The Mysteries of Pemberley

This is a little story I’ve been working on, my attempt at the gothic style that was popular in JA’s day. Hope you enjoy it! I will be posting on Wednesdays unless I tell you otherwise 🙂 

Most of the story is told in 1816, the year without a summer, but we’ll start off in 1812.

Prologue

Late Autumn, 1812

The air in the room hung heavy and oppressive over Elizabeth, such that she could scarcely draw a breath. No candles had been lit; they were not necessary for the veritable bonfire that roared and cracked in the fireplace. She drew her handkerchief from her pocket, and dabbed at the beads of sweat threatening to roll from her brow.

She sighed at the view of the spectre for whom she held vigil. Surely this pale, ugly creature that lay in the bed was not beautiful, dear Jane?  Her sister’s hand was thin and hot, and her skin was rough but Elizabeth reached for it, chafing it gently. With a dry, pained cough Jane opened her eyes to narrow slits.

Elizabeth smiled as cheerfully as she could, patting her sister’s cheek gently. “You look so much improved today, Jane,” Elizabeth lied. “How would you like some porridge? I believe Nicholls has made some nice—”

“Is he dead?” Jane’s voice bore all the ravages of her disease and but her quiet, hoarse croaks were nonetheless commanding.

“Is who dead, dearest?”

“My dear Charles.” Jane sighed and closed her eyes again. “I hope he is, for soon I will be too and I pray that death shall reunite us.”

“What a silly goose you are,” Elizabeth scolded half-heartedly, smoothing her sister’s hair from her fevered brow. “You are no more dying than I am. Why I will wager my new fan that you shall be out of this bed by Friday.”

“I will be out of this bed,” said Jane in a faint voice. “Buried six feet under in the churchyard.”

“That is not true! Why you—”

“Lizzy,” said Jane. “Stop. A person knows these things and in any case, I am in such misery. Death will be sweet relief.”

Tears sprang into Elizabeth’s eyes, and her throat grew tight. She busied herself straightening the bed linen and wiping Jane’s brow, all the while hoping for something to say that was not vain reassurance.

Jane opened her eyes then and her gaze locked on that of her sister’s. After a painful swallow, Elizabeth turned her head.

“Thank you for not arguing with me, for I have only the strength for a few sentences and I do not wish to waste it denying the truth.”

“Jane,” said Elizabeth through the lump in her throat, “if I could take your place, I would. You know I would do it in a heartbeat.”

A ghost of a smile flicked across Jane’s pale, drawn face. “In some manner of speaking, that is exactly what I wish of you.”

“Anything, Jane. I would do anything for you.”

Jane rested a moment, her eyes closed. She took enough shallow breaths that Elizabeth wondered whether she had fallen asleep. But no; Jane’s eyes opened again, strong and clear and intent on her sister’s—even the disease could not rob her of her motherly vigour. “Take care of little Charles. Be a mother to him. It will comfort  me to know he is loved by you.”

“You will be well,” Elizabeth promised though looking down at the wretched figure in the bed she knew her words were empty. “Little Charles will be back in your arms soon, I am sure of it.”

“Promise me.” Jane’s hand, claw-like but oddly strong, clutched hers. “I beg you. Give me your word that you will care for him as a mother would. Your word, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth was struck mute by the feverish ardour that gripped her sister as Jane held her hand tightly, painfully tightly, as if to extract the promise from her sister’s fingers. “Promise me,” Jane urged again. “I must know you will take care of him.”

“I will,” Elizabeth gasped. “You have my word. He shall be my son, always.”

Jane smiled then, the gentle, sweet smile Elizabeth was so accustomed to; her eyes drifted closed and her grip relaxed.  For a moment, the death mask slipped away and there again was dear Jane, lovely and angelic in repose. Elizabeth bent, kissing her sister, her lips seared by the heat of Jane’s cheek.

A few minutes later, her voice barely audible, Jane said, “Will you tell him about me? Tell him his Mama loved him very much and did not wish to leave him?”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth through the sob that choked her. “He will know you, Jane, and he will love you as much as I do. I love you so much, so much and I do not know—” How I can live without you? She could not speak the words; her emotion had closed her throat.

“I love you, too,” said Jane. She opened her mouth as if she wished to say more but then she did not. Her mouth remained open in a frighteningly skeletal gape. After a moment, Elizabeth reached over and pushed her chin up so her mouth would close.

She remained in the room for some time, not even realising that she wept until the nursemaid looked in on her. “Miss Bennet? May I speak to you?”

Elizabeth rose hastily, straightening her skirts and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Of course.”

Before she quit the room, she bent, kissing Jane’s brow and saying, “Stay, Jane, we need you.” Then she hurried out into the hall.

The nurse, a florid-faced lady called Danforth who appeared to be cut in half by her corset, was wringing her hands anxiously as Elizabeth approached her. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn. Forgive me but I have to speak on the welfare of that little lad in there.”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth. “What is it?”

“I speak out of turn, do not think I do not know it but I do know I am out of turn but I fear for him, really I do and I just want him to be well.”

“Yes, of course,” said Elizabeth. “But what is it?”

“You need to take him from the house,” said the nurse. “This disease, I seen it before, it will go through and kill them all. Get him from the house, take him out.”

“Take him…out?” Elizabeth stared at the lady. “Where shall I take him?”

The nurse did not answer directly, instead turning and gesturing for Elizabeth to follow her. She led Elizabeth into the nursery where young Charles, only a few months old, was laying in a cradle, contemplating the exquisite creations that were his feet and determining whether he could put them in his mouth. He stopped his endeavour when he saw Elizabeth and beamed with delight , reaching his hands for her and crowing madly with his joy.

His things were packed and ready by the door and a footman stood there anxiously awaiting his orders.

“There is a lady coming to be wet nurse,” explained Mrs. Danforth. “He will be needing her in an hour or so.”

“Ah—”

“He takes a gruel now twice a day. I will return to my duties to him soon enough I think.”

“Of course,” said Elizabeth, struggling to comprehend the haste with which the lady acted. “But do you not think I—”

“Get him over to Longbourn,” the lady whispered. “I know not what might become of him otherwise.” Then with a manner most unbecoming in a servant, but reflective of her love for the boy, she nearly pushed Elizabeth and the footman out the door.

As it was, she was quite right to do so.

Jane did not last the night. Elizabeth’s visit with her sister was the last time she ever beheld her and as Jane had thought, by that Friday she rested in a grave next to her husband. Mrs. Danforth was sadly the next to be stricken, as were several other members of the household at Netherfield.

The frightening plague swept through Meryton, affecting in some manner each of its four and twenty principal families; those at Longbourn were no exception. Both Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were afflicted, but he recovered while she did not. Lydia was likewise taken from them and Elizabeth hoped that wherever they were, Mrs. Bennet was comforted to have both her liveliest and her loveliest daughters with her.

In spite of the time she had spent at her sister’s bedside, Elizabeth was not affected. She had a sore throat, which lasted a week; each day she expected the fever and chills, or the headache that she knew must accompany it. However, these did not come. The dark hand that snatched her sister from the earth passed her by with only a glancing touch.

Little Charles was also spared. Elizabeth supposed she owed to Mrs. Danforth a debt of gratitude for what she had done in seeing him removed from the house. He never so much as took a fever, instead, thriving, laughing and cooing even on the days when Elizabeth could not stop crying in his presence.

Despite his name he was, in every way, her sister. His little ways, his looks, everything was Jane. He had the same sweet way about him, the same obedience and the same kindness. At times he was the only thing that could pull her from the fog of sorrow which threatened to overwhelm her.