The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

ruthlessly from the hair of her head to between her grimy toes. Warming pans had been put in the bed, and Hoskins had had a brilliant idea, though it was not one Elizabeth could like: a bottle of port. However, it did the trick. Still weeping desolately for the loss of her beloved George, Lydia went to sleep.

Fortunately Ned had gone when Elizabeth entered the small library; Fitz had his head bent over a pile of papers on his desk, and looked up enquiringly.

“She is asleep,” said Elizabeth, sitting down.

“An unpardonable invasion of our home. She deserves to be whipped at the cart’s tail, the harpy.”

“I don’t want to quarrel, Fitz, so let us avoid all such futile animadversions. Perhaps where we have always erred is in our estimation of Lydia’s devotion to that dreadful man. Just because we think him dreadful does not make him so in her eyes. She-she loves him. In twenty-one years of rackety behaviour and feckless decisions, she has never swerved in her devotion to him. He taught her to drink, he rented out her body to those who could be of use to him, he struck her senseless with his fists when he was frustrated-yet still she loved him.”

“Her loyalty would do credit to a dog,” he said acidly.

“No, Fitz, don’t disparage her! I think it admirable.”

“Does that mean I’ve gone about you all the wrong way, my dear Elizabeth? Ought I to have turned you into a drunkard, rented you out to Mr. Pitt, beaten you senseless to ease my frustrations? Would you then truly love me more than you do my possessions?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Why do you have to do that to me, Fitz? Belittle my compassion, sneer at my sympathy?”

“It passes the time,” he said cynically. “I hope you’re not cherishing hopes of keeping her here?”

“She must stay here!”

“Thereby preventing my using my seat as a valuable adjunct to my political career! You are my wife, madam, that is true, but it doesn’t mean you are at liberty to foist guests on me who are social and political suicide. I have instructed Ned to find her a house not unlike Shelby Manor, at sufficient distance from us to posit no risk or threat,” he said coldly.

“Oh, Fitz, Fitz! Must you always be so detached?”

“Since it is an excellent tool for a leader of men, yes.”

“Just promise me that if Charlie should seek you out on this same errand, you’ll treat him more kindly,” she said, eyes sparkling with tears. “He means no harm.”

“Then I suggest you deflect him, my dear. Especially as I begin to hope that Caroline Bingley’s canards about his-er-proclivities are simply the product of her fevered imagination.”

“I loathe that woman!” cried Elizabeth through her teeth. “She is a malicious liar! No one, including you, ever doubted Charlie’s proclivities until she started whispering her poison in various ears-chiefly yours! Her evidence is specious, though you can never see that. She deliberately set out to traduce our son’s character for no better reason than her own disappointed hopes! Not that she confines her malice to us-anyone who mortally offends her is sure to become her victim!”

He looked amused. “You make poor Caroline sound like Medea and Medusa rolled in one. Well, I have known her far longer than you, and take leave to inform you that you are mistaken. It is Caroline’s nature to say what she thinks or has heard, not to fabricate lies. I invite her to our functions and house parties because not to do so would hurt Charles, who is our son’s namesake. However, though I cannot summon up your unfounded indignation at her, I am beginning to believe that Charlie’s looks and mannerisms belie his true nature. I daresay that both have been magnets to certain fellows whose proclivities are undeniable, but Ned says that he rejects their overtures adamantly.”

“Ned says! Oh, Fitz, what is the matter with you, that you are more disposed to believe that man than your own wife?”

Seething, she said a stiff goodnight and left.

Charlie was waiting in her rooms, flirting outrageously with Hoskins, who adored him.

“Mama,” he said, coming to her side as Hoskins slipped away unobtrusively, “have you seen Pater?”

“Yes, but I beg that you do not. His mind is made up. Lydia is to go to a Shelby Manor situation.”

To her surprise, Charlie looked approving. “Pater is right, Mama. No one has ever managed to wean drunkards off the bottle, and Aunt Lydia is a drunkard. If you kept her here, it would wear you down. Poor little soul! What did George Wickham ever do, to earn such love?”

“We will never know, Charlie, because the only people who can see inside a marriage are the two people in it.”

“Is that true of you and Pater?”

“For a child to ask, Charlie, is impudence.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I take it that you and Owen have seen nothing of Mary?”

“Nothing. Today we rode to Chesterfield, thinking she might come that way, but she has not. Nor has she been seen in Derby. Tomorrow we think to ride toward Sheffield.”

“Tomorrow the Derbyshires and the Bishop depart. You must be on hand to farewell them. The Speaker and Mrs. Speaker go the day after. It will be Monday before you can search.”

“When Fitz married Elizabeth, I knew I was going to have some sport,” said Caroline Bingley to Louisa Hurst, “but who could ever have credited that the sport would grow better year by year?”

They were walking sedately across Pemberley’s gargantuan front, their heads turned toward a stunning vista of the artificial lake. A zephyr breeze blew, just sufficient to tickle the surface of the water and turn Pemberley’s reflection from a mirror image to a fairy-tale castle blurred by the approaching giant’s footsteps. Not that all their attention was focused on the view; each of the ladies reserved a small corner of her mind for a different vision: that of the picture they themselves presented to any admiring gaze that might chance their way.

Mrs. Hurst’s slight figure was swathed in finest lawn, pale spearmint in colour and embroidered in emerald- green sprigs with chocolate borders; her hugely fashionable bonnet was emerald straw with chocolate ribbons, her short kid gloves were emerald, and her walking half-boots were chocolate kid. She wore a very pretty necklace of polished malachite beads. Miss Bingley, being tall and willowy, preferred a more striking outfit. She wore diaphanous pale pink organdie over a taffeta under-dress striped in cerise and black; her bonnet was cerise straw with black ribbons, her short gloves were cerise kid, and her walking half-boots black kid. She wore a very pretty necklace of pink pearls. If Pemberley needed anything to set off its glories, it needed them; they were convinced of it.

“Who, indeed?” asked Mrs. Hurst dutifully; she was her younger sister’s sounding board, and did not dare have thoughts of her own. One Caroline was all any family needed; two would have been utterly insupportable.

“Oh, the bliss of being present at that scene last night! And to think I very nearly refused Fitz’s invitation to Pemberley this year! The language! How can I possibly convey its obscenity without employing the actual words she used? I mean, Louisa, is there a genteel sort of equivalent?”

“Not that I have ever heard of. Female dog does not begin to approximate those words, does it?”

“I will have to bend my mind to the problem, for I vow I will not be silenced by convention.”

“I am sure you’ll find an answer.”

“I cannot allow people to think Lydia’s language was less infamous than it actually was.”

“Who will be the most shocked?” asked Mrs. Hurst, moving the subject on.

“Mrs. Drummond-Burrell and Princess Esterhazy. I am to dine at the Embassy when I return to London next week.”

“In which case, sister, I doubt you need regale others. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell will do your work for you.”

A tall and stalwart form was marching toward them; the ladies paused in their stroll, reluctant to let motion destroy the effect they knew they were making.

“Why, Mr. Sinclair!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, wishing she could extend her hand to be kissed, as Louisa was doing; an absurd shibboleth, that unmarried ladies could not have their hands kissed.

“Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley. How fresh you look! Like two ices at Gunter’s-one pink, one green.”

“La, sir, you are ridiculous!” Miss Bingley said with an arch look. “I refuse to melt.”

“And I fear I have neither the charm nor the address to melt you, Miss Bingley.”

Louisa took her cue flawlessly. “Do you publish last night’s scandalous goings-on in your paper, sir?”