Chapter Thirty-Five
P apa had been lost in contemplation, his gaze fixed unseeing out of the window for the first hour of their journey. The horses were fresh enough and the weather dry. In ordinary circumstances, the passengers within the carriage might have been pleased with the progress made .
“Mr. Bingley said that his steward believed her to be only so far on the road to London, but he suspected, if she does not travel alone, that she had turned off toward the north. I had not supposed she would be so foolish as this. If only we might catch her in time.”
Mr. Bennet turned his head toward his daughter. “No need for such distress, my Mary — we may yet. It may even turn out for the best if this may be resolved without scandal or lifelong consequences for Lydia — the countryside has disappeared before my eyes and I have seen only the litany of my errors.”
Mary could not speak; she only shook her head.
“I would wager that it is not only I suffering in terms of guilt, my dear. I was never more surprised when you rose before me this morning and petitioned to accompany me. I only supposed that the thought of remaining as a prop to Mrs. Bennet and Kitty turned your stomach as much as it did mine.”
“Must you, Papa? ”
He sighed, and was serious. “No, I suppose not.”
Mary passed a hand over her eyes. Her remorse for needling Lydia was heavy. “If I had only possessed greater temperance, or at least kept my tongue between my teeth rather than retorting to Lydia — I had not truly thought she would go to Gretna Green.”
“Well,” Mr. Bennet replied slowly, “we have no actual proof that she has gone to Scotland. She left no note and Mr. Wickham's absence from his post may yet prove to be mere happenstance.”
“Jane and Mr. Bingley did not think so.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “No, they did not, did they? What a charming thought, that they should be so united already, albeit in the face of tragedy. We will go so far as the last time they were sighted and follow if we can. It may be that we must retreat to London to see if Wickham resurfaces there. Denny seemed to think he wished to visit an old nurse of his from when he was young — although what officer would risk the displeasure of his colonel by going without leave? No, I believe they must have left together — how else would she have gone so far without a trace? She has not enough money at her disposal and not anywhere near sufficient knowledge of the ways of the world. I doubt she could even make it as far as Hertford on her own. ”
They were momentarily jolted when a wheel hit a rut in the road, and after righting themselves, Mr. Bennet said, “It will be an uncomfortable journey for you, Mary, what with the speed we must maintain.”
She shook her head. “It does not matter if by being with you I can do some good. If…when Lydia is found, I can perhaps say I was with her and it will not be so bad after all.”
It was a sign of his preoccupation that Mr. Bennet forebore to tease his daughter for her willingness to utter falsehood, and again he silently turned his worried eyes toward the window.
Mary withdrew a length of cloth from the covered basket beside her and began rolling it neatly. Kitty had cut the strips in readiness. Mary had suggested to Jane before they left that they did not know what state they might find their sister in, and that it would be best to be prepared for every eventuality. Jane, looking pale at the thought, had promptly offered any gown from her closet to be turned into strips for bandages. It had been the first time in a while that Mary had laughed, albeit feebly.
“Lydia would be horrified at the sacrifice, Jane. We will see if Hill has a sheet that might be used instead. It will give me something to do on the journey if we simply make the cuts now and I will wind them as we travel.”
It was plain as day that Jane's distress was great. Charles Bingley had been a blessing to them, offering every resource he had and going about the town trying to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything unusual without alerting the local populace to Lydia's absence. He was well-liked and had spoken cheerfully to everyone he could, and had even dropped hints that the youngest Miss Bennet had a bad cold and was resting in bed for the present. He had returned in the evening to dine with them, with the news that Tilly Bercham from the draper’s had been worried that she was in trouble for speaking so bluntly to Miss Lydia. He had also found that Mr. Wickham was missing from his barracks and Colonel Forster was in a taking about it. Young Mrs. Forster, it seemed, was rather more sympathetic to the handsome officer's absence, thinking that he must surely have had some excellent reason to be absent without leaving so much as a word or note to her .
Mary mused on the strange way the tension in Jane seemed to melt when Mr. Bingley took her hand and pressed it. They had gone into the garden after dinner for a short walk together, and if she deemed the embrace she witnessed from the window to be improper, she refrained from speaking of it. It was something Mary did not quite comprehend, this romantic affection that her elder sister cherished for Mr. Bingley, but if Jane was made calmer by his nearness, Mary realised with a newfound wisdom that it was better to let it be rather than see Jane utterly crushed by unhappiness .
“Lizzy will return home soon, Papa,” she said suddenly, her eyes on the strip of cloth as she wound it with precision. “Mama, Jane, and Kitty will be comforted by her being there, I am sure. Tell me, sir, where do you intend us to stop first to make enquiries if Lydia has been seen? It is a pity Elizabeth was not already home when we left — she has more of the look of Lydia than any of us and it might have helped for proprietors to see her.”
