Hello!
This story is in the first person and the present tense from Jane's point of view, commencing the evening before Lydia's return to Longbourn as Mrs Wickham. I wanted to explore what thoughts might lie beneath the surface of her character and this is what happened. A warning in advance - Jane does not end up with Bingley. A large part of the story is focused on her coming to terms with what she really wants, mostly by observing Elizabeth and Mr Darcy during their engagement and the early stages of their married life.
This is currently up as a taster chapter. I will start posting chapters on a more regular schedule when I have finished posting my current fic in a few months, though I may post more chapters in irregular intervals before then. From my draft, I would guess that the final story will probably be 60,000-100,000 words long.
Enjoy!
I pull a brush gently through Lizzy's tangled curls, watching in the mirror as her eyes dart around restlessly, searching for some new piece of wit or excitement. Occasionally her lips pull up into a smile and I wonder what she is thinking of in that moment, but her thoughts seem to pass too quickly to share. Still, it is good to see Lizzy smile again. She has not had much cause for that in the past few weeks. None of us have.
Sitting with Lizzy like this makes it an evening like a thousand before, yet it is unlike any I have experienced before, too. Tomorrow our youngest sister will return home, the first of us married. Married at only just sixteen and in the worst possible circumstances. Mrs Lydia Wickham. Will she be different, I wonder? Will the manner of her union have changed her, or will she still be the naive, foolish child I know? Is it too much to hope that when she faces her family, she will be ashamed of what she has done?
Lydia was a beautiful baby. I remember so clearly, her chubby little cheeks, the soft, wispy hair atop her head, her bright, sparkling eyes. She was not my Lizzy though. From an early age she was ill-tempered, spoiled and selfish. She would moan and complain that it hurt if I pulled a brush through her hair as I do Lizzy's every evening. Lizzy never complains, though her unruly curls are always knotted and tangled.
I will never brush Lydia's hair out again. Never hear those familiar complaints which years ago caused Lizzy to throw down the brush in defeat and tell her to just do it herself. She is a married woman now. Perhaps her husband will brush out her hair. From what I know of Mr Wickham, though, it seems unlikely. Most nights, I think, when the initial glow of newlyweds has worn away, Lydia will be left alone to brush her hair, wondering where her husband is as she does so. Maybe he will be brushing the hair of another woman and Lydia will finally realise how foolish she has been.
Maybe.
One day, perhaps, I will be ready to settle for a marriage like that. One without love. Hopefully to a man of better morals than Mr Wickham, of course. It cannot be so bad, when enough is known of your partner's character to be sure at least that they mean no harm. After all, Charlotte has done it and by all accounts is quite content with her lot. She has the assurance of a stable income, her own home to be mistress of and her husband's inheritance of Longbourn in the future. But she confesses herself that she is not romantic, and I must confess myself that I am. I long for the sweetness of love to accompany my marriage. Love that I thought I had found with – no matter, clearly I was mistaken.
With Mr Bingley it had seemed enough that I read only when it gives me pleasure to, sing little and somewhat ill and speak French rather poorly. It had not seemed to matter that I have none of Lizzy's intelligence, or Mary's commitment, or even Kitty and Lydia's lively ways. But it had mattered. It will always matter. He left and I came crashing back down to earth. To a world where for all my mother's protestations of my great beauty, I am nothing but an impoverished and unremarkable gentlewoman of little to no skill who is very nearly on the shelf.
"Jane?" Lizzy's voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realise that I have ceased my brushing. "It may never happen." She tells my reflection, whose face I see is marred by a dark frown.
"Oh Lizzy, I'm afraid it already has." I reply, unable to keep the tears from my eyes.
"Come now, dearest. Lydia will spill no tears for us. Do not spill them for her." Lizzy tells me, gently wiping the tears from my face. She has mistakenly assumed that I am crying for our sister. I cannot bear to tell her that these are selfish tears, mourning only for myself. Sometimes I think her belief in my goodness is all that keeps me from snapping like a twig.
Lizzy, oblivious to all of this, takes the brush from my shaking fingers and pries the escaped tendrils of her dark hair from between the bristles.
"It is a wonder I have any hair left on my head." She says in mock astonishment, showing me the matt of strands which have been pulled out tonight. It is a joke she tells often, and the familiarity eases me. In the mirror I see my reflection offer her a watery smile. Gently, she begins to pull the pins from my hair, letting my straight, golden locks hang loose.
My hair is like spun gold, Mama says. She is so proud of that hair. Once, her hair had looked the same. Gold, she regularly tells us, is the most beautiful of colours. I, she regularly tells us, am the most beautiful of daughters. The only hope for us is that my beauty will allow me to marry well. My golden hair is the weight of lead on my shoulders. Would Mama be angry if she knew I long for nothing more than warm brown curls like Lizzy's?
Lizzy sings as she brushes my hair. Her voice is sweet and pleasing. Somehow, it makes me miss her even though she is right there. Maybe it is because I know we will one day be separated and brush each other's hair no more. Brushing my hair is short work and now Lizzy's nimble fingers weave it into a braid, crossing strands over and under each other like she has been doing it her whole life. She almost has.
