Hello!

Thank you for the amazing response to chapter one, there were some really lovely reviews and I hope that you all continue to like this story. In this chapter, Lydia returns to Longbourn and Jane struggles to cope.

Enjoy!

When I wake I am cold. I pull the sheets around me and curl onto my side, trying to prepare for the day to come. Lydia's return to Longbourn is, I believe, the greatest test I have ever faced. For her foolishness, for putting everything I hold dear in jeopardy, I have grown to despise my youngest sister. She is merely a child and it is unfair to blame her for her naivety, but I seem to no longer have control over my own feelings.

That is my great secret. I am so full of anger at everything and everyone. No, not quite everyone. I am not angry at Lizzy, but sometimes I think she is the only person in the world who I can trust and respect. Everyone else is too… fallible. Full of flaws that infuriate me beyond belief. I offer them kindness for every wrong they commit, try to smother their flaws with goodwill, but to no avail.

I suppose that Lizzy is fallible and flawed in her own way, but here I am being selfish again. I know that she will never fail me.

In despising Lydia, I have also learnt to despise my father, for it was his responsibility to provide for her and to teach her to be better than she was, but he would not give himself the trouble. Equally, I have grown to despise my mother for encouraging Lydia's wildness, believing that fifteen was old enough to be out in society and teaching her youngest child that marriage by any means should be the only aim irrespective of whether it will bring happiness.

Even more, I despise her for failing to realise that Lydia's marriage cannot take away the shame in what she has done. That it cannot take away the pain it has caused us, or the way people in the street who we have known since we were children looked at us. That if Wickham had not been paid an incomprehensible sum to shackle himself to my foolish sister, we would all have been ruined. Wickham, too, I despise, but less. He is just an evil man who means nothing to me. He has not used my family as a personal insult to me.

"Jane, are you awake?" Lizzy's quiet call cuts through my thoughts. I sit up and turn to look at her. She is dressed and from the flush of her cheeks I can tell that she has already taken her morning walk.

"Yes. I am awake." I tell her, trying to banish my earlier musings and offer her a smile. Hearing my reply, she crosses the room and draws the curtains, letting in the morning light. I have to blink several times for my eyes to adjust.

"Did you sleep well?" She asks, sitting on the end of my bed.

"Tolerably." I respond, knowing that the circles beneath my eyes will contradict any statement more positive than this. I pass a hand across my face and rub the sleep from my eyes. "How was your walk?"

"Tolerable." She replies with a laugh. Suddenly her face sobers and she seems far away. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion and she appears shocked at herself. As quickly as it has come the expression passes again and her smile returns, though she looks slightly dazed as though she has just discovered something.

"What are you thinking of?" I ask.

"Nothing of consequence." Her smile has turned wistful. "Just of things that could never be. Come, if you do not dress soon you will miss breakfast." This answer only leaves me with more questions, but she clearly does not want to talk about it so I do not ask again. If it is important then she will tell me in time.

Lizzy helps me to ready myself for the day, lacing my corset and buttoning my overdress. With skilled ease she pins my hair into a simple style. Mama often complains that we should call for our maid to assist us, but she is stretched so thin across the five… four of us that it seems ridiculous to call on her on an ordinary morning.

An ordinary morning. That is all this is.

When Lizzy has decided I am presentable, we descend the stairs together and enter the breakfast parlour. Papa is sat at the head of the table, a newspaper in his hands, ignoring whatever Mama is saying. Mary has sheet music in front of her and is studying the notes as she chews on dried fruit. Kitty's full attention is on her meal, though she looks up when we enter.

"Good morning, Jane, Lizzy, did you hear that one of Mrs Long's nieces is engaged? I just had it from Maria Lucas." She says by way of greeting, gesturing to a note beside her which is scrawled in Maria's hand. I smile fondly, envying my sister's innocence that this little piece of gossip is the most important thing in her mind on such a morning. It has always been a subject of humour for me that the younger girls send notes over breakfast when they will likely meet face to face not half an hour later, so eager to share their news with one another that they cannot wait. Lydia… Lydia used to do that too.

"No, I had not heard." I reply, knowing that Lizzy will not. "Do we know the gentleman?"

"Lord, no. I think he is from Bath or Brighton or somewhere like that."

"Bristol, Berkhamsted, Bournemouth…" Lizzy lists with feigned nonchalance.

