Chapter 18 Vanished Wyves
VANISHED WYVES
LIZZY
With Yuánchi flown north, it was time to replace the boathouse gate. The battered remnants of the last one were precariously propped in place, splintered edges and all.
The school carpenter came to assist our yardmaster. He kicked at a three-foot-long gash in the hard-frozen clay and cast me a questioning glance.
“We have ferocious moles,” I explained, amusing myself but wondering how long even more serious attempts at deception could succeed. At remote Pemberley, secrecy had felt foolish, but in the bustle of London, it grated at me—a disavowal of something worthy.
Indoors, a letter waited, addressed in Jane’s rounded hand:
“My dearest Lizzy,
I am most excited by the news of your ball!
Charles and I would not miss it, even if they must roll me into the carriage, for I am swelling with baby like a rising loaf.
Mr. Jones assures us it is safe to travel, and I know it is true as I feel wonderful, but Charles frets as men do. Whatever shall I wear, though? …”
A long discussion of dress styles followed, then an inventory of every wardrobe at Netherfield to ensure there was room for another garment. I read it smiling but bemused as Jane was usually levelheaded about such things.
Mary entered the morning room and sat at the tea table, thumping down a massive embossed-leather volume fringed with the scraps of ribbon she used to mark pages.
“Jane has written,” I said, passing the letter to her. “She declares pregnancy to be frolicking puppies and blooming daffodils. In other words, she is Jane.”
Mary smiled wryly while she read. “She is in her sixth month. All mothers are in ecstasies then. Ask her in eight weeks.”
I curled in my chair to see her better. “Do you know about it?”
“Dr. Davenport originally sought a female assistant for a midwife’s experience at deliveries. I convinced him that training a female physician was more valuable. But we agreed I should learn from a midwife.”
“Then you have attended births!” I said, surprised.
“Of course,” she said mildly.
I looked at her fastidious outfit, which was very unlike the practical clothing of our Meryton midwife. “I thought you… read books for him, or something.”
Mary gave me a level glance over the gold rims of her spectacles. “Books aid diagnosis, but they do not turn a foot-first baby.”
“Well!” I exclaimed. Mary resumed reading. Apparently, astonishment did not merit a reply.
I watched her turn a ponderous page and considered mentioning my queasy stomach.
But for all that I respected Mary’s knowledge, Jane and I had always been first to share intimacies, usually whispered under our quilt at Longbourn.
That ritual of sisterhood was lost to marriage, but I would see Jane soon, and the thought of telling her made me glow.
Mary slammed her book, scowling. “I cannot read today.”
“Perhaps a thicker book?” I suggested.
Mary peered at the massive spine, then shot me a sharp glance as she recognized the joke. “The binding is not the issue. I am worried. A woman has been missing for a week. Wait, let me show you something.”
She left and returned with a handful of the advertising fliers that endlessly cluttered London. “This is her.” She smoothed a sheet on the table: “Miss Joane Rees. MISSING. CASH REWARD.”
The drawing was a girl around twenty with a heart-shaped face and a slightly bony nose. She was smiling and very fashionable. And missing. “How sad.”
Mary lined up four more fliers on the table. The size and printing differed. One was crumpled, another rain stained. Each showed a different young lady.
“It is more than sad,” she said. “It is peculiar. These are four months’ worth.
The others are strangers, so I did not notice the pattern until Joane vanished.
Joane is one of…” Mary plucked irritably at her black dress.
One of the Marys, the ladies who marched at Mary’s protests and, to her frustration, obsessively copied her fashion.
“Have you asked the constables?” I suggested.
“Her family has. The constables searched. It is the Rees family.”
I looked again and saw the resemblance to her mother. Mrs. Rees was a society gadfly, pleasant if a little trivial. She had bound a lindworm which afforded modest prestige.
“All the missing women are gentry,” Mary continued. “All unmarried. Every family has a history of strong binding. It makes me think of the wyfe who died on the river.”
“She was married and bound,” I pointed out. Mary shook her head, dissatisfied, and I added, “It may be less sinister than that. Girls of good family regularly elope from London.”
Mary smoothed the drawing of Miss Rees. “There was no hint of a romance. She was always wanting to talk to me. Chirping trivial gossip. On a good day, I would mutter a syllable back. But she still attended every march, rain or muck.” Mary fiddled with her gold rims. “I was annoyed because she enjoyed the protests. She had money. It was like her hobby.”
“We have money, now. Even if you never spend it.”
Mary sighed. “I know.” She tugged the sleeve of her dress. “What color should I wear to the ball?”
I eyed her layers of black fabric. “Is that a trick question?”
“I do not want to vanish into the shadows. People vanish too easily.”