by John Kessel
“He is scarcely a transgressor of his own threshold,” said Lizzy. “One must call him a day in advance to get him to leave his parlor.”
“Rest assured, there are such men,” said Frankenstein. “I have known them. My illness, which Henry described to you, was my spirit’s rebellion against the understanding that the pursuit of knowledge will lead some men into mortal peril.”
Here was Mary’s chance to speak of something she knew. “Surely there is a nobility in risking one’s life to advance the claims of one’s race. With how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries?”
“Thank God for cowardice, Miss Bennet,” Frankenstein said. “One’s life, perhaps, is worth risking, but not one’s soul.”
“True enough. But I believe that science may demand our relaxing the strictures of society.”
“We have never heard this tone from you, Mary,” Jane said.
Darcy said, “You are becoming quite modern, sister. What strictures are you prepared to abandon for us tonight?” His voice was full of the gentle condescension with which he treated Mary at all times.
How she wished to surprise them! How she longed to show Darcy and Lizzy, and Bingley and Jane, that she was not the simple old maid they thought her. “Anatomists in London have obtained the court’s permission to dissect the bodies of criminals after execution. Is it unjust to use the body of a murderer, who has already forfeited his life, to save the lives of the innocent?”
“My uncle, who is on the bench, has overseen several such cases,” Bingley said.
“Indeed,” Mary said. “Some years ago at the Royal College of Surgeons, the Italian scientist Aldini used a powerful battery to animate portions of the body of a hanged man. According to the Times, the body’s eyes opened, its hands clenched, and it moved its limbs. The spectators genuinely believed that it was about to come to life.”
“Mary, please,” said Lizzy.
“That’s like something out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” Kitty said. “Life is hard enough without inventing new things to frighten us.”
Their skepticism only made Mary more determined to force Frankenstein to take her part. “What do you say, sir? Will you come to my defense?”
Frankenstein folded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “Such attempts are not motivated by bravery, or even curiosity, but by ambition. The pursuit of knowledge can become a vice as deadly as any of the more common sins—worse still, because even the most noble of natures are susceptible to such temptations. None but he who has experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science.”
The vicar nodded. “If I understand you aright, sir, you have spoken truth. The men who defiled poor Nancy’s grave have placed themselves beyond the mercy of a forgiving God.”
Mary felt charged with contradictory emotions. “You have experienced such enticements, Mr. Frankenstein?”
“Sadly, I have.”
“But surely there is no sin that is beyond the reach of God’s mercy? ‘To know all is to forgive all.’ ”
The vicar turned to her. “My child, what know you of sin?”
“Very little, Reverend Chatsworth, except the sin of idleness. Yet I feel that even a wicked person may have the veil lifted from his eyes.”
Frankenstein looked at her. “Here I must agree with Miss Bennet. I have to believe that even the most corrupted nature is susceptible to grace. If I did not think this were possible, I could not live.”
“Enough of this,” insisted Darcy. “Vicar, I suggest you mind your parishioners, including those in the churchyard, more carefully. But now I, for one, am eager to hear Georgiana play the pianoforte. And perhaps Mary and Catherine will join her. We must uphold the accomplishments of English maidenhood before our foreign guests.”
The next morning, on Kitty’s insistence, despite lowering clouds and a chill in the air that spoke more of March than June, she and Mary took a walk.
They walked north along the river toward the woods. Darcy’s estate had one of the largest stands of forest in Derbyshire, a source of game that drew many well-born gentlemen for the hunting season, and numerous poachers the year round. Lizzy loved to walk in these woods, so Darcy’s groundskeepers kept the paths through them free of underbrush and cleared the prospects of the river and valley that they opened upon.
If Kitty had something to tell Mary, she did not seem eager to say it; they walked in silence until they were well into the forest. Mary’s thoughts turned to the wholly unsatisfying party of the previous night. The conversation in the parlor had gone no better than dinner. Mary had played the piano ill, showing herself to poor advantage next to Georgiana. Under Lizzy’s gaze she felt the folly of her intemperate talk at the table. Frankenstein said next to nothing to her for the rest of the evening; he almost seemed wary of being in her presence.
