The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

Why does Papa weep so for him? wondered Charlie as, still in all their dirt from the search, they went to the room where Ned Skinner lay.

The big frame looked quite shrunken in the bed. Fitz drew up a chair and sat close by his head, his hand reaching for Ned’s, plucking at the coverlet. Bidden be seated, Charlie put his chair just beyond his father’s, for Ned had turned to look at Fitz, and Charlie wanted to see his face. Ned smiled, suddenly looking quite absurdly young, though he was eight-and-thirty.

“Charlie has to know,” he said, voice clear and strong.

“Yes, Ned, he must know, it’s right and fitting. Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”

“It’s not my place, Fitz. You tell him.”

It came out baldly: “Ned and I are half brothers.”

“That does not surprise me, Papa.”

“Because you’re a Darcy. A man could never ask for a better brother than Ned, Charlie. Yet I couldn’t acknowledge him. Not my doing, but my father’s. He made me swear a terrible oath that I would never reveal the relationship. With Ned, too young at the time to swear any oaths, he preferred to convince him he was unworthy.”

“Grandfather? Harold Hunsford Darcy?”

“Yes, Harold Darcy. Thank God every day that you never knew him, Charlie. A truly evil man. He ran dens of thieves, cutthroats-and brothels!-in Sheffield, Manchester, Liverpool, many other northern cities. Why? To amuse himself! He was so bored by the life of a gentleman that he took to crime. Indeed, he fancied himself a master criminal. Most of his activities he ran from his favourite brothel in Sheffield. Ned’s mother, a Jamaican, was his passion-yet he forced her to whore for him. She died of the pox when Ned was three. Pater died of the pox too, though my poor mother never knew that. His was hideously malignant-it killed him in six months, raving and demented. Mama was never well after bearing Georgiana, and died too. All the deaths happened in the same year. He wrote me a letter on his deathbed, and exacted the oath when he gave me that awful document. It exulted in his deeds, and told me of Ned’s whereabouts. After I buried him I went to Sheffield and took Ned, and gave him to be reared by respectable people. I was seventeen, Ned was four. Whenever I could, I spent time with him. So strange, Charlie! I looked into that dark little face with its curly black hair, and I loved him with might and main. Far more than ever I did Georgiana. Anyway, after Harold died I glued my world back together again in Humpty-Dumpty fashion, with pride and hauteur my mortar. But having Ned to love, I was never quite alone.”

Charlie sat, numb and winded. So much answered! “Uncle Ned?” He touched Ned’s shoulder very delicately, since his father held the hand. “Uncle Ned, you did a wonderful thing. Nearly fifty children will live because of you.” He managed a smile. “And live well, I pledge it.”

“Good.” Ned lay frowning for a long moment, then opened his dark eyes that were, Charlie could see now, so like Papa’s. “I have to wipe the slate clean.” He spoke suddenly, and in gasps. “Wipe it clean.”

“Then wipe it, Ned,” said Fitz.

“I murdered Lydia Wickham. Smothered her. Drunk. Out to it. Felt nothing. Too drunk.”

“Why, Ned? Not for my sake, surely.”

“Yes, for your sake. Easy to see you’d never be-rid of her. Never. Why? You’d done naught save give-that pair-money. On the cadge-always. So she thanked you by setting out to ruin you. You, the best man ever. When our father-died-you came to get me-give me a home-send me to school-spend time with me like an-equal-not you so high-and I-so low. I loved killing her!” He stared across Fitz to Charlie. “Look after your father. Won’t-be here to do it. You must.”

“I will, Uncle Ned. I will.”

Fitz was weeping inconsolably.

“Lydia had to go, Fitz,” Ned said more strongly, not gasping. “A foul-mouthed strumpet with naught on her mind except money, booze, fucking. So I set it up cunning and I killed her. Mirry and her men played into my hands-flew the coop. S’what I wanted, give Mirry the blame. Same brothel, new management. Miriam Matcham is her name. She’s murdered a dozen whores in her time, likes to watch some soulless pervert kill them. Just like our dad…Yes, Mirry Matcham will hang a dozen times over, so let her hang for Lydia. It will please Mrs. Bingley.” He closed his eyes. “Oh, I’m tired! Why am I so tired?”

“You’ll be buried at Pemberley as a Darcy,” said Fitz.

The eyes opened. “Can’t have that. Won’t have that.”

“Yes!” said Charlie.

“See, Ned? Your nephew echoes me.”

“Not fitting.”

“Yes, it is fitting! Your stone will say ‘Edward Skinner Darcy’ for all our world to see. Beloved brother of Fitzwilliam, Uncle of Charles, Georgiana, Susannah, Anne and Catherine. I wish it.”

“I do not. Charlie, please…”

“No. It is right and fitting.”

“Jupiter!” Ned cried suddenly, trying to lift his head. “I left him in a cave-give you directions-”

“He came home before you did, Ned.”

“Look after him. Best horse ever.”

“We’ll look after Jupiter.”

The pain, which he seemed to have held at bay by a Herculean effort of will, returned to rack him, and he screamed until given the strongest opium syrup. A little later he died, apparently asleep and in no pain.

Charlie broke his father’s hold on Ned’s hand and led him from the room.

“Come to my library,” Fitzwilliam Darcy said to his son. “We must talk before either of us sees your mother.”

“Do you really want to acknowledge Ned openly?” Charlie asked. “No, no, I don’t disapprove. I simply want to be sure that it wasn’t a passing fancy said to please poor Ned.”

“I must acknowledge him! He has done murder for me, though I swear on your mother’s head that I didn’t ask him to do it, or so much as hint at it. If the truth be known-he was too broken to live to tell all, I suspect-he has murdered other people for my sake. So that I might be prime minister of a Great Britain.” He put an arm across Charlie’s shoulders, partly affection, partly lack of strength. “Well, that is not going to happen. I shall remain in Parliament, but on the back benches. From the back benches I can wield as much influence as I’ll ever need. Your mother called it pride, but I would rather call it hubris-overweening pride. My head was filled with the desire to be prime minister, but perhaps one day you can be that. However, I’ll understand if you don’t choose a political career. In truth, politics are shabby and shoddy. I must apologise to you, dear Charlie, for making your life a misery when you were a child. In many ways I was as tyrannical as Father Dominus. But all that is gone. Ned Skinner shall not die in vain.”

“How much do we tell Mama?” Charlie asked, taking Papa’s full weight with a brimming heart. I have crossed the ditch filled with sharpened stakes that lies between boyhood and manhood: from now on, I am my father’s son.

“We will accede to Ned’s wishes. Miriam Matcham and her men can take the blame for Lydia’s murder. We’ll obtain proof that she looted Hemmings and fled the night Lydia died, and we’ll have Miss Scrimpton’s testimony to her false credentials. Though, as you are well aware, a Darcy of Pemberley’s testimony alone is quite enough to send Miriam Matcham and her minions to the gallows.”

“Whatever you think is best, Papa. Here, sit down.”

“We will bury Ned as befits my brother. I have none other, Charlie, and wish I could have given you a brother, even base-born. But I was too proud to whore, and I had my father’s horrific acts to point out to me what can happen to men of wealth and birth when they become bored. I went into Parliament, you have your Greek and Latin scholarship, so we have no need to walk in Harold Darcy’s footsteps.” He laughed wryly. “Besides which, I married into the Bennet family-quite enough to keep any man from boredom!”

