CHAPTER XLVII

By the first week of August, she was immensely uncomfortable and in constant need of refreshing herself. She could not walk ten minutes without feeling exhausted. As her stomach grew her patience shortened. There was only one target of her irritation: the man who had put her in this situation in the first place. Not that there was anything she could do about it. And it seemed increasingly likely the King would get his divorce.

News from London arrived slowly, but she knew the bags of evidence against the Queen had been opened – and the Lords had found enough in them to lay a Bill that would deprive the Queen of her title, prerogatives, rights, and privileges, and dissolve her marriage. The Bill of Pains and Penalties amounted to trial by Act of Parliament. The House of Lords, including Lady Matlock's own husband, would be Caroline's prosecution and jury. In one small nod to justice, the Queen would have Mr. Brougham to speak for her, in his capacity as counsel for the defence. A mere member of the House of Commons would not normally be permitted to enter, let alone speak, in the Lords.

Sometimes, when she not able to sleep at night or while playing a particular stanza of music, Lady Matlock's thoughts would float back to that other life or to a ship docking in the New World, full of promise and opportunity. When such thoughts intruded, she reminded herself of the Queen, standing up with quiet dignity to the Old Corruption, asserting her right to be simply recognised and treated with the respect due to her not as a Queen, but as a woman – and it strengthened her resolve. Maybe, when she next visited Court, she would meet Caroline – or maybe there would not be a Court at all. Lady Castlereagh wrote about trouble in Naples and Milan where insurrection and Caroline were on everyone's lips. Perhaps there was still time for that awful reckoning. Perhaps there was still time for the doors of Newgate to swing open? With such thoughts and hopes, she passed the long summer days.

The weekend of the Bennet daughters' pilgrimage to Hertfordshire soon arrived. The Bingleys set off early on Saturday. Mrs. Wickham was making her own way in the post-chaise, while the Harrisons arrived at Scarcliffe on the Friday evening, sans children, ready to share Lady Matlock's carriage in the morning. While she was in town Catherine and Jane had agreed not to travel with the children, it being too awkward with Lydia. It saved her a great deal of awkwardness of her own.

Her condition meant their progress was slow. As planned, they arrived in Meryton just before lunch on the Monday, making straight for the inn where Lady Matlock and the Bingleys had taken rooms. (It being rather too common to all stay in the one family home – not to mention crowded.) She and the Harrisons refreshed quickly and lost no time in riding out to see the Bennets.

"Oh Lord!" Kitty cried, as Longbourn came into view. "Why on earth has she done that?"

The whole Bennet family and staff was lined up outside, with Mr. and Mrs. Hill holding umbrellas. The answer to Mrs. Harrison's question became apparent as soon as her sister stepped out of the carriage.

"Lizzy! Oh, how well you look! Why you are in full bloom!" Her mother rushed forwards and pulled her favoured daughter into something that was half an awkward curtsy and half an embrace.

"Mama," Elizabeth said, hugging her back, "what is all this?"

"Hill, please go set out the tea and pastries. Lady Matlock will need some refreshment. Oh, hurry up Kitty! Do not keep your sister stood in the rain."

Elizabeth caught her father's arm on the way in. "Papa, what is going on?"

"Ah now Lizzy, your mother has ordered us all to be on our best behaviour, so you will have no hot words from me. It is not worth the disruption of the peace to disobey her. She has never entertained a lady before, you see."

"She has Lady Lucas here almost every day!"

"I believe she meant a real lady."

"Oh Lord."

Their mother ushered her clan into the best sitting room and instructed Lady Matlock to sit in her favoured chair. Mrs. Bennet beamed at her second eldest, waiting for her to speak. But it was Mrs. Harrison who spoke first: "Mama, really, what is going on?"

"Hush Kitty! Let your sister have some peace! Is that chair comfortable enough Lizzy? Hill fetch an extra cushion. Are you too much in the light? Shall I send for the screen–"

"I am perfectly comfortable Mama, thank you."

"You are never so concerned with my comfort," Mary sulked.

"When you are mother to a viscount Mary Bennet, then I shall worry after your comfort! Do eat something Lizzy, you must keep up your strength dear."

"I think it best you lead us on a topic of substance Lizzy," her father said, leaning in for a biscuit. "We do not often have such distinguished guests. You will see none of us know how to behave in such esteemed company."

"Everything is wonderful Mama, thank you." She took one of Mrs. Hill's questionable attempts at a macaron and made a noble show of enjoying it. "Are you all prepared, for tomorrow?"