She was wondering how he was spending this morning when, suddenly turning her face aside, Kitty burst into tears.
Mary touched her arm. “Whatever is the matter, Kitty?”
Without facing Mary, Kitty said, “Something you said last night kept me awake all night.”
“What did I say?”
“That there is no sin beyond the reach of God’s mercy. Do you believe it?”
“Of course I do. Why would you ask?”
“Because I have committed such a sin.”
Mary thrust her own concerns aside and took Kitty’s hand. After some coaxing, her sister unburdened herself. The previous summer, Kitty had renewed her acquaintance with Jonathan Clarke. On their recent rendezvous in London they had plotted to be together. In May, about the time that Kitty and Mary left Longbourn for Pemberley, Clarke, on the pretext of troubles in his business, had left his wife and children in London and returned to Matlock. Soon after Kitty and Mary’s arrival, Kitty had begun meeting with him when she went into town on the pretext of shopping.
Though his butcher’s shop supplied most of the tables of Matlock with beef, lamb, and pork, and though he spent a month every season in London, Clarke was in no way a gentleman, and Kitty had vowed never to let her affections overwhelm her sense. But after no more than a week the couple had allowed their passion to get the better of them, and Kitty had given way to carnal love.
The two sisters sat on a fallen tree as Kitty poured out her tale.
“Lydia—Lydia told me about—about the act of love, how good Wickham makes her feel. She boasted of it! And I said, why should Lydia have this, and I waste my youth in conversation and embroidery, in listening to Mother’s prattle and Father’s mockery. Father thinks me a fool, unlikely ever to find a husband. And now he’s right!” Kitty began to cry. “He’s right. No man shall ever have me.” Her tears ended in a fit of coughing.
“Oh, Kitty,” Mary said.
“When Darcy spoke of English maidenhood last night, my heart stopped. I was a fool not to marry Jonathan when I had the chance.” Her tears flowed readily. “I don’t want to die an old maid!”
“No marriage awaits you at the end of this,” Mary said. “You must end this affair.”
Kitty buried her face in her hands, sobbing. Mary put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. Kitty eventually caught her breath and continued.
“The other day, Jonathan asked me to meet him in Matlock. While you went off with William, I met him on the Lovers’ Walk. When I tried to embrace him, he pushed me away. He told me he did not wish ever to see me again. He said he had tried my virtue, and found it lacking.
“I begged him not to forsake me. I threatened to tell his wife. He said he would deny everything. He warned me that if any reputation was ruined by my speaking, it would be my own.”
A breeze had picked up, and thunder sounded in the distance. “He is not worth your tears,” Mary said.
“He only speaks the truth. He is better than I. He told me how much pain my rejection caused him those years ago. There is no love between him and his wife, but he cares deeply for his
children. Yet I threw myself at him. It is all my fault.”
Mary held her sister. Kitty alternated between sobs and fits of coughing. Above them the thunder rumbled, and there came the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves. She felt Kitty’s shivering body. She needed to calm her, to get her back to the house. How slender, how frail she was.
Once Mary might have condemned her, offering at best a dismissive pity. But Kitty’s fear of dying alone was her own fear. As she searched for something to say, Mary heard the sound of a torrent of rain hitting the canopy of foliage.
“You have been foolish,” Mary said, still embracing her. “He is a villain, but you must never speak of it.”
Kitty trembled and spoke into Mary’s shoulder. “Will you ever care for me again? If Father discovers, will he turn me out? What will I do then?”
The rain was falling through now. Mary felt her hair getting wet. “Calm yourself. Father loves you. I shall never forsake you. Jane would not, nor Lizzy. And no one need know of your indiscretion. Certainly Mr. Clarke will not speak of it.”
“What if I should have a child!”
