The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet Read online

  Charlie had moved, but Elizabeth detained him. “No, let her say it all, Charlie. She has already said far too much. Try to stop her now, and we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

  “I was so happy when he survived the Peninsular wars, my George! But that wasn’t enough for you Darcy, was it? He was supposed to die in Spain, and he didn’t. So you used your influence to send him to America! I saw him for less than a week between those two awful campaigns—now he’s dead, and you can rejoice! Well, not for long! I know things about you, Darcy, and I am very much alive!”

  Suddenly she collapsed. Elizabeth and Charlie went to her, helped her to her feet and out of the room.

  “Heavens above, what a performance,” said Caroline Bingley. “Where does your sister-in-law pick up her vocabulary, Fitz?”

  That reminded the Duchess, Mrs. Speaker and Posy of the words Lydia had used; the three of them fell to the floor.

  “I imagine,” said Fitz in a level voice after the ladies had been taken to their rooms, “that the covers are considerably reduced for the rest of what has been a memorable meal.”

  “Un-for-gettable,” said Miss Bingley on a purr.

  Angus chose to ignore all of it. “Well, I for one refuse to forgo the turbot,” he said, determinedly cheerful.

  Charlie came back looking very concerned, as Owen noted. “I bring Mama’s apologies, Pater,” he said to his father. “She’s putting Aunt Lydia to bed.”

  “Thank you, Charlie. Do you stay to finish dinner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sat down, secretly feeling desperately sorry for his father. There was no excusing Lydia’s conduct—oh, why did that nasty piece of work Caroline Bingley have to be present? The scene would be all over London the moment she returned there.

  The Bishop of London was dissecting the etymology of obscenities for Owen’s benefit, and welcomed Charlie’s participation.

  “Do you know the poetry of Catullus?” the Bishop asked.

  Charlie’s face lit up. “Do I?”

  Having returned with his cartload of fish and crustacea, Ned Skinner was at home, and reported to Fitz in his parliamentary library as soon as the rather shattered guests had gone to their various suites.

  “What possessed Parmenter and his minions to let her get as far as the dining room?” Ned asked.

  “Fright. Apprehension. A reluctance to lay hands on the sister of their mistress, whom they love dearly,” said Fitz with scrupulous fairness. “Besides, I imagine they had no idea what would happen in the dining room—she saved her choicest verbiage for my guests, the bitch. And she was drunk.”

  “Is it true? Is George Wickham dead?”

  “The letter says so, and it’s signed by his colonel.”

  “A pity then that she didn’t go to America with him. She would undoubtedly have battened on to some colonial yokel and remained there. It baffles me why she’s not poxed.”

  “It baffles me why she’s never had children,” Fitz said.

  “Well, she doesn’t fall easily, but when she does, she knows where to go to get rid of it. She’s never sure who the father is.”

  Fitz grimaced. “Disgusting. As to why she didn’t go with him to America, she was involved with his colonel at the time the regiment was shipped, and the fellow was desperate to shed her.”

  “Aye, she’s a difficulty wherever she is.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, Ned.” Fitz beat his fists on his thighs, an angry and frustrated tattoo. “Oh, what an audience! And I with the prime ministership all but in my pocket! Derbyshire had promised to deliver the Lords, and the Commons has been inclined my way for a year now. The assassination of Spencer Perceval still reverberates, thanks to the Marquis of Wellesley, running everything. Oh, rot the woman!”

  “Miss Bingley will spread tonight’s tale far and wide.”

  “Anything to get back at Elizabeth—and me.”

  “And what of Sinclair? Will the Westminster Chronicle air your private troubles in its Whiggish pages?”

  “He’s a good friend, so I’ll hazard a guess that he’ll not put my private troubles in his paper.”

  “What exactly do you fear, Fitz?”

  “More scenes of this nature, especially in London.”

  “She wouldn’t dare!”

  “I think she would dare anything. The booze has addled what few wits she ever had, and I feature in her mind as the chief villain. While ever she looks like something the cat dragged in, people will spurn her as crazed, but what if she cleans herself up, dresses respectably? As my wife’s sister, she could manage to secure an audience with some powerful enemies.”

