Chapter 24
Bennet stepped across the hall from Elizabeth’s room into Jane’s, where Franny sat, staring helplessly. Their brave, headstrong, impertinent wonder of wonders had arrived home in hysterics. Her cries of anguish had shredded her voice; her remorse that changing carriages with Jane had led to her beloved sister being injured completely overwhelmed her senses. Mr Jones had been required to dose her with laudanum.
Elizabeth would eventually wake. She would recover. She would be well. Jane would not.
He gazed down at his eldest daughter. Her face now bore horrific wounds. Glass shards had torn through it—one from her temple and across her nose, the other from the side of her mouth to her chin. A ripped canvas, the furrows were long and deep—thankfully not rough or jagged about the edges like battleground wounds. That would have been more insult upon injury. The wounds would scab over and heal but never fully fade. Only time and constant care might mitigate some of the damage.
As a battlefield veteran, he realised her disfigurement was permanent. The apothecary feared infection, as the lacerations were not situated for sutures; Bennet would have refused him had he suggested such. No ham-fisted medico would ply his imperfect craft on his perfect daughter. Not while he had a breath in his body remaining!
He sat and lowered his right shoulder, allowing his wife to lay her head upon it. They remained in silence, refusing to accept that their diamond was now gruesomely flawed. Some hours later, Lambrook came to offer his condolences. “Bennet, what assistance may I offer?”
Bennet shook his head; he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it as no words followed. Lambrook poured him a half-glass of port and joined him.
“I cannot know what you feel. I would be a fool to try.”
Bennet felt his jaw clench as he fought to keep his composure. Lambrook lowered his eyes to stare at his drink. Bennet appreciated his gesture. “You are a good friend.”
“I will move heaven and earth to restore your family’s tranquillity and ensure Miss Bennet’s health. What are your plans?”
“I have none. I find myself at sea.” Bennet exhaled. “News has travelled quickly. That fact alone bodes ill-tidings.”
“You may always count upon my support. We will protect your family from local society’s vitriol. I wish it were not so, but the Bennets are too prominent not to be envied by their neighbours.”
“Unfortunately, you are correct.”
Lambrook’s frown deepened. “I have written to John and cautioned him of Jane’s fragility. When he receives the letter, he will be devastated for her, but unwavering in his hopes.”
Bennet nodded his thanks, and Lambrook continued. “Gossip travels faster than disease. I suggest you prepare for the worst. ‘The envious man grows lean at the success of his neighbour’.”
“They taught Horace at Cambridge? How singular.”
Lambrook smiled at Bennet’s weak jest. “I do suggest you send an immediate express.”
“Yes, I shall dispatch a note to Derbyshire before dusk.”
“Do that. And send for Legget. I desire to speak to him.”
Darcy,
I am confident this letter finds you, your son, and your daughter in good health.
My eldest is past the immediate threat to her life; we, her family, will now minister to her injuries. My lady-wife is not to be trifled with, and with our experiences nursing with my ward, Bill Steele, I am confident in our abilities to care for Jane.
I worry for Elizabeth, however. She blames herself; her grief and perceived guilt has dampened her natural liveliness. I have accepted advice to engage her and her younger sisters with more masters. It will keep their thoughts focused on accomplishments and less on recriminations.
As for your offers of assistance, I thank you. You and Lambrook shall be the first I turn to should there be a need.
Bennet
Mrs Bennet re-established the manor hospital with a vengeance. No military operation would ever equal the energy, disposition, supply, or logistics she executed in caring for her child. She set about tending to Jane’s grievous wounds. For days, her face remained swathed in bandages—dried, clean rags soaked in a solution of watered-down whiskey and honey, applied to soothe her pain and stave off infection. It was imperative to keep the scars pliable.
Elizabeth tirelessly copied receipts and dosage mixes into separate journals. Her mother desired to track which herbs and mixtures were superior for dealing with pain and which promoted cleaner healing. All the girls took turns sitting with Jane, sharing their work baskets and keeping her entertained. It was an education in bravery and comportment for Lydia, ten, and eleven-year-old Kitty. They each undertook a daily two-hour visit with Jane, who gave as much as she received. The girls no longer cried upon speaking of Jane; rather they spoke with compassion, and at times, awe. Bennet remarked to Franny that Jane remained the perfect daughter—even at her worst, she was the best of them.
Elizabeth spent the most time with Jane. Her guilt, that had she not tired of Sarah’s chatter and changed carriages with Jane, toyed with her emotional balance. Jane spent much of her energy reassuring Elizabeth she was not at fault, and although the elder sister was a mountain of patience, the younger was a creature of action. Bennet doubled the number of masters visiting—Elizabeth’s lessons tripled to keep her active mind occupied.
The days dragged on, with little change in Jane’s condition. Her hollow eyes revealed her inner turmoil, yet she refused to vocalise her anguish. She would occasionally sit silently in the chair by her bedroom window and stare out, lost in her thoughts. Other times, her father would find her holding a book listlessly. She never voiced her discomfort while her wounds were tended. She would flinch at a painful application of oils and tinctures but silence was the medium in which she resided.
It seemed to Bennet that their whole family was in the throes of despair, trudging through the days with heavy hearts and anxious minds. A darkness seemed to hover over them, a shadow of grief from which they could not shake free.
