Chapter Thirty-Nine
T hey had been obliged to spend Saturday night in Grantham. Mary had not thought much of the cleanliness of the place, but having resolved, upon setting out, not to complain, said nothing to her father .
It seemed, when they reconvened at breakfast, that Mr. Bennet had not been enamoured of the arrangements either .
“You will be glad to get to London, will you not, Mary? I am sure your aunt and uncle's bedchambers are better appointed than the ones we endured last evening.” He looked piercingly at her over the steaming coffee pot she held and, with greater gentleness than she had heard from him since girlhood, said, “Did you sleep, my dear?”
Bravely, Mary quirked her lips into something resembling a smile. In truth, she had been wondering most of the night where Lydia might have laid her head. “I believe I rested, Papa, little thanks to the bed. It will be well worth the discomfort if, on the road to London, we may find Lydia and bring her home.”
“You are a better sister than I had given you credit for.” He sat back in his chair, “You all are. Had the circumstances been less dire I might have found myself applauding the touching nature of the concern shown by my girls. I suppose I had previously attributed all the sentiment in the family to your mother and Jane — expressed in different ways, of course.”
“Kitty felt Lydia's unexplained absence keenly, sir, and I am sure we are none of us so wanting proper feeling that we could remain unmoved.”
“That is so. Have you eaten enough to sustain you, Miss Mary? It will be an uncomfortable journey ahead of us — it is like to take a good deal of time to our next halt, perhaps as many as seven or eight hours.”
Mary reached for the bread and, wrapping it in a cloth, placed it in the basket she had kept beside her. “We had better leave immediately then, Papa. If you will see that John has the carriage in order, I will ensure that we have sufficient food for the day.”
Mr. Bennet rose with a nod and his lips formed a smile, which Mary was discovering was prelude to a tease. “Such a domineering character you are, Mary. When we return home I am minded to give you the running of the estate. You would not tolerate lazy tenants, I'd wager, and we should soon be turned to greater prosperity.”
“I thank you, sir,” Mary answered seriously, “but I hope I should not be so lost to propriety as to usurp your authority. ”
They travelled as swiftly as they were able, and it felt to Mary as though she could hardly tear her eyes from the road, lest by some repeat of her observational skills the evening before, she might see some further clue to Lydia's whereabouts .
It was discouraging, to be sure, that at each stop they made they were met with the same answer — no young lady resembling the description given had been seen .
“I wonder where Mr. Wickham is now, Papa. It seems he meant to take her north, but having been foiled, will he give up his aim?
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “I have a certain amount of hope that Lydia has enough sense to evade the man, should he pursue her. If we, her kin, cannot find a trace of her thus far along this road, Mr. Wickham, with only the resources of a soldier, is not likely to do any better. We will stop for the night at Godmanchester, Mary. The horses will be rested there at least.”
“May we not press on further to St. Albans, Papa? ”
He shook his head. “No, my dear; the light will be insufficient and I do not wish to chance a greater delay if one of my horses is lamed. How Wickham travelled so far even with a full moon to aid them is a mystery to me. He must have taken some considerable chances by urging on the hired horses.”
“I might have thought he would know better, given that he claims to have been raised with Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Bennet, stretching out his legs for a little more comfort. “As to that, I wonder if we might have been a little deceived there. ”
“I wish he might be brought to justice — he is a scourge on society. How can he go about different towns and deceive good, honest people into believing that he is a victim? It is made worse by the fact that he was so widely believed.”
“My dear, society — particularly in a town such as Meryton — is all too eager to believe ill of the great and powerful. Mr. Darcy would have had to be as eager to please as his friend Bingley in order to counter even a little of the prejudice against him.”
“Prejudice based on his birth and wealth. The judgement against him was sealed by a sombre demeanour even before Mr. Wickham spread his tale. Poor Lydia, to have been taken in by such a man.”
“Yes, I find myself profoundly interested that Lydia should have suffered qualms at Grantham that provoked her to escape Wickham and make her own way home.”
Swallowing, Mary asked, “Do you think he hurt her?”
Papa shook his head. “The young bebonneted maid did not mention it and thus we had best not dwell upon the possibility. There are too many mysteries, my dear. I doubt very much that George Wickham will be brought to justice by any of us — there is too much at stake, and I dare not gamble with your reputations. What justice might be had at any rate? Would the law support a suit? I know not — I am not legally minded.”