“I begin to see why you opposed Mary’s crusade,” Charlie said. “You were afraid of what she might unearth about Harold Darcy if she started ferreting in Sheffield, which isn’t so far from Manchester. What did you do with Harold’s letter?”

“I burned it, and have never been sorry I did. As a boy I detested him, which may be why he became so attached to George Wickham, who toadied him shamelessly. I think George expected a huge bequest in the will, but it would have amused my father to inflate George’s hopes, then puncture them, especially with a living as a clergyman! If anyone knew how far that lay from George’s heart, it was my father. He delighted in that kind of cruelty. Though George never knew of his nefarious activities-had he, I would never have got rid of him. When George didn’t succeed with your Aunt Georgiana, I think his sharp eye soon spotted my love for your mother-why else would I have paid his debts and forced him to marry Lydia? Being married to Lydia suited him, as it kept him under my nose, and ensured that I would keep on paying his-and Lydia’s-debts.”

“Much of what you’ve said to me, Papa, must also be said to Mama, including a little of Lydia. But not who really murdered her.”

“Wise man! That will remain our secret.”

“What about Harold Darcy?”

“Perhaps an expurgated version?”

“Yes, Papa. Explain the who and why of Ned, and a fair number of Harold’s perfidies, but not the worst. Except that I insist you tell her of your oath to Harold about Ned’s relationship to you. She feared and disliked Ned, perhaps thinking that he had some hold over you, and that secretly you railed against that hold. She must be shown that you loved him as brothers love. Mama always understands relationships founded in blood.”

Fitz began to weep again; Charlie put an arm about his father’s bowed form and hugged him. What a difference it made, to know that the demigod was human after all!

“I’ll tell Mama. The more personal things you must tell her yourself when you’re able.” Emboldened by this radically softer, more approachable Papa, Charlie decided to dare all. “It grieves your children very much when you and Mama quarrel, but even more when we can skate on the ice between you. Can that state of affairs be mended?”

“Don’t press your luck, Charlie. Good night.”

EXHAUSTED, FITZ DID not wake until mid-morning of the next day, to find Elizabeth sitting by his bed, busily writing at a little table. But the face he saw was Ned’s, and he came to consciousness with a despairing cry.

“Ned! Ned!”

She put down her pen immediately and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand. “Hush, Fitz! I’m here. Ned is at peace, do you remember?”

Of course he did, now that sleep was banished, but he couldn’t staunch the tears. “Oh, Ned, Ned! How can I go on without Ned, Elizabeth?”

“I suppose the way I would, were it Jane. Only time can mend some wounds, and then never quite. I felt my father’s going badly, and mourned a long time. You were so good to me then! I had poor, sickly little Charlie-isn’t it amazing, Fitz, how he has grown? When he came to see me yesterday evening I was-stunned. It seemed as if he went out to look for the children still a boy, and came back a man. Even his face has changed. The beauty that so plagued him is gone-vanished into thin air! He’s very, very handsome, but the epicene quality is absolutely gone.”

She was talking, he understood, to give him time to compose himself, but this grief defied society’s rules. It would be many days before he could fully command himself.

“What a feast for Caroline Bingley could she see me now,” he said, taking the handkerchief she held out.

“Just as well then that I sent her packing.”

He managed a watery laugh. “Yes.”

“Ned worked very hard for you,” said Elizabeth. “Jane is more settled now that she knows who murdered Lydia. Charlie has notified the Sheffield constabulary, and this woman Matcham and her minions will be arrested. If it were not for Ned’s work, we would never have known. I wish I could have thanked him, especially thanked him as my brother. So does Jane.”

“What are you writing?” he asked, to change the subject; it hurt to talk about Ned.

“Oh, just lists for Mary, who is orphanage mad. It was a way to fill in time until you awakened.”

He groaned. “Will orphanages be any easier to bear than a book about the ills of England?”

“Probably not, except that the worst Mary of all to bear would be an idle one. Poor Angus! He’s so deeply in love with her, and she won’t see it.”

He sat up, mopped his face, blew his nose. “I went to bed in all my dirt, and need a bath. Would you ask Meade to prepare it for me?” He looked at her, smiling. “We must talk, but not yet. After Ned is buried and things settle down. Our son was impudent enough to say that our children are tired of skating on the ice between us, and somehow we have to melt that ice. In a few days. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes,” she said, rising and moving the table away. “I’ll leave you to your ablutions, my dear.”

“I love you, Elizabeth.”

“And I, you.”

“I only said I wished I had never married you to hurt you, to elicit some kind of response. It was a terrible thing to say.”

“Later, Fitz. Have your bath.”

She gave him a wonderful smile and went out of the room, her papers in one hand.

Jane and Mary were in the pink morning room, a delightful small apartment reserved for the ladies. Of Kitty there was no sign.

“Fitz is awake,” Elizabeth said, coming in. She tugged the bell cord. “I’m in need of coffee. Anybody else?”

Having ordered coffee for three, she sat down at the table, littered with papers. “Where’s Kitty?”

“With Georgie,” said Jane. “Today is how to be queenly, I think, or perhaps how to be charming.”

“She certainly needs tuition on both,” said Mary with a snort.

Of course the subject of Ned Skinner had already been talked to death, but it continued now Elizabeth had joined them.

“And to think how much I disliked him!” said Jane for the tenth time. “All the while, he was making his investigations on our behalf. Lydia can rest in peace now that her murderer won’t escape retribution. William says that England hangs many more felons than the rest of Europe combined, but they should hang if they kill innocent people. I just wish Father Dominus had lived to be hanged. Especially considering what he did to poor Ned.”

“Which reminds me,” said Mary, tired of Jane on the subject of Lydia and hanging. “You have eight children at Bingley Hall for the summer, Jane, yet it seems you spend your days and your nights at Pemberley. They’re already as wild as savages out of a jungle-what will they be like when finally you go home?”

Jane looked insufferably smug. “Oh, I’ve solved all of the difficulties inherent in children, Mary dear. When Lydia died I sent for Caroline Bingley. After Lizzie’s insult she couldn’t darken Pemberley’s doors, but she does so enjoy her summers here in the north. She has been staying with me since just after dear Lydia’s funeral. The children are petrified of her, even Hugh and Arthur. She spanks them! I can never raise a finger against them, I confess-they stand there looking so contrite and adorable! But that doesn’t wash with Caroline! Down come the trousers, and she spanks them hard! Of course they are howling as if being killed before the first smack lands-it is the sight of her huge hands.” Jane sighed. “But I will say this. They are much better behaved after Caroline takes over.”

“Does she spank the older ones?” asked Mary, fascinated.

“No, she canes them.”

“And Prissy?”

“She makes her walk for hours with a book balanced on her head, or practising her curtsies, or conjugating Latin verbs.”

“Does this mean you intend to stay here?” Elizabeth butted in.

“No, just that I may come and go as I please. Caroline really enjoys disciplining children,” said Jane.

“Now why does that not surprise me?” asked Mary.

Looking after twenty-seven boys and eighteen girls sat so ill with the Pemberley servants that, after a week of it, they rebelled.

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Darcy,” said an anguished Parmenter to Elizabeth, “but Children of Jesus is a misnomer. Children of Satan would be far closer to the mark.”

Elizabeth understood much that her butler had not said, but decided to appear tranquil, unimpressed. “Oh, dear!” she said placidly. “Tell me what has happened, Parmenter.”

