Page 21 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

Mr. Bennet set down his spoon with a soft clink. “You ought not to have let her go. The weather was uncertain. You should have forbidden it.”

A flash of hurt crossed Mrs. Bennet’s face. “If you will excuse me,” she said a bit stiffly, rising from her chair. “I must speak with Hill about the dessert.”

Elizabeth watched her go, then turned to her father with a look of mild reproach. “No one expected the rain to come so soon. It took us all by surprise.”

“Indeed,” Mark agreed. “We were caught in it, and we were only just returning from the eastern boundary. I thought we had another hour at least.”

Mr. Bennet sighed and pressed a hand to his brow. “Yes… yes, perhaps I spoke too hastily.”

To his credit, he made an effort for the remainder of the meal to speak more kindly to his wife, offering quiet praise for the meal and asking after the kitchen maid’s cold.

Elizabeth saw the lines of tension ease slightly from her mother’s shoulders when she returned to the table, though she continued to glance at the windows between courses.

When the last dish had been cleared and Jane had still not returned, no one said the words aloud—but all at the table recognized what it meant.

Kitty chewed her lower lip and pushed peas around her plate. Lydia leaned over to ask if Jane might catch a chill.

“I am certain they have warm fires and dry linen at Netherfield,” Elizabeth said, trying to sound confident.

But when bedtime came and the candles were extinguished, the house lay still and quiet—yet few inside it found sleep easily.

∞∞∞

The next morning dawned gray and heavy with mist, the rain having eased to a steady drizzle that turned the lanes to pudding. At the breakfast table, conversation was subdued—until Hill entered with a folded note upon a tray.

“For Miss Elizabeth, ma’am,” she said, presenting the envelope with a shallow curtsy.

Elizabeth wiped her hands on her napkin and broke the seal. As her eyes scanned the lines, her brow furrowed.

“She has caught a chill,” she said at last, her voice carefully even. “She writes to assure us it is nothing serious, but the Bingley ladies insisted on calling for the apothecary. She only wrote to warn us, in case we hear of it through town gossip.”

Mrs. Bennet let out a gasp and clutched at her bodice. “A chill? Oh, my poor, sweet Jane! I knew it would rain! Did I not say it would rain?”

“You did, Mama,” said Elizabeth, rising to her feet. “And now she has a fever and headache, which is why I must go see her.”

“Absolutely not,” her mother declared, placing a slice of toast firmly back on her plate. “Not in those roads. You know how they get after a night of rain—thick as mortar! I know you, Lizzy, and your hem will end up six inches deep in mud, and what will our neighbors think of us then?”

“I do not care what they think.”

“Well, I do!” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “And besides, you will not be going anywhere on foot with officers about. Mark my words, redcoats will be prowling the hedgerows before long.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Jane is ill. She is stuck in a house full of near-strangers. I am going.”

Mark, who had been buttering a scone with great diligence, looked up and gave a crooked smile. “You will not be going alone.”

Mrs. Bennet rounded on him. “And what, precisely, do you plan to do when she is stuck in the mud halfway there?”

“I shall lift her out of it, of course,” he said innocently. “I will keep her hem from getting more than an inch or two dirty, Mama. I promise.”

Mrs. Bennet gave him a fondly exasperated look and threw up her hands. “I do not know what I have done to deserve so many contrary children.”

“I am not contrary,” Lydia piped up brightly from the other end of the table, her mouth full of eggs.

Everyone laughed, even Mr. Bennet, who had until that moment been buried in his newspaper.

Mark stood and pushed back his chair. “Eat quickly, Lizzy, so we can be on our way.”

Elizabeth gave him a grateful smile and hurriedly returned to her plate. Mrs. Bennet muttered something about needing to double the servants’ laundry day, but did not object further.

As the two stepped out into the damp morning air, Elizabeth glanced at the gray clouds still lingering on the horizon. The ground squelched softly beneath their boots, and Mark tugged his greatcoat tighter across his chest.

“Before we go to Netherfield,” he said, “do you mind if we stop by the Crowleys’ cottage?” He held up a small parcel.

