Those who had left were returned to their homes, save several who had succumbed to the illness elsewhere. Some who had left and not fallen ill returned smug in the perceived rightness of their decision, Charlotte told them with disapproval writ clear upon her features.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand as the sisters absorbed this news solemnly. They had known some of it—even in crisis, information will find its way around a village—but Elizabeth had not grasped the full scope of what had occurred while she was consumed by the illness within her own family. To Jane, it must be even more shocking.
“One must wonder if Meryton shall ever recover from such a blow,” Elizabeth said in tones of consternation.
“I believe it will,” said Charlotte. “Father says the epidemic in his youth was just as terrible, though the neighbourhood was smaller then. It recovered, and even grew, in the time since.”
“It must have been dreadful for Mr Jones,” said Jane. “So many patients, so much loss! Is he well?”
Charlotte nodded slowly. “He is. It is of course a troubling thing, an experience one would never wish to have. But his training and his own steady nature have seen him through the worst, and now that he has time to reflect, I believe he will be able to put it behind him, likely faster than the rest of us. Although he does suffer greatly from the loss of his nephew.”
“Poor little Davey Goulding,” Jane murmured.
“There will be special prayers for the dead at services until Twelfth Night, beginning this Sunday,” Charlotte informed them. “Will your family attend?”
“Papa and Kitty and I shall, I expect,” said Elizabeth. “Mary may prefer to remain with Lydia, and Jane will have to decide what her strength allows.”
“I am well enough to sit in church, Lizzy, though I would rather Papa called for the carriage. Walking in the cold would be fatiguing,” Jane answered mildly.
Mr Bennet did call for the carriage on Sunday, and Mary was persuaded to leave Lydia with Mrs Hill and join them. The gentry at the front of the church resembled nothing so much as a flock of crows, so many were garbed in black, she thought, desperate for some bit of levity in a place of such bereaved sadness. When Mr Edwards solemnly read the names of the departed, a task which took several minutes, the only sound other than his voice was the muffled weeping scattered through the pews.
* * *
Mary sought out her sisters to ask for their advice. “Lydia is insistent on being given a mirror. Certainly she has the right to understand the changes which have occurred, but her spirits are much depressed, and I fear that she might be brought lower by such an exercise.”
“Let me go to her.”
They all looked at Jane with some surprise, for she preferred to avoid disputes rather than inject herself into them.
“I have been through this myself,” she explained calmly. “I will go to Lydia, and tell her what it was like for me, to view for the first time what had become of my appearance. If, after that, she still wishes to see herself, we should allow it.”
There was little anyone could say to that; Jane was the only one among them who truly understood what Lydia would confront in the glass.
Jane entered Lydia’s room and found her reading but glad to put the book aside in favour of discourse with Jane. “Did Mary need a rest?”
“No, I asked her to stay downstairs while I spoke with you,” she replied, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “I am told that you wish for a looking glass.”
“I must see myself at some time!” Lydia retorted with no little frustration.
“Indeed, you must,” Jane replied easily, to the surprise of her sister. “It need not be today, but it need not be later, either. I only wished to tell you of my own experience, that you might be better able to decide if you are ready. And if you are ready today, I will bring you the glass myself.”
Lydia soberly agreed, and Jane proceeded to open her heart to her sister in a manner she had not done even with Elizabeth, who would have been all sympathy but could never truly understand. She described the shock and horror she felt upon first encountering her scarred face and hands, in particular, for all else might be hidden by clothing. She told of the fears that plagued her, for her future and the reactions of others; her certainty that she could not now marry and that many of her friends would be lost to her, for who would wish to look upon such a visage? And then she revealed how the bulk of those fears had thus far proved largely unfounded, for Mr Bingley still loved her, and many had greeted her at church the day prior with smiles and pleasure in her recovery. She admitted, too, that many of those smiles had been tinged with pity, and that some looked upon her with revulsion, or not at all.
“What I wish you to know, dear Lydia,” she concluded, “is that while you will have cause to mourn your loss of beauty, you need not mourn your dreams. Your family and any friends worth the name will stand with you, and one day I am sure that you will meet a man worthy of you, who will care more for your heart than for your face. I do not say life will be as easy as it was before, but all of the things that truly matter are still possible.”
Lydia considered all that Jane had said with a seriousness she had rarely mustered. At last, she said, “I thank you, Jane. I was not, upon reflection, ready to see myself but I believe I am now, thanks to you.”
Jane held the mirror out, wordlessly, and Lydia took it after a deep breath and a moment to gather her courage. Jane watched as her sister beheld her hollowed-out cheeks dotted with livid pink, pitted scars. Lydia’s left eye was clouded with the mark of the disease’s incursion there, and her chestnut curls hung limp and dry in further testament to weeks of near-starvation. Gasping, she let the glass fall to the counterpane, dropped her head into her hands, and wept. Jane crawled onto the bed to pull her into a fierce embrace.
In time, Lydia calmed. She remained safe in Jane’s embrace for some minutes, then sat up and retrieved the glass, taking another look.
“It is not so shocking after the first time is got over, I suppose,” she commented.
“No, it is not,” Jane agreed. “And you will begin to look better soon. Already I notice my scars are not so red, and I have regained much of the weight I lost. This is the worst it shall be, I promise.”
“Thank you, Jane. I do feel better now, and I am not sorry I looked. Avoiding it would not have changed anything, would it?”
“Indeed not,” Jane said. “I have lately learnt that I often prefer to avoid that which I cannot change, but I do not believe it has served me well. It has certainly not served my sisters well.”
