Chapter 43 A Wedding #3
While I pondered my strategy, Mary noticed that Jane and Mr. Bingley were, for once, not mobbed by well-wishers. We headed over and exchanged our first embrace since the ceremony.
I held Jane longer to gauge her health. She was not trembling, her usual symptom of relapse. It was like the mere presence of Mr. Bingley was a tonic.
I let go and sketched an amusingly formal curtsy to her. “Mistress of Netherfield.”
She smiled back. “You were mistress of an estate long before me.”
“It is all one big family and one big estate!” cried Mr. Bingley with his usual disarming enthusiasm, although in this case he had more foreknowledge than he knew—if Jane’s and my plan succeeded. To me, he added, “We are brother and sister now.”
“Indeed, you are stuck with me. In fact, I wonder if I could briefly steal you from Jane?” He nodded, and we moved aside, leaving Jane and Mary to be besieged by a gaggle of older ladies.
“Is this where you warn me to treat your sister well?” he asked with mock concern.
“I already trust you will,” I said. “I wish to speak of Jane’s health.”
He became serious. “We have the medicine you provided, and the instructions have been shared with our housekeeper. She is much more efficient than I.”
I smiled at that. “I hope you will not need it.” I summoned my courage and barreled forward. Jane’s life was at stake. “You recall that both marriage and binding are crucial to Jane’s recovery?”
He nodded. “You told me. You attended the binding ceremony yourself.”
My last fear, driven by the experience of Mr. Collins and Charlotte, was that Jane would fail to bind. I could not imagine Mr. Bingley praying all night like Mr. Collins, but Jane could fall ill as the evening progressed, and then Mr. Bingley might be… too considerate. Too patient.
My face was heating. I turned a quarter turn, stared at a rose bush, and said in a rush, “Binding requires more than ceremony. I have it from good authority that success requires a passionate night. This night.” I dug my nails into my palms. “To be safe, excessive passion might be advised.”
When there was no answer, I stole a glance. Mr. Bingley was staring at the same bush and as scarlet as I.
“In fact,” he said, in an artificially matter-of-fact tone, “Mr. Darcy provided a book from the Pemberley library on this subject.”
“A book?” I was so surprised, I turned to Mr. Bingley.
Alarmed, he spun completely away from me, so I addressed his back.
“What kind of book?” He shook his head in desperate silence, and I realized I really did not want to hear him explain.
“Well, references are helpful for…” For what?
In growing panic, I cast about for a word and finally reeled in “novices.”
The back of his head nodded up-and-down, and I fled.
Colonel Forster found me traumatized by a tray of mince tarts.
He gave an understanding smile. “Weddings are emotional affairs. Harriet became quite misty at ours.” He waved a glass of punch, which I took, gulped down, and handed back.
He tilted the empty container, looking bereft.
Was that his drink? My throat was burning.
The fumes climbed into my nose, reeking of juniper and making my eyes water.
The colonel talked about his wedding while warmth spread from my belly.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said as he joined us.
Oh, not now. I tried to remember where we had left our conversation, but all I could think of was books. “It is good I did not peruse the library.” Mr. Darcy looked puzzled, and I realized I had spoken aloud. What was in that punch?
Mary and Miss Darcy arrived, discussing the atrocious tuning of our pianoforte. They had been inside, testing it.
Mr. Darcy greeted Mary with a brief, crisp bow. I was beginning to enjoy his incessant bowing. It was so… male.
“Must we return to Pemberley today?” Miss Darcy asked her brother.
“I regret that I must return for an important business matter,” he answered, looking at me for some reason.
Miss Darcy was dismayed. “When shall I hear Mary’s compositions?”
“You could stay another day,” Mary offered. “At Longbourn.” Then her eyes went wide as if she had surprised herself.
“Oh! Could I, Fitz? Just for a day. Or two would be better. I could tune their pianoforte.” She looked at me. “If it is convenient, of course. You must have been busy with the wedding.”
“Why not?” I blurted cheerfully. Everyone stared, and I realized that was not the accepted response. Concentrating, I articulated, “You are very welcome, if your brother concurs.” A tray of tea was nearby. I grabbed a cup and took a restorative sip.
Brother and sister negotiated. Really, Miss Darcy widened her eyes wistfully and her brother surrendered, rather like I had been able to do with Papa. Mr. Darcy would travel in a hired coach, leaving the Pemberley coach, driver, and a housemaid in Meryton to return later with Miss Darcy.
