The Journey

by Hahn, Jan

  Miss Bingley’s eyes immediately flew to those of Mrs. Hurst, both their faces appearing stricken!

  “But — but the paper quoted Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Miss Bingley sputtered. “I do not believe for one moment a reporter would dare misquote a personage of her renown!”

  “Miss Bennet,” Mrs. Hurst added, “do you deny what was written in the newspaper?”

  At that moment the driver pulled up outside my uncle’s house, and the footman opened the door for me to alight.

  “Ah, here we are,” I said with a smile. “Allow me to thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart for your assistance.”

  “But — but — ” Miss Bingley stuttered. I did not answer and slipped out the door and down the carriage steps.

  “Shall we come in as well?” Mrs. Hurst asked, responding to the frantic expression on her sister’s face.

  “And break your other engagement? Oh no, I would not dream of deterring you further. You have been more than generous with your time. Good day.”

  I ran up the steps and into the house. I could not keep the smile from my face as I made my way upstairs. That walk had done far more good for my outlook than I had hoped.

  I covered only half the flight before Kitty called to me from below. “Lizzy, Mamá says you are to come into the drawing room.”

  “The drawing room? At this hour of the day? Whatever for?”

  “Hurry!” she called, motioning with her hand. I pulled off my bonnet, as I retraced my steps and handed it to the servant along with my pelisse.

  Inside the large room I found Mary reading a book, my Aunt Gardiner playing a game with her two older children, but not a sign of Jane or Mr. Bingley or Mamá, for that matter.

  “Close the door, Kitty,” my aunt said.

  “What is it, Aunt? Why are we to assemble in the drawing room of all places?” I asked.

  “Mr. Bingley and Jane are alone in the front parlour,” Kitty said. “Mamá stands guard outside the door, and she has given strict orders that no one is to interrupt them.”

  My mouth gaped, astounded that even my mother would stoop to such tactics. “Oh, Aunt, I must go to Jane. Surely she is mortified! Mr. Bingley cannot mistake my mother’s subterfuge.”

  “Sit down, Lizzy,” my aunt answered. “Your mother has arranged it all, and there is nothing we can do about the matter now.”

  “You cannot approve! You would never stoop to such schemes.”

  “No, I would not have thought of doing so, but then my daughters are not yet of marriageable age, my dear.”

  I began to pace, unable to believe my own mother could employ such plotting. When I thought of how she had packed Jane off to Netherfield in the rain, though, causing her to become ill and forced to spend several days and nights at Mr. Bingley’s house, I had to admit this latest plan seemed in character.

  “How long have they been shut up in there alone?” I demanded.

  “At least three-quarters of an hour,” Mary said, peering closely through her glasses at the clock on the mantel.

  “I must go to her.” I headed for the door.

  “Sit down, Lizzy,” my aunt said. “Another five minutes should do the trick — as your mother puts it — if there is a trick to be done.”

  Sure enough, although I sat and fumed, chewed my lip and sighed often, within five minutes my mother opened the door, her face enveloped by one huge grin.

  My younger sisters both questioned her at once while I rose to go to Jane. Mamá was so excited she could not get the words out. All she could do was nod her head, her face still frozen in that same jubilant expression.

  “Fanny,” my aunt said, “it is accomplished? Mr. Bingley has asked for Jane’s hand?”

  “I think so! I could only hear bits and pieces through the door, but I am certain I heard the words marry and wife.”

  “I am going to her,” I cried, starting for the door.

  “Yes, Lizzy, go!” Mamá cried. “And if Mr. Bingley wishes to speak to your father, I shall send a servant to fetch him from Mr. Gardiner’s office post-haste!”

  I walked down the hallway to the parlour as quickly as possible and pushed open the door without knocking. Jane and Mr. Bingley stood at the fireplace, her hands in his, their blonde heads close together. My heart leapt at the sight, shocked that for once my mother had been right!

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” I said, turning to leave, but Jane stopped me, and she and Mr. Bingley welcomed me into the room and revealed their good news. It was too wonderful to believe, and the entire house was soon so filled with joy I am surprised it did not visibly rock to and fro on its foundation.