She chose her topic well. On such a subject Mrs. Bennet could talk at length. She described all the preparations for her gathering, the details of her dress, with particular thanks to her favourite daughter for sending her the latest plates from Burlington's and telling her which was Lady Castlereagh's preferred style! Lady Matlock in turn delighted her mother – and her mother alone – with details of her gown and the various balls and events she had attended whilst in town, which inspired the instructions she had sent for Longbourn's decoration, as well as the treats that were to arrive from London the next day.

Eventually, Mr. Hill returned to announce the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley – and Mrs. Wickham. And so – for the first time since Lydia's visit en route to Newcastle –the entire Bennet family was to be in one room. More tea was required.

Jane and Charles walked in to a warm embrace from Mrs. Bennet, but Lydia hung back. She had lost weight since November. Elizabeth thought her sister looked harder, more determined. Whatever bloom she had gained, Lydia had lost in equal portion. Mrs. Wickham caught her eye. Startled, Lady Matlock looked away and took another macaron.

"But my dear, you look so thin!" Elizabeth looked up; for once, this was not directed at herself.

"It has hardly been an easy year Mama," Kitty whispered.

"Oh I know! Come Lydia and sit with me. Poor Wickham. Sedition indeed! I do not believe a word of it. Why, he distinguished himself at Waterloo! Lizzy, surely there must be something dear Lord Ma–"

"No!" Lydia and Elizabeth cried in unison. Lydia recovered herself first, and added: "You may not choose to believe it Mama, but it is the truth. And I want no special favour."

"But Lydia!" Her mother began again. "If Wickham is transported–"

"Then he is transported. I shall carry on with my life. You need not start worrying about me now. And he did not distinguish himself at Waterloo. He survived it, nothing more."

"Ho, now, what sport this is." Mr. Bennet laughed, breaking the awkward silence. "I doubt any other man has two sons-in-law so much at odds. Come now, Mr. Bingley, Mr. Harrison, you may balance the issue out. Where do you stand: for the Government or with the Queen and her Radicals?"

"Papa," Lady Matlock began, "I do not think it wise to jest over such matters."

"Elizabeth has saved us from ourselves," Bingley joked. "I've no interest in a trip to the colonies! And as young Harrison here, it would not do him well to answer, not while he is being lined up for a bishopric–"

"A bishopric! Oh Mr. Bennet, did you hear that! Oh Lizzy, your dear husband is too good to us! A bishop! Kitty! Is it true? Oh Lord, it is too much! Two lords! Lizzy, you must teach Kitty everything, she is ill prepared for such a position–"

"There is nothing yet set Mama," Elizabeth tried to calm her mother, just as Mary began:

"I thought it was God who determined the leaders of our church, not–"

"Quiet Mary!"

"It would be several years off," Mr. Harrison himself began. "It is simply a notion at the moment."

But nothing would stop Mrs. Bennet's rapture. If her most distinguished son-in-law could ever have been at fault for not attending her celebration – and as he was above fault, there was no danger in that – then that slight was forgiven many, many times over for the gift he had presented her instead. Mrs. Long and Lady Lucas would be green with envy! Her gratitude extended so far as to not berating his wife when she claimed fatigued and excused herself from the sitting room.

Retreating away from the din, Elizabeth found herself back in her father's library, the smell of leather and paper taking her back to a far simpler time. The last time she had stood in that room he had begged her forgiveness for not preparing her for the life she was about to lead. She understood why now.

Sinking into her favourite chair, she took two long breaths to quiet her mind. Her father's newspaper was spread out not far from her. She had forgotten how quickly the London news reached Longbourn. Glancing down, one headline immediately caught her eye:

"SEDITION TRIALS CONTINUE: QUEEN'S COUNSEL IMPLICATED
As the government continues to round up the friends of her Majesty and foes to her husband, we understand even our beloved Queen's trusted attorney, Mr. Brougham, has been drawn away from the grandeur of Westminster to the grotty courtrooms of the Sessions House, in aid of his very own physician, one Mr. Robert Weir of Marylebone. Mr. Weir, we understand, was arrested on the fifth of June, just as Her Majesty was setting sail to Dover, on suspicion of treasonable conspiracy against the King and his Government – standing accused of using his position to pass in secret messages between such persons as Alderman Wood, and even that great Radical, Arthur Thistlewood, along with others implicated in the bloody Cato plot. Speaking for the Crown, Sir Robert Gifford beseeched the jury to see this as a most scandalous violation of that most sacred oath all medical men must take to honour and protect life. Mr. Brougham, arguing for the defence, pointed to the prisoner's service in the Navy as evidence of his commitment to his country. Moreover, Mr. Brougham was able to point to a complete lack of any evidence on his client's involvement in any such conspiracy, other than one anonymous statement. The jury, swayed no doubt by that most fearsome advocate, ignored the judge's order that Mr. Weir be found guilty on all charges, and opted instead for guilt on the one charge of sedition. Mr. Brougham's client was sentenced to fifteen years transportation–"

A soft knock fell on the door. She dropped the sheet and looked up, expecting her father to walk in. Instead, it was Lydia. "Mama was about to send Mary in to check you had not dropped dead on us. I thought I would intervene. Good lord Lizzy! What's wrong? Are you crying?"