They journeyed on, stopping briefly at posting houses and inns along the way but no sign of a young lady as described had been seen. At Cheriton, they changed horses and pondered their course. From there the road led onto the Great North Road and one might either go north to Scotland or south to London. Together they considered the best direction to take .
At any other time, Mary might have inwardly rejoiced in pleasure at her father's gruff pronouncement that her suggestions were sensible enough, and in truth, she found momentary happiness that she was proving her usefulness, but it faded fast. Her anxious thoughts for her sister threatened to erode her self-control at times, and at every shake of the head she saw in response to Mr. Bennet's queries, tears threatened and she began to imagine Lydia's fate in more despairing terms .
Mama had wailed loudly, even from the first when they had discovered Lydia gone, about the strong likelihood that she had been seized in the night by robbers and murdered. Mrs. Bennet did not see Jane's pinched expression and Kitty's eyes well up, nor did she even notice the grey cast about her husband's mouth as she enumerated all the disasters that might have befallen her youngest child. Her grief was sincere, Mary reflected, but at that juncture, utterly unhelpful .
After they had eaten a meal at Cheriton, John the coachman had directed the horses north. It would be better to search at the stops along the Great North Road to establish if they might have gone that way before turning to London and trying to find her there.
“If we go many miles toward the north and find nothing, it will be wiser to make our way to London, Mary, and beg your uncle's help.”
“We might send a note to him from one of the towns we travel through, Papa, and he will begin his efforts sooner. It would save time.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “And time is precious here. We will not do so until later on in the day. The moon will still be bright enough to travel by and it may be we catch a trace of the scent within an hour or so. They, if Wickham is with her, would have to stretch their horses considerably to go many more miles without resting them.”
“John cannot drive for so long as he used to, Papa, as willing as I am to travel by moonlight.”
“I will drive myself if need be, Mary, and John can take some rest inside. I am not so frail in my old age that I cannot manage my own horses as every gentleman ought to be able.”
“We had better rest now, then, if we are to be up on the box tonight.”
He glanced at her. “It will be cold. It would be better for you to remain inside. John is trustworthy — he ushered most of my daughters about the stable when you were still in leading strings.”
Mary's tone in her reply did not brook argument. “I know it well, Father. I will bear you company nonetheless. ”
She was surprised by the short laugh that came from her father and tilted her head in question .
“I am receiving a belated education, my Mary, in my daughters. I had thought I knew you all through and through and yet I am finding myself surprised. Such a spirit of adventure you seem to have, but no, it is not for the thrill of new experience that you put yourself to discomfort, is it? Miss Mary will self-deny comfort in the name of expedience. ”
“It may be,” she answered, “that we find word of their direction very soon, Papa, and that a cold night driving in the dark will prove unnecessary. I am sure neither of us relishes that.”
“My best hope at present is an unlikely one — that their conveyance has broken an axle on this dreadfully maintained road. It would slow them down, perhaps for as long as a day, and give us the opportunity to gain on them — always assuming we are going in the right direction.”
“We must leave that to Providence.”
“So we must, Mary, so we must.”
Their rest was fitful, jolted as they were by the road and by Mr. Bennet waking at each establishment to ask the workers in the busy yards if they had seen a young lady of a certain age and height, with dark brown locks, travelling that way of recent. The frequent stopping made their progress slow, and by the time they travelled so far as Grantham in the late afternoon, they had given up hope of hearing anything of Lydia.
They stepped out at the posting house there and, as Mr. Bennet ordered a meal for them, Mary asked for a pen and paper to write to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner in London and alert them to Lydia's absence.
To send the express, it was necessary to go into Grantham itself and so Mr. Bennet accompanied his daughter into town using the hired chaise that the posting house kept for the use of its guests. It was there that Mary, looking about the town with curiosity, espied a bonnet atop the head of a young girl that made her exclaim loudly, the surprise of which caused Mr. Bennet to jab at the reins he held lightly in his gloved hands.
“Papa, Papa! Pull up the horse. Do you see that bonnet? Is that not the same bonnet Lydia trimmed herself only two weeks ago and would not let Kitty touch? Stop , Papa — we must speak to her.”
“A bonnet? Mary, I am afraid you must be tired.”
“No, Father,” she replied firmly, her eyes still on the figure making her way down the street. “Lydia was boasting that she would bring pale pink ribbons into fashion because she had made it so prettily with dove-grey lace. She waved it under my nose until I had looked at it — stop immediately , I say.”
Surprise at Mary's commanding tone, rather than agreement, made Mr. Bennet pull at the reins, and with some concern he saw his staid Mary attempting to climb down before the wheels had stilled .
“Mary! Are you out of your senses to…” but she had already hastened in the direction of the girl in the fine straw hat that would ordinarily be seen only on a lady. Frowning, Mr. Bennet contemplated the incongruity of a maid he had barely noticed wearing a lace-trimmed straw bonnet with a drab worsted dress and grease-stained apron .
