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Mary harrumphed at this, turning back to her book with a sniff.
“Will not her aunt object to a change in guests?” Lizzy asked.
Lydia snorted inelegantly. “Why should Mrs Morris care which friend Harriet brings along? Frankly, I do not think she would notice. Her head is always in a book, and half of the time, she calls me ‘Lilian’. The perfect chaperon. We would have been able to do as we pleased.”
Jane’s eyes widened at this, and she and Lizzy exchanged a glance. Lydia ought never to be allowed to accompany Harriet anywhere at all, their look agreed.
“Let Mama believe you have gone to London,” Lydia continued. “How would she know otherwise? I daresay she will be so thrilled I intend to stay at home, she will pay little attention to the doings of Harriet and her aunt. It would have been such a lark, and I am a little sorry to miss it. Still, what is the use of such freedom in a poky little town like Ramsgate? Especially when an entire regiment of lovely redcoats will be quartered here. Harriet will be so jealous when she learns of it.”
“I pray you do not inform her,” beseeched Lizzy.
“Oh, I shall not, to be sure. It will be such a good joke. But one of the Harringtons is sure to write her. I would have had to feign illness myself to avoid leaving, and this is much more convenient. I shall have to have a new dress for the wedding and will need to shop.”
Mary chided her for encouraging falsehoods, and Jane chided them both for bickering.
“I am very sorry to miss your wedding, Jane,” Lizzy said softly to her, swallowing a sudden lump. She did love Jane best; it was not her fault she had no pluck. For that matter, she would miss all her sisters. Perhaps even Mary.
“Do not think another thing about it, Lizzy,” Jane replied, sighing heavily. “It cannot be helped.” She gathered up her embroidery. “And no one had better inform Mama of Lizzy’s true destination,” Jane added, with a warning glance at Mary. “Else we shall all be taking turns leaving food in the woods for her, and likely be eaten by bears.”
* * *
The Thursday evening before her departure, Lizzy could not sleep. She had never before suffered from an insomnious complaint, but then, she had never before ventured into the unknown with such little security. What if Jane would not eventually permit her to live at Netherfield? Should she, perhaps, attempt to write to her unknown uncle? But why should a man who had never made any effort to be a part of her life pay to receive a letter from her? Might Mama change her mind after all?
The entire day had been a difficult one. She had, briefly, hoped Mama’s feelings had softened, for all of Lizzy’s favourite breakfast dishes had been laid out—Bath buns and French breads and the little white sugar biscuits Lizzy called ‘fairy cakes’. But then Mrs Hill had tucked three new handkerchiefs in her reticule, reminding Lizzy, in her fastidious way, not to lose them, whilst Cook had written out her receipt for pigeon pie—the spices therein were a great secret. Mama had not been responsible for the treats.
Jane had given her a guinea, Kitty two hair ribbons, and Lydia her cameo bracelet, saying she did not wear it any longer, even though Lizzy had seen it on her only the day before. Even Mary had handed her a pamphlet containing excerpts from the Book of Revelation, urging her to care for her soul. Their gifts touched Lizzy, for her sisters had each been wordlessly taught that she was of smaller importance to their family circle, and they could have treated her however they wished without fear of retaliation.
But the most wrenching encounter of the day had come from, of all people, her father. When she’d been much younger, she had persistently tried to gain his attention, speak to him, try for some kind of response—had even misbehaved at times, feeling that a switching would be better than the vast nothingness of his disinterest. It had not worked; to him, she did not exist.
It had been the great trial of her early years, and eventually, she had ignored him as well, hating him with a sort of childish animosity. But she had not been formed for unhappiness; when she had finally discovered the reasons for his bitterness, she had buried her hatred and done her best to simply accept his indifference. And on those rare occasions she knew she had earned his attention—always against his will, by some wit or cleverness on her part—she had only smiled to herself and betrayed no sign of her victories.
As she had begun the climb to her bed chamber this evening, however, he had halted her with a hand on her arm. When she turned to him in some amazement, he held out a book, which she accepted with a small curtsey. He turned away without a word.
For long moments, she watched his back as he disappeared down the corridor towards his book-room, feeling a renewed surge of bitterness, hatred, and longing. Then she gazed down at the worn leather covers, the faded gilt lettering of The Pilgrim’s Progress, even reading the inscription inside, marking it as the property of Lady Sarah Ashley, one of Mr Bennet’s patriarchal grandmothers who had been a lady-in-waiting or some such to the queen during the reign of Charles II. A valuable volume, really.
But she knew with a crushing finality that whatever plans she might or might not be able to form with Jane, whatever forgiveness she might eventually earn from Mama, she could never, ever again call Longbourn her home. Mr Bennet had finished with her.
