Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Lydia took her time in replying to Georgiana’s letter. She was very concerned that her friend had been even more deeply affected than anyone had realised.
Dear Georgiana,
I did not reply to your letter immediately because I wanted to think about it for a time.
In truth, I suppose I do think a good deal about what happened.
As much as anything else, I am angry! Why is it that we are not told what we young ladies should know?
We cannot be watched every moment of every day, so why not tell us the truth of what is around us and allow us to protect ourselves?
I am told that we are too delicate to be told certain things, but does that not then leave us vulnerable to those exact things?
It helps, I suppose, that no one – and I mean no one – ever brings it up.
It is very much as if it never happened.
I suppose one day the body will be discovered, but Papa says he will no doubt be unrecognisable by then.
I have thought about walking over to look at it, but I do not think it would be a pleasant sight.
But I worry now that you are haunted by this. I understand that, as it was you who was pinned down under that dreadful man! I can imagine that this would be a good deal harder to forget than just dropping a rock on someone’s head!
I wish I knew what words might give you comfort, but I suppose there are no words. Speak with Lizzy about it; she is quite clever, you know.
Please do write again soon and tell me how you are.
With love,
Lydia
After some thought, Lydia wrote another letter.
Dear Lizzy,
I hope I am not betraying a confidence, but Georgiana is still quite upset about…well, you know what. I advised her to speak with you, but then I thought that I might come and visit. Might that help her, do you think?
Oh, and do you know, Mama and Papa get along quite well now! He visits her in her bedchamber at night, and she seems happy enough about it!
Your loving sister,
Lydia the Bold
***
Mr. Bennet watched in some alarm as his wife rose from the breakfast table with an odd look on her face. “Fanny?” he asked, rising as well.
She motioned him to sit back down and then ran from the room as fast as she could go.
He followed her into the kitchen, where she had grabbed the nearest bucket and cast up her accounts with some violence.
Mrs. Hill was beside her at once, holding the bucket for her and patting her back.
Cook and the kitchen maid watched with sympathy.
When it was done, Cook proffered a damp cloth to Mrs. Hill, who thanked her with a nod, and used it to wipe Mrs. Bennet’s face.
“There, there,” she whispered, soothingly. “Likely it is over for now.”
Mrs. Bennet nodded and straightened up. Seeing Mr. Bennet standing in the doorway, mouth agape, she said, “You need not look so surprised, Thomas. It is not as if you had nothing whatever to do with this.”
He went to her, then, and took her hands in his. “Fanny? Is it possible?”
“It certainly seems to be,” she said, her tone a mixture of pride and annoyance.
He caught her up in his arms, heedless of the amusement of the watching servants.