Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

Now what to do? Mary asked herself when December came and Christmas loomed. Lizzie had sent her what seemed a wagonload of boxes and bandboxes, all containing clothes for her. Clothes! What an outrageous waste, Mary thought in disgust, opening box after box upon gowns of finest lawn and muslin, exquisitely soft wools, silks, taffetas, satins and laces for the evening. So that was where her favourite shoes had gone! Lizzie had stolen them as templates for the shoemakers! Oh, the waste! What was wrong with black, even if she was out of mourning? For Lizzie had decreed that they would not go into mourning for either Lydia or Ned.

Still, there was a very pretty dress of lilac lawn oversewn with multicoloured sprigs of flowers, and a pair of lilac slippers apparently meant to go with it. Silk stockings! Silk underwear! However, if she did not wear these beautiful things, Lizzie could not; Lizzie was nearly a head shorter, and much plumper in the bosom. Her feet were much smaller too. Waste not, want not, said Mary to herself the next morning as she donned the lilac dress and slid her silk-clad feet into the slippers. Lizzie had assigned her a maid, a nice child named Bertha, and Bertha had a knack for dressing hair. Since Mary refused to adopt the fashion of cutting the hair around her face so it could be twisted into framing curls, Bertha took the whole red-gold mass and piled it on top of Mary’s head, but softly, so that it looked as thick and wavy as it really was.

“I will say this for you, child,” Mary said gruffly, trying to avoid looking at herself in the mirror, “when you do my hair, I don’t feel the pins and combs.”

It took all her courage to venture from her room to eat her breakfast, but everyone she encountered gave her a dazzled smile that she couldn’t interpret as condescending or amused.

Her appetite was still hearty, though once she had regained her usual weight she seemed to stop growing stouter. Of course that was because she was a busy person, active, prone to walk even long distances; she disliked riding a horse, never having done so at Longbourn. Nellie had been their only steed, and she was a plough horse, too broad in the back to fall off, and too slow to cause any panic. But whenever Mary saw Lizzie or Georgie atop one of Fitz’s beasts, her heart soared into her mouth.

True winter had not yet arrived. When it did, Mary guessed, Pemberley became rather like a snail, withdrawn into itself. Best walk while she still could.

The silk underthings felt exquisitely comfortable, and the soft slippers seemed sturdy. They didn’t rub at her heels or toes. Her feet were so long and narrow that her store-bought shoes and boots always gave her blisters. Yes, wealth has its compensations, she decided as she draped a heavy lilac silk shawl around her shoulders. Leaving the house, she headed for the woods across a little stone bridge so artfully built that it looked as if the Romans had put it there.

Discovering no blisters thus far, she turned off the path into her favourite glade, where in spring Lizzie said daffodils turned it into a tossing yellow sea, for it got the sun. Time to rest; she sat upon a mossy rock at the edge of the big clearing, gazing about in delight. Squirrels frantically gathering a last nut or two, a fox lurking, winter birds.

And back came her private grief, the one thing that marred her busy and productive existence: she missed Angus, wished him here, exclusively hers now that the rest were gone. So much to tell him! How much she needed his advice! For he was wise-wiser than she. And strong enough to oppose her when she should be opposed.

“Oh, Angus, I wish you were here!” she said aloud.

“That’s good,” he answered.

She gasped, sprang up, whirled around, gaped. “Angus!”

“Aye, that’s my name.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to Glasgow, where the family businesses are. They don’t run themselves, Mary, though I admit I have a younger brother who keeps the steam engines chugging and the foundry chimneys reeking. We always spend Christmas together, then I do something very mad and sail back to London through the wintry seas. Like all Scots, I love the sea. ’Tis the Viking in us.” He perched on a rock opposite hers. “Sit down, my dear.”

“I was wishing so hard for you,” she said, sitting.

“Yes, I heard. Is it lonely now they’ve all gone?”

“Yes, but it isn’t Lizzie or Fitz or Charlie I miss. Jane doesn’t visit, though I don’t miss Jane either. I miss you.”

His reply was oblique. “You look delicious,” he said. “What brought on this transformation?”

“Lizzie sent me what seems a ton of clothes. An appalling waste! However, if I don’t wear them, no one else can. I’m taller and thinner than the others.”

“Waste not, want not, is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Why have you missed me in particular, Mary?”

“Because you’re genuinely my friend, unrelated to me by blood or marriage. I’ve harkened back to our time in Hertford, when it seemed that we talked about everything. Nothing stands out, except that I so looked forward to seeing your face when you joined me in the high street, and you never disappointed me. You didn’t try to cozen me or wheedle me out of my expedition, even though I can see now how foolish it was. Of course you knew that at the time, but you never dampened my enthusiasm. And how idiotic I was over Argus, poor man, whoever he may be. Truly, I am so grateful for your understanding! Nobody else understood, even remotely. No matter how mistaken it was, I had to make that trip! After seventeen years cooped up at Shelby Manor, I was a bird finally flying free. And the ills of England-Argus-gave me a valid reason to explore a wider world. For that reason I’ll always love Argus, though I don’t love him.”

“In which case it’s time I made a confession,” he said, face serious. “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, but even if you don’t, still I must tell you the truth.”

“The truth?” she asked, eyes gone grey.

“I am Angus, but I am also Argus.”

Her jaw dropped; she gaped at him. “You are Argus?”

“Yes, for my sins. I was bored, Mary, and idle. Alastair ran the family businesses, and the Chronicle had begun to run itself. So I invented Argus, with two objects in mind. One was to keep myself busy. The other was to draw the attention of the comfortably off to the plight of the poor. That second motive was never as important to me as the first, and that is the truth. There is a spirit of mischief in me, and it gave me intense satisfaction to dine in the best houses and listen to my hosts rave about the vile perfidies of Argus. A delightful feeling, but not as delightful as walking the corridors of Westminster to encounter members of the Lords and Commons. I gathered ideas from all these people, and I wallowed in the mischief I made far more than in the social conscience I was helping to engender.”

“But those letters were so real!” she cried.

“Yes, they’re real. That is part of the power of words, Mary. They are seductive, even on paper. Spoken or written, they can inspire the downtrodden to revolt, as happened in France and in America. It is words that separate us from the beasts.”

Anger didn’t seem to want to come; Mary sat in shock, trying to remember what she had said to Angus about Argus. How much of a fool had she sounded? How much of a silly, love-starved spinster? Had he, with his self-confessed spirit of mischief, taken pleasure in duping her?

“You made a fool of me,” she muttered.

He caught her words, sighed. “Never deliberately, Mary, I do swear it. Your transports over Argus filled me with humility and shame. I longed to confess, but dared not. If I had, you would have spurned me. I would have lost my dearest friend. All I could do was wait until I judged you knew me well enough to forgive. I beg you, Mary, forgive me!”