Chapter 8
Whoooaaahhh!
Mary and Elizabeth spent several minutes doing their best to clean their faces, focused chiefly on keeping mud from their eyes and mouths with their handkerchiefs and wraps.
The wraps were already drenched in front, but the backs remained barely clean enough to serve as towels until they resorted to their petticoats.
The mud differed from what they knew, for not a single coachman in Hertfordshire would operate so carelessly—or at least, he would not do so twice.
They received a double portion. The wheels went through a large puddle at great speed, drenching them with muddy water, and throwing mud and small pebbles directly into their faces.
They could only have been more disagreeably muddy had the horses run them down and stamped them into the road: their likely fate absent Elizabeth’s quick action.
When they could speak again without eating mud, Mary asked, “Lizzy, did you see inside that coach?”
“I fear not.”
“There are two things of note,” Mary declared vehemently. “I only had a moment to see, but that sufficed.”
“Do tell!”
“The first is that the coach held Miss Bingley and the Hursts. I suspect they decided to escape this savage society the moment their brother turned his back for 5 minutes.”
Elizabeth sighed for at least the dozenth time. “That seems a reasonable surmise.”
“The second is even more disturbing. When I had to close my eyes, Miss Bingley was looking straight at us and laughing!”
Elizabeth sputtered. “I never! Well… I… I… knew she was a disagreeable hoyden, but this… this—”
Propriety paralysed them. They had to balance the conflicting desires to say what they truly thought, against the habit of acting like ladies who did not say such things.
They both tried to work out the proper response when a loud call settled the matter.
“Whoooaaahhh, there!”
The ladies looked up from their labours as a wagon loaded with luggage and furniture approached at a much more reasonable pace. There was no danger of a repeat; the driver kept careful watch and manoeuvred around the puddles at a crawl.
A minute or two brought the wagon to a stop. The driver, a rugged man of around 40, and a boy of 16 looked down.
The driver carefully set the brake and tied off the reins. “Get the thick wool blankets for these ladies, Kep.”
The young man—Kep apparently—jumped down. Fortunately, he missed the puddle by a foot and did not splash them all over again, which would not have been well received.
He dug around for half a minute before yelling, “Aha!” He brought two blankets over and bowed. “My apologies, ladies. This is the best we have available quickly.”
Mary said, “Do not apologise, good sir. They are perfectly lovely.”
The driver secured the horses and climbed down carefully.
“Kep, I think you may find some towels in that green trunk on the top at the very back, or perhaps the brown one. Ladies, I suggest you wrap yourselves with the blankets, and we shall help you get clean presently.”
The ladies followed the suggestion. The blankets proved thick and warm, and cut the chill considerably.
Kep held up a handful of silk scarves that probably cost ￡20 in one hand, and a few clean, dry towels in the other.
He grinned wickedly. “You choose, ladies, though I suspect the towels will be more efficacious.”
Both sisters laughed, and Mary said, “Tempting… but… no.”
The young man replaced the silk scarves, jumped down, and brought two clean towels over. “Is there a stream nearby?”
Mary pointed behind. “About 30 yards that way, but pray be careful, young man. The banks are very slippery this time of year.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grabbed a bucket from the back of the wagon, and set off at a dead run.
Mary and Lizzy exchanged grins.
“Do not fret, ladies. Youth, maleness, and common sense are generally mutually exclusive, but on average, at least half of us survive.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I am not as well read on set theory as I could be, but I know young men and can agree with your thesis—though if you knew my sisters, you might extend the principle, since they are even less sensible than your son.”
The driver laughed and slapped his thigh. “Perhaps you are right, young lady… perhaps you are right, though a sensible man would likely use probability theory and conclude that two mud-spattered urchins were unlikely to argue with his definition of a mathematical term.”
The ladies laughed along; the morning was improving.
The driver continued, “At any rate, we shall have you as right as we can shortly, then I will take you home or wherever you would like to go.”
“We thank you… er—”
The man gave a huge smile. “Ivar Newton, at your service—no relation.”
Both ladies laughed, and Mary asked, “Do you claim no relation to the famous mathematician or the infamous Viking?[iii] “
“Ah, so we have educated ladies. That is lovely. I am not related to either. I only know of Ivar the Boneless because another driver has a passion for that period. I am something of a mathematical dabbler myself, but I hardly ever engage in murderous rampages. I happen to be reading Opticks[iv] at the moment.”
“Oh, yes. I love that book. I should have a trying time if I were marooned on an island and had to choose between that and Principia[v].”
“Only you, Lizzy. Only you. May I ask an impertinent question, Mr Newton?”
“They are the only kind worth asking, but might I beg your names first?”
The sisters were chagrined to have entered a conversation without the first civilities, though they might assert that no specific rules governed how to speak with a mathematically inclined driver with a Viking name while covered head to toe in mud.
In such a scenario, which rule of thumb applied: anything not prohibited was allowed or anything not allowed was prohibited?
Mary did the honours. “Mr Newton, this is my elder sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I am Miss Mary Bennet. She is the mathematician of the family.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Newton. My sister was engaged but an hour ago, so she is soon to be Mrs Collins.”
Newton smiled broadly. “Congratulations. I wish you a long and happy life.”
“Miss Elizabeth, being an aficionado of mathematics, how would you estimate the chances of being covered in mud on your sister’s engagement day—perhaps 1/10,000?”