“Everything!” he wailed. “We have done precisely what you wished, marm, down to closing the ballroom shutters and limiting the number of candles. We took the cots for the extra summer servants out of storage, put fresh straw in the mattresses, and made them up with clean sheets, blankets, nice cotton quilts. The old nursery commode chairs have been put behind a screen that the children knocked down immediately. Every toy in the attics was brought down, and now lies in pieces. Truly, marm, nothing has been overlooked! We set up trestle tables and benches for them to eat at, with knives, forks and spoons. Glasses for lemonade. And our thanks? Bedlam, marm, I swear! They do not like the food, and throw it all over the place. And they will not use the commodes! They squat like stray dogs to do their business, then throw it at the walls! They pulled the mattresses off the cots and slept on the floor amid puddles of-of-I leave it to your imagination. Oh, marm, the filth! Our lovely ballroom is ruined!”

“I assume that they refused to be bathed?”

“Absolutely, marm. In fact, they refuse to take off their robes, which stink to high heaven!”

“I see. In which case, Parmenter, lock every door and window opening into the ballroom, and do not unlock any of them until I am present and specifically instruct you.”

And off marched Elizabeth to find her sisters-but only after visiting Mr. Matthew Spottiswoode.

“Matthew, I do not care what you are doing, kindly abandon it!” she commanded, surging into his office.

As word had long spread of doings in the ballroom, he did not attempt to protest, simply folded his hands on his desk and gazed at her enquiringly. “Yes, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I want twenty of the biggest, hardiest nursemaids Lancashire can produce. I say Lancashire because I very much doubt that any big or hardy enough exist in Derbyshire. Offer them a king’s ransom to drop whatever they are doing and come to Pemberley at once-and I mean yesterday!”

“Certainly, Mrs. Darcy. Though I very much fear that, even for a king’s ransom, it will be some days before my quest bears fruit,” said Mr. Spottiswoode, eyes limpid, mouth perfectly straight, all laughter on the inside. “I take it you would like me to engage upon this myself?”

“Yes! And start in Manchester! Failing that, Liverpool.”

Alone among the sisters, Elizabeth had some appreciation of the causes underlying behaviour in the ballroom. She had no doubt that until their removal to Pemberley, the children had been closer to angels than mortal children usually are. Knowing this, everyone had expected the angelic conduct to continue. Whereas Elizabeth saw the last week as evidence of a new and different kind of terror. What, after all, did they know of any life save that which Father Dominus had inflicted upon them? And the many years of love would surely far outweigh the fear of him and Jerome that had come so very recently. If I were an eight-year-old Child of Jesus, she thought, walking Pemberley’s stunning cream-and-gilt corridors, what would I make of being bundled out of the only home I have ever known by a band of men, then locked inside an utterly alien environment? I think I would register my disapproval in every way at my disposal! And have we-Mary, Kitty, Jane, I-come near them since they arrived? No, we have not, doing what all women in our circumstances do-wait for servants to clean up them and any messes they make. But servants are-oh, a law unto themselves! If they dislike the work they are put to, they take out their spleen on whatever defenceless is at hand. In this case, the Children of Jesus themselves. No servile hand will have been raised against them, but one cannot say the same for servile tongues. They have been roared at, screamed at, reviled. I know it, I know it!

Well, she vowed as the end of her hike loomed in view, it is time to change all that. Not with sweetness and tenderness-they are not yet ready for those. But with authority from the people they will sense own the kind of authority Father Dominus did. With instructions aimed at teaching them how to go on. We did not rescue them to see them cast upon the world rudderless and poverty-stricken, which means that it is our responsibility to start their education here and now.

Jane, Mary and Kitty were enjoying a comfortable prose in the Pink Parlour; it continued exactly as long as it took Elizabeth to storm in.

“Jane,” she said wrathfully, “this is all your idea, so present me with no excuses as to why your sensibilities and delicate feelings preclude your participation! Kitty, doff that silly frivolity of a dress and don something made of mattress ticking! This instant, do you hear me? Mary, as you are responsible for thrusting the Children of Jesus into Pemberley’s bosom, turn your redoubtable skills at achieving things to good purpose!”

All three sisters gaped at her, jaws dropped, eyes huge.

“I am flattered to be deemed redoubtable, Lizzie, but I am in complete ignorance as to your good purpose,” said Mary. “Pray tell me what is amiss. Something is.”

“The Children of Jesus-Children of Satan, Parmenter calls them!-are behaving worse than savages. My servants are at their wits’ end, and if the four of us do not set them an example, I am going to be looking for some dozens of new servants, starting with a butler!” said Elizabeth between her teeth.

“Oh, dear!” whimpered Kitty, paling. “I do not have any dresses made of mattress ticking, Lizzie.”

“Jane, if you cry, I swear I’ll smack you! And harder than Caroline Bingley smacks your darling little Arthur, horrid child that he is! Meet me at the main entrance to the ballroom in half an hour, dressed for war.”

“I do believe that Lizzie exited in a puff of smoke,” said Mary, scenting a challenge and feeling hugely invigorated. “Well, girls, don’t dither! Kitty, if you have nothing you paid less than two hundred guineas for, I suggest you borrow a dress from one of the below-stairs maids. I’d give you something of mine, but it would trip you up.”

Jane had leaped to her feet, looking terrified. “I want to cry, but I dare not!” she said on a wail.

“Good!” said Mary with satisfaction. “Kitty, move yourself!”

Elizabeth was waiting, laden with starched white aprons and four whippy canes. Face like flint, she doled three of the canes out and kept one. “I hope these will be for show only,” she said, removing a large key from the pocket of a voluminous apron Kitty had last seen on Mrs. Thorpe, the underhousekeeper. “Put on an apron, please. A party of footmen is coming with dust shovels, brushes, scrubbing brushes, rags, buckets of soapy water and mops-at least, they had better be coming! From what Parmenter says, everything from food to faeces is decorating the walls and floor inside. Mary, I am your commanding officer in this sortie, is that understood?”

“Yes, Lizzie,” said Mary, utterly cowed.

“Then let us proceed.” Elizabeth inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

A distinct odour of excrement assailed their nostrils, but too little time had passed for the food detritus to spoil, a mercy. What looked like a large number of brown-wrapped bundles were sliding and skating on the polished hardwood floor, kept glossy for dancing. None of the bundles took any notice of this influx of women, which gave Elizabeth time to close and lock the door, then return the key to her pocket.

For a reason unknown to her, Parmenter had placed the extra-large dinner gong just inside this door; Fitz had brought it back from China, liking its exquisite bronze work, only to find that Parmenter would not be parted from his old gong, and “lost” the new one. When her eyes lighted upon it, Elizabeth smiled with genuine enjoyment, and brought her cane down on its chased surface.

BOOM! When the reverberations of that crashing roar died away, the ensuing silence was perfect. Every brown bundle was stopped in mid-action.

Elizabeth produced the wicked noise of a whippy cane hissing through the air and strode to the middle of the floor, careful not to tread in any suspicious matter.

“Take off your robes!” she thundered.

They hastened to shed their robes, revealing that Father Dominus had not believed in underwear. Or baths. Or rags for wiping the bottom. Their skins should have been whiter than milk, but instead were a dingy grey that had tidal marks around armpits and groin where they had sweated as they toiled.