Mary pulled Kitty’s shawl over her head. She looked past Kitty’s shoulder to the dark woods. Something moved there. “You shan’t have a child.”
“You can’t know! I may!”
The woods had become dark. Mary could not make out what lurked among the trees. “Come, let us go back. You must compose yourself. If it becomes necessary, we shall talk with Lizzy and Jane. They will know—”
A flash of lightning lit the forest, and Mary saw, beneath the trees not ten feet from them, the giant figure of a man. The lightning illuminated a face like a grotesque mask: long, thick, tangled black hair. Pale skin, milky, dead eyes beneath heavy brows. Worst of all, an expression hideous in its cold, inexpressible hunger. It was all the matter of a split second; then the light fell to shadow.
At first Mary thought it some scarecrow or grotesque pantomime doll, but it had moved. She gasped, and pulled Kitty toward her. A great peal of thunder rolled across the sky.
Kitty stopped crying. “What is it?”
“We must go. Now.” Mary seized Kitty’s arm. The rain pelted down on them, and the forest path was already turning to mud.
Mary pulled her toward the house, Kitty complaining. She could hear nothing over the drumming of the rain, but when she looked over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the inhuman figure, keeping to the trees, but swiftly, silently moving along behind them.
“Why must we run?” Kitty gasped.
“Because we are being followed!”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know!”
Behind them, Mary thought she heard the man croak out some words: “Arrêtez! Stop!”
They had not reached the edge of the woods when figures appeared ahead, coming from Pemberley. “Miss Bennet! Mary! Kitty!”
The figures resolved themselves into Darcy and Mr. Frankenstein. Darcy carried a cloak, which he threw over them.
“Are you all right?” Frankenstein asked.
“Thank God!” Mary gasped. “A man. He’s there”—she pointed—“following us.”
Frankenstein took a few steps beyond them down the path. “Who was it?” Darcy asked.
“Some brute. Hideously ugly,” Mary said.
Frankenstein came back. “No one is there.”
“We saw him!”
Another lighting flash, and a crack of thunder. “It is dark, and we are in a storm,” Frankenstein said.
“Come, we must get you back to the house,” Darcy said. “You are wet to the bone.”
The men helped them back to Pemberley, trying their best to keep the rain off the sisters.
Darcy went to find Bingley and Clerval, who had taken the opposite direction in their search. Lizzy saw that Mary and Kitty were made dry and warm. Kitty was unsteady on her feet, and her cough worsened; Lizzy insisted she must be put to bed. Mary sat with Kitty, whispered a promise to keep her secret, and waited until she slept. Then she went down to meet the others in the parlor.
“This chill shall do her no good,” Jane said. She chided Mary for wandering off in such threatening weather. “I thought you had more sense, Mary. Mr. Frankenstein insisted he help to find you, when he realized you had gone out into the woods.”
“I am sorry,” Mary said. “You are right.” She was distracted by Kitty’s plight, wondering what she might do. If Kitty were indeed with child, there would be no helping her.
Mary recounted her story of the man in the woods. Darcy said he had seen no one, but allowed that some person might have been there. Frankenstein, rather than engage in the speculation, stood at the tall windows, staring toward the tree line through the rain.
“This intruder was some local come to snare game, or perhaps one of those Gypsies,” said Darcy. “When the rain ends, I shall have Mr. Mowbray take some men to check the grounds. We shall also inform the constable in Lambton.”
“I hope this foul weather will induce you to stay with us a few more days, Mr. Frankenstein,” Lizzy ventured. “You have no pressing business in Matlock, do you?”
“No. But we were to travel north at the end of this week.”
“Surely we might stay a while longer, Victor,” said Clerval. “Your research can wait for you.”
Frankenstein struggled with his answer. “I don’t think we should prevail on these good people any longer.”
“Nonsense,” said Darcy. “We are fortunate for your company.”
