The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

me!”

He had dropped to his knees, and lifted his clasped hands to her imploringly.

“Oh, do get up!” she snapped. “You look ridiculous. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were proposing marriage.”

“I am proposing marriage!” he yelled. “I love you more than life itself, you idiotic, stubborn, pragmatic, opinionated, blind, deaf, adorable wench!”

“Get up, get up!” was all she said.

Defeated, he dragged himself back onto his rock and gazed at her, utterly confounded. She hadn’t lost a scrap of her composure, though apparently she didn’t mind being called names. How very beautiful she was, with her hair done properly and clad in a gown that became her fetchingly. Her lips parted.

“You are Argus, you say-that is a shock. And you love me-that is another shock. You want to marry me-a third shock. I must say, Angus, that when you start on serious subjects, you do not seem to know when to stop.”

Inside herself, a coal of wonderful warmth was glowing, but she had no intention of telling him about its existence until he had suffered more than thus far he had. Oh, my dearest friend! If we are married, you will always be there for me. I do not know if that is love, but it will certainly do as a substitute.

Her face must have betrayed a little of that coal, for he relaxed suddenly, produced the dimples in his cheeks that hovered on the verge of fissures. “The time to stop,” he said, “is when we’ve sorted everything out to our mutual satisfaction. I have loved you since our first meeting in Hertford-oh, the mortification of knowing I was Argus while you extolled the wretched figment’s virtues! My self-esteem shrank to nothing because I, the rich and powerful Angus Sinclair, was no more to you than a contact with your hero, Argus.”

“That did not last very long. On our first walk I began to see that I’d made a friend who wasn’t going to force me to send him away by declarations of love and proposals of marriage. And by our ninth walk, as well as all the dinners and parties, I did not know how I was going to get on without you. Even today, after declarations of love and proposals of marriage, I find I cannot send you away.”

“If you forgive me, it’s because you love me in return,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “Will you forgive me?”

“I have already done so. Does that mean love? I must take your word for it. What I do know is that I must have your constant, perpetual friendship if I am to be happy. I will marry you to keep you as my dearest friend. And when I drive you mad, you must tell me. I find I am the sort of person who does indeed drive other people mad. Poor Miss Scrimpton was gibbering when I let her return to York, and Matthew Spottiswoode has taken to hiding whenever he thinks I’m coming. Charlie says I am an eccentric. I see no point in trying to dissimulate, Angus. I am a very difficult and wearying person,” said Mary without a trace of self-pity or sorrow that she should be that way. The truth was the truth, why repine?

“That’s why I love you,” he said, almost bursting with happiness. “In some ways we’re alike-we take pleasure in poking and prying, for one, and when we sink our teeth in, we can’t let go, for another. Also, I’m a little mad myself. Were I not, I wouldn’t sail the North Sea in winter. But my greatest joy, my dearest Mary, is that life with you will never be dull.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” she said, rising. “Come, it’s time we walked back. I want to know all about Argus.”

Yes, he was bursting with happiness-but was she? I may never know that for certain, he thought. Her composure is like a stone wall. How do I batter it down?

They had dinner а deux that evening, which rather perturbed Parmenter, always disconsolate when the family was away. Darcy House had its own servants. The easy camaraderie between Miss Mary and Mr. Sinclair didn’t suit his ideas of propriety, but he knew Mr. Fitz and Mrs. Darcy would find nothing untoward in two fortyish people spending the evening alone together. So when they repaired to the plushly purple little drawing room which held a Fra Angelico, a Giotto, a Botticelli and three Canalettos (hence its name, the Italian Room), Parmenter finally gave up. Having put out the port, the cognac and the cheroots, he left them to their own devices.

“I wonder which Darcy collected this glorious art?” Mary asked, accepting a port to keep up her courage.

“I have no idea, except that I’m positive they were sold for a hundredth of their value by some impoverished Italian.”

Angus didn’t bother looking at the paintings; he was too absorbed in watching Mary, who was wearing a low- cut taffeta gown of marmalade shot with vermilion. That long and graceful neck, he was thinking, needs no gems to improve it, but diamonds would draw attention to it. Such a perfect curve!

“I though Elizabeth was the most beautiful woman I knew,” he said, “but she can’t hold a candle to you.”

“Nonsense! You are besotted, Angus, which warps your taste as well as your judgement. I am too thin.”

“For the fashion, perhaps. But spareness suits you where it would reduce most women to scraggy old hens. Caroline Bingley springs to mind.”

“You may smoke if you wish. I am not supposed to drink port, but I like it more than I do wine. Less vinegary.”

He shifted from his wing chair to a sofa and lifted one brow at her. “I don’t feel like blowing a cloud. Come and sit here with me. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

She came to sit with him, but slewed sideways just too far away for kisses and cuddles. “We must talk about this.”

He sighed. “Mary, when you stand before God, you will demand to talk about that! I knew you were going to have something to say, because you always do. Sooner or later, my exasperating love, the kisses are inevitable. Also greater and more daring intimacies. I suppose you’re as ignorant as other maiden ladies?”

“I don’t believe so,” she said, considering the question. “There were all kinds of books in the Shelby Manor library, and I read them all. So I know quite a lot about bodies and copulation-connubial duty is the seemly phrase, not so?”

“And how do you feel about that side of marriage?”

“I don’t suppose you’d be content with friendship?” she asked hopefully.

He laughed. “No, I insist that you do your connubial duty.” He reached out to take her hand. “What I hope to see is the night when it becomes a pleasure, rather than a duty. May I kiss you? It is permitted between an engaged couple.”

“Yes, it is far better to begin as we intend to go on,” she said, composure undented. “You may kiss me.”

“First,” he said, pulling her very close, “it’s necessary to be in-er-intimate proximity. Do you mind?”

“It would be better if you took off your coat. I’m embracing naught but clothes.”

He removed the coat, a struggle, as it had been made by Weston and fitted like a kid glove. “Anything else?”

“The cravat. It scratches. Why is it so starched?”

“To hold its shape. Is that better?”

“Much.” She unbuttoned his collar and slid one hand inside his shirt. “How nice your skin feels! Like silk.”

His eyes had closed, but in despair. “Mary, you cannot act like a seductress! I’m a man of one-and-forty, but if you keep on provoking me, I may not be able to control myself!”

“I love your hair,” she said, running her free hand through it. She sniffed. “It smells wonderful-no pomade, just expensive soap. And you will never be bald.” Her other hand crept down to his chest. “Angus, you’re very muscular!”

“Shut up!” he growled, and kissed her.

He had wanted this first contact with her lips to be tender and loving, but the fire was lit in him, so the kiss was hard and passionate, probing. To his amazement she responded ardently, both hands working at his shirt, while his hands, despising idleness, did an expert job on the laces down the back of her dress. Her sweet little breasts somehow fell into his grasp, and he began to kiss them in an ecstasy of bliss.

Suddenly he pushed her away. “We cannot! Someone might come in!” he gasped.

“I’ll lock the door,” she said, lifted herself off the sofa, stepped out of her dress and petticoats, kicked them away, and stalked in her silk underwear to the door. Click! “There. It’s locked.”

Her hair had fallen down; the last petticoat was tossed into a corner, the camisole and drawers lying on the floor in her wake like exhausted white butterflies.