Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

“You have a very powerful mind, Fitz,” she was saying. “Bend it to this conundrum. There must be a better answer! When you find it, we can rest.” She moved her head, the halo dissolved and he saw that her beautiful eyes were filled with tears. “Poor, poor little Lydia! Such a bad business, right from the beginning. Who believes in fifteen-year-old love? We did not, Jane and I. Nor did Papa, though he was too indolent, too indifferent to his duties as a parent to curb her. We judged her elopement moral laxity, but I see now that it was the only way she could keep her George. She loved him with every part of her! And he was such a villain, such a liar. His father did him no service, to raise him alongside you as if the pair of you were equals. His expectations were nonexistent, while you were heir to one of the largest fortunes in England. I remember him from Longbourn days as naпve, grossly under-educated-yes, I know he went to Cambridge, but he learned nothing there, or at his school. Certainly his entire plan was to use his looks and charm to marry money, but at every turn he was foiled. So I suppose with Lydia came a certain measure of security, through our connection to you.”

“You don’t believe that I was instrumental in sending him to his death?” he asked.

“Of course not! He was a soldier by profession and died in battle, so Lydia said.”

“Only three sorts of soldier die in battle, Elizabeth. One is the brave man who dares all. One is the hapless wretch who stands in front of a ball or a bayonet. And one is the lazy cur who finds a secluded spot to sleep the battle away-without first ascertaining whether his spot is in range of the enemy’s artillery.”

“Is the third way how George Wickham died?”

“So I’m told by his superiors. But Lydia will never know that now.” He got up, kissed her hands. “Thank you for your understanding, Elizabeth. Her body is coming to Pemberley. We’ll bury her here.”

“No, it must be Meryton. Jane and I will take her.”

“With Mary still missing? Are you sure?”

“You’re right. Oh, she will hate to be buried here!”

“She can always vent her spleen at me by haunting Pemberley. She’ll have plenty of company.”

A groom from Pemberley located Charlie, Angus and Owen in Chapel-en-le-Frith, a village as old as its Norman name, and situated an easy ride from the cave district, which was why Charlie had chosen it. As the groom caught them before they set out for a day spent underground, they abandoned their plans and rode home.

Apart from forging a strong friendship, Charlie and Angus had a liking for caves in common-a liking that Owen refused to share. As his revulsion was more fear than detestation, he was, the other two informed him frankly, a dashed nuisance, especially when the cave under exploration was more a tunnel than a chamber. So Owen rarely went caving; he preferred to pass his time at Pemberley with the Darcy girls. With them he felt useful; he could ride (astride) with Georgie, function as a candid critic of Susie’s art, help Anne with her Classics, and try to talk Cathy out of some harebrained prank sure to see her sent supperless to bed. As luck would have it, the day they were sent for was a caving day for Owen, who had ridden from Pemberley at dawn and joined his two friends for breakfast. Now they were all returning to Pemberley-what a relief!

All three were mystified by Fitz’s curt summons. The groom knew nothing, and had been ordered not to ride back with them, which suited the trio very well-they could speculate aloud in peace. From which it could be deduced that they did not ride in an abstracted worry, but rather with an eye to any likely hole in a hillside or gorge, of which there were many, though not all proved to be more than a single small room. Angus had devised a system whereby they didn’t make the mistake of exploring the same opening twice; those they had examined bore a bright red rag firmly fixed outside.

“There’s one without a rag,” said Angus suddenly. “Oh, I wish we had better maps! I have written to General Mowbray for army survey maps, but so far not a squeak from the man. Which probably means they do not exist.” He marked the cave as best he could on his map, noting the look of the terrain in the vicinity. “It’s somewhat off the beaten track as caves go, Charlie,” he said anxiously.

“Don’t fret, Angus, it will be attended to as soon as we go a-caving again,” said Charlie in a soothing voice.

Angus was not looking very Puckish these days, Charlie thought. His hair had less apricot in it, and the creases in his cheeks were threatening to become fissures. Any doubt he had experienced about the depth of Angus’s affection for Mary had vanished; the man was head over heels in love, and quite demented by worry. Over five weeks, and not a sign of her anywhere. If she were still alive, she had to be held in a cave. Of course she might have been spirited several hundred miles away, but why ?

Under the lee of a curling cliff they encountered a bizarre procession coming toward them on foot, and courteously drew off the bridle-path they were following to let it pass. Perhaps thirty small forms clad in brown habits, hoods pulled right over their heads, walked two abreast behind a little old man clad in the same fashion, save that his hood was pulled back and he wore a large crucifix on his chest. He looked somewhat like a Franciscan friar. In the rear came two bigger children pushing a hand cart loaded with boxes that clinked as if they contained bottles.

“Hola, Father!” called Charlie as the friar drew level with him. “Where are you going?”

“To Hazel Grove and Stockport, sir.”

“For what reason?” Charlie asked, not sure why he asked.

“The Children of Jesus are on His business, sir.”

“And what business is that?”

“Follow me.” The friar stepped aside. “Children, walk on,” he said, and the children obediently walked on.

How miserable they seem! Angus thought, watching them as they passed. Shoulders hunched, cowls entirely hiding their faces, and their eyes fixed upon the ground. Flinching and shivering as if in distress, even emitting faint moans. Then he saw that the friar was moving toward the hand cart, and followed.

“Halt!” the old man cried. The procession halted. One gnarled hand indicated the boxes. “Pray open any of them that you wish, sir. They speak of the purity of our intentions.”

A box of blue bottles was labeled CHILDREN OF JESUS COUGH SYRUP, and a box of green bottles were a remedy for influenza and colds. A sluggish brown liquid proclaimed itself an elixir for the cure of diarrhoea. A box of clear bottles contained red liquid that said CHILDREN OF JESUS PAINT FOR BOILS, ULCERS, CARBUNCLES & SORES. A box of tins were an ointment for horses.

“Impressive,” said Charlie, concealing his smile. “Does this mean you make nostrums and potions for diseases and ailments, Father?”

“Yes. We are on our way to make deliveries to apothecary shops.”

Charlie held up a tin of horse ointment. “Does this work?”

“Pray take it and give it to your stable master, young sir,” said the friar.

“How much do you charge for it?”

“A shilling, but it will retail for more. It is popular.”

Charlie fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a guinea.

“This is for your trouble, Father.” He managed a trick he had learned from his father, of looking very sympathetic, yet all steel underneath. “It’s such a beautiful day, Father! Why do your boys wear their cowls up? They should be getting some sun.”

Rage danced in the pebbly blue eyes, but the answer was smooth and reasonable. “They have all suffered from bad masters, sir, and I have to physick them with a lotion that reacts badly in the sun. Their skins would burn.”