Chapter 20
Mary was resting in her room, trying to overcome a fierce headache—so unlike her to be ailing, she thought with annoyance.
And such bad timing. With just four days until Christmas, she knew she should be consulting with Mrs. Hill on the final details of the Christmas dinner, but her head was throbbing so!
From her room she could hear Lydia downstairs, yelling at her sons, Gerald and Edward, and their wailing response.
The upset they brought to the house was the source, no doubt, of her pain.
Seeing how rambunctious and unruly my nephews are makes me think I might not want children after all!
Of course, they are not to blame. I have seen how Lydia manages them—giving into their every demand, or stuffing them with more sweets than could possibly be good for any child, then suddenly turning around and becoming the strict mother!
There is no consistency in her parenting.
The boys are only slightly better around their father.
Pity he went hunting with Papa and cannot take them in hand now.
The noise from downstairs abated somewhat, but after a while, Mary, realizing she would not be able to nap after all, got up and resolved to look for some of her mother’s special headache powders for relief.
As she approached her mother’s bedroom, she noticed the door was closed.
Odd—she was certain it had been open when she came upstairs to lie down.
She softly pushed the door open, entered the room, and took a sharp intake of breath at what she saw: Lydia, rummaging through their mother’s jewelry case.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked, even as she likely knew the answer.
Lydia held up the gold bangle—the sole item in the jewelry box. “Papa sent me very little of Mama’s jewelry. I was just curious to see what was left. I suppose you and Kitty have the lot.”
Mary noted her sister did not even have the grace to look the least bit ashamed of being caught rifling through their mother’s belongings. She crossed the room, snatched the gold bangle from her sister and tucked it securely in her pocket.
“Items were sent to Jane and Lizzy as well,” she said, evenly.
“It was all divided as Papa wished.” She pressed her lips together before continuing, “To be frank, Lydia, we were all worried you would sell any of Mama’s finer pieces, and none of us wished to see that happen.
That was why you were given just the cameo brooch. ”
Lydia turned a fierce face on her sister.
“So you cheated me out of my share of the inheritance! And what if I did wish to sell them? That would be my right, would it not?” She suddenly burst into tears, turned away, and sat on the bed.
“I am desperate, Mary; we are so in debt! Nearly on the rocks, to be honest.”
Mary felt both shock and a pang of sympathy. She sat next to her sister and took her hand. “What about your share of money from Mama’s inheritance? I know Papa sent it to you.”
“A paltry thirty-two pounds!”
“You will get it every year. And as for paltry, many people survive on as little,” Mary pointed out.
“Oh, don’t give me a sermon,” Lydia snapped. “The money was helpful but gone in a flash. I said we have debts. And I have two growing boys to feed!”
“But I thought Wickham was doing so well in his business ventures. You wrote that he was.”
Lydia fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“I may have…exaggerated slightly. I can’t bear being thought of as the daughter who made such a bad marriage—especially after Jane and Lizzy’s luck in marrying so well.
Wickham’s business is managing to bring in a modest income, to be sure, but my husband spends far too much of his profits at the gambling tables.
Plus”—she broke off with another sob—“I believe he may have a mistress! We cannot afford a nursemaid, but Wickham finds money enough for some light-skirt. Be grateful you will never have a husband, Mary. They can be fun, but sometimes…”
Lydia pointed to the pocket in which Mary had secured the bracelet. “That might gain me five or maybe even ten pounds. Which I desperately need! If I do not pay the rent again next month we will soon be out in the street! Please let me have it, Mary. No one need know.”
“I cannot,” Mary replied firmly, peeved at Lydia’s assumption she shall never marry.
“Kitty and Papa both know it is the last item in Mama’s jewelry case.
If it were to suddenly vanish, they might blame a servant, like Sarah, and fire her without a reference.
That would be neither fair nor just.” Her expression softened.
“But I promise I shall speak to Papa on your behalf.”
Lydia turned a sulky face to her sister. “You always have to do the right thing, don’t you? Well, I suppose that will have to suffice. Bear in mind when we are cast in the streets that it was all due to you!” Without another word, she flounced out of the room.
Mary continued to sit on the bed, fingering the heavy gold band in her pocket and wondering whether she had said the right thing to Lydia. Her musing was interrupted by a loud commotion from downstairs. Then Mary heard a scream, and someone calling her name. She raced from the room.
“Mary, come quick! Papa! Oh, Papa!” Kitty was screaming. Mary reached the bottom of the stairs to see her father being half-carried into the house by Wickham and Mr. Hill. Mr. Bennet’s face was ashen, his eyes half closed.
Mary felt her knees weaken, and she clutched the railing for support. “What has happened?” she asked.
“An accident,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “Wickham’s gun discharged and hit me.”
Kitty wailed even louder, and no one seemed to be taking charge of the dire situation.
Mary drew on a strength she did not know she had.
“Put him on the settee in the morning room,” she ordered Mr. Hill.
“Then run for the doctor—at once!” She turned to Mrs. Hill.
“Is there hot water? Bring it, and Kitty—get the good linen rags we use for bandages. Go!”
