Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

Even as Jupiter stopped at the barrier of a picket fence, a woman emerged from the house. What a beauty! Black hair, pale skin, vivid blue eyes smutted by black lashes and brows. Ned felt a pang of regret at the sight of her long legs, tiny waist, swelling bosom. Yes, she was a rare beauty. Not a light-skirt crying out to be murdered, either. Just, like Mary Bennet, a virtuous woman cursed by beauty.

“You’re on the wrong road, sir,” she said in a Londonish accent, eyeing Jupiter with appreciation.

“If this is the house of Mr. Martin Purling, I am not.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taken aback. “’E ain’t ’ere.”

“Have you any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Tea time, ’e said. That’s hours away.”

Ned stepped from the saddle, tied the reins to the gate post, loosened Jupiter’s girth and followed the girl-she was more girl than woman-down the flagged path to the front door.

At it she turned to face him. “I can’t let you come in. ’E wouldn’t like it.”

“I can see why.”

So quickly she had no idea what was coming, he took both her wrists in his left hand, clamped his right over her mouth, and pushed her through the door.

The kitchen yielded meat twine to tie her up temporarily, with a long, narrow cloth for her mouth; the lovely eyes stared at him in terror above the gag, it never having occurred to her that anyone would tamper with Captain Thunder’s property. Ned carried her into the parlour, dumped her in a chair, and drew up another close to hers.

“Now listen to me,” he said, voice calm and level. “I’m going to remove your gag, but don’t scream or shout. If you do, I’ll kill you.” He withdrew a knife from his pocket.

When she nodded vigorously, he removed the gag.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Martin’s wife.”

“Legal, or common law?”

“What?”

“Did you have a wedding ceremony?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you relatives in these parts?”

“No, sir. I am from Tilbury.”

“How did you get here?”

“Martin bought me. I was going to the Barbary coast.”

“A slave, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A twelvemonth.”

“Do you go into town? Into the village?”

“No, sir. Martin does that, but in Sheffield.”

“So no one knows you are here.”

“No one, sir.”

“Are you grateful to Martin for saving you from slavery?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

Satisfied, he put the gag back into her mouth, then went to the yard in search of something less cruel than meat twine to bind her, and found thin rope. Ideal. Poor soul. Her beauty was of an order that had made her stand out in a maritime village like Tilbury. Undoubtedly her parents, soaked in gin, had sold her for enough money to satisfy their liquid passion for months to come. Had she gone to the Barbary pirates, she would eventually have arrived in the harem of some Ottoman Turk, there to wither away from homesickness and a form of subjugation more alien than any in England. Poor soul. I hate to do it, but I must. For Fitz’s sake, if for no other reason. No loose tongues, no matter how ill-born.

This time he trussed her so efficiently that she could not move, stuffed a small potato in her mouth behind the gag, and left her to watch the meeting between her Martin and this stranger.

Martin Purling returned shortly after three, whistling cheerfully. His horse, exactly the right kind for a highwayman, was put into its stable and rubbed down; then he strode up the back path toward the kitchen, calling for her.

“Nellie! Nellie, love! Whose is the black gelding? I hope he’ll part with it, for I have a mind to own it. Do a hundred miles with a big man up, I’ll warrant.”

“The black gelding is mine.” Ned appeared just inside the doorway with a pistol levelled at Captain Thunder’s heart.

“Who are you?” Purling asked, displaying no fear.

“Nemesis.” Ned’s left hand came up holding a small sandbag, and struck the Captain on the nape of the neck. He went down, only stunned, but it was long enough for Ned to bind him hand and foot. Then he picked him up as if he weighed nothing and carried him into the parlour, where he was thrown into a chair some distance from Nellie. As he came around, the first face he saw was hers, and he began to struggle, trying without success to free himself.

“Who are you?” Purling repeated. “I thought you were a fellow knight of the road, riding that horse, but you’re not, are you?”

“No.”

“It is despicable to be so cruel to Nellie.”

“Probably two days ago, Mr. Purling, you did far worse insult to a far greater lady than yon strumpet.”

Enlightenment dawned; Captain Thunder nodded slowly, all his questions answered. “So my instincts were right. She’s from an important family.”

“I’m pleased to hear you employ the present tense.”

But fright was creeping into the Captain’s dark eyes; he was remembering how he had disposed of her. “Naturally I speak in the present tense! I am not a murderer of women, sir!”

“That’s not what they say in Nottingham.”

“Stories! The highways and byways of Derbyshire, Cheshire and Nottinghamshire are mine and mine alone. They have been for nigh on fifteen years. Time enough for Captain Thunder to have acquired a mythology. Well, the stories are false, sir! And who are you?”

“I’m Edward Skinner, Darcy of Pemberley’s man. The lady you robbed of nineteen guineas is his sister-in-law.”

The breath hissed through the Captain’s teeth, his face mottled, he drummed his bound feet upon the floor. “Then what the hell was she doing on the common stage? How can a man sort the sheep from the goats if carriage folk ride in public coaches? Serves her right, the silly cow!”

“You have a bad temper, Captain. I’m astonished that no one has caught you in fifteen years, though this bolt-hole must be a help. What did you do with Miss Bennet?”

“Left her in the forest. She’ll find the road.”

“Today is Sunday. That must have been Friday, early afternoon. But no one has seen her, Captain, I assume because she didn’t find the road. You never intended that she should. I’ll wager you left her a mile inside the trees with no idea of direction. Did you harm her when you took her money?”

The Captain gave a bitter laugh. “I, harm her ? Look at what she did to me!” Since he couldn’t point, he waggled his head about. “The woman is a fiend! She went for me like a terrier with a rat! Choking her didn’t work! I had to knock her out.”

“Whereabouts did you abandon her?”

“Five miles east of here, on the north side of the road to Mansfield. If you look in my left pocket, you’ll find all nineteen of her guineas. Take them. They’ve brought me naught but ill luck.”

“Keep them.”

Ned had primed his pistol, but didn’t bother bringing the frizzen down to shield the powder pan; instead he cocked it, walked to the girl, put its muzzle against her head, and blew her brains out. It was done so suddenly it took time for the Captain to produce a thin scream of grief. The spent weapon went down on the table; Ned unearthed a second pistol from his other greatcoat pocket and proceeded to tip a few grains of powder into the pan to prime it, brought the hammer back, pulled the trigger, and shot Captain Thunder, also known as Martin Purling, in the chest.

“Never leave witnesses,” he said to the parlour as he went about the business of cleaning both pistols, then reloading them; the weapons went into his pockets together with the tiny powder horn he used for priming. “Sorry about that,” he said to Nellie as he prepared to leave, “but it was quicker by far than hanging. I hope you go somewhere fairer, but you, Mr. Purling, are bound for Hell.”