Chapter Forty
I t had been some struggle, certainly, to mount Bromwich's horse by herself, but all things considered, it might have been worse. She had always favoured slightly fuller skirts than the more fashionably fitted ones her sisters wore, and on this day, at this time, she was content with her preference for comfort. It made mounting onto the gentleman's saddle somewhat more modest, and as she absolutely refused to sit astride like a man, she was obliged to cling on as best she could. Mary found the brief loss of dignity to be well worth the satisfaction of once again declining the assistance from her audience of dumbfounded fools .
The gentleman in the yellow waistcoat had stood stock still, staring at her in silence as she mounted the beast before he leapt to action .
“My lady! Wait, I beg you.”
Mary, grappling with the reins and attempting to decide which direction to ride in without sliding off, gave him her gracious attention. Perhaps it was the respectful form of address — she hoped she was not a vain creature but there was truly something pleasing in his assumption that she was a member of the nobility .
“Well? I must return to my father, sir.”
He mounted his own horse, a pretty creature with a coat so pale it seemed to glimmer gold. “I beg that you would permit me to escort you, my lady. Might I have the honour of leading the horse? It will enable you to retain your balance better — that saddle is not made for you. I can return you to your father swiftly and it will enable me to offer my apologies to him.”
Miss Mary Bennet's hesitation was visible. “You think I ought to trust one of those responsible for my being removed from my father in the first place?” She wrinkled her brow in thought, regretful that she could not refuse all their offers of assistance, and then said firmly, “You had better all come along.” To add emphasis, she momentarily released a hand from the reins and with a stern finger, gave them to understand that she meant each of them. “You will better be able to assure my father of your contrition if you do so, and I expect you to immediately offer compensation for the loss of his carriage. I do not know what we are to do about our travel arrangements, but for now, I will use this horse. ”
The man on the golden horse nodded repeatedly, his eyes filled with a disturbing adoration she had never before seen directed toward herself. He was evidently a simpleton .
“Bromwich has no horse, so he will stay with the carriage until we send another mount for him — will that suit, do you think?”
“I say, Langley!” Bromwich protested, but then, meeting his friend's eye, added, “Oh very well. Viscount Langley will act for me in the matter of restitution — it was a silly bet, after all, but having made it we were honour bound to see it through.”
“Honour bound?” Mary's tone made it clear what she thought of this excuse but she did not pursue the matter. They looked suitably chagrined as it was. “Let us depart then, gentlemen — my father will grow anxious and I wish to leave. You,” she nodded graciously to the fool on the golden horse, “may lead this beast until we reach Papa.”
The men, saving Bromwich, were soon atop their steeds, and Viscount Langley, who seemed to be seen by the others in the light of a leader, positioned his horse beside Mary's and took the reins .
“It is very bad that none of us thought to open the door of the carriage,” he began. “Pray forgive us. I hope you will accept the use of any one of my carriages until we acquire a new one to replace your own. Horses too, of course, though I do not think your carriage horses are hurt.”
Mary, by no means proof against a quick, sincere apology, nodded stiffly and grasped the ridge of the saddle to maintain her seat. “That will be acceptable. I thank you.”
“No, no,” replied Langley, softly, “it is the very least we ought to do — Bromwich was correct, of course. It was a wager that ought not have been made. We were in our cups, alas, but you need not fear that we are not able to compensate, you know.”
“Yes, you mentioned that you ranged from duke to baron. I had not supposed you to be insolvent, Lord Langley.”
There was a certain charm to his boyish grin. “Might I introduce us to you? It is irregular, I am afraid, but…” he broke off at Mary's sudden laughter, which she quickly checked .
“Irregular! Yes, I should say it is. However, it cannot be helped and knowing your names may well be useful once I see my father. Continue.”
“Armstrong, you had better be first. May I present His Grace the Duke of Shrewsbury to your notice. Also, Lord Brentford his younger brother. Riding directly behind you are Sir Robert Kilbride and remaining behind with the carriage is my Lord Bromwich.”
“Ought to have mentioned Bromwich before me, Langley,” called Kilbride from his horse and then, managing a half bow, begged the lady's pardon.
“It would have confused matters, Kilbride,” retorted Langley. “I can hardly introduce a man before you if he is not present, now can I? If I were to do that I would have to reel off every peer in the country and we would be here forevermore. If you will permit me to encourage your horse to veer to the left of the park, madam, we will take a shortcut through Farrow Avenue.”
