Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

“What nonsense you talk, Charlie!” she said, laughing.

“Is it to be London hours for meals?”

“More or less. Dinner will be at eight exactly-you know what a stickler for punctuality your father is, so do not be late.”

Two dimples appeared in Charlie’s cheeks; his eyes danced. “If we cannot be punctual, Mama, I will cozen Parmenter into two trays in the old nursery.”

This was too much; she could not resist hugging him, for all that he thought himself too old for that sort of conduct. “Oh, Charlie, it is good to see you! And you too, Mr. Griffiths,” she added, smiling at the young Welshman. “Were my son alone, I would worry more. Your presence will ensure his good behaviour.”

“Much you know about anything, Mama,” said Charlie.

“I presume that my son has made an appearance at Pemberley because he thinks to be closer to his Aunt Mary,” said Mr. Darcy to Mr. Skinner.

“His tutor is with him, so he can’t do anything too harebrained. Griffiths is a sensible man.”

“True. Whereabouts is his Aunt Mary?” Fitz asked, handing Ned a glass of wine.

They were in the “big” library, held the finest in England. It was a vast room whose fan-vaulted ceiling was lost in the shadows high above, and whose dйcor was dark red, mahogany and gilt. Its walls were lined with book-filled shelves interrupted by a balcony halfway up; a beautiful, intricately carved spiral staircase conveyed the browser heavenward, while sets of mahogany steps on runners made it possible to access any volume anywhere. Even two massive multiple windows crowned with gothic ogives could not illuminate its interior properly. Chandeliers depended from the underside of the balcony and the perimeter of the ceiling, which meant the middle of the room was useless for reading. The pillars supporting the balcony bore fan capitals, and behind them in pools of candlelight were lecterns, tables, chairs. Fitz’s huge desk stood in the embrasure of one window, a number of crimson leather chesterfields littered the Persian carpets on the floor, and two crimson leather wing chairs sat on either side of a Levanto marble fireplace sporting two pink-and-buff marble nereids in high relief.

They sat in the wing chairs, Fitz ramrod straight because such was his nature, Ned with one booted leg thrown over a chair arm. They looked at perfect ease with one another, perhaps two old friends relaxing after a day’s hunting. But the hunting was not animal, nor the friendship that of social equals.

“At the present moment Miss Bennet is in Grantham, awaiting the public stage-coach to Nottingham. It does not run every day.”

“Grantham? Why did she not go west of the Pennines and come direct to Derby, if her destination is Manchester?”

“That would have necessitated that she travel first to London, and I don’t think she’s a very patient sort of woman,” said Ned. “She’s crossing the Pennines to Derby via Nottingham.”

A soft laugh escaped Fitz. “If that doesn’t beat all! Of course she was too impatient.” Sobering, he glanced at Ned a little uncertainly. “You will be able to keep track of her?”

“Yes, easily. But with your guests arriving, I thought it better to come here while she’s safely in Grantham. I’ll go back to following her tomorrow.”

“Has her progress been remarked upon?”

“Not at all. I’ll give her this-she’s a quiet soul-no idle chatter, no making a spectacle of herself. Were it not that she’s such a fine-looking woman, I’d be tempted to say she needs no supervision. As it is, she draws the attention of all manner of men-drivers, postboys, grooms and ostlers, landlords, waiters, fellows on the roof and box. Those inside a coach with her are no danger-antiques or bear-led husbands.”

“Has she had to cope with amorous advances?”

“Not thus far. I don’t think it occurs to her that she is the object of men’s lust.”

“No, it wouldn’t. Apart from her distressing eccentricity, she’s a humble creature.”

“It strikes me, Fitz,” Ned said, keeping his voice dispassionate, “that you worry too much. What can the woman do to you, when all is said and done? It isn’t as if anyone will take notice of her plaints, or listen if she tries to slander the Darcys, Argus and his letters notwithstanding. You’re a great man. She’s a nobody.”

Fitz stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankles, staring into the ruby depths of his glass with a bitter face. “You were too confined to Pemberley to have known that family when it was together, Ned, that’s the trouble. You didn’t travel with me in those days. My concern over Mary Bennet has nothing to do with expediency-it’s simply prudence. My reputation is my all. Though the Darcys are related to every king who ever sat upon England’s throne, they have escaped the taint of more stupid men-men who snatched at huge honours, great commissions. Now, finally, after a thousand years of waiting, it lies in my power to advance the Darcy name in an absolutely unimpeachable way-as the elected head of England’s parliament. A duke? An earl marshal of the battlefield? A royal marriage broker? Pah! Mere nothings! England has never sunk so low as under the Hanoverians-petty German princelings with names longer than their ancestry!-but her parliament has risen in exact step with the diminution of her sovereigns. A prime minister in this day and age, Ned, is genuinely pre-eminent. A hundred years ago it was still an empty title passed around the House of Lords like a port decanter, whereas today it is beginning to be based in the House of Commons. Existing at the whim of the electors, rather than embedded in an unelected oligarchy. As prime minister, I will deal with Europe in the aftermath of Bonaparte. His Russian campaign may have finished him, but he has left the Continent in a shambles. I will mend it, and be the greatest statesman of all time. Nothing must be allowed to stand in my way.”

Brows knit, Ned stared at him; for all their closeness over many years, this was a side of Fitz he did not know as well as he wanted to. “What has any of that to do with this woman?” he asked.

“Everything. There is a saying so old that no one knows who first uttered it. ‘Mud sticks.’ Well, I swear to you that not one minute particle of mud will besmirch the name of Darcy of Pemberley! My wife’s family has been a constant thorn in my side for twenty years. First the mother, such an embarrassment that bitches like Caroline Bingley spread tales of her all over the West End, as witty as damning. How I writhed! So when the father conveniently died, I shut her away. Only to find that the Hydra had grown yet another head-Lydia. Her, I dealt with by removing her from all decent society and billeting her permanently in Newcastle. Then, after George Wickham was sent out of the country, I had you shepherd her elsewhere whenever she came too close to Pemberley. Though that head is not quite lopped off, it hangs by a strip of flesh and cannot lift itself. Now, just as my plans are nearing fruition, comes the Hydra’s worst head to date-sister Mary. A wretched do-gooder!”

Folding his legs up, Fitz leaned forward, his lean face lit by a saturnine, very old anger. “Imagine if you will that this do-good woman with the face of a Botticelli angel writes her awful book, a book that perhaps accuses a Darcy of Pemberley of unspecified crimes. What would society and the Parliament say? Mud sticks.”

“I hadn’t realised,” said Ned slowly, “that you’re so determined to go your own way.”

“I tell you, I will be prime minister of these Isles!”

“Seriously, Fitz, let the woman write her book. No one will read it.”

“How can you be sure? Beautiful women are noticed , Ned! What if Angus Sinclair should get wind of her book? A man of clout, a political creature with friends everywhere. Also the man who first started this brouhaha by making Argus famous.”