Another key turned in the lock; in came a dozen manservants bearing the appurtenances necessary to clean the floor and walls.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “You may put them down-I will look after things here. Herbert, please assemble every tin bath Pemberley possesses-if there are not enough, borrow more from Pemberley village. Make sure when the time comes that the laundry can supply sufficient hot water to half-fill them. With that I want the Paris soap, sponges, and soft scrubbing brushes.” She turned from the wooden-faced Herbert to an equally expressionless Thomas. “Thomas, I want someone driving a fast cart to go into Macclesfield immediately. He is to buy thirty pairs of under-drawers, trousers, shirts and jackets to fit a ten-year-old boy. Also twenty pairs of under-drawers, petticoats, dresses and jackets to fit a ten-year-old girl. Shoes can wait. I want the clothing back here yesterday, please.”

How true it is, thought Elizabeth, keeping her face stern, that human beings stripped of their clothes feel hideously vulnerable. The horrible little beasts of a moment ago are now clay ready for moulding. She made the cane hiss again.

“Now Miss Mary, Miss Kitty and Miss Jane are going to show you how to clean and wash a floor. Miss Mary will take fifteen boys, Miss Kitty fifteen girls, and Miss Jane those left over. You will have to do the counting, ladies, as the children cannot. I want to supervise everybody, but I need an assistant. Camille, come here, please. Quickly!”

Mary made short work of counting her fifteen boys, and Kitty, relieved that she had inherited girls, was not slow to follow; only Jane dithered until she received a minatory look.

“What do you call the yellow water that comes out of your body, Camille?” she asked.

“Wees, Miss-Miss-”

“Miss Lizzie. And what do you call the brown sausages that come out of your body?”

“Poohs, Miss Lizzie.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth straightened. “Attention!” she bawled, sounding so like Miss Sackbutt of Meryton schooldays that her sisters jumped and shivered. “Camille, push that little chair with the hole in its seat over here, please.”

“Now I happen to know,” she hollered, “that Father Dominus would never have permitted you to wee and pooh all over his caves! So why are you treating this beautiful room with less respect? This is called a commode chair, and beneath the hole in its seat is a chamber pot for wees and poohs. In future you will use my commode chairs-and keep them spotlessly clean! If you do not, I will rub your nose in your own wees and poohs! After I have given you six cuts with this cane! Do you understand?”

Every grimy head nodded.

“Splendid! In future these commode chairs will be put outside on the terrace, where they will be sheltered if it rains. You will have privacy for your motions. In the meantime, you are going to clean this room of the food, wees and poohs. Miss Mary, Miss Kitty and Miss Jane will show her group how to do this, and it will be done properly. Dust shovels first to scoop up the solids, then we scrub, wipe, and mop. Hop to it!”

While that went on, Elizabeth removed the brown habits to the terrace, and instructed Herbert to have them taken away and burned. The commode chairs went out under shelter, after which the commanding officer talked to Camille about food.

The Pemberley chef had supervised the children’s menu himself-a mistake. Therese had cooked for over fifty people, but her only instructor had been Father Dominus. Whereas the tyrant in the Pemberley kitchen had a fit of the vapours if one of his sauces was too buttery-or, worse, not buttery enough. Elizabeth sent for Mrs. Parmenter.

“Use one of the under-cooks capable of making plain food,” she instructed. “Absolutely no wine, exotic herbs or any other flavouring that alters taste. Roast meats, stews, soups, a little chicken to introduce them to something other than red meat. For dessert, tarts, puddings, jellies. Plain bread, and plenty of it. Confine foods like eggs and bacon to breakfast. And cut it all up for the time being. These poor children cannot use a knife and fork, they are used to a spoon. Give them small beer to drink, it is what they are used to.”

All of which was as nothing compared to giving each child a bath. Elizabeth deliberately chose one of the smallest children to go first; a boy named William who looked about four years old.

“Oh, he’s adorable!” Jane whispered, eyes brimming. “Such a dear little man!”

“I’m glad you like him. You may have the honour of giving William his first bath,” said Elizabeth.

By the time the hot water reached the ballroom it was an ideal temperature for a bath, not far above lukewarm. The cakes of soap came from Paris and were perfumed with jasmine; the sponges came from the Red Sea and produced a deliciously tickling trickle of water down the spine. Well aproned, sure of William’s pleasure, Jane picked him up and popped him into the shallow tin bath.

That was the end of peace. William let out a screech of outrage, sank his teeth into the edge of Jane’s hand, and proved he could walk on water.

“Mary, I think Jane needs help,” said Elizabeth.

“No, I do not!” growled Jane, jaws clenched. “I’ll beat the little monster yet!” Smack! Down came Jane’s hand on William’s flank. “Now sit in the water and be still, you imp of Satan!”

By this time Mary was engaged in her own struggle with Timmy, and Kitty was discovering that girls were equally opposed to being assaulted by soap-and-water. Nothing daunted, Elizabeth grabbed Camille by one arm and threw her into a vacant bath, brush ready to scrub away eleven years of accumulated dirt.

Mrs. Thorpe, who had stayed to witness with her own eyes Mrs. Darcy conquer, drummed up a dozen hefty maids to assist, and gradually, fighting, screaming, resisting all the way, the forty-five Children of Jesus had their first bath. By the time it was over and the howling children were wrapped in huckaback towels, every grown woman was soaked to the skin.

Now remained the horror of teaching the children how to put on under-drawers, let alone the other layers of clothing society demanded. They wanted their robes, and wept for them desolately, but the caves were a thing of the past, and so were their robes.

Foreseeing trouble, Elizabeth took William and showed him how to pull down his under-drawers and trousers (they swam on him) before sitting on a commode, and gave the boys a dispensation to go out into the garden and wee there. This meant the girls felt discriminated against, which necessitated a lecture on having to sit to wee while boys didn’t.

“Oh,” groaned a sopping Elizabeth as she lay back in a chair in the Pink Parlour and drank her tea thirstily. “Only now do I understand how privileged we are. We bear however many children God ordains, but we hand them over to nurserymaids and see nothing of their bad side, let alone deal with wees and poohs.”

“Yes, today should teach us what it is like to rear children without servants,” said Mary, munching cake.

“Though,” said Kitty, “the Children of Jesus are a special case, not so? They have never been trained in any way, whereas I imagine that even the poorest mother must organise herself to deal with her situation more comfortably than the kind of thing we saw today. I would think that her older children must be put to helping her with the younger and the babies.”

“Well said, Kitty!” Mary poured herself more tea.

“And well done, girls,” said Elizabeth warmly. “Our labours are not yet done, but today was the worst. By the time that the twenty nursemaids I have asked Matthew to find arrive here, we will have instilled some of the daily routines into our charges.” She got to her feet. “Tea came first, but now I am going to go to my room, lie down, take a nap, and dress for dinner. After a bath!”

“Never say that word to me again!” cried Jane with a shudder. “To think that I actually smacked a child!”

“Yes, you’ll hurt long after he doesn’t,” said Mary wickedly.

Sherry or Madeira in the Rubens Room restored the ladies to some semblance of themselves; Kitty’s recounting of events in the ballroom revealed that she was no mean raconteuse, and had the gentlemen doubled over with laughter.

“Lizzie alone seemed to have some idea of what was to come,” Kitty ended, looking down at her shell-pink lace gown with fervent love. “She told me to wear a dress of mattress ticking! And after ten minutes in the ballroom, I swear I wished I owned one! As it was, I wore an awful old thing of beige cambric, then sent it to be burned. ’Twas good for naught else, I assure you.”