Elizabeth frowned. “Again? Did you not just visit them?”

“I was,” he said. “But I only spoke to Crowley. Beth stayed inside. Papa was concerned—he said he would like one of the ladies to check in on her. The men usually talk about crops and livestock, but it’s the women who see whether the house is warm enough or the children are clothed properly.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Very well. It is on the way, after all, and Jane is not in any immediate danger.”

Mark led the way along the hedgerow, and soon they reached the small stone cottage nestled just off the path. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney, and a line of damp washing hung limply in the breeze.

Why did she not remove the clothing before the rain? Elizabeth wondered.

Stepping up to the door, Mark knocked. “Hello? Mrs. Crowley? It’s Master Bennet.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, from inside, a woman’s voice called out, wary: “My husband is out in the north field. He won’t be back till noon.”

Mark glanced at Elizabeth, then raised his voice gently. “It is not him I came to see, ma’am.”

Still silence.

Then Elizabeth stepped forward and called, “Beth? It is me—Miss Lizzy. I wanted to see how you are getting on. We miss you at Longbourn. Will you not open the door for me?”

A moment passed, then a soft click sounded at the latch. The door opened a few inches, and Beth peered out, a baby balanced on her hip and a toddler clinging to her skirts.

Elizabeth stepped forward instinctively and embraced her. The door creaked open wider under the motion, and as they drew back, Elizabeth gasped. “Oh no—what happened?”

Beth flinched. The skin around her left eye was swollen and bruised, with a faint cut along the cheekbone.

“I was clumsy,” she said, voice low. “Tripped over the table. It’s a bit cramped in here, that’s all.”

Mark’s tone turned sharp. “Did your husband do that?”

Beth’s eyes dropped. She hesitated, then gave the faintest of nods.

“But I thought he loved you!” Elizabeth cried in shock and dismay. “He married you when everyone said not to.”

Beth raised her chin a little, defiant now. “He does love me. He just… when he’s been out drinking—he doesn’t mean to. And he feels awful afterward. He always does.”

Mark’s hand came down on Elizabeth’s arm in a firm, calming gesture. “Do you want me to speak with him? Better yet, my father?”

Beth’s head whipped back and forth. “No. Please, no. It’d only make things worse.”

Mark’s voice softened. “If that ever changes—if you ever need help—we will be here. Just come up to the manor and ask for myself or my father.”

Beth’s shoulders dropped, just a little. “Thank you.”

She looked at Elizabeth, her eyes glassy but kind. “And thank you, miss. It means a lot—having someone like you care. Most ladies forget servants once they’re gone.”

Elizabeth stepped forward and hugged her again. “I could never forget you,” she whispered in the young mother’s ear. “You are not alone.”

They left the bundle Mark had carried, filled with dried herbs and several pairs of woolen socks for the children, then continued on the path toward Netherfield.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

At last, Elizabeth said quietly, “I do not understand. Why would a man beat the woman he married?”

Mark sighed. “It is much more common than you think. We have been sheltered here at Longbourn, but when I went to school… the stories I heard. Did you know that the law allows it? As long as he does not actually kill his wife, and the stick he uses is no thicker than his thumb, a man is allowed to discipline his wife in whatever manner he sees fit.”

“That is monstrous,” Elizabeth declared. “But why would a man do that to a woman he claims to love? I can see arranged marriages or marriages made by haste, but Mr. Crawford truly loved Beth… or so I thought.”

“I do not know,” Mark shrugged helplessly. “Some men are just unable—or unwilling, rather—to control their tempers. I do not agree with it, of course, but there is little we can do.”

“There must be something!”

“If Beth were willing, then Father and I could step in. But unless she asks for our assistance, our hands are tied. Any interference may actually make it worse for her. If we push too hard, they may even leave to find a tenancy that is less… interfering.”

Elizabeth’s expression darkened, but she nodded slowly. “I hate it.”

“As do I.”

They continued in silence for a while, then Elizabeth murmured, “Love is not always safe.”

Mark looked over at her. “No. It is not.”

And neither spoke again until they reached the gates of Netherfield.