The Gypsy Blessing Page 3

  “Oh, Lady Lucas!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed.

  “At each stop, a servant went around to the kitchen of the inn to obtain food and drink. Most would not even allow him the courtesy of entering the building to warm bricks in their fire so that Charlotte would not be chilled further, afraid that the servant carried the plague! She was so cold; no number of blankets could make her comfortable.”

  Mrs. Bennet’s features formed an appropriately horrified expression. “No!”

  “Yes!” Lady Lucas nodded. “After the servant reminded them of Christian charity, some did allow us to purchase warmed bricks of their own, so they would not have ours pass through their door. When he would pay for food and bricks, some would even force our man to place our coins in a bucket of lye!”

  “And it was all for nothing. Miss Lucas was not ill after all!”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Bennet. Charlotte was ill—deathly ill! I thought every moment might be her last.” Lady Lucas offered Mrs. Bennet a biscuit. The latter took her up on the proffered treat—so as not to be rude, of course. The former transferred several biscuits to her own plate and continued, “Just look at her, Mrs. Bennet, and judge for yourself how exceedingly pale and sickly she appears.”

  Both Lady Lucas and Mrs. Bennet turned to examine Charlotte with critical eyes.

  Elizabeth thought, It is true that Charlotte has not been in her best looks, but at this very moment her complexion is quite red.

  Mrs. Bennet tightened her eyes. “Yes, yes. I see what you mean. She does not look well at all and is much thinner than usual.”

  Charlotte’s blush deepened.

  As the two older ladies returned to their conversation, Elizabeth took pity on Charlotte and whispered, “To me, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Lizzy, I cannot thank you enough for helping Mr. Jones find the remedy. He said he would not have found enough of that plant in time if not for you.”

  Elizabeth squirmed slightly in her seat. If she had not received the drawing, it would have taken her much longer to remember where that particular plant grew so readily, but she felt it unwise to make this fact public knowledge. “Your recovery and continued health is thanks enough.”

  Before long, Mr. Jones arrived to check on Charlotte’s progress. Soon after Mr. Jones had received assurances that Charlotte had been drinking the brew that he had left for her, he made to leave. Their fifteen minutes had passed long ago, and Mrs. Bennet rose, as well.

  Charlotte said more loudly than was necessary, “I wish you did not have to go.”

  “You are not tired?” Mary asked.

  Charlotte shook her head and looked to her mother for permission to visit longer. Lady Lucas agreed as long as Mr. Jones said it was all right.

  “I see no reason why Miss Lucas should not visit for another hour, but then she should rest.”

  “If you would like to stay, girls, I will walk home with Kitty and Lydia,” Mrs. Bennet said.

  Lydia whined, “If they are staying, why should I not stay with Maria?”

  “Maria is my friend, too!” Kitty added.

  “Well! And what am I supposed to do—walk home alone?”

  “As I will be passing Longbourn on my way to the Danton’s, I can take you in my gig, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Jones offered.

  Mrs. Bennet seemed quite pleased with the plan and agreed.

  “Are you certain you are feeling well enough for a long visit, Charlotte?” Jane asked.

  “Yes, I am not tired.” Charlotte paused and continued in a tone so low that only her companions could hear, “I have not even seen a person close to my own age for many weeks. Please stay and visit a little longer?”

  Since Charlotte seemed so desperate to have company, the three eldest Bennet daughters agreed to the idea.

  A while later, as Elizabeth and her sisters were donning their coats and bonnets, Elizabeth felt rather strange. If she did not know better, she would think this was a moment like those when she had experienced an event depicted in a drawing. Thinking it was all her imagination playing tricks on her again, she steeled herself and readied herself to leave.

  ~%~

  Arriving at home, the young ladies of the house met a harried-looking Mrs. Hill on her way down the steps.

  “Mrs. Hill, what is the matter?” Jane asked as the housekeeper helped her off with her coat.