  “Saying what, Fitz? That you conspired to have her husband sent overseas to do his military duty? It won’t wash.”

  Out came one shapely white hand to rest on Ned’s sleeve. “Ah, Ned, what would I do without you? You demolish my fears with plain good sense. You are right. I will simply dismiss her as a madwoman.”

  “You’d best put her in a decent house. Line its walls with bottles, have a few men on hand to fuck her, and she’ll give you no trouble. Though,” Ned added, “I’d make sure she has what in Sheffield they’d call a minder. Someone strong enough to control her, persuade her not to go to London, for instance. I think comfort, clothes, men and booze will keep Lydia happy.”

  “Whereabouts? I sold Shelby Manor, though it’s too close to London. Nearer here, yes?” Fitz asked.

  “I know a place the other side of Leek. It housed a lunatic, so it should suit. And Spottiswoode can locate a minder.”

  “Then I may leave it to you?”

  “Of course, Fitz.”

  The fire was dying; Fitz stacked it with wood. “Now it only remains to persuade my wife not to give her shelter for too long. Can you move quickly?”

  “Depending upon Spottiswoode, I can be ready in five days.”

  Two glasses of port were forthcoming. “I repeat, Ned, that you are my saving grace. When you walked in tonight, I was almost on the verge of echoing Henry the Second’s cry about Thomas à Becket—‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’ Substituting wench for priest.”

  “Things are never as bad as they seem, Fitz.”

  “What of the other sister?”

  Ned scowled. “A different kettle of fish entirely. At first it was easy. She went from Hertford to Stevenage, thence to Biggleswade, Huntingdon, Stamford and Grantham. There, it seems she decided to head west to Nottingham. I traced her that far, and lost her.”

  “Lost her?”

  “Don’t worry, Fitz, she can’t go far without being noticed, she’s too pretty. I think she intended to take the stage-coach to Derby, but it left without her. The only other coach that morning was to Sheffield via Mansfield. It may be that she changed her mind about her destination—Sheffield instead of Manchester.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment. Sheffield has always been a manufacturing town—Sheffield steel and silver cutlery. Its practices are set in stone.”

  Grinning, Ned wriggled his brows expressively. “Then, knowing her, she got on the wrong coach. In which case, we will see her emerge either in Derby or Chesterfield.”

  “Have you time to look for her?”

  “Fear not, yes. The house for Lydia is called Hemmings, and I’ll have your solicitors deal with it. Leek isn’t far from Derby.”

  It took a long time to calm Lydia down and persuade her that what she most needed was sleep. Elizabeth and Hoskins stripped her of her indecent apparel and put her into a bronze bath tub by the fire, there to wash her ruthlessly from the hair of her head to between her grimy toes. Warming pans had been put in the bed, and Hoskins had had a brilliant idea, though it was not one Elizabeth could like: a bottle of port. However, it did the trick. Still weeping desolately for the loss of her beloved George, Lydia went to sleep.

  Fortunately Ned had gone when Elizabeth entered the small library; Fitz had his head bent over a pile of papers on his desk, and looked up enquiringly.


  “She is asleep,” said Elizabeth, sitting down.

  “An unpardonable invasion of our home. She deserves to be whipped at the cart’s tail, the harpy.”

  “I don’t want to quarrel, Fitz, so let us avoid all such futile animadversions. Perhaps where we have always erred is in our estimation of Lydia’s devotion to that dreadful man. Just because we think him dreadful does not make him so in her eyes. She—she loves him. In twenty-one years of rackety behaviour and feckless decisions, she has never swerved in her devotion to him. He taught her to drink, he rented out her body to those who could be of use to him, he struck her senseless with his fists when he was frustrated—yet still she loved him.”

  “Her loyalty would do credit to a dog,” he said acidly.

  “No, Fitz, don’t disparage her! I think it admirable.”