Mary, having some difficulty in staying on the saddle, nodded. She was pleased that Viscount Langley seemed not to notice the effort it took her, regardless of his impolite staring in her direction. They rode in silence, with Mary having little interest in breaking it for several minutes before Lord Langley spoke again.
“Might…would you be so good as to furnish us with your name?”
Fixing him with a look, Mary contemplated scolding him for his impertinence but relented. She supposed she was a good enough Christian to forgive where repentance was apparent, despite the enormous inconvenience to herself .
“I am Mary Bennet.” To reply so briefly seemed churlish so she added, “Papa's estate is in Hertfordshire but we mean to visit relatives in town.”
“And…” stammered Lord Langley, gratified by this information, “do you live at home in Hertfordshire? That is,” he amended, seeing her brow wrinkle, “is Bennet…your maiden name? ”
Mary wondered what deranged nonsense he was spouting and awaited clarification. It was helpfully provided from behind her by Sir Robert Kilbride .
“What Langley means is, are you married?”
She was not used to exercise, it was clear, thought Mary. Once this dramatic period of her life was over, she would embark on a regime of regular riding so that the exertion did not cause her face to redden so much. Elizabeth would doubtless encourage walking instead, but riding must certainly be undertaken.
“I am unmarried, Lord Langley, although why you could not simply ask outright is quite beyond me. It is only Papa to whom you need make your apologies — there is no husband to object.”
Mr. Bennet, who had, a little earlier, stepped out from his old friend's house at the urgent behest of the footman, found himself astounded at the story his coachman had regaled him with. A gang of ruffians with covered faces had heaved him from his perch, quite taking him unawares, and had driven off with Miss Mary still within !
It had taken twenty minutes of enquiry to ascertain the direction in which the men had gone and the loan of a pair of horses from Mr. Hughes the magistrate before Mr. Bennet could pursue. He attempted to form articulate words to his old servant .
“That this should happen in broad daylight on a respectable street, John! Have I not suffered enough these last days — am I Job, that all calamity must come on me at once?”
To Mr. Bennet, all seemed disastrous. Not only had his youngest daughter Lydia been lost to him for days but now Mary, who had seemed so sensible of late, was gone also .
“Now, sir, you look a mite grey, if you will pardon the impertinence — let me ride out in the direction the onlookers said they had gone. I will come back as soon as may be and say if there is anything further.”
John was stopped by Mr. Bennet's deep inhalation and looked to the end of the cobbled street where his master's attention was fixed. Five horses made their way up Montague Street at a sedate walk. At the front of the group, surrounded by gentlemen lacking in coats, was Miss Mary.
“Mary! What is the meaning of this? John and I were set to search for you.” Mr. Bennet waited for them to come near and dismounted from his horse. John, doing likewise, went to assist Miss Mary down .
She was received into her father's arms .
“Papa, I fear the carriage has been sadly damaged but the gentlemen responsible,” with this, she gestured to the men behind her, “have said that they will recompense you, and Lord Langley here has offered his own equipage for the present.”
Seeing that Mr. Bennet was inclined to silence as he digested this, Viscount Langley stepped forward to make his bow. “We are all deeply sorry, sir. We did not think to ensure that the carriage was unoccupied before we made off with it.”
“Ought not to have made off with it all really,” added the young Duke of Shrewsbury, reasonably. “Varleigh made us a wager in the club and we were bosky enough last night to accept it. ”
“You promised the use of a carriage, Lord Langley,” said Mary firmly, with a worried look at her father's pallour. “Now would be most convenient.”
“Yes — yes, of course. Kilbride, would you be a good fellow and relay the message to my stables? I want most particularly to speak to Mr. Bennet here.”
Lord Brentford, who had remained quiet for most of the escapade, now spoke, shaking his head vigorously. “A bad idea, Langley — a very bad idea. Not a good time at all.”
He was turned upon by his friend. “What do you know of it, Brentford? I will thank you to mind your own affair and make sure Armstrong pays up his fair share to Mr. Bennet. He might even think of parting with his greys, I should say. It is not a bad idea — it is the most marvellous idea that ever was had and I declare I will not be moved an inch from my intention.”
