Mary B

by Katherine J. Chen

  Even from a writer’s point of view, Lydia’s was a repellent form of misery. Illness, if done right, could be ennobling; poisoning, heartrendingly tragic; death by sword, medieval but heroic. Yet poverty can have no salvation; its hundred daily humiliations offer no possible redemption.

  “She writes that they are currently renting a room with rotting floorboards in a section of London which is ‘barely respectable’—her words. She hasn’t set foot outside the building for fear the family of ruffians living belowstairs will steal the dress off her back. Can such atrocities be believed?”

  As sole creator of the grand duke and other heinous villains both high-bred and low-bred, both cunningly clever and abominably stupid, but always startlingly, irrefutably, and most unpardonably evil, I assured my sister that yes, such people did exist and worse, too, than she could ever imagine.

  “That awful Wickham,” I spat out. “While I own that rakes sometimes make most attractive characters in novels, in real life, they are unbearable!”

  “Dismiss Wickham from your thoughts, Mary. Lydia says she is ill.”

  “At Longbourn, she was hardly sick a day of her life, and now every letter tells of life-threatening fevers and colds. Possibly it is the shame of being married to such a man, and if this is the case, then I cannot blame her.”

  “That is a most unkind thing to say,” Lizzy chastised, though she smiled. “Writing has made you cynical.”

  “What other news does she share?”

  Lizzy reopened the pages. “Wickham has recently been dismissed as an ensign from the Northern regulars and is sometimes several days from her side, though he claims to be visiting friends who’ve promised to secure him a position in another regiment. How he managed to be dismissed she does not reveal, but they are very poor. She writes in a postscript that she has received no communication from Wickham for five days, except a short letter begging that she settle some gambling debts with a man named Wilkinson. That sounds rather worrying, doesn’t it? She asks for forty pounds! Oh dear…”

  “If you send her money, Lizzy, I wish you would stipulate in your letter that the funds should be spent towards her recovery and not on her husband’s gambling debts. It may be a good thing for Wickham to remain forever in hiding or with these so-called friends, if it means he cannot lose another game of cards.”

  “Forty pounds…” Lizzy repeated. “Well, I shall have to send her some more….”

  “I wonder sometimes if she is happy with her decision….”

  “She still calls him her ‘beloved Wickham’ in her letters.”

  “For practically her whole life,” I said, “she was oblivious to all her faults, and now she must live every day with the reminder of them.”

  “We must all face the consequences of our actions sometime, Mary,” Lizzy replied in practical tones, frowning and folding up the letter. “Speaking of injustices, it doesn’t seem quite fair for you to remain indoors just because I must keep to my room. Go and take a walk. The grounds of Pemberley are absolutely thrilling this time of year. I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of them on my account.”

  So I took my cue and left.

  * * *

  —

  THRILLING THE GROUNDS were not, but beautiful they were indeed. It was a morning to end all mornings. The sky glimmered with luminescent turquoise and the foliage of trees shuddered their pleasure at the touch of the wind and the stroke of the sun. A chorus of rooks screamed and sprang like black chains from the inside of one tree into the shelter of another. I could have collapsed onto my knees and kissed the ground and the worms that lived in it. I loved Pemberley this much.

  I had walked a long way from the house, and the beauty grew wilder as the distance lengthened. Eventually, I discovered a shallow spot of grass, and I sat there, staring and blinking at a negligible view of the house and the lake. I say “negligible” because from this distance, the house became no more than a chip of white stone and the lake a glinting blue marble rolled beside it. For some moments I’d been admiring the view when I heard a sudden flurry of hooves beating the earth.

  By the time I rose and turned, a horse had nearly reached me. It was darker than any beast I’d ever seen and, startled by my movement, reared up on its hind legs, its head thrashing wildly about. A man rolled off its back and tumbled with a yelp into the long grass.

  My own knees nearly gave way from fright, but before I could form any coherent speech, a familiar voice called out: “You have no business sitting in the grass like that! What were you doing?”

  It had been over a week since I’d last seen the colonel. No sooner had he arrived at Pemberley than, according to Darcy, an old school friend had called him away on a matter of some urgency.

  “I will sit where I like,” I finally said, my voice shaking despite myself. “And have a care where you lead that beast.”

  “Marmalade, pay no attention to the lady,” Colonel Fitzwilliam sharply bid his accomplice, and Marmalade tossed her mane and snorted in reply.

  I noticed only then that he cradled his left arm close to his chest and leaned heavily on one leg.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered, grimacing in pain.

  “You are hurt,” I said and ventured a few guarded steps towards him.

  “Nothing escapes you, does it?” he snapped. “Well, I won’t be able to ride Marmalade back in this state. You may as well get on her, if you like, and return her to the stables.”

  I looked sheepishly towards the saddle. “I don’t know how to ride.”

  “That is a tragedy,” he said, still gripping his left elbow. “Riding is a requisite experience for living, in my opinion.”

  As I didn’t answer, we both stood gazing at the horse, who stared back, blustering and shaking her head. With his good hand, the colonel patted her rump—a vulgar thing, I thought, to do in front of a lady.

