I loved all the reactions to Caroline's marriage. I think I'm going to write at least a chapter from her POV (could really write a whole story about her new life), but decided that instead of now getting all Caroline-centric (as she would undoubtedly love), that we should check in with some of our other characters. While Jane has been most patient, I believe that it is now her turn.


Miss Jane Bennet's POV

Chapter 50: I am Irrevocably Altered

Perhaps it was imprudent of me to accept Mr. Bingley's offer of a courtship (knowing that my feelings toward him were so very altered), but I was not unmoved in him asking for my dead Papa's permission and it seemed a prudent decision. But I cannot but wonder if he would still wish to marry me if he knew the truth, that I am not the same woman he knew before and see him quite differently now.

The world has lost some of its sheen in my eyes, and I can no longer believe the best in people, think quite badly of some in fact, fear what I never feared before but with Mr. Bingley I keep pretending to be who I was. I worry that he would not like me anymore if he knew how altered I am. If he does, perhaps then it means he only liked me for my pretty face, and that is worse. Yet, I still feel compelled to marry, for when I believed the best in people I felt safe; I do not feel safe anymore, for in this fearsome world I know that a woman needs a man to protect her from all the other men that would do her harm and a good husband is far better than two indifferent uncles and a brother by marriage.

What has altered me so greatly? It began when Lydia ran away. I started out certain that all would be well, that they had merely eloped as Lydia's note expressed. But the longer we had no word of them, the more cynical I became. Having Lydia return so bold and brazen about her "adventure," more concerned with lording all her newfound knowledge over us than having a care that Papa had died, who could not be altered by that? I believed at the time that I had learned much about the evil of all mankind.

But I was sore mistaken. Given our shame it was difficult to find enough pallbearers for Papa's coffin (Mr. Phillips and Mr. Gardiner were obliged to hire some), and from what I overheard there was some difficulty in convincing the rector to let Papa be buried in the churchyard, in our own family plot. As we were all womenfolk, we did not attend Papa's funeral, but I learned that hardly anyone else did either, not even the companion of his youth, Mr. Long. Mr. Gardiner could have been more of a comfort to us, but he left for town just as soon as Papa was in the ground.

Before, I would have excused his rapid departure I think, assuming he needed to return to his business affairs, but I could not be blind to his prior looks of pity at us and disgust for Lydia. That night, with Papa fresh in the ground, neither Lizzy nor I could sleep a wink. I remember her voicing to me the question that had been on my mind, "Who will take care of us now?"

Perhaps other young women could have relied on their mother, but we could not. She blamed our Papa for dying just then, and between dramatic sobs and moans declared "In a se'night or less, girls, Mr. Collins is sure to turn us out and then I do not know what we shall do, for we cannot all fit in my brother's and sister's home." Then she grabbed Lizzy by the arm hard and asked, "Why could you not have been a good and obedient girl and married him? We could all be safe, have Longbourn for the rest of our lives!"

Elizabeth tore lose from her and ran to our room. When Mamma began to follow her, Mary got in the way, pulled her into her arms and declared "Mamma, enough. We all wish things were different, but we must live with what is, rather than what we might wish could be. God will not forget about us, and I am sure your jointure will provide for us well enough."

For some weeks as we grieved we lived with this small consolation, until Uncle Phillips broke the news to us that these funds were gone.

Whatever veneer of civility that had remained from our neighbors in the immediate wake of Papa's death was shortly replaced with total contempt. For our status and respectability was gone.

Even the merchants despised us, once they learned we did not have much in the way of funds anymore. When Mary and I went shopping for thread, a cobbler spat at us and we were not admitted to the milliner's.

Even Mrs. Phillips only talked to us through a cracked door rather than let us in. Over and over, those who used to be our neighbors and friends have shoved me and my sisters in the mud. And it has not only been figuratively.

One day, not long after Lydia birthed her child, Catherine snuck out to see Miss Lucas. I cannot really blame her for this, for many times I have wished to escape the millstone of my family which hangs around my neck, dragging me to the ground. It could be that Miss Lucas would have even been glad to see Kitty (if such a meeting occurred away from prying eyes). She and my youngest sisters used to be bosom confidants, the best of friends, and Miss Lucas is now the only girl at home. But as well as Catherine may have planned their meeting, it never did take place.