“Ought at least to speak to Lady Langley,” cautioned Brentford. “It would go much easier if you did.”
“ Mama will think her splendid,” Langley replied, impassioned, “and if you think I will take advice from a second son two years my junior…”
“That will do , gentlemen.” Mr. Bennet's tone was stinging and the young men turned with instant attention. You, sir,” he addressed Lord Brentford, “will oblige me by relaying the message that will acquire me a carriage. The sooner I may get my daughter off this street and to our destination the better it will be. Mary,” he said, his tone gentling, “is there any reason why I must exhaust my depleted patience and listen to this,” indicating the abashed viscount, “young man make petition to me on the street?”
“None whatever, Papa,” replied Mary crisply, her cheeks scarlet. “At no point have I been alone with any one of them. If there is a blessing to be had it is that it is fairly unexceptionable to be escorted in one's carriage by several gentlemen. ”
“Very well then,” said Mr. Bennet, handing Lord Langley a card. “I am greatly inconvenienced by your asinine wager, at a time when I can little afford the time required to await restitution. You may wait upon me at Longbourn in a week or two and enlighten me as to your brilliant plan to amend matters. In the meantime, I have changed my mind. You may send a carriage to the Gardiner residence at Gracechurch Street once your friend returns. I,” continued Mr. Bennet, “will wave down a cab to take me thence — the sooner to escape the foolishness of youths. Good day, sirs. John, inform Mr. Hughes that Miss Mary is restored to me and that I await his advice on the other matter.”
With that, Mr. Bennet offered his arm to Mary and led her to the end of the street, hailing a hackney with little difficulty and briskly giving the direction before climbing in himself. Having done so, he sighed deeply and covered his eyes with a thin hand .
“I wonder if I have not aged twenty years these last few days, my Mary. You are indeed unharmed?”
“Quite unharmed,” said Mary, her thoughts reeling from the strangeness of what had just occurred. Lord Langley must be an odd sort of young man to have been so affected by a scolding.
“If only Lydia might be brought back to us in similar condition, but I am afraid she has not your powers of good sense, my dear. I very much fear that her folly will be her downfall. It is,” said Mr. Bennet, heavily, “a regret that will follow me for the remainder of my days that I was not a better father to her. I ought to have taken the trouble to check her.”
“We will speak to Uncle Gardiner,” answered Mary, equally burdened. “Come now, Father. It has been a long and trying journey for us since we left home. At the very least we know that she had the cunning to leave Wickham — is that not a little hopeful?”
“Hopeful, yes,” repeated Mr. Bennet, “ but , my Mary, what has happened to your sister since then? I almost can persuade myself that to find her alive and well would do away with my anger in favour of sheer relief. If only…if only she does not lie in a ditch somewhere, all might be forgiven her. ”
To Mary's great alarm, Mr. Bennet's eyes watered and he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief and wiped them .
“You are weary, Papa — do not speak like this. It does us no good.”
“Yes. Of course you are correct, it does no good; perhaps it is the shock of the day also. To step outside and realise that you were not where I had left you, Mary, and to hear John's story…”
“It was only a silly escapade made by boys who are too wealthy and indolent to know how to use their time better, Father. I do not believe there was any malice in them. ”
“They are in desperate need of a firm hand. What will your mother say, I wonder,” replied Papa, in something like his usual tone, “when we return with tales that you became so unconventionally acquainted with so many young men at once. A titled lord amongst their number too.”
“A duke, his brother, a viscount, another lord, and also a mere baron by my reckoning. ”
“We had much better not mention them, my dear.”
“As you wish, Papa,” Mary said quietly, “but you have instructed Lord Langley to call upon you at Longbourn.”
“So I have. How foolish of me. I must be getting old. Ah — we are nearing Gracechurch Street. I shall be glad to get you within doors and sat down to a good meal.”
“I would eschew the good meal for a bowl of soup and the more quickly to bed, Papa. ”
“Little doubt your aunt will oblige you, Mary.” Mr. Bennet's voice was a little weak and he lapsed into silence until it was time to hand his daughter out and pay the driver .
The knocker had been removed from the door but they were admitted by a manservant who apologetically informed them his master was out and his mistress was occupied elsewhere in the house.
