Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

“Yes, she’s stringy. Flat-chested too.”

“Then no brothel anywhere,” said Miss Maplethorpe.

“How long can you look after this one, Mirry?”

“Another two months. Then I must hie me back to Sheffield. Aggie is strict, but loath to use a horsewhip.”

“Could you send Aggie as your replacement?”

“Ned! She’s too vulgar. Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Bingley would see through her. No, I think you must look inside a Bedlam.”

“How will those women be any less vulgar? I’ll ask Mr. Darcy to advertise.”

“Excellent. You’ll find someone, you have the time.”

“I must go, Mirry.”

“Tell your idol that Mrs. W. is safe and well. Indeed, she must have the constitution of an ox to have weathered so much poison. For taken in the amounts she takes it, booze is very poisonous. I have a bet that her mind will go before her body does. Would you like me to lace her port with a port-tasting potion from Father Dominus?”

“Who?”

“An old apothecary dolled up as a friar. He supplies me with a very good abortifacient, and the Old Master apparently had some of his poisons on hand. Also physicks to drive one mad, or induce a paralysis. I’m surprised you don’t know him. Thick with the Old Master, he was.”

“I was too young, Mirry, and when the Old Master was present, I hid. I must say you do not look your age, m’dear.”

“Thank Father Dominus!”

“Mr. Darcy would not approve, so no potions, Mirry.”

“I do believe you worship that man as fools worship God!”

“Then do not blaspheme.” He got up. “Now about the iron bars-”

Much though she would have loved to hear the rest, Lydia shut the door and raced to her chair, fell into it to loll with great realism. But no one entered. Not long after, she heard the sound of hooves on the gravel drive, and sat up indignantly.

Oh, they were villains! And though it seemed Fitzwilliam Darcy had some scruples, he was heartless. Well, she had always known that. Sending George off to one war after another! Oh, George, my George! How can I live without you? Sober! she thought savagely. That is how I will live- sober .

I am no mean actress, Lydia thought ten days later. What hoops I have made them jump! Especially that cow Mirry the Moo. Tears, tantrums, hours of screaming and screeching-it took real courage to go on with my performance when that yokel Rob threatened to choke me if I did not shut up. Well, I did not shut up, and Mirry the Moo was obliged to send him out of the house for fear that he really would choke me. I let my best language loose-peculiar, how people dislike that. In my opinion, scratches and bites are far worse, and I gave plenty of those.

Thus it was that when the splendid Pemberley equipage drew up at the Hemmings door a little after lunch, Lydia was almost beside herself with excitement. Now her keepers would get their well-deserved comeuppance!

The perfect lady’s companion, Miss Maplethorpe stayed only long enough to see the visitors comfortably settled, then left them alone with Lydia. The moment the door shut behind her, Lydia sat up straight and dropped all pretence of drunkenness.

“Oh, that is better!” she exclaimed.

Jane and Elizabeth had been amazed to see the change in their little sister-she looked so well! Every vestige of puffiness had vanished from her face and figure, she was clean from head to feet, and clad in a fashionable dress of ice-blue lawn. Her flaxen hair was done up in a bun on the crown of her head with tendril-like curls framing her face, and whatever she had used to darken her brows was quite unexceptionable. She appeared what she had not appeared in years: a lady.

Jane looked at Elizabeth and Elizabeth looked at Jane; the improvement was remarkable, not to mention most welcome.

“Better?” Jane asked.

“I am sober,” Lydia assured them. “I had to be sober, to tell you what is going on.”

“Going on?” Elizabeth asked, frowning.

“Yes, yes, going on! Your heartless snob of a husband has abducted me, Lizzie-I am a prisoner in this awful place.”

“How are you a prisoner?” Jane asked.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Jane, have you no eyes in your head? Don’t the bars on the windows speak for themselves?”

“What bars?” Jane barked, even her tranquil temper tried.

Eyes screwed up against the glare of a fine summer’s day, Lydia realised that she could not see the silhouette of the bars through the diaphanous curtains. In such a hurry that she tipped her chair over, she ran to the nearest window. “Come, they are here! Come and see the bars for yourselves!”

Jane and Elizabeth followed, anxious expressions on their faces. But now that she was at the window, Lydia could see no bars. Where were the bars?

“Oh, how cunning!” she cried. “The cruel, scheming lot! Oh, they make me out to be a liar! Jane, Lizzie, I swear to you that until today there have been bars over every ground floor window in this house!” Eyes glittering, fists clenched, Lydia ground her teeth, a hideous sound. “I swear it on my husband’s dead body! There were bars!”

Elizabeth pushed the window up and examined the bricks on all sides of it. “I can see no places where there might have been bars, dear,” she said gently. “Come and sit down.”

“There were bars, there were! I swear it on George’s grave!”

“Lydia, it was your imagination,” said Elizabeth. “You have not been yourself of late. If you are sober now, surely you must see that this window was never barred.”

“Lizzie, I am not drowned so deep in drink that I have taken to imagining things! These windows were barred. All of them!” A desperate note crept into her voice. “You must believe me, you must! I am your sister!”

“If you are truly free from the effects of the wine, dear, why can I smell it on your breath?” Elizabeth asked.

“I had a glass or two with my breakfast,” Lydia said sulkily. “I needed it to scrape up my courage.”

“Dearest Lydia, there are no bars,” said Jane in her softest tones. “You are looking very well, but you still have a long way to go before you are cured of your drinking.”

“I tell you, I am a prisoner! Mirry the Moo won’t let me go outside without her!”

“Who?” asked Elizabeth.

“Mirry the Moo. I call her that because she’s a cow.”

“You do an injustice to a very nice lady,” said Elizabeth.

“No lady, she! Mirry the Moo is the proprietress of a bawdy-house in Sheffield.”

“Lydia!” cried Jane on a gasp.

“She is, she is! I overheard her talking to Ned Skinner ten days ago, and she made no secret of it to him. What’s more, he knew all about her. They were talking of dosing me with poison, or something to paralyse me, or send me mad. All of which means that Fitz knows about them too.”

“I think it is time you produced some proof of these wild statements,” Elizabeth said grimly.

“With the bars gone, I’ve lost my proof!” Lydia began to weep. “Oh, it isn’t fair! If you don’t believe me, who will? Lizzie, you’re a sensible woman-surely you can see that I’m a threat to your precious Fitz?”

“Only by your intemperate behaviour, Lydia. How can you expect to be believed when you accuse Fitz of murder and call him names even the most depraved of women would not? I cannot credit these allegations about Miss Maplethorpe-or Mr. Skinner!-because you look so well cared for-cared for properly for many days. No, I do not believe you, Lydia.”

By the time that Elizabeth had finished speaking, Lydia was in floods of noisy tears.

“Come, dearest, weeping won’t help,” said Jane, hugging her. “Let us ring the bell. A cup of tea will do you more good than all the wine in creation. You grieve for George, we know that.”