Chapter 40 The Child of the Lake
THE CHILD OF THE LAKE
“It is good to be home!” exclaimed Lydia, roaming the room in a fluffy white dress. “To think I have not been back since Brighton. You are all the same as ever, but I am married. What a laugh!”
She stroked everything she passed—the clock, a table, a vase—as if anointing them with proprietary longing. She arrived back at Wickham, who lounged on the settee, and stroked him as well. “Is this not nice, Wickie?”
“Wickie?” I said, distaste curling my lip. Wickham gave an indulgent smile.
“You are so cross!” Lydia flounced to me and poked my chest with her finger.
There was talc on her face, and rouge on her cheeks to offset the pallor. That was odd. Lydia was proud of her natural complexion. Powder was an antiquated cosmetic of elderly ladies.
Under the chalk, spidery lines covered her forehead as though her veins had darkened.
Lydia’s fingertip still pressed me. I stepped out of reach. “How are you here? Mr. Wickham has a commission in Newcastle.”
Wickham rose, feline-deft, and slipped his arm around Lydia’s waist. She rested her head on his shoulder adoringly.
“I have found better opportunities,” he said. “The advantage of a paid commission is that it may be declined. There was even some return of funds.”
I had wondered if Mr. Darcy purchased Wickham’s commission. Men who did not prove their merit in the militia had to pay for the security of an army officer’s rank. It would seem that Wickham’s merit remained obscure.
Thousands of pounds would have been paid to secure a respectable living for him and my sister. Without doubt, most of it was lost already.
“You kept the uniform,” I noted.
“My wyfe enjoys it,” he said with a roguish grin.
“It is very handsome,” Mamma added sincerely. I bit back a groan.
“Why are you here?” Mary asked.
For all that Lydia accused me of being cross, Mary was openly hostile, her arms folded and her face like stone.
“Oh, Mary,” Lydia said in a pitying tone. “What has happened to your hair? And that dress is—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing, then her mouth opened in a furious O as she recognized the clothing under Mary’s stitched layers of black lace.
“Lydia,” I said to head off a shouting match. “Please tell us why you have come.”
With a spiteful glare at Mary, Lydia turned to me. “Well, Papa died…” she said vaguely, as if discussing the weather.
I waited. When nothing more came, I said dryly, “I am aware.”
“I wished to visit my new family,” Wickham inserted smoothly.
“For how long?” Mary shot in from across the room.
And then I knew why he had come. I even knew his answer before his lips moved.
“Oh, a week or so,” he said with a smile.
“Let us see the garden!” Lydia interrupted. She grabbed Wickham’s hand and dragged him toward the rear of the house. My mother hurried after them, leaving Mary and me alone.
I flexed tense fingers. “I do not like this.”
Mary’s reply was bitter. “Why dislike receiving the sister who killed Papa?”
“Mary! She did not intend such an outcome.” Mary stared, unbudging. “I admit Lydia’s lack of grief is shameful. But Wickham…”
“I never trusted Wickham, and Papa’s dislike was more adamant than mine.
As for our ungrieving sister, in the last year, Lydia has become opaque to me.
She was a selfish child, but this behavior is more than shameful.
It is vile. Her indifference to Denny’s death was equally evil.
As a woman, she has perfected self-absorption. ”
That was a savage critique. I had always thought of Mary’s condemnations as abstract and scholarly. Then I remembered her criticism of me at the ball. Perhaps I had learned to listen more closely.
“When did you last read the entailment?” I asked.
“Never,” Mary said. “The male heir inherits. What is there to read?”
“To claim Longbourn, the heir must settle his draca in the empty draca house for a se’nnight.”
Mary’s folded arms relaxed enough that her fingers could tap thoughtfully. “This is why you forced our drake to stay.”
“Mary, be cautious what you say aloud.”
“I am cautious. I have not spoken of what happened.” Her eyes were assessing me. “Your feat left me curious but puzzled. Now, I am impressed.”
“There is more. The consort of a bound heiress may claim Longbourn. And our freshly bound brother has asked to stay a week.”
Mary gave a most un-Mary-like snort of disgust.
I made my decision. “I shall speak with Mr. Wickham. Alone. Can you take Lydia and Mamma to visit Jane?”
We found them in the garden. Lydia, flapping with frivolous lace, was chattering at Mamma and Kitty about her wedding. Kitty, clad in sober black, had the good sense to appear uncomfortable.
Lydia was mid-story. “It is so annoying when people do not know I have married! We overtook William Goulding in his fancy curricle, and I was determined he notice, so I let down the side-glass and had our ferretworm climb up and hiss. The man jumped a foot and lost his hat! I had a good laugh before—”
Mary barged in. “Jane is too ill to come down. Shall we go up to greet her?”
Lydia frowned, but she grudgingly followed Mary into the house. Kitty and Mamma trailed behind.
Wickham, of course, could not visit Jane in her room. He lounged by the laurel hedge with a half-smile.
We were steps away from where he had accosted me. That was before he was married, but even so, it was an unpleasant sensation.
I gave my own half-smile and said, “Shall we speak inside?”
I chose our sitting room, unused this early. The fireplace was unlit, and the windows faced away from the morning sun. The lingering chill cooled the back of my neck as I claimed the center of the room.
Wickham stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He swung the door back and forth a few inches. “What shall we speak of, dear sister?”
