Chapter Three #2
Elizabeth could see this was a problem. Her mind racing, she tucked the letter away in her bodice.
She went directly to the place where her reticule was hanging along with their bonnets, and she meant to put the letter there.
It would likely have to be destroyed, of course.
It contained too many bits of information that were delicate and must be kept hidden.
It would not do for the letter to fall into the wrong hands.
Thus thinking, she reached into her bodice.
The letter was gone.
She spent a quarter hour retracing her steps to and fro through the path she’d taken through Netherfield, but she could not find the letter.
What she did find instead was Caroline Bingley.
“Where have you been?” she said, looking Elizabeth over.
“Why were you summoned from tea? We are all astonishment. We have been making up ever so many interesting stories about what could have been keeping you. Tell us the truth, then, so that we may settle it.”
“The truth is that a servant at Longbourn is ill and relies upon me to help them with a concoction that soothes their cough, and I must go back home immediately,” said Elizabeth.
“You make concoctions for your servants’ coughs?” said Caroline, incredulous.
“Certainly,” said Elizabeth, drawing herself up, aware that it was a rather badly-thought-out excuse and that she could have thought of something better if she’d had time to devote to the enterprise. Also, that it meant that she had to leave now, without the letter.
Caroline let out a laugh. “Well, I do not know why I am surprised. Yes, it seems exactly the sort of pretentious thing you would do, Miss Elizabeth. Off with you to tend to your servant, I suppose.”
Elizabeth was obliged to leave.
Later, Jane returned and found Elizabeth in her bedchamber.
Elizabeth had been crying. She must, she supposed, eventually compose a letter to send back to Mrs. Gardiner.
She had sent the servant from the Gardiners off, because she had no response, not immediately, and now, she would have to pay someone to take a letter all the way to London, and she must think of some response, she supposed.
Jane came into the room and shut the door behind her, very solemn.
Elizabeth, who was lying on the bed, sat up, wiping at her eyes. Well, here it was. She was going to tell Jane everything now, because Jane would ask why she was crying, and this would be the perfect opportunity.
Jane held out the letter.
Elizabeth leaped up from the bed. “You found it!”
“I did not,” said Jane. “Caroline Bingley found it.”
Elizabeth sat back down on the bed, hard, her heart dropping into her stomach.
“Lizzy, this is…” Jane shook her head, and there was something in her expression, something that Elizabeth did not think she had ever seen, a kind of disgust. Jane was angry with her. “This is entirely unlike you!”
Elizabeth stood up again, clasping her hands together in front of her skirts. “I was going to tell you, Jane, but—”
“Oh, clearly, you are ashamed of yourself,” said Jane.
“That is rather obvious. You have concealed it from everyone. I don’t know why you went to our aunt instead of me, and I don’t know why she is helping you.
But I suppose it is a good thing in the end, because this could ruin everything, Lizzy.
If this got out, Mr. Bingley might have reason to break our engagement, he might—”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Elizabeth interrupted.
Jane put her hands on her hips. “You sound like Lydia.”
Elizabeth was aghast. “You don’t know anything about it.
“I suppose he made you promises, and I do not doubt that he was convincing, but Lizzy, we have been taught our whole lives about men and their promises, and we know to guard ourselves—”
“He didn’t make me any promises,” said Elizabeth. “He drugged my drink with laudanum and did it while I was asleep!”
Jane drew back.
Elizabeth sat back down on the bed, letting out a breath, and she was back there now, suddenly, waking with Mr. Wickham on her in that way, and she could smell his breath, and she could feel his intrusion, and she was ever so confused, and she remembered thinking it a nightmare, but if it was a nightmare, it was one she could not wake from, one she was trapped in, one that—
“Of all the outlandish things to claim to dodge the blame,” murmured Jane, shaking her head.
Elizabeth turned on her sister, tears springing to her eyes. “What?”
Jane shook her head. “I wish I could say it was not like you, but I know it is. You have a fanciful streak sometimes. Why, when you refused Mr. Collins, I know he was dreadful, and it would have been horrible to be married to him, but you did it, partly, because you have some romantic notion that you could have a marriage—”
“What? Where a man loves me?” said Elizabeth. “Like the one you will have, you mean? The one that you have because I refused Mr. Darcy’s proposal because of what he had done to you—”
“What are you speaking of? You refused Mr. Darcy because of what he did to Mr. Wickham!”
“No, I did not tell you. It seemed cruel. But Mr. Darcy had been boasting to Colonel Fitzwilliam about how he separated you and Mr. Bingley. He called it a triumph, in fact, and I heard that from the colonel and when Mr. Darcy asked for my hand, I was ever so angry with him. I would defend you with my last breath, Jane, and you… you don’t believe me?
You think I am making up a story to dodge blame? ”
Jane was reeling. She took several steps backwards, her hands falling away from her hips. She still held Mrs. Gardiner’s letter in one hand.
“I would not lie about this,” said Elizabeth.
Jane licked her lips. “If you are not lying, why have you concealed it from everyone?”
“Because…” Elizabeth bowed her head. “Because it was Mr. Wickham, and no one will believe me, and because it all comes to the same thing in the end, whether I was willing or not. I am ruined, the babe is illegitimate, and it is better if it is a secret, better for everyone. I must keep it a secret. I did not tell Mama, because she would make a fuss, and everyone would find out. And I cannot tell Papa, but I thought… you…” I thought you would console me, that finally someone would properly console me, she thought.
Jane considered. “All right.”
What did that mean? “You believe me?”
Jane nodded, curtly.
But then it was silent. So, whether her sister believed her or not, there was to be no consoling, clearly.
Elizabeth held out her hand for the letter. “May I have that?”
Jane lifted the letter and sighed.
“I suppose,” said Elizabeth dully, “that we are leaving aside the worst element of all of this. Caroline Bingley knows.”