Page 40

Jane saw the scars on her back first, something I had not seen before, followed by those on her legs, which I had. Everything obviously became clear for her at once, and I was certain she knew all the story that was important. I would have time to tell her the rest later. I was most proud of Jane, as she flinched only a moment, took in the scars at a glance, then calmly walked around the bed to help with her arm, which was still bleeding. Like me, she would cry later, but not when she was needed.

I heard a knock on the door, and Lydia’s voice. “Jane. Mr Darcy. Mrs Hewes is here with laudanum. We put bed linen right outside the door. I will not allow anyone else in. Miss de Bourgh is attended by her mother, the colonel, Miss Darcy, and Kitty. Mr Darcy, your sister is fine except for her understandable concern over Miss de Bourgh. The footmen are not back from Rosings yet. I will be sitting here if you need anything, and Mrs Hewes is here as well.”

I had already started cleaning and examining the wounds carefully, a little at a time, checking for broken bones or other maladies as I went. The linens they brought from the kitchen would suffice for the moment, but not for long. Soon we would need to clean the wounds with the gin my aunt called for, and bandaging them properly.

I glanced at Jane staring at the scars.

She shuddered a moment, as she helped with the cleaning, then said in a remarkably steady voice, “Lydia, I need you to put the absolutely severest clamp on your temper, and I warn you it will be nearly impossible to contain, then come in here.”

I looked at her in shock, not at all prepared to deal with Miss Lydia, but, much as with Elizabeth, when Jane Bennet made a decision, there was little point in debate.

Lydia came in, and Jane showed her what we were dealing with. The vein once again started pulsing on her neck, and I wondered at the wisdom of sharing this with her right at that time, but she stared at the scars as if memorising them for a later accounting, shuddered several times, and then squared her shoulders. “He is a dead man! Now, tell me what to do.”

I had already as much as decided that the Bennet sisters were to be under my protection, and at that moment, I decided that, to the best of my ability, they would be my sisters. If Elizabeth survived and I managed to convince her to have me, they would be my sisters in fact. If either of those should not come to pass, they would still be my sisters, in word and deed, if not in law. I now thought the hardest thing about getting them married would be finding men worthy of them, not the other way round.

Working slowly and carefully, I showed the sisters everything I knew about cleaning and dressing wounds, and Elizabeth was cleaned up and bandaged by the time the doctor came from Hunsford with a breathless Mary.

Jane asked Mary to change places with Catherine, apparently deciding that there would be no more secrets, and after a huddled conference, she showed them Elizabeth’s legs just so they would know what they were dealing with.

The doctor performed his own examination and made suggestions, but asserted that Jane and I did everything that could be done. She remained unconscious, so when the footmen arrived with the gin, we used it to clean and dress the wounds with a salve the doctor brought while he went upstairs to do the same for Anne.

Once the sisters were engaged in caring for Elizabeth, and I was convinced they knew what they were about, I went above-stairs to check on my cousin Anne. I might have felt guilty about abandoning her to her fate, but I understood that Richard knew as much about wound care as I did—probably more. Not everyone in the army was as knowledgeable as we were, and much of the care for wounded men was little more effective than giving them to a witch doctor. Richard learnt that early in his career, and came to me to study the things I knew, and we worked together until we could make decent enough doctors if it came right down to it.

Anne did not have the monstrous wound to her head that Elizabeth had, nor did she lose consciousness before the laudanum was administered, and we believed that to be a good sign. We cleaned and dressed her wounds the same as Elizabeth’s, and began the hard part.

It was time to wait… endlessly… impatiently… fearfully. Thus began the worst time of my life. Worse than waiting for my mother to die. Worse than waiting for my father to die. In fact, I could imagine a worse ordeal, but my fate was sealed. I would wait for the love of my life to recover, then I would see if she would have me… on any terms she cared to name.

Tttttthhhhhhwack

Charlotte

Tttttthhhhhhwack!!!

The sound should have made me flinch. It did not.

Tttttthhhhhhwack!!!

The sound should have made me satisfied. It did not.

Tttttthhhhhhwack!!!

The sound should have made me feel justified. It Did Not!

Tttttthhhhhhwack!!!

The sound should have made me feel something: good, bad, indifferent, something, anything! IT DID NOT!!

The sight of the whip flying through the air should have made me feel frightened… or safe. It did neither. The vision of the man’s hands tied to the pillory, or the vision of his blood spattering from his back, falling down across the same trousers that he dropped to accost me, should have made me feel disgusted, or vengeful, or justified. They did not. The knowledge that this soldier was to endure his thirty lashes then be shipped off to Spain to be killed or tamed should have made me feel safer, more secure, perhaps avenged. It did not. It simply left me feeling empty.

My father would have had a fit if he knew I was watching the spectacle. However, my father was in the process of shipping me off to Scotland or God knows where to hide my ‘shame’, and since he was abandoning me to my own fate, I had very little concern about what he preferred. I was so well past the age of consent that I merely considered it a fond memory, and I would go where my father willed when it was convenient to me. At eight and twenty, I had very few illusions left in life.

I had enough sense to not stand in the crowd watching the flogging, and I did not expect to accomplish anything by watching it hidden upstairs in the milliner’s shop, but I was compelled to see it with my own eyes.

This man—if I cared to use that appellation—traded my spinsterhood, my innocence, my ordered existence, my illusion of safety and security and stability, for a few minutes of his pleasure. Those few minutes of pleasure were being exchanged for several weeks of agony, and a reasonably good chance of dying from the wounds of the lash, followed by a miserable sea crossing—all for the uncertain pleasure of trying to survive on the battlefields of Spain. He was being sent to a regiment well known for taking miserable cretins like him, with what I am told is a horrific survival rate. He would either serve the king admirably, or he would serve the king economically after being shot by his fellow soldiers.

I knew all this from Colonel Blackwood—who was not Colonel Forster! He was as opposed in his ways to that officer as it was possible to be. The mere fact that I got the knowledge directly from his lips proves the supposition. Colonel Blackwood was not a man to be crossed.

When the regiment marched into Meryton in 1812, everyone remembered the same corps marched in at about the same time in 1811. Many shopkeepers remembered the crippling debts run up by the men of the previous regiment. The worst was Mr Wickham, but he was far from the only rotten apple in that barrel. Several women of the town were either off to distant relatives, or sitting at home taking care of bastard children, all courtesy of Colonel Forster’s regiment. The regiment came, destroyed, and left for Brighton, all without any punishment whatsoever.