  Mr. Bingley stayed for tea and endured my mother’s effusive admiration with valiant effort. I could not say which of the two — he or my mother — had the wider smile on their face. Jane blushed repeatedly at all that was said. I had never seen her so happy or so beautiful.

  Mr. Bingley refused to have my father summoned back to the house. He informed us that Mr. Hurst was to call for him at half-past four, and he would have him transport him to Mr. Gardiner’s place of business.

  Before his expected leave-taking and after Mamá had been sated with food and joy and forced to lie down for a bit, I was able to speak with Jane and Mr. Bingley alone.

  “You, sir, have turned this week that threatens great difficulty into one of great happiness,” I said. “I trust you will not ever suffer because of the disgrace I have brought upon this family.”

  “You are not the cause of it, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “On the contrary, you have borne your plight with grace and continue to do so in the face of great adversity. I admire your courage, and I shall be proud to call you my sister.”

  “And I to call you brother.”

  Jane beamed as he kissed her hand and bade us farewell. “Oh, Lizzy, if only you could be as happy as I. If only — ” She broke off then, both of us aware that my chance for joy was not to be.

  I slipped my arm in hers. “Until I have your goodness, Jane, I could never attain your happiness. But this success will surely spur Mamá on until she finds an agreeable mate for me. And if I have very good luck, perchance he will not resemble Mr. Collins!”

  * * *

  At the close of the first day of the trial, the jury found the gang member, Rufus, guilty of highway robbery, kidnapping, and extortion. It was not until the second day, when I read the account in the newspaper and saw that his surname was Martin, that I discovered he was the pig farmer’s son.

  I thought of the young red-haired lad who had given Mr. Darcy and me a ride on the road to Hazleden, and his tale that Mr. Martin’s son had fallen into bad company.

  For a few moments, I allowed myself the luxury of amusement at recalling that entire incident and the events on the road afterwards. Had it only been a matter of weeks since we had laughed together with such unchecked mirth? Life now seemed quite altered and dark.

  I had been surprised that a man’s fate could be so easily and quickly decided. My uncle explained that it was actually somewhat unusual that each man was afforded a complete day of trial, that all of Morgan’s men were not tried at once. And the jury’s hasty decision was to be expected.

  After all, once Mr. Darcy laid out the facts, and the footmen and driver of Mr. Bingley’s carriage were called as witnesses, what defence could the accused offer? Rufus had mumbled answers to the judge’s questions, but nothing he said could acquit him of the charges.

  The highwayman called Merle suffered the identical fate the next day. In fact, the court let out early because the prosecution consisted of the same witnesses and statements. The accused did declare his innocence, but according to my father’s account, the judge soon grew weary and dismissed any further outbursts. ’Twas a simple task for the jury to find him guilty.

  I questioned my father and uncle extensively each evening, seeking details of the proceedings, but they were fairly reticent. I was thus forced to examine the newspaper’s accounts. Thus far, nothing out of the ordi
nary had occurred.

  By the third day, the date of Sneyd’s trial, I grew concerned for Mr. Darcy. The burden of testimony had fallen on him throughout each trial, even though Mr. Hurst, Mr. Bingley, and my father were there to speak for the female victims.

  Mr. Bingley called upon us each evening and spoke with admiration of the fine manner in which his friend executed his duty. He termed him a man of distinction and honour and said his reputation for integrity was well known in London circles. I could picture his upright demeanour, the tone of moral authority in his voice, and his clear recital of the facts of each case and even clearer denunciation of the criminals. Still, I worried at the constant strain he underwent.

  In truth, I longed to comfort him at the end of each day, hold his hand, or smooth his brow. I had lost that privilege, I thought sadly, when I refused to become his wife.

  On that Thursday set aside for Sneyd’s trial, I was nervous as a cat. Jane attempted to comfort me, stating that things had gone well previously, and that it was almost over. My aunt, likewise, tried to pacify my uneasy manner, assuring me that Sneyd had not the slightest chance of being set free. That was not my concern.

