Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

Now to find that the woman of his heart was fixated upon his own creation was a blow both ironic and frustrating. No fool, Angus saw at once that, were he to confess his identity, she would scorn him as a dilettante. He did not practise what he preached, and had no intention of doing so, even for this new and painful emotion, love. Imbued with ardour, Mary took Argus at face value. Thus face value it would have to be.

Still, better to cross some bridges as he came to them; the first order of business was to get to know his Mary, make her like and trust him. What a hypocrite you are, Angus/Argus!

The next morning she was the recipient of a note from him asking her to walk with him. An activity, he was convinced, that could not offend her sensibilities. A gentleman escorting a lady through Hertford’s public streets was irreproachable.

Mary read his letter and came to the same conclusion. Her plans for her mission of book-writing investigation were made as firmly as possible and the winter had long since begun to drag, despite the efforts of such determined individuals as Mr. Robert Wilde, Lady Appleby, Mrs. McLeod, Miss Botolph and Mrs. Markham. How, she asked herself, could any person exist in such a pointless way? Concerts, parties, balls, receptions, weddings, christenings, walks, funerals, drives, picnics, visits to the shops, playing the pianoforte and reading; they were designed purely to fill in the huge vacancies in a female’s life. Mr. Wilde had his law practice, the married ladies had their husbands, children and domestic crises, but she, like Miss Botolph, existed in that fashionable new word, a vacuum. One short winter had been enough to teach her that the purpose she yearned for was vital to her well-being.

So, upon receipt of Angus’s note, she met him in the high street eager to discover more about him, if not about Argus. After all, he did publish Argus! He was very personable, eminently respectable, and not to be sneezed at as a companion for the walk she would have taken anyway. His hair, she decided as they exchanged bows, was like a cat’s pelt, sleek and glittery, and something in his features drew her. Nor was it disappointing to find that, in spite of her own height, he was much taller. If any fault were to be found in Mr. Wilde, it was that he and she were on the same level. Miss Bennet liked the sensation of being towered over, a disturbing facet of basic femininity that Miss Bennet promptly buried.

“In what direction would you like to go?” he asked as he held out his arm for her to lean upon.

She spurned it with a sniff. “I am not decrepit, sir!” she said, striding out. “We will proceed up this way because it is but a short step into the countryside.”

“You like the countryside?” he asked, keeping up.

“Yes, I do. The beauties of Nature are not obliterated by humanity’s tasteless urban huddle.”

“Ah, indeed.”

Her idea of a short step, he learned, was more than a mile; beneath that awful dress two powerful legs must lurk. But at the end of the short step fields began to open up before them, and her pace slowed as she gazed about with delight.

“I suppose that Mr. Wilde has informed you of my plans?” she asked, hopping nimbly over a stile.

“Plans?”

“To investigate the ills of England. I commence at the beginning of May. How extraordinary that Mr. Wilde did not mention it!”

“It sounds an unusual aspiration. Tell me more.”

And, liking the set of his far-sighted blue eyes, Mary told him what she intended to do. He listened without evidence of disapproval; rather, she thought, gratified, he took what she said seriously. And certainly, once she had finished, he made no attempt to dissuade her.

“Where do you intend to start?” he asked.

“In Manchester.”

“Why not Birmingham or Liverpool?”

“Birmingham will be no different from Manchester. Liverpool is a seaport, and I do not think it wise to associate with sailors.”

“As to sailors, you are right,” he said gravely. “However, I still wonder at your choice of Manchester.”

“So do I, sometimes,” she said honestly. “I think it must be because I am curious about my brother-in-law Charles Bingley, who is said to have ‘interests’ in Manchester, as well as huge sugar plantations in Jamaica. My sister Jane is the dearest creature, and very devoted to Mr. Bingley.” She stopped, frowning, and said nothing more.

They had reached the perimeter of an apple orchard, beginning to foam with white blossoms; after such a cold winter, spring had come early and warm, and living things had awakened. The stone wall bordering the fluffy trees was low and dry; Angus spread his handkerchief on its top and indicated that she should sit.

Surprised at her own docility, Mary sat. Instead of joining her, he stood a small distance away from her, his eyes intent upon her face.

“I know what you will not say, Miss Bennet. That you are worried about your sister Jane. That if her husband is exploiting women and children especially, she will suffer a disillusion like to kill her love.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, gasping. “How perceptive of you!”

“I do read Argus’s letters, you know.”

Suddenly he stepped over the wall into the orchard, and snapped a branch off the nearest tree. “It is in full flower already,” he said, presenting it to her with a smile that made her feel a little breathless.

“Thank you,” she said taking it, “but you have deprived the poor tree of some of its fruit.”

The next moment she was on her feet and walking swiftly in the direction of Hertford. “It is growing late, sir. My maid will be anxious if I do not return at the expected time.”

He did not argue, merely ranged himself alongside her, and let her walk in silence. I am learning, he was thinking; do not dare court her, Angus! She is willing to be friends, but the slightest hint of wooing, and she closes with a nastier snap than a poacher’s trap. Well, if a friend is what she wants, a friend I will be.

That was the first of enough excursions to cause flutters of hopeful expectation in the bosoms of Mary’s female cronies, as well as gloom in the heart of Mr. Wilde. What a catch! Angus’s valet had triggered a chain of servant’s gossip that, naturally, whizzed above stairs; Mr. Sinclair had been going into East Anglia, had never intended spending over a week in Hertford. Yet here he was, dangling after Mary Bennet! Lady Appleby scrambled to give a dinner party at Shelby Manor to which Mr. Wilde was not invited, and Mrs. Markham aired Miss Bennet’s proficiency upon the pianoforte during a cosy evening in her drawing room. To his astonishment, Angus discovered that Mary’s talent on the instrument was considerable; she played with unerring touch and true expression, though she was not fond enough of the soft pedal.

On Mary’s side, try as she would, she could not resist her suitor’s blandishments. Not that he ever said a word she could construe as romantic, or let his hand linger when it brushed hers, or gave her the kind of looks Mr. Wilde did. His attitude was that of the brother she had never known; something like, she assumed, an older version of Charlie. For these reasons her sense of fairness said that she could not show him the cold shoulder, though, had she suspected what people were saying, Mr. Sinclair would certainly have been dismissed forthwith.

And he, fearing for her, bit his tongue. After nine days he knew every minute aspect of her plans, and gained a better idea of why Fitz had spoken of her sneeringly. She was exactly the kind of female he most despised, for she lacked innate propriety and was too strong-willed to take discipline. Not from any moral failing; simply that she did not see herself, an aging spinster, as needing the full gamut of the proprieties. Young ladies were hedged around because they must go virgins to the marriage bed, whereas a thirty-eight-year-old spinster stood in little danger from masculine lusts or attentions. In that, of course, she was completely mistaken. Men looked at the sleepy-lidded eyes, lush mouth and spectacular colouring, and cared not a rush for her years or her appalling clothes.