfordshire. Both were stiff, and one was frowning at me.
The frowning gentleman spoke in a contemptuous tone. “There are concerns for the Longbourn firedrake. We thought it best to see for ourselves the keeping of the animal.”
“I have not the honor of our introduction, sir,” I said tightly.
“This is Mr. Sallow,” the parson said hurriedly.
Mr. Sallow was in his fifties, with grumpy eyes and dirty pockmarks. I recalled his estate now, larger than Longbourn but poorly managed and drowning in debt.
“Our drake seems content to me,” I said. That was not strictly true. I had fought down a challenge this very morning. But if our drake was vexed with me, that was a private matter.
Mr. Sallow’s frown puckered his chin. “I have disturbing reports about Longbourn, confirmed by members of the Church.” He pointed at our parson.
The parson stutteringly said, “I merely mentioned a letter which drew unusual events to my attention.” His eyes were apologetic. “In which your name was mentioned.”
“My name? Who would send such a letter?”
“I had corresponded on the terrible business of your sister Lydia—”
“Lydia is properly married,” I corrected, angry now. After Papa’s sacrifice to protect our family, any other suggestion was painful.
“Of course. We all rejoice in that happy outcome.” The parson cleared his throat. “In his reply, the rector for Rosings remarked—”
“Mr. Collins?” My anger soared as I imagined him pontificating from his little desk.
“Yes. He emphasized the extreme benefit to your family from his inexplicable failure to bind, which deprived him of the inheritance of Longbourn. And then your mother’s extraordinary retention of your firedrake after your father’s death.”
Inexplicable. Extraordinary. Those were dangerous words. “We have been fortunate,” I said slowly. “I cannot understand how my name would be mentioned.”
Mr. Sallow spat his accusation. “It was unnatural forces that spoiled Mr. Collins’s binding. The same sinful evil that bound a firedrake to this estate. Evil rising from forbidden female rituals.”
I laughed. He sounded like a crazed street preacher in London. “You cannot be serious.” He stared aggressively. “Do not be coy. You accuse my family of witchcraft.”
“Another word for the same thing.”
“That is insanity. We are not in the Middle Ages or America. This is enlightened England. There is no such thing as witchcraft.”
“Explain how you bound a firedrake! How it remains!”
“I owe you no explanation. But if you troubled to inform yourself, you would know Bennet wyves have a history of strong binding.” I turned to the parson, who was watching wide-eyed. “I trust you do not mistake affinity with draca—a principle of gentry rank—for something unnatural?”
My direct appeal sparked a reply. “Certainly not. The Archbishop himself has reiterated that binding is a pillar of—”
Mr. Sallow broke in. “There are many opinions in the Church. And the Longbourn firedrake is unnatural. It was always strange that it bound to a minor estate. And now it lingers after its master’s death, uncontrolled.”
“You forget yourself,” I said coldly. “Our drake is bound to my mother. That is not uncontrolled.”
The man snorted. “No proper widow holds a draca. And your mother could no more control a firedrake than she could manage an estate.”
I stood, taking the opportunity to stare down at this offensive man. “Mrs. Hill, please see our guests out. The gentleman is distraught over my father’s death. I fear he will say something unseemly.”
Mr. Sallow shot to his feet. “I will not leave without satisfaction.”
I was turning to go, but that stopped me. “What satisfaction would that be?”
“The firedrake must be moved. Taken to an estate where it can be properly kept.”
“I believe you bound a tunnelworm?” I said, knowing it was true.
He flushed. A tunnelworm was the least prestigious of draca, a palm-sized creature that preferred to burrow in a bucket of sand during daylight.
“You have neither the right nor the means to demand our drake, for I discern that is the satisfactory outcome you desire.”
“That animal is a menace. Do not mistake me, girl. If he threatens my livestock, I will take him.”
This time, I did laugh. “Have you seen our drake fight, Mr. Sallow? I have. I should like to see you try.”
I left, letting Mrs. Hill escort them to the door. She joined me at the window. We watched Mr. Sallow argue with the parson before they mounted their horses.
“Ooh, my blood is boiling,” Mrs. Hill muttered. “You should sic the drake on them. Have him burn off their hats!”
I wanted to smile, but accusations of witchcraft were no joke. “My mother will do no such thing.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course, it would be Mrs. Bennet.” She drew a long breath. “Don’t you worry. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Of everything unpleasant in that visit, the presence of our parson disturbed me the most. I went to see Mamma, who was sitting up in bed, a sleeping bonnet pulled down past her eyebrows as if to help her hide.
“Have they left?” she asked timorously.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“All my friends stared when I went into town,” she said. “I thought I had worn the wrong hat. I had no wish to be a widowed wyfe, and they glare at me as if I chose it. Can we not be rid of the beast?”
“Mamma, you must not say that. To anyone. Our drake is all that keeps us in our home.”
“But that dreadful Mr. Collins did not bind. Who would take Longbourn from us?”
“Other men,” I said softly.
Four days passed. Lydia did not answer my letter about Papa’s death.
I signed a draft on the estate to purchase barrels and two scythe blades, and breathed a sigh of relief when the bank honored it.
Mary stole another of Lydia’s dresses, scarlet this time, but could not resist sewing a fringe of black ribbon around the skirt.
I found Kitty weeping in her room, which she had shared with Lydia.
“Poor Kitty.” I gave her a hug. “Are you missing Lydia?”
“No. But I wish I could go outside.”
“That is a strange wish. Why can you not go out?”
“When Papa was angry, he said I was not to leave the house for ten years. I wondered if he joked, but I was afraid to ask, and now…” She dissolved into sobs.
I bit my lip to hide a smile. “I am sure he did not intend ten years. You should take Mary to the shops. I feel she is bored with colors and will wish to examine all their black ribbon.”
“Do you think so?” asked Kitty with wide, watery eyes, and I sent her to find Mary.
That left me beside Lydia’s abandoned dressing table. I ran my fingers through the froth of lace, and I missed how simple things had been. Then I imagined what Papa would have said to Kitty dutifully staying home for ten years. I smiled. “Papa, you are missing the most diverting behavior.”
On the twelfth day, Jane did not know me in the morning. I woke to her screams while her feeble fists pummeled and clawed my face.
I settled her, and she twisted into a knot on the bed, thin as rope, fingers splayed like dry twigs.
I got a bite of bread from the kitchen, soaked it in her dose of medicine, and brought it up on a saucer, crooning with shamelessly false enthusiasm, “Mr. Bingley has sent a treat!” This ruse worked, but once per day, the only food she took.
Jane slipped it into her mouth, then chewed, methodical and without tasting, no longer even noticing the medicine. Her cramped muscles relaxed as the medicine worked, and she fell into a limp mass on the bed.
I sat beside her. Her eyes were roving, as if she dreamed with her eyes open. I whispered, “Dearest Jane. I do not know what to do. Our family is perched on a knife edge. To slip one way or another is to be cut. To teeter back and forth is to fall.”
Her eyes—sapphire jewels, the last vestige of my beautiful sister unravaged by disease—met mine. With a child’s trust, she said, “You will keep us safe.” I stroked her hair and tried to forget the bloody scratch she had opened over my eyebrow.
Our housemaid tapped on the doorframe. In a wavering voice, she announced, “Ma’am, Miss Lydia asks—I mean, Mr. and Mrs. Wickham request that you join them in the parlor.”