I had been looking for Kitty, for she helps with the mending, and finding her not within Longbourn had gone in search of her. I would have asked Lizzy to go, but she was taking a turn with the baby just then. It had drizzled for several days and even though I was careful in choosing my steps, my boots were soon caked in mud. I remember saying to myself "I hope you are not far Kitty, for I am not a great walker like Lizzy used to be."

Fortunately, I checked the stables before ranging further afield. By then our stables had no horses within them. There, I encountered Kitty sobbing hysterically. It was angry, indignant sobbing, and her face was red, her handkerchief soaked.

"Oh, Kitty," I exclaimed, "whatever is the matter?"

I was moving close to embrace her when I caught a gander at her mourning gown, "and how did you end up so soaked in mud?" There was mud upon her arms, her skirt and her whole backside. There was even mud in her hair and on the side of her neck, and upon her waist was a muddy mark resembling a handprint, but not so clear as to definitely be one.

She looked at me and somehow cried even harder. I rubbed at a relatively clear spot upon her shoulder, careful to keep my skirts away from hers.

"Robert," she finally sobbed out, "Robert Lucas. I tried to go see Maria, came around the back way to Lucas Lodge and Robert saw me before I got within 100 yards of the place. I . . . I . . . it was awful. He thinks I am just like Lydia." Then hysterical tears burst forth from her again.

She told me nothing more after that, eventually calming down enough to murmur. "Mamma cannot see me like this."

I drew water myself and filled up a troth with bucket upon bucket; this probably took about an hour. There was no way to heat it away from the house but the weather was not so very cold for March. Then I fetched flannels, a bar of soap, a clean shift and her other mourning dress. I assisted her out of her gown and stays, but once she was in just her shift, which had mud on it as well, she gingerly approached the troth as if to climb into it while still wearing her shift and then told me, "Wait outside; make sure no one tries to get in."

Usually there is little modesty between sisters, and I could not understand why she was worried about that now. There was truly no one I needed to guard the stable from, for we had no servants there that day and had no near neighbors, so naturally I understood that she was excluding me rather than seeking my protection.

I thought about young Mr. Lucas who had once been a playmate for us, before he went off to school. Being no great scholar and not having the consequence to merit it otherwise, he had not sought admittance to a university, but had returned after that, with an excessive belief in his own importance.

He was of an age with me and he usually danced with me and one or another of my sisters at the assembles, all except Mary. There was nothing remarkable about him: middling height, middling brown hair, neither very virtuous or very sinful. He was set to inherit a very middling property that was barely sufficient to support his parents and siblings. He had not been considered a good match for any of us, but would have been a tolerable one, a significant step down from what Mamma had expected us of us, but now, now his level of respectability was hopelessly out of reach.

Before, young Mr. Lucas had always been very respectful of us, but now would he have played the bully? Could Robert have hurt Kitty? My mind raced, reviewing many methods of hurt: hurting her feelings, hurting her by knocking her down. But that was not all. No, there was a far worse hurt to be considered. Could Robert have hurt her in the manner that a man can hurt a woman, by robbing her of what is owed her future husband? I greatly feared it might be so.

I prayed silently and fervently then: "God, please let it not be so, yet if it is, let none hear of it and no consequences result. Protect our Kitty and all the rest of us from the evil of men. For we are your servants and we have already been suffering and need no more."

When Kitty emerged, clean, dressed and tolerably composed, I sent her to the house and remained in the stables, soaking and scrubbing her gown and shift in the troth. Our sometime washer woman would not come for another five days and if there was hope to salvage this gown, it lay with me. I soaked, scrubbed and soaked some more. My arms were chilled, my back ached and yet I knew I needed more water for another rinse, a clean length of flannel to drape over the side of a stall so the dress might dry clean, yet I hardly had the strength to do much more. I was about to cry and give it up as a lost cause, at least for today until my savior arrived.

