“Well, perhaps he will escape illness. He rarely sits with us or goes out, which may help him avoid the influenza.”
Frances Bennet joined her second daughter in the drawing room.
“Elizabeth, I trust you have kept away from Jane and Mary?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
Mrs. Bennet stepped closer and placed the back of her hand against her daughter’s forehead. “How are you feeling? I do not wish to send Mr. Collins away without a wife.”
Elizabeth reddened. “No, ma’am, I understand. You need not fear for me, for I will stay away from my two sisters.”
She took her courage in both hands and began her performance. “Do you remember little Emmeline Cluett?”
Mrs. Bennet stood still. “Emmeline Cluett? What concern is an Emmeline Cluett to me? Who is this person that I should remember her?”
Elizabeth set her needle aside. “Emmeline Cluett was the child who died of influenza three years ago. I heard the apothecary say that it strikes children and elderly persons with severity.”
“Do you mean to warn me for Lydia’s sake?”
Elizabeth began folding the dress she had been mending. “Yes, for Lydia is young. She has only just turned fifteen. Should she fall ill with this malady, she may not survive it, but then again, you know best.”
She rose as though to leave the room.
“Now that you have brought her to mind, I do remember little Emmeline. She was only a child, no more than five or six, when she succumbed. But Lydia is already fifteen.”
“Yes, it is as you say. Yet I recall how ill my sister became when she took a cold last winter. She seems to be of a weak constitution.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep her expression composed. That lazy child had made the most of her cold. It pleased her to remain in bed while her sisters attended to her every need and to bask in their mother’s anxious care, for Mrs. Bennet believed the child far sicker than she truly was. In truth, Lydia’s constitution was strong, and she felt certain that the child would outlive all of her immediate family and many in Meryton.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, was likewise thoughtful. “There is sense in what you say. Lydia was brought low by that cold.”
Elizabeth continued, “Perhaps Lydia should be sent to stay with Uncle Edward. I could take her myself. If we pack now, we could dine early and catch the mail coach this evening. I could return in time to meet Mr. Collins, unless you write to say Jane remains ill. In that case, I might meet Mr. Collins at the Gardiners’ home.”
Mrs. Bennet gave her daughter’s counsel more consideration than was her habit. “Yes, I believe that is the best course inthis situation. I shall write to my brother myself and send the note with you. He will not turn his nieces from his door, and he will extend his hospitality, since Jane lies ill here at home. Go now, Elizabeth. Begin packing. I will send Alice to help Lydia. Be ready to dine at four, so that Mr. Hill may drive you into Harpenden to catch the mail coach.”
Elizabeth excused herself and went upstairs. She looked into Jane’s room and found her in bed, with Mary seated beside her, reading aloud.
“Take heart,” Elizabeth said. “Mamma is sending Lydia and me to London. If all goes well, you will soon be spared, Jane. I intend to ask Uncle Gardiner whether he can place Lydia at school. Perhaps he may find a situation where she could work in exchange for part of her tuition, so that Papa may afford to keep her there.”
After contriving to escape her mother’s notice, Lydia carefully drew the stone from where it was wedged in the fence. She slipped her hand into the vacant space, but there was no note. She must have angered Lieutenant Wickham by refusing him. She replaced the stone and stood looking out over the field before her, uncertain of what she ought to do next, and wondering how she might persuade him to pursue her again. Of all the gentlemen who flirted with her, he was the most well-favored and the most gentlemanly of them all. She turned back toward the house.
As she entered through the kitchen door, Mrs. Hill called to her. “Miss Lydia, you are wanted in the drawing room. Your mother wishes to speak with you.”
Lydia hurried to the room and found both her father and her mother seated together, their countenances grave. A flutter of fear stirred within her. Had her sister spoken to Papa of her flirtations with Wickham? Lizzy had intended to tell all. She remained silent until her mother addressed her.
“Lydia, your sister is very ill, and for that reason, I am sending you to my brother Gardiner. You are to remain in London until I send for you. Now go upstairs and see that Alice packs everything you will require for a stay of two or three weeks.”
“Mamma,” Lydia asked, “is Jane going to die, as little Emmeline did?”
“No, my dear. Jane is a grown woman. She is healthy and strong, but you are still very young. I am sending you away to protect your health. Do you understand?”
“Yes. You will write to me?”
“Of course I shall write to you, and I will tell you how Jane goes on. Now make haste. We shall dine early this evening so that we may see you off on the mail coach.”
“The mail coach?” Lydia cried. “I have never ridden in the mail coach. At last, I shall travel to London in the mail coach, just as my elder sisters have always done. Thank you, Mamma.”
She turned and ran up the stairs, and she gave Lieutenant Wickham no further thought.
