Page 86 of A Stronger Impulse
She remembered the piercing agony of watching him ride away, knowing, even then, that she would never see him again. How had she forgotten him, put him out of her mind so completely? But after all, she knew; remembering had been too painful. He was twice the man her father ever would be.
Feeding the flame of her hatred, reminding herself of the wrongs Thomas Bennet had inflicted, suddenly seemed so very useless. What? Had she thought that if, somehow, she failed to constantly hold his proverbial feet to the flames, he would be free of any consequence?
It is not true; he has lost my respect and devotion. That alone would have been a gift worth having.All her hatred had accomplished was the kindling of a relentless burn of anger and pain in her own heart. It might not be the work of an hour or a day to forgive him, but she would do it; any other course would require endless reigniting of sorrow or resentment or hatred, and she refused to give him or it so big a part of her soul.
She thought of telling that to the blustering man behind her, but she walked from the room instead. The shrivel-hearted Thomas Bennet would never listen, and it was no longer her duty to try.
* * *
For the rest of the day, Lizzy felt nothing but relief, even cheerfulness. She had informed her father, giving him every opportunity to fulfil his obligations as parent and restrain his youngest child. Her uncle would arrive Monday in the afternoon, and she would make him aware of the situation, beg his assistance in both keeping a watchful eye on and making efforts towards ridding Meryton of the pox on humankind that was George Wickham. Her dress for the ball was finished, and it fit her well. Jane had come down during the afternoon, declaring herself feeling much improved.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst did not join them for tea, choosing to nap instead, and so she, Jane, and Georgiana had the most pleasant meal imaginable, with much laughter and light-heartedness. Jane seemed to forget about Lydia’s situation utterly. When Mr Bingley arrived a bit later, having taken his new hunter for a gallop, he was in high spirits and plainly delighted to see his wife in such looks; Lizzy had the satisfaction of witnessing his obvious and tender regard.
Sunday morning, it rained torrentially, but the inclement weather did not keep away as many worshippers as it might have, had the neighbourhood not had a strong mutual interest in conversing about the upcoming ball; old Mr Whittaker’s sermon suffered from a serious lack of pious attention. Lizzy found herself able to join in the general excitement and anticipation of the ball with tolerable optimism. The Bennets, it was noted, remained dry, their padded front pew empty.
Monday morning, Jane, Georgiana, and Lizzy were up early, seeing to last-minute details; Jane especially was very anxious that all should be perfect, and Lizzy meant to see that she did not overexert herself.
Hence, when Mrs Nicholls informed them that their mother and sisters had arrived, Jane betrayed an unusual impatience. “Could they not put off calling for a few days? They must know how much there is to do and how little they mean to help do it.”
“I shall go to them, Jane, and make your excuses. You must not worry about them.”
“No, no, I did not mean it,” Jane said, immediately repentant. “Of course, I shall join you.”
“I shall continue arranging these flowers for the small dining room,” Georgiana offered. “We are almost finished here anyway. And then I shall check to see if the awning has been successfully raised and threaten any clouds that dare appear in our sky.”
With these reassurances that an officer was still in command of the troops, Lizzy was able to shepherd Jane to the drawing room, reflecting that it was as well that she encourage her to sit for a few minutes. One look at the three faces of Mrs Bennet, Kitty, and Lydia, however, almost convinced Lizzy to spirit her sister away again. Mrs Bennet was blowing her nose into her handkerchief; Kitty’s eyes were rimmed red, while Lydia appeared furious.
“Lizzy, how could you have?” Mrs Bennet lamented. “You have no regard for my poor nerves!”
“And this is all the thanks I get for giving you my place with Harriet!” Lydia cried. “And now she is married to a colonel! It could have been me!”
Kitty continued to sniffle, twisting her handkerchief into knots.
“I do not understand,” Jane said, bewildered.
“What you must understand is that you are housing a traitor under your roof! Lizzy has ruined my whole life! She called on Papa with tales about poor Wickham, so Papa went to Colonel Forster to complain about him, and there was a ridiculous hullabaloo, and Mr Chamberlayne called in his markers. Everyone else followed, and suddenly, they all were heaping shame upon him, and now he has run off, and no one knows where he has gone!” Lydia delivered this speech in accents of great feeling, but Lizzy saw she had not managed a single tear.
“I went to our father and told him of Lydia’s planned tryst with Wickham,” Lizzy informed her eldest sister.
“But…but you, Lizzy? Was that wise?”
“Who else, Jane? Who else?” Lizzy cried, exasperated. Still, this was all good news; so why did she feel as though the guillotine was about to drop?
“She shall hear how wise it was now,” Lydia muttered.
But no one seemed inclined to tell her what dreadful consequences approached. Mrs Bennet groaned.
Kitty finally met Lizzy’s gaze with her own watery one. “Papa says…Papa says…you are not to attend any event which he must also attend. If you do, he will reveal…will t-tell Mr Bingley, Miss Bingley, and Mrs Hurst…your true f-father’s name.”
Jane gasped. Mrs Bennet moaned.
“He says we must choose, Lizzy! Choose whether to cease acknowledging you as our sister, else he shall cease indulging us with pretty gowns and shoe roses and ribbons! He says we shall discover how spoilt we were once we are wearing the same dresses year after year! Unless you return to our uncle, he will take out his anger at you upon us!”
Lizzy’s shoulders slumped. She looked into the eyes of each sister—Kitty, tearful; Lydia, angry; Jane, dazed. When Uncle arrives, I will ask him to take me away, she thought. I will not beg for their support. I do not deserve this.
But she glanced over at her mother, who was nearly cringing in her chair, as if she could make herself smaller. She was not a sensible woman, and to say that their connexion had not always been a smooth one was a vast understatement; however, she did not deserve this, either, and had been bearing up under his anger and jealousy since the day of Lizzy’s birth. Lizzy went to her, kneeling at her feet.
“Mama,” she said gently, as if she were talking to a young child. “Mama.” Finally, the older woman met her gaze.