The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet Read online

  Now what to do? Mary asked herself when December came and Christmas loomed. Lizzie had sent her what seemed a wagonload of boxes and bandboxes, all containing clothes for her. Clothes! What an outrageous waste, Mary thought in disgust, opening box after box upon gowns of finest lawn and muslin, exquisitely soft wools, silks, taffetas, satins and laces for the evening. So that was where her favourite shoes had gone! Lizzie had stolen them as templates for the shoemakers! Oh, the waste! What was wrong with black, even if she was out of mourning? For Lizzie had decreed that they would not go into mourning for either Lydia or Ned.

  Still, there was a very pretty dress of lilac lawn oversewn with multicoloured sprigs of flowers, and a pair of lilac slippers apparently meant to go with it. Silk stockings! Silk underwear! However, if she did not wear these beautiful things, Lizzie could not; Lizzie was nearly a head shorter, and much plumper in the bosom. Her feet were much smaller too. Waste not, want not, said Mary to herself the next morning as she donned the lilac dress and slid her silk-clad feet into the slippers. Lizzie had assigned her a maid, a nice child named Bertha, and Bertha had a knack for dressing hair. Since Mary refused to adopt the fashion of cutting the hair around her face so it could be twisted into framing curls, Bertha took the whole red-gold mass and piled it on top of Mary’s head, but softly, so that it looked as thick and wavy as it really was.

  “I will say this for you, child,” Mary said gruffly, trying to avoid looking at herself in the mirror, “when you do my hair, I don’t feel the pins and combs.”

  It took all her courage to venture from her room to eat her breakfast, but everyone she encountered gave her a dazzled smile that she couldn’t interpret as condescending or amused.

  Her appetite was still hearty, though once she had regained her usual weight she seemed to stop growing stouter. Of course that was because she was a busy person, active, prone to walk even long distances; she disliked riding a horse, never having done so at Longbourn. Nellie had been their only steed, and she was a plough horse, too broad in the back to fall off, and too slow to cause any panic. But whenever Mary saw Lizzie or Georgie atop one of Fitz’s beasts, her heart soared into her mouth.

  True winter had not yet arrived. When it did, Mary guessed, Pemberley became rather like a snail, withdrawn into itself. Best walk while she still could.

  The silk underthings felt exquisitely comfortable, and the soft slippers seemed sturdy. They didn’t rub at her heels or toes. Her feet were so long and narrow that her store-bought shoes and boots always gave her blisters. Yes, wealth has its compensations, she decided as she draped a heavy lilac silk shawl around her shoulders. Leaving the house, she headed for the woods across a little stone bridge so artfully built that it looked as if the Romans had put it there.

  Discovering no blisters thus far, she turned off the path into her favourite glade, where in spring Lizzie said daffodils turned it into a tossing yellow sea, for it got the sun. Time to rest; she sat upon a mossy rock at the edge of the big clearing, gazing about in delight. Squirrels frantically gathering a last nut or two, a fox lurking, winter birds.

  And back came her private grief, the one thing that marred her busy and productive existence: she missed Angus, wished him here, exclusively hers now that the rest were gone. So much to tell him! How much she needed his advice! For he was wise—wiser than she. And strong enough to oppose her when she should be opposed.

  “Oh, Angus, I wish you were here!” she said aloud.

  “That’s good,” he answered.

  She gasped, sprang up, whirled around, gaped. “Angus!”

  “Aye, that’s my name.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m on my way to Glasgow, where the family businesses are. They don’t run themselves, Mary, though I admit I have a younger brother who keeps the steam engines chugging and the foundry chimneys reeking. We always spend Christmas together, then I do something very mad and sail back to London through the wintry seas. Like all Scots, I love the sea. ’Tis the Viking in us.” He perched on a rock opposite hers. “Sit down, my dear.”

  “I was wishing so hard for you,” she said, sitting.

  “Yes, I heard. Is it lonely now they’ve all gone?”

  “Yes, but it isn’t Lizzie or Fitz or Charlie I miss. Jane doesn’t visit, though I don’t miss Jane either. I miss you.”