  I considered making my excuses and leaving him, but he drew his horse silently towards me as if to follow my lead. And we began to walk in the direction of the house, a strange procession of woman, man, and beast.

  “How was your visit to your friend?” I inquired politely.

  “Exhausting,” he replied. “There’s nothing so draining as having to console a lovelorn young man every hour of the day.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “It all ended happily enough. When I first met him, he was all tears and lugubrious looks. He couldn’t mention the woman’s name without bursting into either sobs or morbid poetry. He wanted to end his life, if you can believe it.”

  “And you were able to talk him out of it?” I asked.

  “I didn’t have to,” he answered. “I introduced him to one of my cousins, the youngest daughter of a baronet. They were engaged when I left them, and I’m fairly confident they’ll be happy.”

  I scoffed. “What a fickle thing is the human heart.”

  He laughed. “I see you would have preferred that he throw himself from a cliff, his remains lost forever in the foam of an unforgiving sea.” Though I stared straight in front of myself, I could tell he was observing my face, perhaps searching it for any trace of humor, and I was careful to give none away. “While I wouldn’t go as far as to claim it is a virtue,” he continued, “I am grateful that the heart is able to change its course, if it should mean sparing a dear friend unnecessary pain. But enough of such morbid subjects….Miss Bennet, after you stormed off from breakfast the other day, Darcy and I had the chance to talk a little about you, and from our conversation, it occurred to me that we are more alike—you and I—than might initially be evident.”

  “I don’t think we’re alike at all,” I said honestly. His sudden amiability took me by surprise, though I endeavored not to show it.

  “No?” The colonel smiled. “We are both middle children, thus rendering us by n
ature awkward, unloved, and starved for attention. I have not only an older brother and sister but also three younger brothers. You have, I know, four sisters, two older and two younger. We are prevented by our circumstances from marrying for love, unless the object of our love should also come with a fortune and, in my case, preferably a title as well. And though I cannot claim to know this, beyond what facts your brother-in-law has imparted as to your character, I would suspect that you find better company with your books than with people, just as I prefer the company of my horses to, well, quite frankly any member of my family.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying, I consider it most presumptuous of you to draw such conclusions, knowing, as you do, nothing about me,” I huffed, though inwardly, I acknowledged he had been right on all fronts.

  “I don’t mind your saying,” he replied generously.

  We had, by now, reached the stables, and I suggested that I should go up to the house and call for the doctor to look at his arm. He stopped me just before I went on my way.

  “Wait, Miss Bennet.”

  I shot him a questioning glance.

  But he seemed to change his mind, for he said it was nothing important. And I parted from his company a little more inclined to think well of him than before.

  I had a terrible time the next day with writing. The words would not come, though I paced the length of the library until my legs grew sore. I opened windows, then closed them again. At the height of desperation, I climbed one of the rolling ladders and, sitting precariously on the uppermost step, looked out across the expanse of the room to marvel idly at the forest of books on the opposite wall. From my perch, I was able to formulate a few weak sentences, but these I scratched out with vehemence almost as soon as I climbed down again.

  I had just added another crumpled ball to the growing mound at my feet when the library doors clicked open. Grateful for any distraction, I looked up, expecting to see Lizzy or Darcy, but my visitor turned out to be none other than the colonel.

  “Sprained” was the first thing he said. When I didn’t immediately comprehend his meaning, he showed me his wrist, which had been bound in many thick bandages.

  “Oh, I see,” I answered, for there didn’t seem anything more interesting to say at the sight of his injury. The persistence of silence between us eventually compelled him to make a cursory examination of a few books. But Herodotus and Homer held little between them to sustain his attention, and he soon returned his gaze to me.

  “So this is where you keep yourself, Miss Bennet,” the colonel said placidly, and I did not know whether he intended to mock me.

  A childish impertinence seemed to dwell in his bright eyes, which betrayed both the mischief of his thoughts and the natural arrogance of his class. Though his features were not as refined as Darcy’s (for whose could be), he had a well-chiseled face that boasted a deceptively scholarly forehead and a small, determined mouth. From my seat, I noticed the protrusion of a scar on his chin, where the flesh had healed but poorly. As he continued to study me, I grew self-conscious and blushed against my will.

  “I am writing,” I explained, as he moved closer to my desk.

  “So I see.” His attention turned to the sheet of paper in front of me, and I casually draped an arm over the one meager paragraph I’d been able to compose that whole morning.

  “Oh, Miss Bennet,” he said, starting a little, “I think…I cannot be sure…but I believe I observe a spider crawling over your shoulder just there!”

  I was unafraid of insects and did not scream, as other females might have done. But I did warily lift my hand from the page I guarded. At once, I realized my folly. Too late. He’d already snatched the sheet away from me and was parading it about like a boy with a prize.

  “What, I wonder, does the author write?” he chanted teasingly.

  “Please give it back.”