She swallowed a sob. Fifteen years. Fifteen years on the other side of the world. She had never even told him – She frantically wiped her face, pushing aside all other thoughts.

"Thank you, but I am just – just – it is a lot, is it not? Us all in one room again. How are you? I am sorry for your baby."

Lydia shut the door and came to sit by her. It was only then Lady Matlock recognised her dress: it had been one of her own once, with an extra skirt put in to help the length. It suited Lydia far better than it ever had her.

"You know, I did not even want her. But then, when she was gone–"

"I know." She leant over and squeezed her hand. "Mama is wrong, I think you look very well."

"And you look beautiful."

"I look a wealthy landlord's wife."

Lydia shrugged. "You wear your rosy complexion better than most."

She could not do it. Fifteen years. She began to cry anew. "I am sorry, Lydia. You were right, about so much when we last spoke and – I am so sorry."

"Lizzy, what for?" Her little sister stared at her.

"That you had to marry him. And that I thought you deserved it. Oh Lydia, I have done so much wrong by you. I have judged and acted too harshly and only now do I realise–"

The door clicked open and Miss Bennet walked in, sent by her mother to check that her youngest was not troubling her grandest.

"For pity's sake, can we not have a moment's peace in this house!" Elizabeth cried.

"It is not fair you know," Mary replied, ignoring her sister's outburst, "that you two should both hide yourselves away in here, while the rest of us have to suffer Mama's conversation."

"It is not Mama's conversation that we suffer from Mary," Lydia shot back. "Now go away, Lizzy and I were having a married woman's conversation."

"I suppose I should not be surprised that you two should be in confidence. I wonder who has the looser morals, the Radicals or the Court."

"Mary." Her older sister admonished.

"Perhaps if you actually went out in the world rather than judging it from behind a fusty old man's book Mary, people would want to spend time with you," Mrs. Wickham shot back.

"Thank you for your concern sister, but I do not think I will take advice from a traitor's whore–"

"Mary! Withdraw that remark at once or I swear you will spend your spinsterhood hunched over a spinning jenny!" Lady Matlock yelled.

Hurt flashed over Miss Bennet's face. Elizabeth tried to stutter an apology, but it was too late. Miss Bennet had left.

Mrs. Wickham turned back to her. "Lizzy, what is the matter?"

For a moment – the briefest moment – she thought of telling Lydia. She, of all people, would understand. But Elizabeth had no right to ask that, not after the last eight years.

"Nothing. Come, let's return to Mama. It is her celebration, after all."

Lady Matlock stayed later than expected. The constant chatter, bickering and questions kept her distracted. Back at the inn, she would have her desired peace: and it terrified her. But country hours caught her off guard: dinner was over far too soon.

Jane and Charles rode back to Meryton separately, leaving her alone in the Matlock carriage, with just her own thoughts and heartbreak for company. As dusk fell, the whisps of her emotions shaped themselves into feelings. She should have taken the newssheet. She had not even checked which title it was. She needed to read it again, to confirm what her heart already knew to be true. Transportation. Until that moment, she had been holding onto some stupid hope that all would be forgiven. That there would be no evidence and a right-minded judge would throw his case out on that basis, or a jury would find for innocence. And then they would meet again next season, perhaps, making all of the compliance and fawning worthwhile.

She thought back on every moment, every happy memory – as if in remembrance she could change the outcome. The touch of his hand on hers when they danced in Fife House; still calloused from ropes and sea water. The smell of him, stood close in Sessions House. The way he laughed with her children the last time she saw him. The way he held her for the kiss that promised so much more – that she had been stupid enough to run away from. Why had she not gone to Boston? They would be there by now, with her children. Safe and happy. Why could they have not had just one more dance? Why did she not know what his favourite food was, or when his birthday fell or what he looked like without his cravat on? Why had she not taken his hand, every single time she had wanted to? Why had she never told him how dear he was to her?

Now he was lost to her.

Arriving back at the inn, Lady Matlock sent her young maid away. Picking up her own brush, she sat by the mirror, and fell into the sorry memory of it all.