  His reply was oblique. “You look delicious,” he said. “What brought on this transformation?”

  “Lizzie sent me what seems a ton of clothes. An appalling waste! However, if I don’t wear them, no one else can. I’m taller and thinner than the others.”

  “Waste not, want not, is it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why have you missed me in particular, Mary?”

  “Because you’re genuinely my friend, unrelated to me by blood or marriage. I’ve harkened back to our time in Hertford, when it seemed that we talked about everything. Nothing stands out, except that I so looked forward to seeing your face when you joined me in the high street, and you never disappointed me. You didn’t try to cozen me or wheedle me out of my expedition, even though I can see now how foolish it was. Of course you knew that at the time, but you never dampened my enthusiasm. And how idiotic I was over Argus, poor man, whoever he may be. Truly, I am so grateful for your understanding! Nobody else understood, even remotely. No matter how mistaken it was, I had to make that trip! After seventeen years cooped up at Shelby Manor, I was a bird finally flying free. And the ills of England—Argus—gave me a valid reason to explore a wider world. For that reason I’ll always love Argus, though I don’t love him.”

  “In which case it’s time I made a confession,” he said, face serious. “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, but even if you don’t, still I must tell you the truth.”

  “The truth?” she asked, eyes gone grey.

  “I am Angus, but I am also Argus.”

  Her jaw dropped; she gaped at him. “You are Argus?”

  “Yes, for my sins. I was bored, Mary, and idle. Alastair ran the family businesses, and the Chronicle had begun to run itself. So I invented Argus, with two objects in mind. One was to keep myself busy. The other was to draw the attention of the comfortably off to the plight of the poor. That second motive was never as important to me as the first, and that is the truth. There is a spirit of mischief in me, and it gave me intense satisfaction to dine in the best houses and listen to my hosts rave about the vile perfidies of Argus. A delightful feeling, but not as delightful as walking the corridors of Westminster to encounter members of the Lords and Commons. I gathered ideas from all these people, and I wallowed in the mischief I made far more than in the social conscience I was helping to engender.”

  “But those letters were so real!” she cried.

  “Yes, they’re real. That is part of the power of words, Mary. They are seductive, even on paper. Spoken or written, they can inspire the downtrodden to revolt, as happened in France and in America. It is words that separate us from the beasts.”

  Anger didn’t seem to want to come; Mary sat in shock, trying to remember what she had said to Angus about Argus. How much of a fool had she sounded? How much of a silly, love-starved spinster? Had he, with his self-confessed spirit of mischief, taken pleasure in duping her?

  “You made a fool of me,” she muttered.

  He caught her words, sighed. “Never deliberately, Mary, I do swear it. Your transports over Argus filled me with humility and shame. I longed to confess, but dared not. If I had, you would have spurned me. I would have lost my dearest friend. All I could do was wait until I judged you knew me well enough to forgive. I beg you, Mary, forgive me!”

  He had dropped to his knees, and lifted his clasped hands to her imploringly.

  “Oh, do get up!” she snapped. “You look ridiculous. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were proposing marriage.”

  “I am proposing marriage!” he yelled. “I love you more than life itself, you idiotic, stubborn, pragmatic, op
inionated, blind, deaf, adorable wench!”

  “Get up, get up!” was all she said.

  Defeated, he dragged himself back onto his rock and gazed at her, utterly confounded. She hadn’t lost a scrap of her composure, though apparently she didn’t mind being called names. How very beautiful she was, with her hair done properly and clad in a gown that became her fetchingly. Her lips parted.

  “You are Argus, you say—that is a shock. And you love me—that is another shock. You want to marry me—a third shock. I must say, Angus, that when you start on serious subjects, you do not seem to know when to stop.”

  Inside herself, a coal of wonderful warmth was glowing, but she had no intention of telling him about its existence until he had suffered more than thus far he had. Oh, my dearest friend! If we are married, you will always be there for me. I do not know if that is love, but it will certainly do as a substitute.