"Lizzy!" Kitty complains though she is failing to hide her smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were just naming places beginning with B." My sister holds up her hands in a show of innocence, taking a seat beside Kitty. I move to sit opposite her, beside Mary, wishing that I could also possess whatever it is that allows them to joke on a day like this. That allows them to mention Brighton without screaming and crying and breaking down.

I do not.

I feel sick.

"Jane, dear, do come and sit by me." Mama calls, giving me little choice but to comply.

"Of course, Mama." I reply sweetly, schooling my face into a smile and moving away from Mary again. "Are you well this morning?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course I am well! Do you not remember that our dearest Lydia is returning home today?" I begin to reply in the affirmative, but Mama continues to speak before I can get a word out. "What joy, to finally have a daughter married! I am sure our dearest Lydia will soon be with child and then what joy that will bring as well."

"Hopefully not too soon." Lizzy murmurs. Silently I agree with her. We do not know for sure whether they anticipated their vows, but it seems probable that they did considering the amount of time they spent alone. The last thing we need is an early pregnancy to create more scandal around this union.

Father chuckles, oblivious as always to the fact that this is hardly an appropriate response. Or perhaps he is just so detached from reality that his failure as a father really is amusing to him. His reaction also draws Mama's attention to Lizzy.

"Hold your tongue, girl!" She snaps, though I doubt she actually heard what Lizzy said. In our mother's book, any word against her darling Lydia is worthy of scolding. I think it is her way of repressing what happened. If she can pretend that her youngest daughter is a paragon of virtue then it must be true.

"Well now Lizzy, you must look at this article here…" Our father begins loudly, holding out his newspaper to her as though if he ignores Mama for long enough she will cease to exist.

"Jane, do take some food, you are looking rather thin of late." Mama says to me. From the corner of my eye, I see Lizzy frown. It has not escaped her notice that my corset pulls tighter than usual lately, or that my dresses are hanging a little loose.

"Yes, Mama." I reply, obediently reaching for a pastry. In truth, I have no appetite. It is laughable that my weight should be any cause for concern anyway. I am not like Lizzy, whose walking has always made her slim. It is not as though I am about to waste away. That is not why Mama is concerned, though. As she regularly tells us, there is no beauty in being too thin. It is simply not fashionable.

Father quickly withdraws to his library when we have finished breaking our fast, escaping from our company. I gaze after him in longing and I know Lizzy does too. If only we had such an escape. Instead, we dutifully follow our mother to the front parlour where we will sit for most of the morning. Lizzy might practice some pieces on the pianoforte, providing a pleasant respite, but it is more likely that Mary will establish herself at the instrument and drive us half mad reciting dull scales.

On any other morning, we might be allowed to search out other endeavours around the house, perhaps cutting flowers, hanging herbs to dry or venturing out with baskets for the tenant families, but we do not know what time Lydia will arrive so Mama insists that we all await her in the parlour. Maria Lucas is soon to call, giving us some entertainment with the gossip from Meryton, but in no time at all she is gone again and we are left alone. There are no other callers this morning. Needlework it is, then. A dull, repetitive activity that provides little respite from my wandering thoughts.

Lydia… I should probably think of her as Mrs Wickham from now on. That name is cold and unfamiliar. It is not my sister. It is not tied to hundreds of beautiful, bittersweet memories of an innocent child. It does not hurt.

Loud notes on the pianoforte shock me out of my thoughts. I look over and see that Mary has sat down to play. I am about to return to my stitches when I notice something strange about her countenance. A steely sort of determination that brings out a resemblance to Lizzy which I have never observed before.

Gently, Mary's fingers begin to glide across the keys. The piece is simple and sweet, but deeply mournful too. It is unlike anything she would usually play. She has chosen it specifically for this morning. At moments, there is a light, playful tone to it which embodies Lydia in a way words never could. The sadness welling underneath embodies the mistake Lydia has made in a way words never could. The foolish little lamb going willingly into the lion's den.

When the music finishes, silence is heavy in the room. None of us wishes to disturb it, as though the lingering melody is a lifeline to cling to. Although I can see that she does not understand what her daughters are thinking, even Mama does not dare to venture some silly comment now.

"That was beautiful, Mary." Lizzy says eventually. They share a look, a new understanding passing between them. Mary bows her head in gratitude at the praise, but for once has no sermon to quote.