Another night was spent at a posting house, and at least this time Mary could slip between the sheets with a little more confidence that they had been washed since the previous occupant had used them. The ceiling sloped low above the bed, but she moved with care and avoided colliding with it. It was a testament to how weary she was that there were tears in her eyes as she lay down. The idea that Lydia might have enjoyed sleeping in a tucked-away cot such as this one occurred to her and she found herself made acutely miserable by the possibility. She would likely have thought little of Lydia's enthusiasm for the smaller adventures in life.
“I must not think of this,” she whispered to herself in the darkness. “If I am at the stage of missing even a potential quarrel, I shall weep all night and be no good for anything in the morning. You must be sensible, Mary, even if you are scolding yourself in an empty room. ”
Sensible Mary lay awake long into the night.
They were a weary pair the next morning, but both agreed to forgo breakfast to set off even before the sun was properly rising .
Mary fought her tiredness bravely, but after the first couple of hours found her head nodding and sleep overtaking her. She had not, before then, been one to sleep in a moving vehicle — not like Lydia, who seemed to be able to slide in and out of slumber easily wherever she was. Mary stirred briefly when Mr. Bennet leant forward to tuck the blanket about her more closely.
“There now, my Mary, rest on. I was merely suffering a moment of fatherly affection — you will be warm enough while I am with you at any rate. ”
They reached London by late morning, after numerous pauses in which Mr. Bennet or John asked at inns for any sighting of Lydia. Mary was surprised when Papa directed their stalwart driver to Montague Street in London rather than Gracechurch Street.
“Your snores seem to aid me in clarity of thought, my dear. I mean to make a brief call on an old acquaintance of mine from my school days. He is a magistrate and a good man. If anyone can advise me as to what may be done about Wickham, it is he. I would prefer to enquire of him rather than a Meryton man of law. Gossip, you know, would circulate throughout the town even before I had finished a consultation.”
“Aunt Phillips would circulate most of it.”
“Have a care, Mary; that sounded almost bitter.”
Tiredly, Mary sighed. “I had not meant it to, sir. My aunt is very well-meaning, I am sure.”
“She was always thus. Your mother and she were thick as thieves, if you will pardon the expression. The pair of them together were considered to be beauties — although I feel your mama had the edge there, naturally. Lizzy and Lydia have the look of them if my memory does not fail me.”
“Jane is the beauty at Longbourn.”
“I flatter myself that she favours the Bennet side. My own mother was of a similar colouring.” He paused. “You also, I feel, remind me of your late grandmother.”
He seemed disposed to talk, in that last hour to the heart of the city, and Mary thought he had never before spoken so freely with her of their heritage. Mr. Bennet, in a nostalgic mood, related to her some of the stories of the late Mrs. Bennet and the surprisingly romantic way in which she had come to wed his papa .
“And did they have a contented marriage, sir?”
“It was always peaceful at Longbourn in those days. My father was not one for talking and my mother not one for doing so unnecessarily. Yes,” he answered her, considering, “I would have said it was contented. Certainly more so than…well, we appear to have entered Montague Street. I will, if you do not object, leave you in the carriage while I go in. It will be safe enough if you keep the shades lowered and John is on the box. I hope I will not be above twenty minutes, Mary, and then we will go on to Gracechurch Street. ”
Mary had no objection to offer, although she was eager to rise from sitting for so long, and she dutifully lowered the shades once Papa had closed the door behind himself.
She waited peacefully for perhaps ten minutes, and then was stirred from her reverie by the sound of shouting outside. After trying to determine the nature of the noise, Mary debated internally whether or not to draw up the shades to see what might be amiss. Her decision was rendered unnecessary by the sudden movement of the carriage – first a lurch forward and then a rapid motion over the cobbled street .
Alarmed, Mary called out for John and, holding onto the strap, sharply tapped the roof. There was no response to her confused enquiry and neither were the horses pulled to a halt. She raised the shade nearest her with a free hand, not daring, given the rocking of the carriage, to cross over to the other side .
She saw little but a grey horse trotting beside the carriage, the rider's face obscured by a strip of cloth tied behind his head and his hat pulled low over his brow .
“Is it highwaymen?” she asked herself aloud, drawing back quickly from the window and lowering the shade once more. “No, of course not, in the middle of the day? What can it be then?”
Receiving no answer to her questions, Mary sat as comfortably as she was able on the seat and kept a firm grasp of the strap above her. The speed at which they were travelling was shocking for a town, and such a noise the men made. As though they took her father's carriage with no attempt at secrecy !
It was all Too Much for Mary, particularly given the worries of the previous days, and as she endured being tossed about inside and feeling thoroughly sick into the bargain, her temper mounted .