  Her face must have betrayed a little of that coal, for he relaxed suddenly, produced the dimples in his cheeks that hovered on the verge of fissures. “The time to stop,” he said, “is when we’ve sorted everything out to our mutual satisfaction. I have loved you since our first meeting in Hertford—oh, the mortification of knowing I was Argus while you extolled the wretched figment’s virtues! My self-esteem shrank to nothing because I, the rich and powerful Angus Sinclair, was no more to you than a contact with your hero, Argus.”

  “That did not last very long. On our first walk I began to see that I’d made a friend who wasn’t going to force me to send him away by declarations of love and proposals of marriage. And by our ninth walk, as well as all the dinners and parties, I did not know how I was going to get on without you. Even today, after declarations of love and proposals of marriage, I find I cannot send you away.”

  “If you forgive me, it’s because you love me in return,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “Will you forgive me?”

  “I have already done so. Does that mean love? I must take your word for it. What I do know is that I must have your constant, perpetual friendship if I am to be happy. I will marry you to keep you as my dearest friend. And when I drive you mad, you must tell me. I find I am the sort of person who does indeed drive other people mad. Poor Miss Scrimpton was gibbering when I let her return to York, and Matthew Spottiswoode has taken to hiding whenever he thinks I’m coming. Charlie says I am an eccentric. I see no point in trying to dissimulate, Angus. I am a very difficult and wearying person,” said Mary without a trace of self-pity or sorrow that she should be that way. The truth was the truth, why repine?

  “That’s why I love you,” he said, almost bursting with happiness. “In some ways we’re alike—we take pleasure in poking and prying, for one, and when we sink our teeth in, we can’t let go, for another. Also, I’m a little mad myself. Were I not, I wouldn’t sail the North Sea in winter. But my greatest joy, my dearest Mary, is that life with you will never be dull.”

  “I feel exactly the same way,” she said, rising. “Come, it’s time we walked back. I want to know all about Argus.”

  Yes, he was bursting with happiness—but was she? I may never know that for certain, he thought. Her composure is like a stone wall. How do I batter it down?

  They had dinner à deux that evening, which rather perturbed Parmenter, always disconsolate when the family was away. Darcy House had its own servants. The easy camaraderie between Miss Mary and Mr. Sinclair didn’t suit his ideas of propriety, but he knew Mr. Fitz and Mrs. Darcy would find nothing untoward in two fortyish people spending the evening alone together. So when they repaired to the plushly purple little drawing room which held a Fra Angelico, a Giotto, a Botticelli and three Canalettos (hence its name, the Italian Room), Parmenter finally gave up. Having put out the port, the cognac and the cheroots, he left them to their own devices.

  “I wonder which Darcy collected this glorious art?” Mary asked, accepting a port to keep up her courage.

  “I have no idea, except that I’m positive they were sold for a hundredth of their value by some impoverished Italian.”

  Angus didn’t bother looking at the paintings; he was too absorbed in watching Mary, who was wearing a low-cut taffeta gown of marmalade shot with vermilion. That long and graceful neck, he was thinking, needs no gems to improve it, but diamonds would draw attention to it. Such a perfect curve!

  “I though Elizabeth was the most beautiful woman I knew,” he said, “but she can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “Nonsense! You are besotted, Angus, which warps your taste as well as your judgement. I am too thin.”

  “For the fashion, perhaps. But spareness suits you where it would reduce most women to scraggy old hens. Caroline Bingley springs to mind.”

  “You may smoke if you wish. I am not supposed to drink port, but I like it more than I do wine. Less vinegary.”

  He shifted from his wing chair to a sofa and lifted one brow at her. “I don’t feel like blowing a cloud. Come and sit here with me. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

  She came to sit with him, but slewed sideways just too far away for kisses and cuddles. “We must talk about this.”