A warm calmness begins to grow within me and for the first time today I feel that I can offer a true smile. I am not angry at Mary. I now have a new respect for her. Her sorrow runs as deep as mine. She hides her suffering under her sermonising, as I hide mine behind pretty nothings. Perhaps we are more alike than anyone realises.

The morning fades slowly into afternoon as we wait in anticipation or dread for Lydia's arrival. My fingers stitch a pattern onto a handkerchief but I pay them no heed.

"Perhaps we should take a basket down to Mrs Brown, Lizzy. You know how difficult it has been for her with not one but three new babes." I suggest when I feel that I can bear to sit still no longer. If I am restless then it must only be a fraction of what Lizzy is feeling.

"Oh, no, no, girls! That simply will not do." Mama cuts in before my sister can answer. "What would happen if Lydia were to arrive when you were out? I would have to tell our dearest child that you were too busy with some tenant woman to welcome her return!"

"I doubt Lydia would be particularly put out, Mama. She will have plenty of time to greet us later." Lizzy points out.

"No, Lizzy, you will do as you are told!" Mama responds forcefully, glaring at my sister in that way which always dares her to argue back.

"How incredible for Mrs Brown. Imagine the shock, to have three healthy babes all at once, and when she is almost thirty-six as well. They are such beautiful little boys, I hear that their older sisters quite dote upon them. She must be very pleased to finally have sons who can help about the farm when they grow up." Kitty redirects the conversation with a perfect expression of innocence. Beneath, however, I detect a note of steely determination. It is no accident that she has brought up the joy of sons. I think that she is punishing our mother for her harsh words and stupidity by reminding her of her greatest failure: the failure to have a son.

Perhaps I am not angry at Kitty either. This is not her fault. Not really.

Though we are still not allowed to leave the room, Mama lets me ring for tea and cakes to give us all some respite from our long wait. This is a small victory, I suppose. She has not insisted that we wait for Lydia.

Perhaps hearing the servants pass, Papa enters the room soon after and surveys us all. He smiles the smile that I know means he is laughing at us in his head. No one smiles back. Not even Lizzy.

He wanders the room, silently observing us in our tasks. Suddenly the air is harder to breathe. The silence is choking me. I can feel him looking over my shoulder, watching my needle pull in and out. Accidently- or is it really an accident? I can't quite tell – the needle plunges into my finger. Red blood blossoms across the white fabric.

"A shame. It was such pretty work." He says after we both watch it spread for a minute. I smile a dreadful, empty smile to match his.

"No matter, Papa. I shall begin again. I had not been at it long anyway." I tell him. He looks bemused and pats my shoulder.

"Oh well. Be more careful in future." He mumbles, moving away. Lizzy watches with a frown as I wipe the blood from my finger. She bites down hard on her lip to prevent herself from speaking.

"Well now, Lizzy." Our father comes to stand by her and drops a book on the table where she works. "Give this a read, why don't you." He ruffles her hair fondly, pretending not to notice that it irritates her. Or maybe he is not pretending. Maybe he really does not even notice her.

"Thank you, Papa." Lizzy responds after a pause. She keeps her eyes on her needlework and does not reach for the book, though I know that she wishes for nothing more than a distraction from her dull task. She will not give him the satisfaction.

Father does notice this and his lips quirk up in amusement. For a moment I think he will keep watching her to see how long it takes for her resolve to crack, but then he moves away and soon after leaves the room. It is not five minutes before the book is in Lizzy's hands.

"Carriage! There is a carriage coming up the driveway!" Kitty cries from where she sits gazing out of the window almost an hour later. Mama springs to her feet and begins to bustle around ordering us to tidy away our things. Her dearest child is returned.

"Mr Bennet! Mr Bennet! Oh, where is that man? Hill! Hill! Fetch Mr Bennet at once. Lydia is almost here!" She cries, waving her arms expressively. This time when our father enters the room there is no smile on his face. Now, at least, he is feeling the full force of his failure.

Too soon, we hear the carriage pull up and the occupants dismount. Lydia's voice is loud in the hallway. My breath catches. Lizzy squeezes my hand, for her comfort or mine I do not know. Her palm is sweaty but cold.

From the second Lydia bursts into the room I know that not a single thing has changed for her. She races to our mother, eager to show off her ring and her new bonnet. And her new husband. Mama is insensible with delight. They turn to Papa and he is insensible too, though not with delight. With rage that he barely conceals. That is something, I suppose. That would make me pity him if I did not know how he has brought this upon himself.