  “Oh, then you don’t know what happened, Miss? I thought maybe you’d seen Mr. Jones along the road.”

  Jane shook her head. “We came on the footpath.”

  “Well, then—poor Mrs. Bennet met with an accident in Mr. Jones’s gig, fell to the ground and landed in a puddle of mud! It’s a good thing that little Jimmy Smith came along on an errand for his mother just then and went to fetch help.”

  “Was my mother injured?” Elizabeth had to raise her voice to be heard over the sound of Kitty and Lydia still giggling after hearing that their mother had been covered in mud.

  “Some bruises and scrapes is all. She’s just had a nice, hot bath.”

  “Is Mr. Jones unharmed?” Mary asked.

  “He is fine, miss, but if he hadn’t kept his horse in check, I’m sure I’d be tellin’ ya a different story. That horse might have stomped all over my poor mistress.”

  “Where is my mother now?” Jane asked.

  “She’s abed, Miss Jane.” Mrs. Hill curtsied and rushed off towards the kitchen.

  They all hurried up the stairs to their mother’s rooms.

  “Oh, girls! What you have done to me! Jane, Jane—fetch my smelling salts!”

  Jane did as she was told and held the dish to her mother’s nose as she took a whiff.

  “Lizzy! This is your fault—you talked your sisters into staying, sending me off with Mr. Jones in that contraption of his! You know how muddy the roads are after last night’s rain; we were dodging puddles the entire time we walked to visit Lady Lucas. I could not have the fortune of being thrown from the gig into a small amount of mud. No, I landed in a deep puddle! I am covered in bruises—in areas of my person best left unmentioned, too! It may be days before I can leave my bed. Oh!” She reached for her smelling salts once again, and Jane complied whilst Mary sent Lydia a reprimanding look for not stifling her giggle.

  Elizabeth felt it was safer to remain quiet. Truly, she did not think she could speak, even if she had wished to. The drawing!

  “That incompetent Mr. Jones—he cannot drive; he broke the wheel.”

  Mary said, “It sounds to me that since Mr. Jones kept the horse from harming you further, he is a good driver, Mama.”

  “Oh, Mary, your father said almost the same thing! You have no compassion for my nerves!”

  Jane, who usually knew best what to say to soothe her mother’s nerves, suggested, “Perhaps the excitement of having so many visit at once is not good for you right now, Mama. After this experience, rest is in order. May I stay? I can continue to read to you from the novel we had been reading last week, when you were indisposed.”

  “Yes, yes, that sounds a good plan, Jane.”

  The remainder of Mrs. Bennet’s daughters filed out of the room.

  Elizabeth went directly to her room and locked the door behind her. Pulling out the drawing of her mother sitting in a mud puddle, Elizabeth could now see a detail that she must have been too distracted to see when she looked at the picture the first time. There was a broken wheel behind Mrs. Bennet. Or was it possible that the wheel had not been in the drawing before? No! No, I will not think it!

  Elizabeth shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. What is happening? A knock on the door made her startle. I have been so easily frightened these past few days! She called out, saying she would be there in a moment, and then folded the page and placed a book on top of it.

  She opened the door to reveal her father standing in the hallway. Mr. Bennet had always called her to his study when he wished to speak to her—in fact, she could not remember his ever coming to her room in the past at all. Elizabeth stood aside and motioned
for him to enter.

  Mr. Bennet shook his head. “I just came to give you this.” He held out a letter.

  Elizabeth froze and stared at his hand.

  “Will you take it, or would you rather that I read it to you?”

  She tried to smile and took it from him. The hint of amusement dancing in his eyes almost immediately turned to concern.

  “You have not been yourself these last few days, Lizzy—these headaches. If this should continue, I shall send for Mr. Jones, no matter what your mother now believes about the poor man.”

  “Do not let it concern you; I will be well again soon, Papa.”

  He nodded and turned to leave, but then paused to add, “You have heard about your mother’s accident, I suppose.”