  “Does that mean I’ve gone about you all the wrong way, my dear Elizabeth? Ought I to have turned you into a drunkard, rented you out to Mr. Pitt, beaten you senseless to ease my frustrations? Would you then truly love me more than you do my possessions?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you have to do that to me, Fitz? Belittle my compassion, sneer at my sympathy?”

  “It passes the time,” he said cynically. “I hope you’re not cherishing hopes of keeping her here?”

  “She must stay here!”

  “Thereby preventing my using my seat as a valuable adjunct to my political career! You are my wife, madam, that is true, but it doesn’t mean you are at liberty to foist guests on me who are social and political suicide. I have instructed Ned to find her a house not unlike Shelby Manor, at sufficient distance from us to posit no risk or threat,” he said coldly.

  “Oh, Fitz, Fitz! Must you always be so detached?”

  “Since it is an excellent tool for a leader of men, yes.”

  “Just promise me that if Charlie should seek you out on this same errand, you’ll treat him more kindly,” she said, eyes sparkling with tears. “He means no harm.”

  “Then I suggest you deflect him, my dear. Especially as I begin to hope that Caroline Bingley’s canards about his—er—proclivities are simply the product of her fevered imagination.”

  “I loathe that woman!” cried Elizabeth through her teeth. “She is a malicious liar! No one, including you, ever doubted Charlie’s proclivities until she started whispering her poison in various ears—chiefly yours! Her evidence is specious, though you can never see that. She deliberately set out to traduce our son’s character for no better reason than her own disappointed hopes! Not that she confines her malice to us—anyone who mortally offends her is sure to become her victim!”

  He looked amused. “You make poor Caroline sound like Medea and Medusa rolled in one. Well, I have known her far longer than you, and take leave to inform you that you are mistaken. It is Caroline’s nature to say what she thinks or has heard, not to fabricate lies. I invite her to our functions and house parties because not to do so would hurt Charles, who is our son’s namesake. However, though I cannot summon up your unfounded indignation at her, I am beginning to believe that Charlie’s looks and mannerisms belie his true nature. I daresay that both have been magnets to certain fellows whose proclivities are undeniable, but Ned says that he rejects their overtures adamantly.”

  “Ned says! Oh, Fitz, what is the matter with you, that you are more disposed to believe that man than your own wife?”

  Seething, she said a stiff goodnight and left.

  Charlie was waiting in her rooms, flirting outrageously with Hoskins, who adored him.

  “Mama,” he said, coming to her side as Hoskins slipped away unobtrusively, “have you seen Pater?”

  “Yes, but I beg that you do not. His mind is made up. Lydia is to go to a Shelby Manor situation.”

  To her surprise, Charlie looked approving. “Pater is right, Mama. No one has ever managed to wean drunkards off the bottle, and Aunt Lydia is a drunkard. If you kept her here, it would wear you down. Poor little soul! What did George Wickham ever do, to earn such love?”

  “We will never know, Charlie, because the only people who can see inside a marriage are the two people in it.”

  “Is that true of you and Pater?”

  “For a child to ask, Charlie, is impudence.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I take it that you and Owen have seen nothing of Mary?”

  “Nothing. Today we rode to Chesterfield, thinking she might come that way, but she has not. Nor has she been seen in Derby. Tomorrow we think to ride toward Sheffield.”

  “Tomorrow the Derbyshires and the Bishop depart. You must be on hand to farewell them. The Speaker and Mrs. Speaker go the day after. It will be Monday before you can search.”

  “When Fitz married Elizabeth, I knew I was going to have some sport,” said Caroline Bingley to Louisa Hurst, “but who could ever have credited that the sport would grow better year by year?”

  They were walking sedately across Pemberley’s gargantuan front, their heads turned toward a stunning vista of the artificial lake. A zephyr breeze blew, just sufficient to tickle the surface of the water and turn Pemberley’s reflection from a mirror image to a fairy-tale castle blurred by the approaching giant’s footsteps. Not that all their attention was focused on the view; each of the ladies reserved a small corner of her mind for a different vision: that of the picture they themselves presented to any admiring gaze that might chance their way.