"There. I declare you quite perfect." She pronounces, giving the long golden rope she has created a playful tug.
"Thank you, Lizzy." I tell her, with a smile that does not quite reach my eyes. Lizzy sighs.
"It will not be so very bad." She says although I am not sure if she is trying to reassure me or herself. "They are not staying for long. The first day will be the hardest to get through, but once the excitement of their arrival has passed we will hardly know they are here."
"Yes." I reply with a confidence I do not feel, moving to begin Lizzy's braid. Wrestling her stubborn curls calms me. "I am sure that they will wish to spend most of their time with one another. They are newly married, after all. If we continue about our normal daily tasks, then we shall really only have to face them for meals."
"Yes. That is how it will be." She says. I can tell that she does not think Lydia will have been changed by her experiences. I am not sure if she is more afraid of being wrong or being right. To be wrong would mean that our sister is condemned to a lifetime of misery, but it would spare us the pain that Lydia will undoubtedly cause if she is her old self and shows no remorse.
I finish Lizzy's braid in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I watch our reflections in the mirror again. Neither one of us is smiling now. Lizzy's eyes are still and empty. She is watching the flickering flame of the candle that sits on the dresser, but I get the sense that she sees something else entirely.
Her vacant expression recalls to me a memory of our childhood, when I was ten and Lizzy was only just eight. She had been gazing into a flame then, too. I had been wondering what on earth she could be thinking of, when, with determined intent, she placed a small hand in the flame.
"Lizzy! Stop that!" I cried, pulling her back. "Let me see your hand. Is it burnt? You are old enough to know not to do such a silly thing!"
"But why, Jane? Why does it burn?" She had asked, completely unperturbed by my scolding, as though she could not accept that it did without understanding how. I just shook my head and told her not to do such a stupid thing again, thinking that would be that.
The next day she came to me with a thick journal from our father's library and told me proudly that she now understood why. I realised then the fundamental difference between us, which had nothing to do with our looks, no matter what our mother might think. Lizzy had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. I did not. For a time after this, I wondered what caused people to be different from one another, but I was not curious enough to attempt to find out. I suppose I never really was one for asking why.
We had still shared this room back then. It was not until I was thirteen when my cycles came and Mama declared I was becoming a woman that she insisted Lizzy move to a room of her own. For weeks I struggled to sleep after that, missing the comfort of my sister's warmth and soft breathing beside me. Sometimes I still miss it, even though ten years have passed since then.
Without Lizzy's influence, this room is less alive. It is not just that it is colder, or quieter. It is as though her possessions are infused with her essence, her zest for life, and without them mine seem dead and empty. Perhaps it is the rigid order of things that makes it seem so. I have always been a tidy person. My possessions are regimented, stored in perfect order and tucked neatly away.
The only possessions which remain out are the silver brush set that Lizzy and I use every night. When she leaves I will line them up meticulously, unable to bear closing my eyes knowing that something is out of place. In the morning light when I wake the silver will reflect the icy blue of the drapes and the bed hangings. I will look at it. I will feel cold and empty.
Lizzy's room is the polar opposite. Things cover every surface: letters, trinkets, sheet music and most of all books. She stacks books everywhere, in some sort of system which I do not understand. Some are her favourites, others are new and have not been read yet, more still are waiting to be returned to father's library or to a friend who they have been borrowed from.
Inevitably her clothes seem to end up scattered in the mix, or else piled in the corner as though the effort of putting them away is just too much. That is to say nothing of her ever-growing leaf collection, specimens of which regularly escape and find their way into the strangest of places. Lizzy calls it organised chaos. Sometimes I urge her to tidy up, but my attempts are half-hearted. The truth is that I would not change it for the world.
"Jane? Jane!" Lizzy is calling my name again. Seeing that she has got my attention, she smiles gently. "You are rather preoccupied tonight."
"I'm sorry, Lizzy. I was just thinking."
"Ah. A very dangerous past time. You had better be careful doing that." She teases. Her words have the desired effect as I cannot help but laugh.
"I will be sure to limit the activity as much as I am able." I assure her.
"Very well. I will leave you to that, then." Lizzy says. The thought of her leaving brings the darkness back again. I almost beg her to stay. Almost.
"Yes. Goodnight, sister." I settle for instead, smiling in what I hope is a convincing manner.
"Goodnight." Lizzy smiles and kisses my cheek. I watch as she leaves the room and listen as she calls goodnight to Kitty and Mary. How cold the room feels now.
Compulsively, I return Lizzy's chair to the corner by the window and tuck my own beneath the dresser, lining up the silver brush set. I move my candle across to my bedside and kneel on the floor to say my nightly prayers. Tonight I beg God to forgive my selfish thoughts, then I beg him to protect Lydia and spare her immortal soul. I do not know if he is listening, but it is worth trying.
Prayers done, I crawl between the sheets and clutch the covers to my chest. For a while, I leave the candle burning and watch as the shadows dance around the edge of its glow. It is very similar to a person really, a lonely, flickering light with darkness around the edges trying to creep in. It is very similar to me.
Eventually, I lean over to blow the candle out. I try not to think that life, too, can be snuffed out so quickly and thoughtlessly.
I try.
©Isabelle Lowe, 2019