  “Not until I’ve had the privilege of reading what you have written, Miss Bennet. If Darcy will go on about something, I have the right to be curious.” Then he settled himself in a nearby chair and proceeded to read aloud:

  “Prince Wilhelm, who had disguised himself upon his arrival in Denmark with the wearing of a servant’s livery, made his way unrecognized through the castle. Discovering no one in Leonora’s private chambers, he quickly changed into his own clothes and waited for her. The fire warmed his body, and drawing nearer to it, he soon fell asleep. It was many hours before consciousness returned to him, and when it did, he awoke to company, for sitting opposite him was the Queen of the Danes, dressed in most resplendent robes of sapphire blue. At once, he threw himself at her feet and kissed her slippers. Then he embraced her, and they sustained a kiss half an hour long, until they were interrupted by an urgent knocking at the door….”

  I’d turned by now quite red in the face. “It isn’t my best writing,” I admitted.

  “No, I don’t think it can be,” he rejoined.

  My embarrassment fast turned to annoyance. “Doubtless you can do much better, of course.”

  “Well, with such a low standard as this…” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. At the challenge, he sat up in his chair, boyish anticipation flooding his countenance. “First,” he began, “it doesn’t make sense that he should throw himself at her feet. He is a prince, and men, contrary to what women might believe or desire, don’t do that kind of thing. Second, it is irrational, not to say unhygienic, for him to kiss her shoes before he kisses her face. What if she had been walking outdoors and prior to returning stepped in a pile of sheep manure? And third, you obviously have no practical knowledge of these matters, or you wouldn’t have written that they ‘sustained a kiss half an hour long.’ That is highly impractical. Their mouths would be parched by the time they separated.”

  “I see, sir, that you suffer, as many of your sex do, from a dearth of imagination,” I said hotly, standing.

  “And I see, Miss Bennet, that you are content to display your ignorance by writing of things you know nothing about. Now, if I were Prince Wilhelm,” he said, standing up and pensively circling his chair. “If I were Prince Wilhelm…” he repeated.

  “Yes?” I goaded. “If you were Prince Wilhelm…”

  “Just a minute, please. I have only two questions. First, is Wilhelm in love with Leonora? Second, how long has it been since they’ve last seen each other?”

  “He is, and over half a year.”

  The colonel smiled. I felt my danger and looked instantly away.

  “The key to such a moment is that it must be approached slowly….He might, upon waking, say something like ‘Ah, there you are’ or ‘How long have you been sitting there?’ Then they would sit observing each other for a good while….”

  I yawned.

  “No, no, don’t be unhelpful, please. As I said, they might sit looking at each other for a while, in the way I’m looking at you now. Why do you not look at me, Miss Bennet?”

  I raised my eyes. The calm with which he returned my stare surprised me. How direct his gaze was, I thought. How different he looked now than when I’d first met him, dripping and cursing at the bottom of the staircase. Did he even remember his own cruelty, or had he already forgotten the poison which had so unthinkingly issued from his lips? An ugly little thing, aren’t you? he had said, his face sneering demonically behind the flame of the candle. “No wonder you sound so bitter.” I’d laughed afterwards at my own boldness. But once the giggles had subsided, his words had returned, taking shape in the dark like monsters, and they’d brought with them other monsters—Thomas Lucas’s flowers, Lydia and Kitty’s gibes, the solitude I’d suffered for years at every ball and public assembly my family had attended.

  Yet it is difficult to dwell in the past, in a man’s earlier contempt and insults, when he is standing less than a foot away and addressing you in soft, most gentlemanlike tones. I could feel myself wavering, though my body r
emained stiff. More than anything, I hoped my face betrayed none of its inner bewilderment…or my newfound awareness of his fine cheekbones and shapely mouth.

  “Are we quite done with this performance?” I asked once I had strength enough to speak.

  “What you don’t comprehend in your rendition of this moment is that he is meeting the woman he loves after a lengthy separation,” the colonel continued, ignoring me. “Unless he is extremely confident in himself, he would approach her uncertainly, carefully….” He ventured over to my chair and offered me his hand, which I accepted, after a pause, with reluctance. I refused, however, to look at him again and settled my gaze at the bottom of an inkwell.

  “Yes, good,” he commented, thinking I was acting out my part as Leonora. “He would hold her hand tenderly, as if it were the most precious jewel to him. He would draw her body closer to his….”

  Surely he could hear. He could hear the beating of my heart, which resonated in my ears as loud and threatening as thunder. And if he couldn’t hear, he would surely be able to feel. He would know how his touch transformed my hand from smooth, cold alabaster to hot and sticky flesh, as though I’d drowned it in a vat of syrup.

  “Please…” I protested. “This is…”

  We were standing so close to each other that I could smell his coat’s warm fragrance. It was not an unpleasant smell, and against my better judgment, I inhaled the scent of grass, animal, and open air.

  “At the right moment,” he said, speaking into my face, “he would begin to guide her lips to his. His hand would touch her cheek and erase the tears of joy he found there. And then…” A queer shiver swept through my body. I closed my eyes and waited—but the remembrance of another man, a smaller, paler man with weak shoulders and a simpering smile, returned as vividly as an apparition materialized from thin air—and I retreated.

  He released my hand, and it dropped back to my side like a stone. The performance had ended.