It was Mary who fetched the next set of buckets, took over the thankless task of tending to Kitty's gown and sent me inside. I rested in my own room for a few minutes before seeking out Kitty. I both wanted and did not want to know the worst. I found her in her own room, attempting with trembling hands to dress her damp hair. I silently took over the task and was able to form a tolerable bun.

"You shall probably need to leave your hair down tonight for it to fully dry."

Kitty nodded and said nothing.

"Are you well?"

She shook her head and tried to blink back tears. She stood and I ushered her over to her bed, which we both sat upon.

"What happened? What did Robert do?"

"He . . . he . . . it was awful." I feared the worst then.

"He said, and he sounded so angry, 'You aren't welcome here, Kitty. I won't have you soiling Maria. Go home. Go home now!' I suppose I was not fast enough at turning round, or maybe he was even more angry than I thought, for he shoved me hard and down I fell, my skirts not fully covering me. Oh how embarrassed I was! But that was not the worst."

Kitty's eyes started streaming then and I was obliged to find her a handkerchief. I wiped her face myself and then asked, "What was the worst?"

"Robert said, 'I bet you are as much a cunning piece of baggage as your sister. Have you have many men yourself?' I shook my head 'no' but my mouth could not open and all the words I should have wished to say stuck in my throat. He knelt down beside me, pulled the front of my skirts up, and stared at me. Oh, how mortifying it all was.

"I was trying to get up, truly I was Jane, but the mud was like glue. When I managed to sit up he pushed me down. I suppose he worried I would scream, so he placed a hand across my face as he fumbled with his buttons with his other hand. My mind was telling me 'Do something, now!' and then somehow I knew just what to do.

"I bit him on his palm and when he reared back I found my voice and told him 'Mrs. Lucas would be ashamed if she knew what you were about. Put that thing away.' For you see, he had unbuttoned his fall and pulled it out, but at my words it drooped.

"To my amazement he did as I instructed, but as he did so he sneared and said 'You're not worth my time and your cuny is likely diseased, too. Now get yourself gone before I change my mind.' Somehow I was able to scramble to my feet and then I ran as fast as my feet would take me, all the way to our stables. I was so scared Jane. No one must ever know."

I gave a tremendous sigh, expressed a breath that I did not know I was holding, felt my chest relax and my thumping heartbeat slow. "You did just right, Kitty, just right." I praised as I hugged her. "I am so proud of you. But now we must be very careful and not go out of view of the house alone."

"I know Jane. I was so foolish to try to see Maria. I just wouldn't have ever thought . . ."

"I know, I know."

"What are we to do if we are not safe even from our neighbors, those who have known us our whole lives?"

"I do not know," I told her.

I did not tell anyone what happened and nearly happened to Kitty. If Mary had her suspicions, she held her tongue. I did not even tell Lizzy, for she like the rest of already had too many burdens to bear.

But after this occurred, I viewed all of mankind with a suspicious eye. Even when I learned that Mr. Darcy would save us all by marrying our Lizzy, and I knew she was doing what she had to, I feared for her. Even while I was hopeful in my words to her, I worried she would be miserable, for I did not trust his motives or that he would treat her well.

If only Mr. Bingley had returned before then, I would have married him without any hesitation to save us all. Truly, I would have married anyone at all. For is it not the eldest sister's duty to make any sacrifice required?

But when he returned, given Lizzy's marriage, I had the power of choice once more. While for many months I had longed for Mr. Bingley's return, I could not understand if his love had been true, how he could have waited so long while we were subjected to so many trials and tribulations. I could not reject him out of hand, for surely a husband would be a better protector than a brother by marriage, but neither could I give him even my poor trampled heart just then, see anything more than the man who had failed me when I needed him the most.

At such a time, I was in no further danger of being in love with him as much as ever. Instead I was in danger of never again loving him at all, but perhaps would consent to marry him as it would be prudent to do so. I ask you, what man would willingly settle for so little if he knew what I was about? So I concealed how I had changed and pretended to be the woman he remembered when I agreed Mr. Bingley could court me.


A/N: What do you think of this Jane?