The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

were expensive and not easily come by. Hers had been a gift from Elizabeth, greatly appreciated. No external elements penetrated her prison apart from that tiny, moaning whine, which she no longer consciously heard. If it reminded her of anything, it was of a window left carelessly open a crack in a high wind, but if there was a window behind that gigantic screen, she could not see it-and doubted its existence besides. Windows meant light, and she had none.

Rummaging among the books on the second table brought steel pens into view, as well as several pencils; there was a standish containing black ink and red ink, and a shaker full of sand for blotting. Also several hundred sheets of paper, hot-pressed and with the ragged edges that spoke of a pure linen-cotton mixture. The titles of the books were interesting yet uninformative: Dr. Johnson on the poets of his time, Oliver Goldsmith, Sheridan, Trollope, Richardson, Marlowe, Spenser, Donne, Milton; also works on chemistry, mathematics, astronomy and anatomy. Nothing popular, nothing religious. Nothing that her swimming brain could compass. Time, it was evident, was best expended in curative sleep.

Finally there came an awakening that saw her mind alert, her bruises faint, and the swelling on her brow vanished. Having eaten, drunk, and used her peculiar commode, she took up a pencil and made a series of seven strokes upon the smooth wall at the back of her cell, adjacent to what looked like iron hinges set into it. Since no one had left her clean sheets as yet, she decided that no more than a week had gone by since she had been put here, for whoever had put her here apparently believed in cleanliness, and that meant clean sheets would be forthcoming.

Though the oil that fuelled them had an elusive aroma, the burning wicks of her lamps gave off no smoke of any kind, nor made it hard to breathe. She took the chimney off her little lamp and toured the cell to see if a stray puff of air caused its flame to wobble, but none did. Even when held over her commode hole, it remained steady. What was down there? No cesspit, certainly, for no odour of human wastes floated out of it. When she thrust the flame down into the hole, it revealed something unexpected: not a narrow vent, but a broad round vertical tunnel, like a well. Her light had not the power to illuminate its bottom, but as she bent close above the wooden seat she heard what sounded like swiftly running water. So that was why the privy did not smell! The matter she voided tumbled free to be borne away on a stream.

A river? She remembered dearest Charlie talking about the caves and underground rivers of the Peak District, and suddenly knew where she was. Imprisoned in the caves of the Peak District of Derbyshire, which meant not very far from Pemberley. But why? Instinct said that her virtue was not threatened, and Captain Thunder had stolen everything she possessed, so it was not money either. Unless she had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom? Ridiculous! replied common sense. Nothing on her person gave away more than her name, which was not Darcy, and her condition would have told her captor soon enough that she was a nobody, most likely a governess. Who could know of her connection to Darcy of Pemberley? The answer was no one. So whatever her captor’s reason for this abduction, it was not ransom.

Yet for this unknown captor she did have a purpose, else he would not have succoured her, striven to keep her alive. Not rape and not ransom, so what?

It was while she was replacing the chimney on her little lamp that she saw him, sitting comfortably on a straight wooden chair on the far side of her bars-how long had he been watching her? She put the lamp down and faced him, her eyes busy.

A little old man! Almost gnomish, so small and wizened was he, his legs crossed at the knees on spindled shanks ending in open brown sandals. He wore a heath-brown, cowled robe cinched around the waist with a thick cream cord, and on his breast sat a crucifix. Had the colour been a browner brown, he might have been a Francisan friar, she thought, staring at him intently. His wrinkled, buffeted scalp was bald everywhere, even around his ears, and the eyes surveying her with equal interest were so pale a blue that their irises were only marginally darker than their whites. Rheumy eyes, yet with an unnerving quality because they seemed always to look sideways. His thin blade of a nose was beaky and his lips a thin, severe line, as of a martinet. I do not like him, thought Mary.

“You are intelligent, Madam Mary,” he said.

No, said Mary to herself, I refuse to display any sign of fear or confusion; I will hold my own against him.

“You know my name, sir,” she said.

“It was embroidered on your clothing. Mary Bennet.”

“Miss Mary Bennet.”

“Sister Mary,” he corrected.

She pulled the chair out from under her book table and set it exactly opposite his, then sat down, knees and feet primly together, hands folded in her lap. “What leads you to think me intelligent?”

“You worked out how to replenish the lamps.”

“Needs must when the devil drives, sir.”

“You are afraid of the dark.”

“Of course. It is a natural reaction.”

“I saved your life.”

“How did you do that, sir?”

“I found you at death’s door. You had, Sister Mary, a mortal swelling of the brain that was squeezing the life- juice out of you. The gigantic fellow who had you was too ignorant to see it, so when he went about his business, my children and I stole you. I had developed a cure for just such a malady, but I was in sore need of a patient to try it out on. You nearly died-but nearly only. We got you home in time, and while my children bathed you and made you comfortable, I distilled my cure. You have been the answer to many prayers.”

“Do you belong to an order of monks?” she asked, fascinated.

He reared up in outrage. “A Roman? I? Indeed, no! I am Father Dominus, custodian of the Children of Jesus.”

Mary’s brow cleared. “Oh, I see! You are the leader of one of the many outlandish Christian sects that so afflict northern England. My Church of England newsletter is always inveighing against your like, but I have not read of the Children of Jesus.”

“Nor will you,” he said grimly. “We are refugees.”

“From what, Father?”

“From persecution. My children belonged to men who exploited and ill-treated them.”

“Oh! Mill and factory owners,” she said, nodding. “Well, Father, you stand in no danger from me. Like you, I am the enemy of men like them. Release me, and let me work with you to liberate all such children. How many have you freed?”

“That is no business of yours, nor will it be.” His eyes drifted past her shoulders to gaze at her prison walls. “I saved your life, which therefore belongs to me. You will work for me.”

“Work for you? Doing what?”

Apparently in answer, he stretched out his hands to her; they were crabbed with age and some disease had swollen their joints. “I cannot write,” he said.

“What is that to the point?”

“You are going to be my scribe.”

“Write for you? Write what?”

“My book,” he said simply, smiling.

“I would be glad to do that for you, Father, but of my own free choice, not because you keep me a prisoner,” she said, feeling the stirrings of alarm. “Unlock the door. Then we can come to some mutually satisfactory arrangement.”

“I think not,” said Father Dominus.

“But this is insane!” she cried, unable to stop herself. “Keep me prisoner to act as a scribe? What book could be so important? A retelling of the Bible?”

His face had assumed a patient, long-suffering expression; he spoke to her now as to a fool, not an intelligent person. “I do not despair of you, Sister Mary-you are so nearly right. Not a retelling of the Bible, but a new bible! The doctrines of the Children of Jesus! It is all here in my mind, but my hands cannot turn my thoughts into words. You will do that for me.”

Off the chair he sprang with a laugh and a whoop, ducked around the corner of the screen, and was gone.

“How fortunate that I am sitting down,” said Mary, looking at her hands, which were shaking. “He’s mad, quite mad.”