  I found myself anxious at what the hateful man might say about Mr. Darcy or me. In addition, of what might he accuse Morgan? There was no love lost between them — had he not shot him? He might try to place all responsibility for his crimes on Morgan, saying he had been unduly influenced, led astray, or forced to follow him. The more I brooded over the matter, the more imaginative I grew, envisioning impossibly dark outcomes.

  Almost as soon as my father and uncle walked through the doorway that evening, I besieged them with questions, Jane following close behind.

  Seeing the drawn look about my father’s face, my aunt halted my onslaught. “Allow your father a few moments’ peace. Thomas, Edward, come in and sit down. I shall ring for tea.”

  They followed her into the parlour, and I apologized. Still, I hovered close by, hoping for any word they wished to share concerning the day’s events. Mamá had not yet returned from taking Mary and Kitty shopping, and so we were spared her demanding questions. I did not wish to appear as taxing as she often did, so I tried my best to employ patience.

  After tasting the hot tea, my father laid his head against the high-backed chair and closed his eyes. My uncle, although normally quite jolly, appeared somewhat resigned. He took a biscuit from the plate Jane offered him, but seemed to forget he had it in his hand, making not the slightest attempt to pop it in his mouth as he had done the night before.

  At length I could not bear the suspense any longer. “Uncle, I pray you tell us what happened today. I do not mean to press you, but — ”

  “Yes, Lizzy,” he said, sighing. “I know all of you are curious. Well, the scoundrel called Sneyd was found guilty. For that we can be grateful.”

  “Of course, he was,” my aunt said. “We did not expect otherwise.”

  “Then why do you and Papá appear so downhearted?” I asked.

  He sighed again and glanced at my father, who had now raised his head, a deep frown wrinkling his brow. “Oh, just the strain of the day and . . . the length of the week are catching up with us. That is all, my dear.”

  I doubted that was all by any means. “Nothing was said out of the ordinary, then? That horrid Sneyd did not portray his true character by blackening Mr. Darcy’s name or mine?”

  “He revealed his true character,” my father said. “Make no mistake about that. I shudder to think you were forced to endure his presence, much less his imprisonment.”

  “He was mean and crude and the worst of the lot, but he did not actually harm me, Father. Mr. Darcy and — in truth — the leader, Morgan, saw to that.”

  “Yes,” my uncle said, “the two of them defended you today as well, Lizzy. I could not say which of them shouted the loudest, could you, Thomas?”

  My father shook his head. “What is important is that the two together drowned out that villain’s accusations.”

  My pulse began to race. What I greatly feared had come about. “What — what did he say?”

  “No, Lizzy,” my father said, rising from the chair. “Do not ask, for I shall not repeat it.”

  “But Papá,” I cried.

  My uncle rose at the same time. “Your father is right. Those words shall never be spoken under my roof. Let it be. It has all been denied and forcefully so.”

  I watched as they left the room, climbing the stairs together. My aunt rang the bell for the maid to clear away the tea service. Hearing the return of my mother and sisters in the hallway, she went to join them.

  Only Jane stayed behind. She took my hand in hers. “Dearest, try not to think on it. What is done is done. Can you not put it behind you?”

  “What was done? What was said? I must know!”

  “But why? It will only distress you, and have not Father and our uncle said you were defended, that awful man’s lies disputed? No one could believe him, Lizzy, no one!”

  I hung my head, chewing my lip. Ah, Jane, console yourself with such a delusion, I thought but did not say aloud.

  Even Mr. Bingley refused to tell me what had been said at the trial when I questioned him that evening. He appeared chastened and sober, his normally cheerful countenance subdued, his manner quieter than usual.

  The only joyful moment during his visit was an invitation he extended from Mr. and Mrs. Hurst for all of us to dine at their townhouse on Thursday evening of next week. He said it was to celebrate the betrothal and that his sisters had delayed the event only because of the strain of the present week. I had my doubts about that, imagining the horror Mr. Bingley’s announcement had caused among his relations. The difficult task of fitting into that family awaited my sister, but if anyone could win them over, it would be Jane.