Upon all of us.

Lydia comes to all of us expecting our congratulations and praise. We give it. What choice do we have? She seems oblivious to how insincere we all sound. Somehow she does not feel the waves of disgust rolling off Lizzy, or censure from Mary, or betrayal which has been stabbing Kitty's heart since her closest sister made such a foolish, thoughtless mistake.

Wickham comes close to us when Lydia has returned to Mama and he begins to speak to Lizzy. He is a fool if he thinks he will get sympathy from her now. Does he really believe us oblivious to what he has done? As there is nothing I can do to make him go away, I simply remain there, hoping that Lizzy feels my silent support. I can feel her pain, but she never lets her voice waver.

It is Lydia who finally goes too far. Entirely unprompted, she begins to speak of her marriage as though she has nothing to be ashamed of. I do not think she even realises that she has done anything wrong. With an excuse that sounds weak even to my own ears, I flee the room. I barely make it up the stairs before I break down. Lizzy, who has followed me, holds me as I sob. Sometime later I realised that she is crying too.

"How can she… how can she hold her head up in this house after what she did? How can she look any of us in the eye? How can it be that she has learnt nothing?" I gasp through my tears, clinging to my sister.

"It is for the best, Jane." Lizzy tells me, her voice dull as she strokes my hair. "She does not know what a terrible, horrible mistake she has made. That will protect her, at least for a time. Long may her ignorance last."

"Yes. Yes, you are right." I say, wiping away my tears and attempting to compose myself. "I hope she never has cause to see the truth."

Supper is a tense affair. Lizzy and I are almost hollow, drained from our earlier emotional outpouring. Mary, who has had no such opportunity to release her anger, manages to quote scripture every time she is brought into the conversation, her disapproval of Mr and Mrs Wickham radiating off her. Kitty is painfully uncertain, torn between wanting to behave as she always has with Lydia and knowing that what her closest sister did was unforgivable.

Mama is entirely oblivious to all of this. She sees only that her favourite child has returned home, victorious in the quest to capture a husband. She has already forgotten that there was ever a scandal, that her new son in law is the worst sort of man and that the Bennet name may perhaps be forever sullied. She does not pause to consider that Lydia's future is hardly secure married to such a man.

Papa is the worst, because of all of us he is the one who should have been changed by this. With the open proof before him of how he has failed his family, he should be making an effort to correct it. But I can see it in his face. This is just amusement to him, as it always has been.

Papa takes Wickham aside after dinner and without her husband or father in the room, somehow Lydia becomes even more boisterous. Though it is terrible, I cannot help sharing a relieved glance with Lizzy when we hear that they can only remain at Longbourn for ten days. Already, I anticipate the day of their departure. How cruel is that? I look forward to seeing my own sister leave.

But Lydia is Lydia still and I can no longer bear it. She laughs as she offers to find husbands for us all and it is all I can do to hold back my tears as Lizzy collects herself enough to offer some sort of reply. I retire early. I cannot bear to be in the drawing room a moment longer.

Later, I lie in bed attempting to sleep, but I can hear terrible sounds echoing down the hall from the room Lydia and Wickham occupy. Though I do not know what exactly the marriage bed entails, Lydia seems to take great delight in it. She cannot be oblivious to the sounds she is making. She wants us to hear.

When I can no longer take it, I rise and pad down the hall to Lizzy's room. It is further away from the guest room and the sounds are not quite so loud, though I have no doubt that Lizzy is just as aware of them as I am.

Lizzy is sat upright in bed when I enter, a book open on her lap. She has obviously decided that sleep will allude her as long as the noises continue.

"Oh, Jane," She says when I enter, "you look exhausted. Here, lie down." She pulls back the covers for me and I slip into bed beside her. Neither of us mentions the sounds.

Picking up her book again, Lizzy begins to read it out loud. Her voice distracts me and I soon find my eyes growing heavy. I do not know how long she continues to read, or whether the noises have stopped, but finally I drift off to sleep.

The last thought in my head is the one that I never reached this morning when Lizzy came to wake me. It is cold and hard and it chills me to the very core. Maybe I do not despise all these people in my life for their petty little flaws. Maybe I am the one who is flawed and fallible. Maybe the only one I really despise is me.

©Isabelle Lowe, 2019