Both ladies laughed, and Mr Newton rose still higher in their opinion. The thick woollen blankets had made them warmer already.
“Snuggle up in those blankets. Derbyshire wool—the finest I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes sir. We must agree.”
Young Kep came back from the stream carrying a bucket of water. “I would build a fire to warm it, ladies, but it would take longer than driving you into the village or back home.”
“This will do very well!” Elizabeth laughed. The young man was easy to like. “We thank you for your efforts.”
“Come along, Kep. Let us give them privacy.”
To Elizabeth and Mary’s relief, the two men walked a dozen yards away.
They stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the ladies, angled 45 degrees apart, so they could watch the road in both directions without intruding on the ablutions.
The thoughtfulness was not lost on them. Between the towels and the water, they were much cleaner and warmer before many minutes had passed.
Elizabeth said, “We thank you, kind sirs. You may turn round now.”
“Kep, see if you can find greatcoats in the trunks.”
“We are not so uncomfortable with the blankets,” Mary replied.
“Pardon me, but not so uncomfortable is not the standard Kep and I aspire to.”
Both sisters laughed, and Elizabeth asked, “Might we be introduced to your son, Mr Newton?”
“Of course. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Miss Mary Bennet, this is my son, Kepler Newton. Kep, the Misses Bennet—though Miss Mary is soon to be Mrs Collins.”
Kep bowed. “Pray offer my congratulations to Mr Collins, ma’am. He seems a lucky man.”
Mary blushed with appreciation and slight embarrassment; Elizabeth only smiled at the young man.
To cover her embarrassment, Mary said, “Kepler is an unusual given name.”
“Easily explained, Miss Mary. I came into the world several weeks early, and my father was unfortunately snowed in away from home. My mother picked the nicest name she spotted on my father’s bookshelf.”
“It is a lovely name for a lovely astronomer,” Elizabeth said. “On a peripheral subject, I trust you will forgive me if I show my ignorance, but I have never heard of a driver who studies mathematics. Is that unusual?”
“Might I answer, Papa?” Kep asked.
“Have at it.”
“First, I must set the frame of reference. My father and I are both drivers and coachmen, but we spend more of our time with coaches. Since you are ladies of intellectual pursuits, might I ask a question that will answer yours? When your family goes calling, what happens?”
“We take the carriage to one house, take tea, ride to another, and repeat the process ad nauseam until my mother is satisfied, one of us falls asleep, or one of us throws a screaming fit.”
“Those are the broad outlines, Master Newton,” Mary said, “but out of sheer boredom, I have delved into it more deeply, if you are interested.”
“Just Kep, please. I am fascinated.”
“There is an elementary sampling technique Lizzy taught me that is not very random or precise but gives useful results,” Mary said.
“You periodically observe an activity and make a note of what is happening at that moment. For small samples, you can keep track in your head, and jot it down in categories using tally marks[vi]. Bigger samples require paper and pencil, of course. You make a histogram[vii] of the results and present it in any number of useful forms. It is best to gather the data in detailed form and combine results that seem related. There is a brand-new device called a pie chart[viii] that I find particularly appealing.”
“And what did you conclude, Miss Mary? You need not present your results graphically.”
“The biggest category I classify as noise. It is when people discuss things everyone already knows just to observe the forms or fill time. This includes weather, roads, clothing, fashion, bonnets, ribbons, lace, and gossip—most of which is noise to start with—then is endlessly repeated until it takes on a thin veneer of faux respectability.”
She paused before her coup de grace. “I estimated that category consumes a full 79% of my observations.”
“Mary is more critical of our society than I,” Elizabeth said. “The same observations found a considerably smaller number, so there is room for personal bias in the analysis.”
“What percentage did you find, Miss Elizabeth?”
“77%.”
Everyone laughed. “Shall I answer your question, ladies?” Newton asked.
“If you please.”
“What do you suppose happens to your coach and driver all this time?”
Both ladies, much to their chagrin, replied, “We never thought about it.”
“Do not be troubled. You cannot concern yourself with every little thing. We see to the horses, park the carriage, give them water and grain and the like, then we do… precisely nothing. Some men join the servants in the house, but they are generally too busy to spend time with us, especially when they have visitors. We might join the stable hands, but the same thing applies. Many dice or gossip, with about the same amount of noise as your ladies’ visits.
Some, though—well, some of us prefer other occupations to pass the time. ”
“Fascinating,” Elizabeth said.
“The Longbourn coachman, Mr Simonson, is a lover of poetry. Kep loves the classics, and I enjoy mathematics. We share a library among ourselves.”
Elizabeth and Mary clapped their hands in glee, and the blankets slipped open enough to let the chill back in.
Fortunately, Kep had rummaged in the wagon as his father talked, and now he jumped down carrying two greatcoats, with a smirk any misbehaving boy would be proud of. He asked permission, slipped one coat on each lady, wrapped the blankets around them again, and stood back in satisfaction.
Mr Newton said, “Ladies, you recall that I said I hardly ever engaged in murderous tendencies?”
“We applaud your forbearance.”
“The key phrase is hardly ever. Sometimes, exceptions must be made. My profession demands it. I will ask you a question that I already know the answer to. Was that Mr Bingley’s coach that splashed you, and were the passengers aware of what happened?”