A dirty boy loitered hopefully near the chaise, seeing it had halted and thinking its occupant might wish to descend. Mr. Bennet produced a coin and waved it in the boy's direction. “Here, hold this creature's bridle and I shall give you a penny when I return.”
He climbed down with care and followed in his daughter's direction. She had disappeared around a corner, and he found her grasping the girl's wrist in urgency and issuing a flurry of questions, apparently to no avail. The young maid was evidently of a spirited disposition and stood her ground.
“I have not accused you of stealing it, but you must tell me where the young lady is from whom you had it.”
Sullenly the girl attempted to wrest her hand away. “The miss gave it me for helping her — I am an honest girl, miss, and I'd no more steal than kill.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mary testily. “I believe you, but where is the young lady now? Is she near? Why did she require help? Is she safe ?”
The girl shrugged. “All I know is she wanted to get away from her brother who was a terrible brute. He tried to force her to marry an ugly old man twice her age.” She looked suspiciously at Mr. Bennet as he approached. “If that be him I'll not say another word — she gave me this bonnet to help her and I did .”
Mr. Bennet shook his head, grasping for words. Hope dared to bloom in his chest and he approached closer with as much urgency as had Mary. His quietest daughter, who had seen with a keen eye a clue that he had not even glanced twice at, even now stood straight-backed before this maid with a countenance as domineering as a queen .
“We mean the young lady no harm, girl. We are her family and have been searching for her. We want only to ensure her safety. No one will force her into marriage with anyone…” Mr. Bennet trailed off, guiltily aware that if Wickham had ruined her he would have no choice there.
“Where did you meet her?” demanded Mary. “Tell us that at least.”
“Swift Nick’s. I work there. It is an inn about two mile away from here. They — the young lady and her brother — were on their way north early yesterday morning and stopped for relief. Horses were in right state, I never saw Perry so cross, he hates to see animals winded like that. The man brought her in to change and had an ale while I helped the lady out of her clothes. Pretty clothes, never touched the like of them before.” She raised a hand to give a light touch to the bonnet on her head. “Miss told me the whole sorry story and asked me to help her get away. She said she thought he must have put something over her mouth when she slept to keep her unconscious.”
Mary drew a long, slow breath, “Did she get away from her…her brother?”
The girl grinned. “Yes, miss; she was ever so pleased with me. I got the window open for her to climb through and went out to tell her brother she was sick as anything in the chamber pot, which she was but she felt better for it. I told her which path to take into Grantham and she left her bonnet for me. She told me I was not to wear it with my scarlet worsted though, and you see I did not.”
“That is unquestionably Lydia,” said Mary, with confidence. “She came into Grantham then. ”
“Aye — she kept on asking how far from London when she arrived. She never believed me, at first, when I said it was gone nine o'clock and London was hours away. Then she did and she looked awful queer.”
“And her brother?” Mr. Bennet asked, with a steely tone to him that made Mary release the girl and look quickly at him .
The maid rubbed her wrist. “He was furious after an hour passed. He had three ales afore he said it was too quiet in the room for her to be so sick as I said — he barged in and could not make it all out.” She smiled again, evidently much pleased with herself, the glimmer of mischief showing her youth. “I had already crept in and closed the window, you see — the young miss was too young and pretty to marry an old man. Besides, she gave me the bonnet.”
“That was well done of you,” said Mr. Bennet. “What did the young man do then?”
Beaming at the praise, the girl became more talkative. “Shouted mostly — at me and everyone. He gave me an awful shake but said he was a gentleman.” She snorted. “That sort do not come to Swift Nick’s. He told me to go and make sure his carriage was ready. Perry, who takes charge of the horses, took his time — them poor animals were not right to be put to again and I went to hide my new bonnet first. Miss had been gone a good while by the time he left to chase her. I hope he never caught her.”
A coin was produced and handed to the maid. Her smile reappeared when she clutched it in her hand and she dipped a curtsey .
“She is safe from him at least then,” remarked Mary, a cold calm settling upon her. “What is your name, girl?”
“Bess Cooper, ma'am. ”
“What is your age, Bess Cooper?”
“Thirteen. If…” she hesitated, “if it help you, the young miss put two of her dresses on beneath a blue one with pretty white flowers on it.”
“We must ask for a young lady in a blue dress then,” Mary nodded. “You have earned that bonnet; keep it well. Where do you live? It may be that we will want to ask you more questions later on, or we will send someone else to.”
“We put up above the chandler’s, miss. We have a room. ”
“I see.” Mary looked at her father. “What now then, sir?”
He nodded to Bess. “You may go now. We are grateful for your help.” He offered his arm to Mary and turned back toward where they had abandoned the chaise. “The post office first and then we will return to the Angel for a meal. I cannot praise your observation and your quick thinking enough, my dear Mary.”