  “Yes, we were just in her rooms. Jane is with her now.”

  “Ah, well. Perhaps that explains your pallor now.” He sighed. “Why do you not take a rest before coming down?”

  “Thank you, sir; I will.”

  Elizabeth watched her father walk away and closed the door, then stood gaping at the letter. This time, the direction was in her aunt’s handwriting. She was suddenly gripped by an inexplicable fear of what news this letter held, but after scolding herself internally, she broke the seal.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  It was my pleasure to forward the recipe of the marzipan to your mother. Since you enjoyed it so much when you were here, I thought it would be nice for you to have a special treat on your birthday. Cook was especially pleased to hear that hers turned out even better than did Mrs. Hill’s, although, from her expression, I have a suspicion that when transcribing the necessary steps, she held something back—a secret ingredient, perhaps.

  I am afraid this must be a short letter, Lizzy, but I wished to answer yours quickly so that I could relieve you of a falsehood you are living under. I do not know why you thought I sent you a drawing, but I assure you, I did not. I gave up on ever developing the skill necessary for that accomplishment long ago—soon after meeting your uncle, in fact. Your father must remember that my abilities were sorely lacking, for he teases me on this count whenever the subject presents itself. You may ask his opinion if you think I am simply being modest.

  I will write again soon, my dear.

  Yours, etc.

  Madeline Gardiner

  It was obvious to Elizabeth that this was in answer to her first letter to her aunt. She had to read over the second paragraph several times before she could comprehend its full meaning.

  If it is not Aunt Madeline sending me the drawings, then who is?

  She crossed to her dressing table and opened the drawer, removing all the drawings she had received thus far. Examining each closely, she realized for the first time that the artist had not signed them, which was strange in itself; that each one prophesized something that would occur was overwhelming.

  Can this actually be happening? Perhaps I have gone mad! If so, have I been making these drawings myself after the fact and only imagine receiving them before these events transpired?

  But, no... being an admirer of drawing and painting, she had made several attempts through the years at both. Whilst she had made some improvements over time, she never had any talent for either. She could never draw this well.

  Suddenly feeling extremely tired, Elizabeth refolded the pages and tied the ribbon, then placed them in the drawer, closing it quite forcefully. Once upon the bed, she closed her eyes, but her mind was so full, she could not rest.

  Shall I tell father that I am receiving letters from an unknown person? The impropriety of the situation is clear.

  It would not serve to worry him unnecessarily. After all, the drawings were not harmful in any way. If he became alarmed and wished to see them, her madness might be somehow proven.

  No, I cannot tell him! After hearing stories about the madhouse, I would rather throw propriety to the wind than to risk being sent there. But have not I already shown him one of the drawings? After thinking on it, she realized, I had shown him only the handwriting on the outside, which he confirmed was not that of my uncle, either.

  She had once read about the method that some used to “predict” the future to those who would buy their services. They told naive people of occurrences that would eventually happen to everybody. True, her family gathered around the dining table was an event that could be predicted accurately by anyone, and perhaps she was only assuming the plate on the table was filled with marzipan. However, Lydia spilling wine on her favourite gown, Charlotte requiring an antidote for poison, and her mother sitting on the ground covered with mud with a broken wheel beside her were not events that were inevitable.

  Should I stop opening the letters? Elizabeth shook her head. Surely, Charlotte would be dead if I had not opened that particular drawing of the plant—Mr. Jones said so, in his own way.

  Maybe these sheets of paper are blank and, in a state of lunacy, I am only imagining the drawings?

  After spending some time contemplating the last, Elizabeth decided that she would write in her journal the details of what she saw in any further drawings that she should receive and how they made her feel—including anything that entered her mind as she looked at them, even if the thought seemed disconnected from the event represented there.

  If the happenings I see there do come to pass, I will have proven to myself that the pages are not blank. She chuckled. Either that or they are blank, and, along with madness, I have acquired the ability to predict the future accurately!

