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My mother marched out the door and down the stairs. I waited some time, then crept down behind her. The house was quiet now. I could hear a murmur of voices from the sick room, but I imagined it was the men from the stables. I asked a passing maid if Mr. Jones was still about and she told me both he and Mrs. Allums were gone, as were the men who had brought Joseph home.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I moved to the door of my father’s study. The wood was thick and I had to press my ear against it to hear. I knew eavesdropping was impolite, but this was more important than manners.
“This is utter rubbish!” I heard my father say.
“You say that only because it stretches your mind uncomfortably.” My mother’s voice was calm and steady.
“Are you calling me small-minded?” cried my father, insult clear in his tone.
“I am saying that it is very arrogant indeed to assume one knows everything there is to know about how life works. That there is no mystery in the world. No challenge to one’s comprehension. No phenomenon which cannot be explained by educated minds.”
“I am not saying I know everything there is to know or that there is no mystery in the world. I am merely saying that this sounds preposterous!”
“To you.”
“To any logical man!”
I could practically hear my mother smirking through the door.
“If it was Thomas who had a special ability, would you question it?” she asked. “Is it that this miracle comes through your daughter and not your son that has you up in arms?”
“I would be just as concerned if it were any of the boys, or any of my children at all! In fact, I am currently questioningyoursanity!”
I could listen no longer. I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. My father stood near the fire, his shoulders heaving with his labored breaths. My mother stood across from him near the desk, her back ramrod straight.
“Mother is perfectly sane, Papa. Do not blame her. She is protecting me.”
“Elizabeth, this is between me and your mother,” he said at the same time my mother said, “I can handle this, Elizabeth.”
I huffed. “I am sixteen. I am not a little girl anymore.”
My father looked unconvinced, but I could tell my mother was thinking about my words.
“You are right, Lizzy. You are not a child anymore. Mr. Bennet, your daughter is special, and I shall prove it to you.” She picked up the letter opener off my father’s desk and in one fluid motion, she sliced a gash across her hand.
“Jenny! Are you out of your senses?” My father rushed to her, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket.
She held up a hand to stop him. “Elizabeth?”
I walked slowly to my mother’s side, watching the blood drip from her hand onto the gleaming wood surface of my father’s desk.
“Slowly or quickly?” I asked.
“Quickly, if you please. This hurts more than I thought it would.”
I nodded and reached out for her fisted hand, enclosing it in both of mine. I closed my eyes and focused my energy on her, as I had done for Joseph an hour ago, and began to hum softly. I pictured her serving tea with perfect, unmarred hands. I imagined her writing letters, and embroidering hemlines, and arranging my younger sisters’ hair.
“It is done, my dear.”
My mother’s voice interrupted my concentration and I looked down at her hand. It was perfect, no mark or scar in sight, as if the cut had never been.
My mother held her hand up to my father, a proud smile on her face. “What say you now, Mr. Bennet?”
My father stood staring at us, his eyes unblinking and his mouth fallen open.
“Papa? Are you well?”
“He is perfectly well, Lizzy, only shocked. Shall I fetch the salts for you, Mr. Bennet?”