  He sighed. “Mary, when you stand before God, you will demand to talk about that! I knew you were going to have something to say, because you always do. Sooner or later, my exasperating love, the kisses are inevitable. Also greater and more daring intimacies. I suppose you’re as ignorant as other maiden ladies?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she said, considering the question. “There were all kinds of books in the Shelby Manor library, and I read them all. So I know quite a lot about bodies and copulation—connubial duty is the seemly phrase, not so?”

  “And how do you feel about that side of marriage?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be content with friendship?” she asked hopefully.

  He laughed. “No, I insist that you do your connubial duty.” He reached out to take her hand. “What I hope to see is the night when it becomes a pleasure, rather than a duty. May I kiss you? It is permitted between an engaged couple.”

  “Yes, it is far better to begin as we intend to go on,” she said, composure undented. “You may kiss me.”

  “First,” he said, pulling her very close, “it’s necessary to be in—er—intimate proximity. Do you mind?”

  “It would be better if you took off your coat. I’m embracing naught but clothes.”

  He removed the coat, a struggle, as it had been made by Weston and fitted like a kid glove. “Anything else?”

  “The cravat. It scratches. Why is it so starched?”

  “To hold its shape. Is that better?”

  “Much.” She unbuttoned his collar and slid one hand inside his shirt. “How nice your skin feels! Like silk.”

  His eyes had closed, but in despair. “Mary, you cannot act like a seductress! I’m a man of one-and-forty, but if you keep on provoking me, I may not be able to control myself!”

  “I love your hair,” she said, running her free hand through it. She sniffed. “It smells wonderful—no pomade, just expensive soap. And you will never be bald.” Her other hand crept down to his chest. “Angus, you’re very muscular!”

  “Shut up!” he growled, and kissed her.

  He had wanted this first contact with her lips to be tender and loving, but the fire was lit in him, so the kiss was hard and passionate, probing. To his amazement she responded ardently, both hands working at his shirt, while his hands, despising idleness, did an expert job on the laces down the back of her dress. Her sweet little breasts somehow fell into his grasp, and he began to kiss them in an ecstasy of bliss.

  Suddenly he pushed her away. “We cannot! Someone might come in!” he gasped.

  “I’ll lock the door,” she said, lifted herself off the sofa, stepped out of her dress and petticoats, kicked them away, and stalked in her silk underwear to the door. Click! “There. It’s locked.”

  Her hair had fallen down; the last petticoat was tossed into a corner, the camisole and drawers lying on the floor in her
wake like exhausted white butterflies.

  He had used the time to good advantage himself, and took her back into his arms as naked as she was, save that she let him peel off her stockings. Oh, what heaven! No composure now, just gasps and purrs and moans of delight.

  “You’ll have to marry me now,” she said a long time after, when he got up to put more logs on the fire.

  “Come to Scotland with me,” he said, kneeling at the fire, his head turned so that he could smile at her. “We can be wed across the anvil in Gretna Green.”

  “Oh, that’s the perfect way to get married!” she cried. “I was dreading a family wedding, all the curious coming to gawp at us. This is far the best way. But isn’t Gretna Green a long way east? I thought the road to Glasgow would be farther west.”

  “I’m in a carriage, dear inquisitive love, and between here and Glasgow lies a body of water called the Solway Firth. The road to Glasgow as well as to Edinburgh goes through Gretna.”

  “Oh. It’s appropriate that one Bennet daughter should have a runaway marriage at Gretna Green.”

  “I cannot believe you,” he said, utterly lost in love.

  “I must have more Lydia in me than I suspected, dearest of dear Anguses. That was the loveliest thing I have ever done. Let’s do it again, please!”

  “One more time, then, you insatiable wench.” He pulled her onto the floor and cushioned her head on his shoulder. “After that we have to make ourselves respectable and go to bed. Each in our own room, mind! Parmenter will have a stroke as it is. A short sleep, alas. At dawn we start for Gretna Green. If by any chance I’ve quickened you, we had best hurry, else all the old tabbies will be doing their sums.”

  Fitz came into Elizabeth’s room looking concerned. “My dear love, I think there might be bad news from Pemberley,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, a letter in his hand. “A courier has just brought this for you.”