The Shocking Experiments of Miss Mary Bennet

Chapter 1 A Request for Assistance

A Request for Assistance

It does not matter at all that my mother never loved me.

I have always known it; it has never signified.

Reverend Quindley’s Admonishments for Godly Young Ladies says, “You are commanded to honor your father and mother, but there is no reciprocal demand placed upon them. Therefore love humbly, obediently, and without expectation.” Why should it distress me?

I have never found much to interest me when it comes to her conversation, either.

When one thinks about it from a purely logical perspective—which as you know, Herr Holzmann, I strive always to do—it is absurd that mothers and daughters are expected to be so firmly attached to one another solely because of the connection of blood.

My mother did her duty by me; she fed me and clothed me and brought me up (nearly) to respectability.

Certain species of newt, you know, eat their young, especially if there is a danger of overpopulation.

My mother, herself cursed with far too many offspring and all of us daughters, is comparatively merciful.

I lead with this, Holzmann, well aware that it will confuse you, for I have something very shocking to tell you, and I do not wish for you to draw the wrong conclusions.

No doubt you are now quite bewildered: Why should your friend and colleague Sir Gregory suddenly write as though he were a young lady with difficult parents?

(Do I sound pompous? I am told I often sound pompous. You have never said so, though. It tends to happen when I am nervous.)

Here is the truth, my friend: The country squire Sir Gregory G—, with whom you have corresponded for many months on subjects ranging from mathematics to chemistry to the movement of celestial bodies, is actually a gentleman’s daughter of nineteen years.

That is—me. My name is Miss Mary Bennet, third of five daughters of Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.

There. I have told you at last.

Dear Holzmann, do not be angry. If you have not already thrown this letter in the fire in disgust, I shall explain.

I did not mean to deceive you, my friend—at least, not for long.

After I read your enchanting little partial proof of Goldbach in the Journal , I was so taken with the neatness and creativity of it that I felt I simply must write you.

However, I had by then learned not to expose my true identity when writing to men of letters.

I will not bore you with the details, but had I not written under my true name, the isolation of rhodium would properly be attributed to me, not to Mr. Wollaston. I singed my eyebrows off for nothing.

I meant only for “Sir Gregory” to pay you his compliments and then disappear again. I meant it as a favor to you as well—I did not intend to bring scandal upon you for corresponding with an unmarried female, for I did not know your domestic situation (and indeed still do not).

I thought, truly, that that initial letter would be the beginning and end of Sir Gregory. But you wrote back, Holzmann. You not only wrote back, but you had the most gratifying things to say about the points I had raised in my letter, and—best of all—questions of your own.

Is there anything better than a question you do not yet know the answer to? I could not help but let “Sir Gregory” take up the pen once more.

It grieved me to deceive you, for I soon found in you such a friend as I have never known in all my life, even if we never wrote of anything personal.

I do not know if you are twenty-five or sixty, married or single, rich or poor—only that you are a Swiss gentleman of letters.

And yet I know you draw your integrals with little curls at the end to distinguish them from your S ’s.

I know that you prefer Leibniz to Newton, and that you look with as much scorn as I do upon the theory of phlogiston.

In short, my friend, I know you better than I have ever known anyone, and you know me better than anyone has ever cared to.

(I included the bit about my mother because I believe that cases of wayward young ladies such as I are often blamed on the mother. I assure you that no mother in the world could have prevented my being like this.)

I tell you the truth now because I am in great danger.

You will have noticed that this letter is burnt in places and smells more strongly of chemicals than usual.

I must beg you to come here without delay, for matters are moving beyond my control.

I believe you will, my friend, for even if you despise my deception, you will be unable to resist the knowledge I have to offer.

If that does not draw you, I do not know you at all. Pray come quick, for if you do not, you may come not to aid me but to avenge my memory. Even now—

But no, the sun is almost up, and I must post this without delay. I will tell you the rest when I see you.

Yours sincerely,

MISS MARY BENNET

I expected you by now, Holzmann.

It is now nearly three weeks since my last letter.

Not only have you not appeared in Meryton, but you have not even responded.

I must own, sir, I am rather disappointed in you.

I thought a man of such intellect would be better able to see past the prison of my sex in the name of the meeting of the minds that we have hitherto shared. In that, it seems, I am mistaken.

I am not being pompous. When a friend has made it clear he no longer desires any intimacy, a withdrawal into frosty formality is, I believe, indicated.

I suppose, Holzmann, I owe you a debt of gratitude. You have not, at least, written to my parents. Nor have I heard word of any of the theories or discoveries I shared with you as Sir Gregory making their way to the public under your name.

Goodbye, Holzmann. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. At least I wish I wished you the best. At the moment I own that my fondest wish is that you will forget all your Latin and discover a fossil that has been discovered a dozen times before. And then fall down a well.

(Later)

Before I could post this letter, matters changed.

I intended to let you go; I am afraid that will not now be possible.

The situation has progressed; perhaps even where you make your home (London?

As I always write to you care of the Journal , I’ve no idea where you live) you have heard of some of the strange events that have transpired around Meryton.

The peculiar affair of the Netherfield piano, I believe, made the papers.

Holzmann, you must come. It is your own work as much as mine that went into the creation of my—no, our—project.

Indeed, were it not for your enthusiasm when I first proposed the idea of personal elementation, I am not sure I should have pursued the matter at all.

Your warm support for the idea that human personalities, like matter, could be broken down into essential building blocks was, on the more frustrating days, what spurred me forward.

That, and the wonderful book. I know, I know—I never told you in so many words that I planned to put our theories into practice.

Well, I did, and I have, and now he has escaped and I do not know what I shall do.

I remain,

Your respectful colleague,

MARY BENNET.

P.S. Do, do, do come. If we can bring matters under control, I daresay our names will be inscribed in the annals of science alongside Newton and Cavendish and Copernicus. Yours will, at any rate.

P.P.S. If it is the female issue that worries you, I assure you it needn’t. I have neither beauty nor charm. You will not, I promise, fall in love with me.

P.P.P.S. Nor I with you.

P.P.P.P.S. As you know I have never included a postscript before; now I have included four. From this you may deduce how my usually (I flatter myself) organized mind is in the greatest disorder. Please , Holzmann. I need you.