“It is clear to me,” said Mary, “that the children cannot be accommodated in the ballroom for much longer. It pleases me that their spirits have not been broken, and they mouth ‘light of Lucifer’ and ‘the dark of God’ like meaningless cant, so they were never drilled in Cosmogenesis. However, that is not what I wished to say, which is that until an orphanage can be built they have to be put somewhere suitable. I am not foolish enough to think that such things grow overnight, like toadstools. Angus, you are a man of eminent good sense. What do you suggest?”

“I have no suggestions,” he said, startled.

“Fitz, you are an MP and therefore must know something. What do you suggest?”

“That we utilise Hemmings, since my lease on the property still has months to run. I’ve told Matthew to engage carpenters to put tiered beds in three of the bedrooms-one for the girls, two for the boys. Which leaves three bedrooms for the nursemaids, if you will consent to engaging a mere nine instead of twenty. The large drawing room will make a good schoolroom, the small one a staff room. The dining room will seat all the children on benches at refectory tables. The two teachers can live in the cottage, the general servants in the attic. And so on, and so forth.”

“Brilliant, Papa,” said Charlie, grinning.

“Does this mean you’ll build the orphanage, Fitz?” Angus asked slyly, while the ladies listened breathless.

“Do I have any choice? But I shall bludgeon Charles Bingley into contributing, never fear! I’ve found eight acres of quite unfarmable land just this side of Buxton, close enough to halfway between here and Bingley Hall. However, we’ll cast our net wide enough to catch fifty-five more children, and build to house one hundred in all.” He coughed, looked at the ladies with amusement and apology. “Under ordinary circumstances I would retain my innate scepticism about such a large institution-that its staff would embezzle, perhaps also ill-treat the children. But with our ladies supervising every sneeze and shuffle, I doubt anyone will get away with much.”

“That is splendid news, Fitz,” said Mary, very pleased.

“As you say, Mary, an MP has to be good for something.”

Angus saw nothing of Mary for the next three days; all her time was given up to the children, since even nine nursemaids proved hard to find at such short notice.

It isn’t fair, he told himself; in the days when she lived in Hertford, I saw more of her than I have here at Pemberley. Some kind of task always has first call on her time, including these wretched children-and her without a maternal bone in her entire body! Jane does it melting with sensibility, Kitty does it because she is easily dominated, and Elizabeth does it because, of all of them, she is the true mother. But Mary does it from that huge sense of duty-does love enter into her life at all? At this moment I tend to think it does not. She is kind, but not loving.

Prey to the blue devils and atypically morose, he was jerked out of what was threatening to become a mire of self-pity by the appearance of his beloved, who doffed her apron and demanded that he take her for an airing.

“For I am tired of wees and poohs,” she declared as they left the house in the direction of Mary’s favourite glade, which happened to be Elizabeth’s favourite as well.

“Infantile talk is depressing,” he said.

“So is human waste,” she answered tartly, and ground her teeth. “I find myself more attuned to the prospect of educating them in literacy and numeracy than in weeing and washing. How can they shun anything as delightful as water?”

“You find it delightful because your nurse gave you your first bath before you could remember,” he said, spirits soaring just to be with her.

“They must commence their schooling as soon as possible. I believe that there is a warehouse in Manchester that sells desks, slates, slate pencils, chalk, blackboards, copy-books and the like.” She stuck out her chin and looked militant. “Now that I don’t have to pay to have my book published, I have plenty of money-yes, I have abandoned all thought of writing a book. I’ll crawl before I can walk, and what better place to crawl in than a schoolroom? One of the most disgraceful aspects of childhood at Longbourn was Papa’s reluctance to see us well-educated. So we went to the Meryton school to learn reading, writing and arithmetic, but after that we were not given a governess. Had we, then Kitty and Lydia might not have turned out so wild, or I so narrow. The daughters of gentlemen should have a governess. Instead, Papa spent the money on his library, Mama’s clothes, and our dinner table.”

Head whirling, Angus fixed on the most pertinent fact among these confidences. “May I ask you a question, Mary?”

“Of course you may.”

“Pay for your publication? Is that what you were planning to do when you finished your book?”

“Yes. I knew it was going to cost many thousands-almost all that I had, in fact.”

“Mary, you silly chicken! First of all, if a publisher knows you are determined to pay to have a book published, then he will take you for every penny you have. But you must never pay to have a book published! If it’s worth reading, a publisher will be willing to incur the expense of publication himself. In effect, he takes a gamble on the author-that the book will attract enough readers to make a profit. If it does make a profit, he will pay you what is called a royalty on each copy sold. The royalty is usually a small percentage of the book’s price.” He glared at her. “Oh, you are a silly chicken! Do you truly mean that you scrimped and pinched your pennies on your travels because of your book?”

A delicious pinkness had suffused her cheeks; she hung her head, apparently willing to be apostrophised as a silly chicken. “I wanted it published,” she said gruffly.

“And nearly got yourself murdered! I could shake you!”

“Pray do not be angry!”

He waved his hands about wildly. “No, I am not angry! Well, a wee bit-but only a wee bit. Och, Mary, you would drive a sane and sober man to madness and the bottle!”

The sight of Angus in such straits was quite fascinating, but it also caused her to experience a sudden empty panic in her middle regions-what if one day she angered him so much he walked away? She gulped, backed away from the thought. “Would you be able to drive me into Manchester for the schoolroom needs?” she asked.

“Of course, but not tomorrow. In case you had forgotten, we bury poor Ned Skinner Darcy tomorrow.”

“No, I had not forgotten,” she said, voice low. “Oh, and we made Fitz and Charlie laugh!”

“And thereby did them a very good turn. Death is always in our midst, Mary, you know that. Anything that lightens grief, even for a moment, is a blessing. While Ned has lain waiting for the vindication he couldn’t have in life, you and your sisters have dealt with those he saved. He could not do aught else than applaud your kindness and hard work. In one way, they are his children.”

“Yes, you are right.”

They walked on in silence as far as the glade, where the sun, directly overhead, turned the water in the little brook to solid gold save for the diamonds of its tumbles.

Mary gasped. “Angus, I have just thought of something!”

“What?” he asked warily.

“Father Dominus told me that he had a hoard of bars of gold. I know the caves have collapsed, but do you think you could look for the gold? Imagine how many orphanages it would build.”

“Not as many as you think,” he said prosaically. “Besides, the old villain must have stolen it from the government. Gold is marked on each ingot-that’s the proper name for a bar of gold-with the brand of its owner, and that owner is almost inevitably the government.”

“No, he said he melted it down from coins and jewellery that had been entrusted to him by some far bigger villain. He melted it down and poured it into ingots himself. More than that I do not know, save that it definitely was acquired by nefarious means.”

“I think he was bamming you.”

“He said each ingot weighed ten pounds.”

“Which, being gold, isn’t very big in size. Gold is hugely heavy, Mary. Ten pounds of it would be nowhere near the size of a house brick, I assure you.”

“Please, Angus, please! Promise me that you’ll look!”

How could he refuse? “Very well, I promise. But don’t hope, Mary. Charlie, Fitz and I are going back to see if there’s been a fresh subsidence, and to look at the hill itself. If we find any gold, rest assured that we’ll claim it on behalf of the Children of Jesus. Who, I suspect, would be entitled to a large percentage of any treasure-trove. If, that is, it can be proven that the real owner is not the government.”

