Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

“Then you’re the sort of fellow prefers getting wet through and covered in slime than getting overheated and covered in rubble. I do have an alternative occupation-you could ride with Owen and me in search of Mary.”

“A far better idea! Count me in.”

Charlie remembered that Angus had said he liked to walk rather than ride, and looked anxious. “Er-you are comfortable on a horse, I take it?” he asked.

“Quite comfortable, even atop your father’s aristocratic prads.”

“Capital! Owen and I are off to Buxton in the morning. The Plough and Stars in Macclesfield is famous for its luncheons and is the post house, so we intend to do Macclesfield as well. Coming?”

“I fear not,” said Angus with regret. “I think tomorrow I must be on hand to welcome Derbyshire and the Speaker.” H have a coach terminus; the public conveyances that passed through it stopped to change horses at the Blue Boar-which was therefore a post house-at around about noon. Having two choices, either to go to London and there take a more direct route, or proceed north until she could find a vehicle going west, Mary had elected to go north, as she had told Angus. It did not seem logical to have to go south in order to achieve the opposite point of the compass.

Every aspect had been thought out, she could tell herself with satisfaction. The bulk of her belongings had gone via Pickford’s carriers to Elizabeth at Pemberley for safe keeping, while what she took with her had been shaved down to as little as possible. Understanding that she might have to walk some distance carrying what she had with her, at least from time to time, she had shopped carefully for luggage. Boxes, which were actually small metal-bound trunks, were clearly out of the question, as were true portmanteaux, which could be carried, but were large and heavy. In the end she settled for two handbags made of stout tapestry; their bottoms held little metal sprigs that kept the fabric clear of water. One, larger than the other, had a false bottom in which she could put her dirty laundry until she could wash it. Apart from these two handbags, she had a black drawstring reticule in which she put twenty gold guineas (a guinea was worth slightly more than a pound, having twenty-one shillings to it rather than twenty), a phial of vinaigrette, her five favourite Argus letters, a coin purse for change, and a handkerchief.

In the handbags, carefully folded, went two black dresses shorn of frills and furbelows, camisoles, plain petticoats, nightgowns, under-drawers, one spare black cap, two spare pairs of thick woollen stockings, garters, handkerchiefs, rags for her menstrual courses, a spare pair of black gloves, and a mending kit. Each garment was as sparing in volume as she could make it. After some thought, she put a pair of bedroom slippers enclosed in a bag on top of her nightgowns in case the floor of her room should be cold or dirty. For reading she carried the works of William Shakespeare and the Book of Common Prayer . Her letter of credit was tucked in a pocket she had attached to each of her three dresses, so was always on her person.

She wore her third black dress, over which she was supposed to wear a cloak, but, despising cloaks as clumsy and inefficient, she had made herself a greatcoat like a man’s. It buttoned down the front, came up to her neck, and down to her knees and wrists. Her bonnet was home-made too; even Hertford’s milliners displayed nothing half so hideous in their windows. It had a small front peak that would not get in her or anybody else’s way, and a spacious crown under which both cap and hair would fit comfortably. Firmly tied beneath her chin with stout ribbons, it would never blow off. On her feet she wore her only footwear, a pair of laced ankle boots with flat heels and no style whatsoever.

The reticule, she discovered as she waited at the Blue Boar for the northbound coach to arrive, was very heavy-who would ever have believed that nineteen gold guineas could weigh so much? She had drawn twenty from the bank yesterday, but tendered the twentieth at the stage-coach agency for a ticket in stages as far as Grantham. It indicated that she would break her journey at Biggleswade, Huntingdon, Stamford and, finally, Grantham. There she would have to buy another ticket, as she intended to leave the Great North Road.

The huge conveyance lumbered up at noon, its four light draught horses steaming, its cheap seats on the box and roof so full that the coachman refused to take more outside passengers. While the team was being changed Mary tendered her ticket to Biggleswade, only to be roundly sworn at; she was not on his passenger list.

“You go only as far as Stevenage,” he growled angrily when she insisted that he honour her reservation. “There be a race meeting at Doncaster.”

What this had to do with coaches to Grantham Mary did not know (or indeed, why gentlemen would wish to travel so far just to see horses race), but she resigned herself to alighting in Stevenage. In her youth she vaguely remembered that her elder sisters had occasionally travelled by stage or Mail coach, but such had never been her own lot. Nor, she knew from that time, did Jane or Elizabeth take a maid, though sometimes Uncle Gardiner gave them a manservant to guard them while they were on the Mail. Therefore she could see no impropriety in her own unaccompanied journey; she was, after all, quite an elderly spinster, not a beautiful young girl like Jane or Elizabeth at that time.

When she climbed into the coach cabin she discovered that the coachman had jammed four people on either seat, and that the two elderly gentlemen who flanked her were not chivalrous. They glared at her and refused to make room, but in Mary Bennet they mistook their mark. Neither timid nor afraid, she gave a determined thrust with her bottom that succeeded in driving a wedge between them. Braced as if in a very tight gibbet, she sat bolt upright and stared into the faces of the four passengers opposite. Unfortunately she was facing backward, which made her feel slightly sick, and it was only after some frantic searching that her eyes found a focus-a row of nails on the ceiling. How awful to be crammed cheek by jowl with seven strangers! Especially since not one of them bore a friendly expression or was given to talk. I shall die before I get as far as Stevenage! she thought, then stuck out her chin and settled to the business. I can do anything, anything at all!

Though the windows were let down, nothing short of a gale would dispel the sour stench of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes. In her fantasies she had gazed with delight out of the windows at the passing countryside, greedy to devour its beauties; now she found that impossible, between the swelling corporations of the gentlemen on either side of her, a huge box on the lap of the dame in the right opposite window, and an equally large parcel on the lap of the youth in the left opposite window. When someone did speak, it was to demand that the windows be shut-no, no, no! After a heated wrangle, the dame demanded a vote on the issue, and windows open won.

Three hours after leaving the Blue Boar, the coach pulled up in Stevenage. Not anything like as large as Hertford! Knees weak, head aching, Mary was liberated outside the best inn, but upon enquiry was directed to a smaller, meaner establishment half a mile away. A bag in either hand, she commenced to walk before she realised that she should first have ascertained the time of tomorrow’s north-bound coach. The sun was still well up; best turn around and do that now.

Finally she put her bags down on the floor of a little room in the Pig and Whistle; only then could she avail herself of something that had lurked in her mind for half the journey. Oh, thank God! There was a chamber pot underneath her bed. No need to traipse to an outhouse. Like all women, Mary knew better than to drink copious beverages while she travelled. Even so, iron control was necessary.