“Regrettably, you will not be able to stay at Longbourn.”
“No? I wonder if you have thought that through.” He stepped into the room and closed the door, shutting us in together, alone.
That was improper—even threatening—but it only made the remaining fragments of my discomfort fall away.
“My thoughts are straightforward,” I answered. “Our draca house is occupied, and Longbourn firmly secured by my mother. It would foster hopeless expectations if you, dear brother, resided here for a se’nnight.”
Wickham swaggered toward me, ending within arm’s reach.
“You are bold, Elizabeth. A most attractive trait in a woman. But you have not considered your options.” He smiled the same smile I once found charming.
Now, it was a thin smirk. “A woman’s right to property is, at best, that of a tenant.
Your livelihood will be uncertain until a man holds Longbourn.
” He spread his arms in exaggerated self-presentation. “Who better than a loyal brother?”
The disturbing truth was that he was right.
Some distant male cousin would hear of my father’s death and announce a claim to Longbourn.
With the prejudice against widows who held draca, I had no confidence the law would take our side.
My mother was not Lady Catherine, whose personality and powerful connections could face down challengers.
But that was an unknown risk. The risk two feet in front of me was clear. “I prefer to wait for an even more loyal brother.”
“Loyalty is earned,” he said softly. “The sister with raven eyes and ivory spine is much more interesting than childish Lydia. You liked me once. Why not again? A man will take Longbourn. Better a man who appreciates you. I would give you a bedroom of your own. You could secure your place in a heartbeat.”
He reached for my face.
“Do not touch me,” I said. “This time, I will be less forgiving.”
His hand hesitated an inch away.
I smiled, wide and cold. “Lest you wonder if my threats are idle…” I gestured lazily toward the windows.
Wickham’s eyes followed and widened.
I did not need to look. I sensed our drake a dozen yards outside, watching us through the glass, his wings beating in the complex whorls he used to hang in midair.
Conversationally, I added, “I saw our drake put down a mad dog once. Right in front of me. I would not flinch to see it again.”
On the other side of the room, the door burst open. “What is this?” cried Lydia.
Wickham backed away from me, hands raised in apology. More than apology; he was frightened.
“Your husband has chosen to stay in town,” I said to Lydia. “Your ferretworm will stay with him. But you are welcome at Longbourn, if you wish.”
Lydia stalked between us to face Wickham, her tall frame tight with fury. “You fool.” She slapped him, a crack that startled me and made him wince. He fumbled the start of an explanation, but she cut him off. “Get out!”
Wickham scurried out of the room. He was cowering. I felt a surge of triumph.
Lydia’s back was to me, her shoulders heaving with anger. Or tears.
“I am sorry,” I said and reached for her shoulder.
She spun and shoved my hand away. “Sorry? You meddling, jealous thing!”
“What?” I said, taken aback.
“I am married. I am the foremost sister. Not sickly Jane. Not you. But can you imagine what Mamma has been whining at me?” She crumpled her face in cruel mimicry of our mother. “ ‘Mr. Bennet said Lizzy is mistress of Longbourn.’ Even dead, Papa is playing favorites. Longbourn should be mine!”
I was speechless with shock.
In the sudden silence, the flapping of our drake’s wings was audible. He had drawn closer, looming and threatening. Dust and leaves lifted by his wings chittered against the glass.
“Go away,” Lydia snapped irritably and flipped her hand at the window. The drake wheeled through the air and flew out of sight.
She thrust her other hand impatiently toward the doorway.
Scrambling sounds approached, then her ferretworm scampered in, a quadruped with a narrow body like a ferret, although people argued which creature was named first. Lydia’s had sleek black scales and heavy claws on his front paws for digging.
She scooped up the creature and scowled at me.
I was still struggling to comprehend what I had seen. She had summoned their ferretworm with a thought. Banished our drake with a wave of her hand. No ordinary wyfe had those skills.
And I had not called our drake. Why had he come? Had Lydia sent him to spy on Wickham and me?
“Husbands are disappointing,” Lydia said, in the petulant tone she would use to dismiss an ugly bonnet.
“I do not much like marriage. Except there is no other way to be rich.” She stabbed her finger at me.
“Do not try to dash out and win a husband. I would be most vexed. Not that any man would want a shrewish, tiny thing like you.”
“What has happened to you?” I said, not believing my ears.
“I have become important. I have a most famous admirer. And I have better toys than men.” She grabbed her ferretworm’s jaw, forcing him to look up at her, and crooned, “You know to behave, don’t you?” She pinched the skin on the ferretworm’s throat, and the creature squealed in pain.
In a reflex of revulsion, I closed my eyes and cast my awareness to her ferretworm. It was an impulse—to free the creature, or to humble and embarrass her.
My mind slogged to a stop, caught in a murky morass of darkness that was foul but powerful, like the suction of mud in a bog. I sensed the glimmer of the ferretworm’s mind buried far beneath.
I pressed against the murk. Darkness surged, a flood of sticky filth that extinguished the glimmer. Effortlessly, I was driven out.
I opened my eyes and met Lydia’s narrowed gaze.
“Imagine that,” she said softly. “Precious Lizzy has tricks.” She stalked to the doorway. “You would be wise to keep your tricks away from me, sister. I am the Child of the Lake.”