“Thank you,” Frankenstein said uncertainly. But when the conversation moved elsewhere, Mary noticed him once again staring out the window. She moved to sit beside him. On an impulse, she said to him, sotto voce, “Did you know that man I saw in the woods?”
“I saw no one. Even if some person were there, how should I know some English vagabond?”
“I do not think he was English. When he first called after us, it was in French. Was this one of your countrymen?”
A look of impatience crossed Frankenstein’s face, and he lowered his eyes. “Miss Bennet, I do not wish to contradict you, but you are mistaken. I saw no one in the woods.”
EIGHT
I followed him to Oxford. I watched him take his meals in inns, tour the town with Clerval, wander along the banks of the river. Had he not occasionally purchased scientific equipment, I would have confronted him again.
I followed him to Matlock. The weather improved, and I was glad to be in the countryside, to hear songbirds and breathe fresh air, to drink pure water from the streams and feel the warmth of the spring sun. It was not easy to spy on him without being seen. In the towns I lurked in alleys and stables and climbed to the roofs of buildings.
It was there, peering down into the coach yard from the roof of the inn, that I saw him return that sunny afternoon with Henry, three women, and a boy. When first I saw the fair-haired boy, it thrust the memory of William Frankenstein before me. I pushed it down, buried it in some crypt at the back of my mind, hoping it would stay dead, knowing it would not. Two of the women—I could not be certain, as it had been the middle of the night, at a distance—two of the women I thought were among those I had seen leaving the ball in London.
Despite the noise of the street and the yard, my keen ears picked up their conversation. So I confirmed that he had been buying equipment that he meant to ship to Scotland. And that the name of one of the women was “Miss Bennet.”
After the women left, Henry and Victor parted company and Victor moved off into the town.
I saw no point in spying upon his movements through the day: he would be back at the inn by evening, and at night I was better able to move in public. At night I might enter a tavern, sit in some gloomy corner, and buy a pint of ale. So, through the decline of the day, I found a spot on the back of the peaked roof, in the shadow of a chimney, and slept.
Nothing happened that night, but the next, well after midnight when the town was asleep, I saw Victor creep from the inn, moving with care tha
t he not make a sound. He carried a shuttered lantern. Down the moonlit street I followed him.
Some distance from the inn stood a picturesque church on a hill, amid old oaks and elms, overlooking the river. The windows of the vicar’s house were dark. A stone wall surrounded a graveyard; Victor slid past the iron gate in the wall. Silently I climbed the wall and from its top watched as he broke into the sexton’s shed. A gleam from the doorway told me he had unshuttered his lamp. He emerged a moment later carrying a spade.
He prowled through the graveyard, the light from his lantern narrowed down to a beam, until he found a fresh grave with a simple wooden cross at its head. He set the lantern on the ground nearby and began to dig.
I hopped lightly from the wall and crept up on him. “Victor,” I whispered.
To my great satisfaction he jumped a foot. He swung round, the spade clutched in his hands.
“Have a care, Victor! You’ll wake the vicar.”
He rested the blade on the ground. “How long have you been spying on me?”
“A very long time. I have kept myself invisible, in order to allow you to work with a calm mind.”
“A calm mind! Better that I should never see you again.”
“I am pleased that at last you act on my behalf. I had thought you might spend all your time with this woman you seem to have taken up with. Twice now have I spied you with her. Whose purposes does she serve?”
“That is none of your business.”
“On the contrary, all that affects you affects me. I am here to help. Who is Miss Bennet?”
He stiffened. “How do you know her name?”
“That is none of your business.”
“You shall not harm her. She is nothing to you.”
“About that you are right. The question is, what is she to you? Does your Elizabeth know about her?”
He winced, as if I had laid a hot iron across his forearm. “God damn you,” he said.
“God has already damned me,” I said. “But we have no time to banter. We need to dig up . . . your materials. Give me the spade. I wonder how you expected to carry her out of this graveyard, let alone through the town, when you can hardly carry yourself. Do you suffer from some nervous disorder, Victor?”