Her face took on a martial expression. “Oh, no, the children cannot have it! They’d spend it on the wrong things, like any poor people gifted with unexpected fortune. It will build orphanages.” Her chest heaved on an ecstatic sigh. “Just fancy, Angus! Perhaps my incarceration had a divine purpose-to unearth ill-gotten gold and set it to work on gifting the poor with the things that really matter-health and education.”

“She is determined,” Angus said to Fitz after Ned Skinner Darcy was laid in his resting place.

“If such a treasure exists, Angus, Father Dominus didn’t earn it from selling a cure for impotence, no matter how successful it was. The gold may be ill-gotten, but from where or from whom? The government does ship consignments of gold coins around the country, but none has been plundered that I or any other MP remembers. Which is why I doubt the story. Except that I know of one man who might have amassed so much, and all of it ill-gotten. A man long dead who, as far as I know, had no association with Father Dominus. Yet it’s true that when that man died, his ill-gotten gains could not be found anywhere, apart from precious stones prised out of jewellery.”

Fitz’s face bore a look that forbade questions-a pity. Who did Fitz know had that kind of mentality? For he spoke as if he had known the man personally. As many layers as French pastry, that was Fitz. Who had changed radically, but for the better.

When he informed Angus that he would refuse the prime ministership, Angus was staggered.

“Fitz, you wanted it heart and soul!” he cried.

“Yes, but that was before all this. Some secrets I will carry to my grave, though I’ve come to love and esteem you greatly over this summer, and hope that we’ll be brothers-in-law. We Darcys have been pristine of reputation, and we’ll go on being pristine. Were I prime minister, I might be tempted to use my powers in unscrupulous ways. Well, I don’t choose to walk down that road. I’ll refuse to contend for the post, and so I have written to the men supporting my candidacy. I’m sorry if I’ve misled you, my dear Angus, but I’ve misled no one more than I have myself.”

“Yes, I understand, Fitz.”

That had been several days ago. Now it was gold, thanks to Mary, in her element driving back and forth to Macclesfield after teachers and nursemaids.

Now that they knew about the existence of the waterfall, which Fitz remembered seeing when out hunting deer, it was easier to understand how Father Dominus had kept the Children of Jesus away from prying eyes. Hardly one in a thousand Englishmen could swim, so pools and waterfalls were phenomena to be admired at a distance, even by poets, writers, painters and other peculiar folk.

Charlie was too slight to ride Jupiter, so his father had taken the animal, which accepted him with pleasure. Probably, Charlie thought, Ned and Papa shared some smell, or sat in the saddle the same way despite the weight difference. Who knew the mysteries of animals?

There were relics of the occupants in among the chaos of rocks and boulders: bottles, tins, labels floating on the placid surface of the pool. They ventured inside, but Fitz didn’t want to see the spot where Ned had lain for so many hours, so they kept away from it.

Saddest discovery of all lay in a cave branching off the laboratory. Familiarity with the enormous masses of collapsed stone had imbued all three men with confidence when moving among the chaos; there seemed to be little chance, a week and more after the explosion, of further subsidence, especially given the continued dry weather-even in Manchester it was not raining.

A smell of decay had perfused the air inside the laboratory, a smell that stimulated Angus to explore the wall beyond the fire alcove more closely than anyone had thus far. Behind a boulder he found a tunnel that had not collapsed; heedless of shouted warnings from Fitz and Charlie, he entered it. Ten feet farther on it opened into what had been yet another huge cavern, now mostly obliterated. Here the stench was almost intolerable, emanating from the carcasses of donkeys.

Fitz’s and Charlie’s curiosity had overcome their caution, but none of the three wanted to linger there.

“The poor things died of injuries, or were partly buried,” Angus said. “Many more probably lie completely covered.”

“At least it tells us how Father Dominus brought in his supplies,” Fitz said, leading the way back to the laboratory. “A donkey train! Given that a number must have had to carry various donkey edibles, I wonder how many beasts Father Dominus had?”

“Fifty at least,” said Angus. “One for each person, with a few more for good measure. It would be interesting to know whereabouts he shopped. I’ll set enquiries afoot, if only to gratify my own curiosity. My money is on Manchester.”

“Did the children drive them?” Charlie asked.

“Occasionally, perhaps, if a few were used to deliver drugs, but from what Mary has said, I imagine Brother Jerome usually managed the business alone by stringing them together.”

“Mary is rather close-mouthed about her experience,” Fitz said, frowning.

“Yes, she is.” Angus extinguished his torch and walked out into the fresh air. “I know not how her mind works, I confess. Most females are agog to tell of their adventures down to the very smallest detail, but she seems not to trust that our reactions will reflect her own standpoint. I suspect this may have something to do with a childhood and young womanhood spent in a repressive atmosphere.”

“Angus, I congratulate you!” Charlie cried, beaming. “To have read that aright, you must love her very much indeed. Mary’s papa was the only male influence in her life during Longbourn days, and he detested her. I believe the result of that is her mistrust of men. She’s so intelligent, you see, that it goes against her grain to accept the male sex as superior.”

All of this philosophising lay too far from Fitz’s heart to bear; he gave a snort and said, “If the old man hid any gold here, it’s buried for time immemorial. I suggest we climb the hill and see what else came down.”

There were dimples and hollows in the surface of the hill where something underneath had collapsed, but as they ascended higher they became aware of stout bushes growing where bushes would not have grown had Nature done the planting.

“Look, Papa,” said Charlie, uprooting a bush. “There’s a roundish hole that goes far down, getting narrower.”

“Ventilation wells,” said Fitz. “The amount of light one of these admits would be negligible.”

The higher they ascended, the less evidence of subsidence they encountered until, near the hill’s rocky crown, there were no dents or dimples in the ground, though the bushes still grew to conceal holes. Wedged in one they had found the carcass of a sheep, and decided that Father Dominus had patrolled regularly to remove ovine bodies before shepherds found them. Which may have given the hill a bad name among shepherds, and caused them to avoid it as grazing for their flocks.

“I don’t understand,” said Angus as they paused beside a bush. “All he had were fifty-odd children, yet under here he might have housed a thousand, given the number of ventilation wells. Why bother with these upper caverns, or are they mere tunnels? If they’re tunnels, he had some reason to keep going.”

“We’ll never know what drove him, Angus,” Fitz said with a sigh. “We don’t even know how long he suffered his madness beyond what he told Mary about an enlightenment in his thirty-fifth year. Certainly he retained his skills as an apothecary, and they were considerable, else his nostrums would not have worked, and we know they did. I believe Mary has not told us everything she knows about Father Dominus-look at how long it took her to speak about the possibility that he had hoarded gold. Somewhere during his life he must have had a business or a shop, and at a different time in his life he must have had access to gold-if Mary is to be believed.”

“No!” snapped Angus. “If Father Dominus is to be believed!”

“I cry pardon.”

“It is rather delicious to speculate on the old boy’s life,” said Charlie, playing peacemaker. “What if at one time he did have an apothecary’s shop, a wife, children? And if so, what has happened to them? Did they die in some epidemic, leaving him gone mad?” He giggled. “It would make a good three-volume novel.”

“Perhaps they’re still alive, and wondering whatever happened to their dear papa,” said Angus, grinning.

Charlie pulled out the last bush on the hill. “I’m going down to have a look,” he said after peering into the hole. “This one is wider, I’ll fit.”

“Not without rope and torches,” said Fitz.

“Not at all!” Angus cried.