Kitty flew up the stairs to obey. Lydia was cowering in a corner, holding both boys tight to her skirt, her eyes trained not on their injured father, but on her husband, who stood off to one side.
Mary caught a glimpse of her countenance and was puzzled; she could not quite make it out—shock, perhaps?
Mary ran ahead of Wickham and Mr. Hill into the morning room, arranging the pillows at one end.
The two men eased him onto the settee where Mary gently removed his coat.
She could see dark blood had soaked her father’s shirt on his left shoulder, but it did not seem like an excessive amount.
Not life-threatening she hoped, but she was not a doctor.
She helped him lie down, biting her lip in dismay as he cried out in pain.
She had a fleeting thought of how annoyed her mother would be about the blood on the settee before remembering her mother was dead.
And now this. Good Lord, was she to become an orphan tonight?
“Papa, we are sending for the doctor. Are you in much pain?”
She saw him grit his teeth. “A bit, yes. I suddenly have a sense of empathy for those grouse we shot earlier. But I believe I shall live.” He smiled briefly before gasping in pain and clutching her hand.
Mary turned her attention to Wickham, still standing nearby. “How did this happen?”
“Oh…well, you see…it was like this. Your father was up on the stile about to cross into the next field. I was not far behind him when my gun just…discharged. It was an accident—I swear.” Mary caught a brief expression of desperation on Wickham’s face before it altered into his usual confident arrogance.
“I confess, I have not been hunting much of late and seem to have forgotten some of the more elemental safety rules. Can you ever forgive me, sir?”
“Good thing I lost my balance at the top of the stile and veered to the right just as the gun went off—eh, Wickham?” Mr. Bennet asked between gasps. “Else I would have taken the shot full in the back.”
Mary gasped, and her eyes cut over to Wickham as he gave a weak laugh and agreed. He seemed to have broken out in a sweat. Mary spotted a sheen on his upper lip. Odd.
“Oh, where is the doctor?” Mary fretted as Mrs. Hill and Kitty returned with the hot water and bandages.
***
Two hours later, Mary and Kitty were effusively thanking the doctor, Mr. Mills, as he prepared to leave Longbourn. Wickham had taken Lydia and the boys out for a walk in order, he said, to reduce the chaos in the house by a small percentage.
“Your father is a lucky man,” Mr. Mills said.
“But he should fully recover in due time. I shall ask Mr. Jones, the apothecary, to send over some medication for pain. And I shall return in two days time to change the bandages and inspect the wounds. We do not want infection setting in. Merry Christmas to you both.”
When he was gone, a teary-eyed Kitty turned to Mary. “I swear I would not give three straws whether I receive any presents this Christmas. I only want Papa to live.”
Not one to be demonstrative, Mary found herself embracing her sister. “Which Mr. Mills believes he shall, Kitty. Have no fear, all will be well, I am certain of it. Why do you not see whether Papa needs anything just now?”
Kitty sniffed once and proceeded upstairs to their father’s bedroom where he had been moved.
Mary turned to clean up the morning room, when a ring of the bell at the front door gave her a start. Since she was so close, she opened it to find Mr. Yarby.
“Miss Bennet, I am terribly sorry if I am imposing, and if I am, please tell me at once and send me home, but I happened to see Mr. Mills departing Longbourn just now and wished to know whether all was well here.”
Mary stared into Yarby’s face a moment before covering her mouth with her hands and crumpling into the tears she had kept at bay since seeing her father carried into the house.
Mr. Yarby hesitated a moment before stepping forward and enveloping Mary in his arms.
“Oh, Miss Bennet, please tell me—what has happened? Has someone taken seriously ill? How may I assist?” he asked as he guided her into the library. He sat her down and joined her, keeping one arm on her shoulder as he tried to calm her down.
Finally, Mary governed herself enough to be able to speak and related the story of the accidental shooting.
“This is dreadful!” said Mr. Yarby. “But what does the doctor say?”
“Papa will recover, he is certain.” Mary pulled away, embarrassed by her outburst, and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Forgive my unseemly display of emotions. But you understand, the shock of seeing him so weakened…and all that blood. It quite overcame me, I am afraid.”
“It would anyone, to be sure. But it seems to me that you handled things quite well, Mary. I would expect nothing less. You are so capable. Always so dependable.”
“Am I?” she whispered, looking up at him. She had never been so close to the rector before—not even when they danced.
“You are. I am very, very proud of you,” he said in a low voice.
His head began to lean closer towards her.
Mary held her breath and fixed her gaze on his.
Oh, heavens! Was he going to kiss her—the moment she had dreamt of and longed for finally here?
She tilted her chin ever so slightly up towards him.
“Mr. Yarby!” a voice exclaimed.
Startled, the two broke apart and turned to see Kitty at the door.
“I am so glad you have come. Has Mary told you everything? Please come into the parlor and lead us in prayer for Papa. The doctor says he will be fine, but your prayers would only add assurance to that, would they not? Please—come at once.”
Mr. Yarby stood, then helped Mary up, and they followed Kitty to the parlor.