  Mrs. Hurst’s slight figure was swathed in finest lawn, pale spearmint in colour and embroidered in emerald-green sprigs with chocolate borders; her hugely fashionable bonnet was emerald straw with chocolate ribbons, her short kid gloves were emerald, and her walking half-boots were chocolate kid. She wore a very pretty necklace of polished malachite beads. Miss Bingley, being tall and willowy, preferred a more striking outfit. She wore diaphanous pale pink organdie over a taffeta under-dress striped in cerise and black; her bonnet was cerise straw with black ribbons, her short gloves were cerise kid, and her walking half-boots black kid. She wore a very pretty necklace of pink pearls. If Pemberley needed anything to set off its glories, it needed them; they were convinced of it.

  “Who, indeed?” asked Mrs. Hurst dutifully; she was her younger sister’s sounding board, and did not dare have thoughts of her own. One Caroline was all any family needed; two would have been utterly insupportable.

  “Oh, the bliss of being present at that scene last night! And to think I very nearly refused Fitz’s invitation to Pemberley this year! The language! How can I possibly convey its obscenity without employing the actual words she used? I mean, Louisa, is there a genteel sort of equivalent?”

  “Not that I have ever heard of. Female dog does not begin to approximate those words, does it?”

  “I will have to bend my mind to the problem, for I vow I will not be silenced by convention.”

  “I am sure you’ll find an answer.”

  “I cannot allow people to think Lydia’s language was less infamous than it actually was.”

  “Who will be the most shocked?” asked Mrs. Hurst, moving the subject on.

  “Mrs. Drummond-Burrell and Princess Esterhazy. I am to dine at the Embassy when I return to London next week.”

  “In which case, sister, I doubt you need regale others. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell will do your work for you.”

  A tall and stalwart form was marching toward them; the ladies paused in their stroll, reluctant to let motion destroy the effect they knew they were making.

  “Why, Mr. Sinclair!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, wishing she could extend her hand to be kissed, as Louisa was doing; an absurd shibboleth, that unmarried ladies could not have their hands kissed.

  “Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley. How fresh you look! Like two ices at Gunter’s—one pink, one green.”

  “La, sir, you are ridiculous!” Miss Bingley said with an arch look. “I refuse to melt.”

  “And I fear I have neither the charm nor the address to melt you, Miss Bingley.”

  Louisa
took her cue flawlessly. “Do you publish last night’s scandalous goings-on in your paper, sir?”

  Was that a flicker of contempt in those fine blue eyes? “No, Mrs. Hurst, I am not of that ilk. When my friends have their private trials and tribulations, I stay mum. As,” he continued blandly, “I am positive you will too.”

  “Of course,” said Louisa.

  “Of course,” said Caroline.

  Mr. Sinclair prepared to move on. “What a pity we cannot hope for universal silence.” he said.

  “A shocking pity,” Louisa said. “The Derbyshires.”

  “I concur,” said Caroline. “The Speaker of the House.”

  And your own two viperish tongues, thought Angus as he tipped his hat in farewell.

  He was meeting Fitz at the stables, but before he got there Charlie waylaid him, very cast down because he had to stay home.

  “Are you available for a long ride on Monday?” Charlie asked. “Owen and I are for Nottingham. Best pack a change of raiment in your saddle bags in case we are delayed.”

  Angus promised, then walked off.

  Mary’s disappearance frightened him more than he had let anyone suspect; she was such a mixture of sheltered innocence and second-hand cynicism that, like a cannon loosed on the deck of a first-rater, she could go off in any direction, wreaking indiscriminate havoc. If she had adhered to her schedule, she ought to be in Derbyshire by now, so why wasn’t she? Love, reflected Angus, is the very devil. Here I am in a lather of worry, while she is probably snug in some inn fifty miles south taking copious notes on farmers and the evils of enclosing common land. No, she is not! Mary is a stickler for being in the correct place at the correct time. Oh, my love, my love, where are you?