  After our guest departed, I hurried upstairs with my sister, doing my best to join in her excitement about next week’s upcoming dinner. I listened patiently as she surveyed her wardrobe, already in quest of a suitable gown for the evening.

  At last, I could bear it no longer and returned to the subject of that day’s trial, questioning her as to anything Mr. Bingley might have said privately.

  “He did not share any details of the trial,” Jane said. “He simply said it was far better not to speak of it.”

  I knew then whatever had come forth from Sneyd’s mouth had been vile indeed.

  * * *

  The following day I rose early, and as soon as my father and uncle left the house, I snatched the newspaper and locked myself away in my room. There I planned to pore over each page, searching for every word written covering the trial. I did not have to look far — it glared forth from the front page for all to see.

  THIRD HIGHWAYMAN FOUND GUILTY

  Mortimer Sneyd was found guilty last evening on all counts of kidnapping, highway robbery, extortion, and attempted murder of the ringleader of the scandalous gang, Nathanael Morgan.

  A heated defence for Sneyd was attempted by calling each of the highwaymen as witnesses. His account was corroborated by the two men previously convicted, except when he asserted that he was the rightful leader of the highwaymen instead of Morgan. He sealed his fate with his conceit, for he insisted that it was his idea to kidnap passengers and hold them for ransom.

  Morgan, the alleged ringleader, refused to answer any question or confirm any statement made by Sneyd. Neither would Morgan answer any of the prosecutor’s questions, even when threatened by the judge with a stricter sentence for failure to cooperate. The only occasions upon which Morgan spoke were to shout down Sneyd’s accusations against Miss Bennet, one of the kidnapped victims.

  “That hussy lied to us!” Sneyd declared. “She and Darcy made out they was married. We’d never have forced them to sleep together if the truth be known! Besides that, she claimed she carried his child!”

  He continued to accuse Miss Bennet of actions not befitting a lady. He said she used her “flirty ways” to lure him away from his loyalty to Mo
rgan. He then declared that she had turned her wiles on Morgan when they dined alone.

  Each time Sneyd invoked Miss Bennet’s name in these scurrilous attacks, Morgan and Mr. Darcy both denounced him with loud and heated denials. Their outcry became so loud that the judge ordered a halt to the proceedings and demanded that the defendant desist such defamatory accusations. He also cautioned both Mr. Darcy and Morgan that they could not engage in shouting in his court, even if it was in defence of a lady’s honour.

  I lay back upon the pillows on my bed, my face flaming, my stomach burning from the emotions churned up by this public exposure. No wonder my father and uncle had refused to reveal the day’s proceedings!

  Although Sneyd had been convicted of his crimes, he had succeeded in blackening my reputation beyond my bleakest fears. Yes, his account had been denied by Mr. Darcy and Morgan, but I knew human nature — how once something was read in print, it remained in one’s memory. Given time, rumours often blurred with facts until they were believed as truth, no matter how false.

  I scanned the remainder of the article. It contained nothing more than notice of Morgan’s trial to commence on the morrow.

  Why I do not know, but I re-read the entire account once again, unable to tear myself from its ugly statements. Sneyd was defeated. Knowing he could not extricate himself from his crimes, he endeavoured to ruin all those he held responsible, blamed them for his own guilt, and yet convicted himself with his attempt to portray himself as ringleader.

  What caused a person to be consumed by such hatred? I could not fathom it.

  I looked over the report a third time. The only redeeming part of it was that Mr. Darcy and Morgan had at last agreed upon something — my defence. For that I was grateful. I thought of how often Mr. Darcy had protected me — how unselfishly he had acted on my behalf time and again.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought of the expression upon his handsome face when he had offered himself for ransom to shield the ladies with whom he travelled. I recalled the kind manner in which he had held and comforted me in the cabin in the woods, how he rescued me from the opera, and of course, I could not erase from my memory how he had huddled with me that cold night in the cave and what transpired the following morn. If only he loved me! If only —