“Never mind, man; if you will show us to a room with a fire and send in some refreshment for myself and my daughter, that will do nicely. Tell your mistress that her brother-in-law and niece have arrived. We would not ordinarily presume to impose upon Mrs. Gardiner's hospitality but I will beg her pardon for that when she is better able to receive us.”
Nonplussed, the servant gestured to a door that led off the hallway and said he would announce their arrival to his mistress as soon as possible.
“Refreshment first, I think. If you can lay your hand on my brother's brandy, so much the better. ”
“Certainly, sir,” bowed the servant and exited the room.
Five minutes later a maid entered bearing a tray. The brandy had been located, it seemed, along with a heavy pot of tea for the young lady. Cook, the maid informed them, had only this morning baked a lemon cake, the recipe for which had been given by the Countess of Matlock's chef. The maid was sure that Mrs. Gardiner would wish her relatives to be served a few slices .
By the time Mr. Bennet and his daughter had poured and drunk their first cup of tea and together consumed three slices of cake, ten minutes had elapsed. The fire was warm and Mary began to consider removing her coat. She wished they might have been visiting Gracechurch Street with better tidings than they brought — it would certainly upset her aunt's peace to hear such a lack of news about Lydia.
Quick steps were heard coming down the stairs and an eager, familiar voice floated through the partially open door from the hall. “Aunt, which room would Farley have put them in? Papa! Mary ! Oh, Aunt — which door ? I can hardly…”
The door swung open and Lydia, clad in a dressing gown and night rail, with her hair in the wildest disarray about her shoulders, surged forward towards them. Mrs. Gardiner, a little more conventional in her attire, entered the room behind them, red-eyed but smiling, and had the presence of mind to close the door.
Mary's cup fell to the floor and Mr. Bennet's hand, which had been stretched out toward the brandy decanter, dropped strengthless to his side .
“Mary! Papa! How can you be here so soon? Aunt Gardiner only sent off a servant to send the express an hour ago. Did you guess that I should be here? No, how could you guess it for I did not really know myself. Oh, Mary, do not… do not cry . I have been weeping for hours and you will make me begin again. ”
Lydia, her gait uneven, did not so much as pause in her step before she reached her sister and cast her arms about her. Mary was too astonished to move, and stood stiffly in her arms.
“Do embrace me, Mary — you can be as furious with me as you please and I will bear it but do, do embrace me first. You cannot possibly know how much I have wished for my family — truly I have.”
Mary wrested her arms free and threw them tightly about Lydia's shoulders, drawing her younger sister in close to her. “Can I not know it?” Mary answered hoarsely, trying her best to control herself sufficiently to speak. “When I have spent days fearing that I would never again see you?” Mary put her hands to Lydia's shoulders to push her a little away, the better to see her. “I have never been more amazed in all my life nor so wholeheartedly relieved. Let me sit down, Lydia — I have a terrible feeling of faintness coming over me. ”
Mary sat but would not release Lydia's hand. Mr. Bennet, who had been staring at the scene before him in dumbfounded astonishment, had to make do with Lydia's other hand to draw his youngest daughter near him .
He found himself quite unmanned when her fingers squeezed his, and for many minutes he could not speak. Mr. Bennet looked helplessly at Mrs. Gardiner, who held in her hand a small towel .
“Lydia, my dear, let me at least dry your poor feet.”
Lydia Bennet's face was wan but her smile was bright through tears. “What care I for my feet now, Aunt, when I am so happy? I have been in the depths of misery such as I have never felt and now, so suddenly, my spirits are restored. I do not think I can ever be unhappy again.”
Mary's eyes followed the wet footprints across the floor and then glanced down to see Lydia's bare feet as Mrs. Gardiner knelt. She gasped in horror. “Lydia!”
The youngest Miss Bennet looked down a little ruefully and pressed Mary closer to her. “It matters not, Mary — they are sore, of course, and very ugly in colour but it is of no moment.”
“No moment?” Mary echoed, fresh tears forming. “What have you suffered, Lydia, that your feet should look so?”
Practically, Mrs. Gardiner finished her task of gently dabbing Lydia's feet dry and rose. “We were soaking them and about to put ointment on the worst of the sores, Mary, when your arrival was announced. Lydia did not wait to even put slippers on before dashing for the door. Mr. Bennet, you must have a good glass of this brandy and you will soon feel a little better, I am sure. ”
Mr. Bennet, with trembling fingers, accepted the glass and swallowed deeply .