Mary and Miss Darcy drifted away. I drank tea, listened to Mr. Darcy and Colonel Forster discuss shooting, and concentrated on steadying my balance.
Mrs. Hill gestured to catch my eye. She was by the manor with a man in regimental uniform. I went over.
“A messenger, ma’am,” she said. When the soldier explained the urgency, I asked him to accompany me, and we returned to interrupt Colonel Forster and Mr. Darcy’s conversation.
The soldier saluted the colonel. “Sir, our militia is called up to Southend. French ships have fired on English vessels at anchor by Margate. Bonaparte means to raid up the Thames.”
“Impossible!” The colonel had an amused smile. “The French will be thrashed if they approach our coast.” The soldier handed the colonel an envelope, which the colonel opened and read, frowning.
A pool of quiet curiosity was spreading from our group. The two other militia officers at the luncheon threaded through the crowd to join us.
The colonel looked up from the message, his face grave. “Gentlemen, we are to Southend. Miss Bennet, my apologies for our premature departure.” He bowed and swiftly said farewell to my mother, and to Jane and Mr. Bingley. The officers departed.
The party resumed, buzzing with speculation.
“I agree with the colonel,” Mr. Darcy said. “It is foolhardy for Bonaparte to attack England. The French navy is outclassed. He may accomplish some brief damage through surprise, but he will take heavy losses.”
“I am sure you are correct,” I said, relieved that feeling had returned to my lips.
“But even his enemies agree Napoleon is a great strategist. He must have a purpose. An objective that is worth the risk.” I thought about the shape of the coast. It was rather fun to pretend to be an admiral.
“Raiding up the Thames is ridiculous. They would be trapped.”
“The thieves at Pemberley were French spies. They seem to grasp at the ridiculous.”
Mr. Darcy did not know that Lydia and Wickham had conspired with those thieves.
Until now, the gravity of that discovery had escaped me, buried by my shock at Lydia’s powers, the fight to prevent their stealing Longbourn, and the frenzied rush of the wedding. Had all that happened in two days?
The last traces of warmth from the colonel’s drink were driven away by an icy realization. My sister and Wickham were accomplices to the murder of Mr. Rabb. Or worse than accomplices. Whoever shot Mr. Rabb had escaped.
If sentenced by English law, they would be hanged.
Was I sure?
The images I had seen through the tyke’s vision were etched in my mind by pain. I saw the woman mount her horse. The set of her shoulders. How she adjusted her bonnet. It was Lydia.
But I could not call a constable and accuse my sister claiming I saw visions from draca. I would be laughed at. Or called a witch. If I was even willing to accuse my own sister.
However, Mr. Darcy would believe me. Wronged by Wickham once, then betrayed again, he would demand revenge for Mr. Rabb. He had the resources to find Wickham and Lydia. He would challenge Wickham, and they would duel. Wickham would choose pistols, and one would die. Or both.
“What is wrong?” Mr. Darcy said with quiet urgency. I realized the two of us were standing alone.
“I cannot answer,” I said.
He winced as if slapped. Unintentionally, I had used the same words he cried out earlier.
“You do not know what you ask,” he said. “You would have me reveal secrets I have told no one. Expose you to danger that has caused me great pain. But I cannot fault your honor. You unmask my own fault.” He took my hand. “I will conquer this, whatever the cost. I swear it.”
I hardly heard him. Our earlier conversation was an unfinished puzzle I had put aside, and now he had mixed it with this new conundrum, and the result was chaos.
He bowed low over my hand, never looking away from my eyes, then left. Lady Lucas replaced him, briefly noting how happy she was for Jane, then commenting at length on how our party was ruined by so many gentlemen departing early.
That night, alone in what I still thought of as Jane’s and my room, I stared at the ceiling while my mind whirled. But I had barely slept the prior night. The whirl slowed to sleep.
I was thrown into wakefulness, my senses singing.
The room was black as pitch, but an afterimage blazed across my vision—a shimmering silver line, distant but bright. My ears echoed with the triumphant bells of a glorious cathedral.
I could not hear Jane’s breathing. I sat up in panic, then remembered she was at Netherfield.
Whatever woke me left hints, like scents in the air. Celebration. Loyalty. Ancient remembrance.
My sister Jane was a bound wyfe.