Naturally, the supplanting driver did not possess the same skill as steady, reliable John, and thus it was inevitable that after a little time an accident would occur.
She was prepared for it, could even say she had been expecting it, but to say she was ready for her jolting confines to sway suddenly and then turn completely would have been stretching the truth .
Mary heard, with perfect calm, a surprised shout from without and the crack of the axle, and felt the thud of the wheel as it departed from its mooring. She rightly guessed the direction in which gravity would pull and bracing her feet on the opposite bench, she prepared herself for the impact and the inevitable shock that would come .
Glass splintered, and although she threw her arm up to protect her eyes, a stray shard of it caught her cheek and stung. Once stillness came, Mary's eyes opened, blazing with fury .
She took a moment to orient herself before proceeding to climb up to open the only available door. Her exit route was now above her, the shade dangled down and she could see the canopy of a tree through the broken glass .
“I say! The door is trying to open!” exclaimed a foolish young male voice, saturated with astonishment .
“Doors,” muttered Mary, acidly, “do not attempt to open themselves.” She strained a little to release the catch and then, once it came free, pushed with all her might to swing the door out of the way. Her head emerged and then her shoulders .
“A lady!” another young man shouted, nonplussed. “Langley, there was a girl in there. Oh dear .”
“Well, help her out of there, good fellow,” came the prompt answer. “Armstrong, you are closer — climb up and offer the lady your hand.”
The young lady declined, with some asperity, the hand of her abductor, a thin youth who climbed onto the wreckage with agility. He made the error of attempting to assist her regardless and encountered a piercing glare for his trouble.
“You may remove your hand from my person, sir — not that I think you deserve to be called so but I am too well-bred to hurl any other names at you. Desist at once and if you have any shred of decency,” Mary demanded, “you will turn your backs as I climb out. ”
Astonishingly, the highwaymen (who were decidedly amateurs) did so. With great effort, Mary emerged from her temporary prison and, as soon as she stood on solid ground, brushed off her skirts. Having done so, she surveyed the five idiots before her .
They were fashionably dressed, with boots highly polished, no more than twenty years of age, and looking sheepishly at one another as though wondering what they might do now. Oddly enough, Mary noted, they were all in their shirt sleeves.
Miss Mary Bennet, Papa's most sensible daughter, wasted no time. She appeared to be in some sort of park and must return as soon as may be to Montague Street. Crossing to the nearest of the young men, who had dismounted from his horse, she yanked the reins from his expensively gloved hand and made to lead the horse to a more suitable spot. One of the young men, who sported a yellow waistcoat, called out to her.
“I say!” he objected, his speech demonstrating a higher class than his behaviour, “You ought not to take Bromwich's horse — horse theft is a serious offence. ”
Mary dropped the finely sewn reins and marched over to the hapless speaker, jabbing him in the chest to add emphasis to her words .
“One might think,” she said through her teeth, “that you would have the good manners to apologise for abducting me, for destroying my father's carriage, and for causing both him and me undue distress. The very least,” she said with a particularly vicious jab to the man's chest, “that even an overbred cawker such as yourself might do is assist a lady home by means of a horse. I do not attribute much intelligence to any of you, however, given that you have all forgotten to wear your coats. Your nursemaids must be beside themselves. ”
The young man stared at her in astonishment, his attention absolutely arrested by the woman before him who had not, against all odds, gone into strong hysterics in the face of their error.
“I…I beg your pardon, madam,” he stammered, flushing to the roots of his hair. “We are all members of a club, you see. The…the shirt sleeves, it is to demonstrate equality between us.” He swept his fingers through his thick brown hair and added, “We wished to close the divide as we range from duke to a mere baron.” He nodded in the direction of the man named Bromwich, who waved his hand, encouraging his friend to continue. “We are very open, you know. The carriage...it was all a wager we made last night. Well, this morning really...and we had not thought that there was anyone within.”
Mary took a step back, the better to observe his brainlessness. “Such egalitarianism. I am overwhelmed. You might,” hissed she, seeing them blink at her sarcasm, “have considered that opening the door to be a better way of establishing whether or not anyone was within, rather than ill-thought assumption.” With a steely glare, Mary addressed the collection of halfwits. “I recommend that you return to Oxford or Cambridge and apply yourselves to bettering your sad characters rather than abducting unsuspecting damsels who have rather better things to do than…” she paused briefly to find sufficient words to disparage them, “than to spend valuable time with five of the silliest boys in the country. ”