A fortnight after the accident, Bennet sat in his study; the darkness infiltrated only by the burning taper of a single candle on his desk’s far corner. He ignored the tears inching down his face and looked up to the Heavens. “Spare me your pity, Lord. Just answer my questions.”
Before he could ask any, there was a knock on the door. He wiped his face and called “Enter.”
Legget strode in and sat in the chair across from the desk.
“What have you discovered?”
“The attack was meant for your neighbour.”
Bennet nodded. “Did Reeves confirm this?”
“He did. The last man he caught was from the south, as you recall.”
“What details of the crash?”
Legget produced a small notebook. “A neat distance past the St Albans coaching inn is a large rock. Across the lane some ways in, an ambush site was set. The fallen tree that the carriage crashed upon was not of that stretch of road but set there as part of the scheme.”
“A neat plan. Spook the horses towards the obstacle. Shooting the coachman assured success.”
“Except the villain was misinformed about the passengers within the carriage.”
Bennet stood. “Much to his detriment, I assure you.”
“Mama.”
“Yes, dear?” Franny set aside her embroidery. It had been weeks since Jane had addressed anyone directly.
“I must release John from our betrothal.”
Franny was stunned, both at the message and at its tone. Jane had delivered news of the end of her future happiness in a voice devoid of feeling. Franny’s emotions threatened to overrun her. No, no, no. If you release John, who will ever consider you? “Jane, are you sure? Is this what you want?”
Jane shook her head. “It is not, but I am no longer who I was.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am not. The looking glass reflects who I am. What I am.”
“No! Those who know you, esteem you.”
“Society will never accept me.” Jane wiped her cheek with her hand. “Nor will they respect any man who is tethered to one such as I.”
“Jane, that is simply not true!”
“I will not allow a good man to live in social exile. John is too honourable a man...I cannot accept an offer from one who will allow his pride to force him into a marriage of pity.”
Franny pressed her hand to her breast. “Do you mean that you shall never marry?”
“No, I daresay I shall not.”
“You are refusing John?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
A single tear spilled down Jane’s cheek.
“Because I love him.”
Jane sat in front of her dressing table, her delicate fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the silver brush in her hand. She had always been praised for her beauty, her golden hair and sea-blue eyes the envy of many young ladies in the town of Meryton. But on this particular morning, her reflection in the mirror showed a different image. Two jagged scars ran across her face, marring her once flawless features. She donned a summer bonnet, a dark veil attached to the front, and confirmed most of her features were obscured. Then she covered the looking glass with black cloth.
“There. My reflection will forever mourn its previous state.”
She sat on her bed and waited for the knock on her door that happened every morning at this time.
“Miss Bennet, I have your breakfast tray.”
“Come in, please.”
“Yes, ma’am” Mrs Hill entered, appearing surprised to be allowed entry. After she placed the tray upon the dressing table, Jane held out a note to her.
“Please have my father send for Mr Smyth.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And have a privacy screen set up in the small parlour.” Jane described the exact manner she desired.
Jane ate her breakfast, then sat in her window-seat and stared out beyond Longbourn’s park to the rolling fields.How greatly she used to anticipate seeing John ride from Netherfield Park to visit her. Now she was broken and unfit to be seen, and would likely break his heart as well. Unless he had fallen out of love with her, a terrible pain that would somehow hurt less than what she must do now.
“Jane?” Her mother’s voice came through her door.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Will you not reconsider?”
“This subject is not up for debate.”
“Jane, please, please, you may never…”
“Never marry, Mama? No, I daresay I will not.” Jane took a cleansing breath. “I shall come down when he arrives.”
An hour later, at Mrs Hill’s warning, Jane situated herself behind the privacy screen in the small parlour. She wore her hat and veil should there be unforeseen circumstances. She sensed him—smelled him—before he announced himself. Her chest filled with hurt and longing.
“Jane?”
“Mr Smyth,” she replied.
“What? It is I, John.”
“I am releasing you from your promise.”
John gasped. “No. I do not understand you. I came from Cambridge as quickly as I could...No, I do not accept your release.”
“It is not yours to accept or deny.”
“You cannot, in so uncivil a manner, end our future together so callously.”
“Yet, I am.” She could hear the waver in her voice. Traitorous feelings!
”Jane, I love you, and wish to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter what obstacles lay ahead.”
She could hear the pain in John’s voice, and wished desperately she were not the source of it. “I know that you love me, but I will not be a millstone about your neck holding you back from society’s acceptance.”
“I care nothing of society”s expectations. You know this of me! I care about you, and my love for you surpasses any societal ideals. Please, do not do this.” His voice cracked. “I cannot imagine my life without you,” he whispered.
Jane”s resolve started to crumble at his words, but her guilt—her certainty—of his rejection by the neighbourhood, and society-at-large reinforced her decision. John cannot live the life he deserves with a wife disfigured and scorned. My reason has assured me; my heart dies a knowing death.
“Please, release me,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No. I will not release you.”
Jane could barely speak her next words. “I have asked my father to meet with Mr Philips.”
Jane waited. Minutes passed. Chair legs moved; the harsh scraping of wood on wood shook her from misery.
“I will release you.” The sound of his footsteps receded. “But I shall never give you up.”