  ~%~

  June 13, 1811

  Always having been someone who looked forward to keeping up correspondence with a number of people, Elizabeth found it odd when, over several days, she felt a wave of tranquility pass over her whenever the post arrived and there was nothing for her—until the morning that Jane received a letter from their Aunt Gardiner. Although Jane had been discreet in her surveillance, and nobody else seemed to detect it, Elizabeth herself could not help but notice

  that Jane had been looking in her direction more often than usual, her customary serene countenance marred by a slightly odd expression. Elizabeth was torn between relief that Jane had not had an opportunity to discuss what she had read and curiosity about what Aunt Gardiner could have told her.

  The afternoon post arrived. Elizabeth received a letter bearing the handwriting she had come to recognize as that of the artist—whomever that may be. Elizabeth excused herself to her room. Upon breaking the seal, she was not surprised to find another drawing, but she was stunned that it did not show anyone that she knew. Instead, she found an illustration of a remarkably handsome man whom she did not recognize. Noting that it was more like a portrait, she thought it seemed unfinished without any background. By the cut of his clothing, she could tell that he was a gentleman, and the quality of the buttons on his coat indicated that he must be quite wealthy.

  Is this gentleman sending me the drawings?

  Feelings and opinions came unbidden, and she found it difficult to look away. Instinctively, she knew he was intelligent, kind, and generous. A sensation welled up within her to the point where it was almost overwhelming. She gasped.

  I love him—with all of my heart and soul, I love this man, on whom I have never before laid eyes! Her eyes filled with tears. I do not understand. How can this be?

  A knock sounded at the door, and Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, spilling her tears so that she could blot them from her cheeks.

  “Just a moment, please,” she called out. Reluctantly folding and placing this illustration in with the others, she closed the drawer and then opened the door.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Jane—come in.”

  Still plagued by a half-probing, half-worried expression, Jane entered. Elizabeth closed the door.

  “Lizzy, I must speak with you.”

  Elizabeth hid her dread by busying herself with smoothing the wrinkles from the covering of her bed and settling herself upon it. “I can tell that something is bothering you, Jane. Will you tell me what
it is?” She patted the bed near her, and Jane sat on the edge.

  “Aunt Madeline is concerned about you, Lizzy. It seems she has received several notes from you concerning drawings that you have been receiving by post.” The last came out as if it were a question.

  “Yes, it is as I thought.” Elizabeth sighed, furrowing her brow. Jane will not judge me harshly. She will not betray my secret. Elizabeth rose and removed from the drawer a folded stack of paper tied with ribbon, leaving behind the sketch she had received today. Elizabeth turned towards her sister, and, handing the pile to Jane, she said, “I thought they were from Aunt Madeline, but she wrote to say that she did not send them to me.”

  Jane placed the stack on the bed and took up one of the ends of the ribbon, looking up at her younger sister first for permission to open it. Elizabeth nodded, and Jane proceeded to unfold each one and examine it before moving on to the next. Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs as she waited to hear her sister’s pronouncement.

  After several minutes, Jane observed, “It must be someone who knows us well. Some of these moments are fairly private.”

  Elizabeth let out the breath she had been holding and then smiled widely. “Jane! Tell me that you see something on those pages!”

  “Why, yes, of course,” Jane answered, and then asked, “Did you doubt they existed?”

  Elizabeth sat cross-legged across from Jane. “I was almost convinced that I was going mad!”

  “But why, Lizzy?”

  “I received the drawings before those events took place!”

  Jane opened her eyes wide. “I do not understand.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Neither do I! I receive each drawing, and then eventually it happens. It is not as if I cause them to happen... they just happen.”

  Jane looked down at the pages once again. “Lydia’s wine stain could have been caused by you, but I plainly remember that you had nothing to do with it. The others... no, you could not have caused these to happen, Lizzy.” She was silent for a minute before saying, “Are you certain that you receive them before—”