But Charlie was already loping down the hill.

“Fitz, you must stop him!”

The fine dark eyes looked ironic. “You know, Angus, it will do you good to father a few children. I’m sure Mary is up to the task, so don’t let her wither on the vine, please. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had Anne when she was forty-five. I grant you that Anne was no recommendation for a late child, but she did show it is-er-possible. Mary is barely thirty-nine.”

Face crimson, Angus spluttered out an incoherent reply that had Fitz laughing.

“What I’m saying, my friend, is that sometimes it is necessary to let go the leading-strings, no matter how your heart cries out against it. I’ll let Charlie explore knowing the dangers, just stand up here myself praying to every god I know.”

“Then I’ll pray too.”

Back came Charlie leading Jupiter, laden with rope, torches, bags. “Papa, this beautiful animal is game for anything! I wish I rode heavier! Then you wouldn’t have him. Such a gentle nature!”

“You’ll never have him, Charlie. He’s my last link to Ned.”

Fitz tied one end of a long rope around his waist with Angus three feet in front of him; the two men took the strain as Charlie descended into the depths holding a torch and a tinder box. At thirty feet the rope suddenly slackened; Charlie was on the floor of the cave, and safe thus far.

“Not too deep!” came his voice, thin but audible. “It’s the second-to-last cave, quite small. I think it must have been Father Dominus’s room-it has a table, a chair, a desk, another chair, and a bed. Like a monk’s cell, not even a rush mat on the floor. There are two openings, almost opposite each other. One’s sense of direction is uncertain down here, but I’ll look into the unscreened opening first.”

“Charlie, be careful!” was wrenched from Fitz.

The two men waited what seemed an eternity.

“It’s just a tunnel leading downhill,” came Charlie’s voice at last. “The other is curtained off with black velvet from above the top of the aperture-the material drags on the floor, as if he wanted to keep all light out. I’m going in.”

“The nadir of parenthood,” Fitz said between his teeth. “Take heed, Angus. No one can escape it.”

They waited then, speechless, ears straining for Charlie’s voice, dreading a vast rumble.

“I say, Papa, it’s amazing! Father Dominus’s temple to his God, I think. Utterly black. Haul me up!”

The Charlie who emerged from the hole was covered in dust and cobwebs, and minus his torch and tinder box, left below. He was smiling from ear to ear. “Papa, Angus, I’ve found Mary’s gold! The temple cave was small and absolutely round-it was a great help to be a classical scholar, for it leads me to think that he interpreted this particular cavern mystically. Round like a navel stone or a Roman temple to a numinous god, with its altar in the exact centre, and round too. It was covered with a black velvet cloth and it consisted of innumerable little bars of gold. An offering to his Cosmogenic God, I suppose.”

He reached into his shirt and withdrew a small brick which glittered with that magical glow only pure gold can achieve: fire without fire, heat without heat, light without light. “See? Ten pounds is about right,” he said, thrilled with himself. “And not a government mark to be seen! Or any other mark, for that matter.”

They sat down, both to recover from the strain of waiting for Charlie, and the shock of learning that Father Dominus had told Mary the truth.

“How many of these bricks are there?” Angus asked.

“Impossible to tell without dismantling the altar-is it hollow, or packed solid? He had made it round by putting each bar at an angle, so I hazard a guess that it’s solid save for the natural spaces this way of stacking produces,” said Charlie, eyes bright. “The whole altar measures about three feet in diameter, and three feet in height. What an offering!”

“Better that, than one of his children,” said Angus grimly.

“We have to think this thing through,” said Fitz, drawing a circle in a patch of dust with a stick. “First of all, we cannot make this find public, either now or at any time in the future. I will approach the government, of which I am a member until such time as Parliament goes into session.” He scowled. “That means we have to move the gold to Pemberley ourselves. Interesting, that lead has been mined in the Peak District for centuries! If we can lift it out of the temple chamber and wrap it securely on sleds, we can pretend it’s a hoard of lead from Father Dominus’s failed experiments to alchemise it into gold. Lead is valuable enough that it will seem good sense on our parts to garnish it on behalf of the Children of Jesus. We will simply say that it was already wrapped in job-lots, and we preferred to get it out of the caves ourselves for fear of more collapses.”

“Thus appearing responsible citizens,” said Angus with a grin.

“Quite. I’ll have the Pemberley carpenters make two sleds-they ought to suffice, given the dimensions of the altar. A pity the donkeys were killed. They would have been ideal.” Fitz turned to his son. “I am afraid you have to go back down the hole at this moment, Charlie. Would I fit?”

“I think so, but Angus definitely not.”

“Angus very definitely not! Someone has to remain up here to haul us out. Jupiter can do the work, but not without guidance. You and I are going down to count the number of ingots. On that figure depends the extent of our transportation.”

It was a gruelling task for two men not used to manual labour, but being together was a mental fillip; they could urge each other on, twit each other when one flagged, make a joke out of a trembling limb or eyes blinded by sweat.

“One thousand and twenty-three ingots,” said Fitz, lying flat out on the ground looking up at the twilit sky wherein Venus shone as Evening Star, cold, pure, indifferent. “Christ, I am a broken reed! No work for a man of fifty, let alone a sedentary one. I will ache for weeks.”

“And I for months,” said Charlie with a groan.

“We availed ourselves of a pair of scales in the old man’s cell and discovered that one ingot weighs a full ten pounds avoirdupois. For what reason I know not, Father Dominus chose not to use troy weight, which is usual for precious metals-only twelve ounces to the pound. At two thousand, two hundred and forty pounds avoirdupois to the ton, we have about four and a half tons of gold down there.”

Charlie sat up with a jolt. “Heavens, Papa, that means we have shifted over two tons each!”

“A mere matter of feet, and not the bottom layer,” said Fitz austerely. He looked at Angus. “Had we been forced to work in torchlight, it would have been intolerable, but we found two extraordinary lamps in Dominus’s cell, also a barrel of some kind of oil that fuels them. Mary is right when she says his mind was first-rate. I’ve seen nothing like them anywhere. It may be, Angus, that your company could patent and manufacture them if we bring one up after we’re done.”

“I think the patent should be awarded to the Children of Jesus,” Angus said.

“No, they will have all the gold except for a reward payable to Mary. Take it, Angus! Otherwise I’ll break both lamps and no one will benefit.”

“Then why not Charles Bingley?”

“It’s in my gift,” Fitz said royally, “and it goes to you.”

I will never break him of it! thought Angus. No one will. “Very well, and I thank you,” he said.

“Four sleds,” said Charlie, interrupting. “We’ll need some donkeys, not to pull the sleds, but to brake them.”

“How do you know about sleds, Fitz?” asked Angus.

“They’re used in Bristol, where the quays are hollow from warehouses beneath. The load is better distributed on a sled’s runners than on the four points where a wagon’s wheels touch the ground. Runners will help getting the load downhill too, where the subsidences are greater.”

“I take it we say nothing to the ladies?” Angus asked.

“Not even a hint of the most obscure kind.”

“But we will have help loading the wrapped packages onto the sleds?” Charlie asked anxiously.

“Yes, but only Pemberley men, and the most trusted. We’ll need a winch to bring the parcels up from the chamber, and a basket small enough to pass through the ventilation well without sticking. The basket will have to be perfectly balanced, and equipped with little wheels. That will enable us to wrap the ingots in it, then wheel it through into Dominus’s cell. Charlie, make sure you bring plenty of gloves when we return. Each package will have to be well-roped besides well-wrapped.”

“What a mind you have, Papa!” said Charlie. “Every detail.”

Fitz’s rare smile flashed out. “Why do you think it was so easy for an obscure MP from Derbyshire to aspire to the prime ministership? Few men are willing to deal with the minutiae, and that is a flaw in character.”

“When do we begin this Herculean task?” Angus asked, rather ashamed that his muscular build negated his sharing in it.

“Today is Wednesday. Next Monday, if the sleds can be made and the donkeys located by then. We will hope to complete it in five days.”

When they set off down the hill, Charlie let Angus lead Jupiter and deliberately fell behind to be private with his father.

“Papa, is this Grandfather’s loot?” he asked.

“I imagine so.”

“How then did Father Dominus lay hands on it?”

“A question I suspect Mary could answer, at least partially, but chooses not to. Miriam Matcham’s statement to the Sheffield authorities refers to a Father Dominus who supplied poisons and an abortifacient to her-he would have been ideal for an abbess. Since her mother inherited the brothel from Harold Darcy, it seems likely that Father Dominus originally belonged to Harold Darcy. Perhaps he was a trusted confederate. Certainly over the years Harold must have accumulated huge quantities of gold jewellery and coins, none of which ever came to light, though the precious stones did-he had a little cask full of loose but faceted rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires. No pearls were ever found, or semi-precious stones. Given Dominus’s skills, it may be that he was commissioned to melt down the gold. Still, it’s all conjecture.”

“Good conjecture, Papa. I wonder why Mary keeps his secret?”

“If you ask her, she may tell you, but she will never confide in me. As she sees it, I treated her with contempt, and I did.”

“In the old days she would have told me, but not now. I am too close to you,” said Charlie ruefully. “There is a kind of invisible barrier between men and women, isn’t there?”

“Yes, alas.” Uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken, Fitz went elsewhere. “What we do know is that the old man never tried to exchange any of the gold for money, or otherwise betrayed his whereabouts to Harold Darcy.”

“What a shock it must have been to Grandfather!”

“That too we may be sure of. Around my twelfth birthday there was a marked change in my father. He became wilder, much angrier, cruel to Mama and to the staff. Unpardonable!”

“Papa, your childhood was hideous!” Charlie blurted. “I am so sorry!”

“That was no excuse for my being so hard on you, my son. I have more to apologise for by far than you.”

“No, Papa. Let’s call it equal, and begin again.”

“That is a deal, Charlie,” said Fitz huskily. “Now only remains to mend my fences with your mother.”

The gold was removed over the course of five days with remarkably little fuss. It never occurred to Pemberley’s faithful retainers to question their master’s story of four and a half tons of lead, nor would it have occurred to the least naпve among them that Fitzwilliam Darcy and his only son were capable of the hard labour involved in lifting, wrapping and roping one hundred pounds many times over. No glint of gold showed through a rent in the light canvas, nor did any parcel fall apart while being manhandled. After some rather exhilarating rushes down the hillside, the contents of the sleds were loaded into wagons and so to Pemberley, where they sat in the big “safe house”-a stone barn Fitz used to store items of value. In the fullness of time several wagons conveyed the parcels to London and a curious destination-the Tower.

The public caves had been reopened for inspection; once more tourists could wonder at the maw of the Peak cavern, wander inside to see the rope-maker’s walk and the ancient houses that had, from time to time, sheltered the people of Castleton from unusually remorseless weather, or, in lawless times, bands of marauders.

Much to Elizabeth’s delight, Fitz had ordained that his girls should in future dine with the family, and actually spent a little time with them. Cathy’s tendency to play pranks dwindled, Susie learned to hold up one end of a conversation without turning the colour of a beet, and Anne displayed an eager interest in all matters political and European. Georgie tried very hard to conduct herself like a lady, and had consented to having her nails painted with bitter aloes-it tasted vile-while heroically managing not to wash the hideous remedy off.

“What happened between Susie, Anne and Charlie’s tutor?” Fitz asked his wife, frowning direfully.

“Absolutely nothing, except that they fancied themselves in love with him. I think that shows good taste,” Elizabeth said tranquilly. “He gave them no encouragement, I assure you.”

“And Georgie?”

“Actually rather looking forward to her London season now that Kitty has painted alluring pictures for her delectation. She’s such a beautiful girl that she’ll take magnificently if she loses her Maryisms, which Kitty assures me she will. Witness her struggle to conquer the nail-biting.”

“It has been a terrible summer,” he said.

“Yes. But we’ve come through it, Fitz, and that’s the main thing. I wish I had known that you and Ned were brothers.”

“I would have told you, Elizabeth, could I.”

“He always reminded me of a huge black dog guarding you from all comers.”

“He filled that role, certainly. Many others too. I loved him.” He looked directly at her, dark eyes on hers. “But not as much as I love you.”

“No, not more. Just-differently. But why did you stop telling me you loved me after Cathy was born? You shut me out of your life. It wasn’t my fault that I could give you no son other than Charlie, or that he was so unsatisfactory. Still, you don’t find him unsatisfactory now, do you?”

“No better son could any man have than Charlie. He’s a perfect fusion of you and me. And it’s true I shut you out of my life, but only because you shut me out of yours.”

“Yes, I did. But why did you shut me out?”

“Oh, I was so wearied by your endless mockery of me! The quips and smart remarks, the poking sly fun-you couldn’t forgive it in Caroline Bingley when she denigrated you, yet you denigrated me. It seemed I only had to open my mouth, to be ribbed for my pompousness or my hauteur-things that are innate, for better or worse. But that was nothing compared to your lack of genuine enthusiasm for married life. I felt as if I made love to a marble statue! You didn’t return my kisses, my caresses-I could feel you change into that thing of stone the moment I entered your bed. You gave me the impression that you loathed being touched. I would gladly have kept trying for a son, but after Cathy I could bear no more of it.”

She was aware of a tremor as fine as a cat’s purr, swallowed painfully, looked not at him but out the window of her sitting room, though it was long after dark and she could see nothing save the dancing reflections of candles. Oh, how sure she had always been that she could lighten Fitz’s nature, make him see how ridiculous he could be, with his icy demeanor and his stiffness. Only over this last year had she given up on poking gentle fun at his rigidity, and that had been from anger and disgust. But now she finally understood everything there was to know about leopards and their spots. Fitz would never be able to laugh at himself! He was too obsessed with the dignity of a Darcy. Charlie might succeed in breaking Fitz’s ice, but she never would. Her touch was too remorseless, her sense of humour too irresistible. As for his other accusation-what could she say to defend herself?

“I have nothing to say. I concede defeat,” she said.

“Elizabeth, that isn’t enough! Unless you speak, we can never heal the rift between us! Once, a long time ago, when Jane was so ill after the birth of Robert, she said in her delirium that it was only after you saw the glories of Pemberley that you changed your mind about accepting me.”

“Oh, that one, unguarded remark!” she cried, pressing her hands to burning cheeks. “Even Jane doesn’t know when I’m funning! I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, and had no idea Jane took it so seriously.” She walked on her knees from her chair to his, and gazed at him with soft, glowing eyes. “Fitz, I did fall in love with you, but not because of Pemberley! I fell in love with your generosity, your kindness, your-your patience!”

Looking down at her, he knew himself lost all over again in those lambent eyes, that wonderful lush mouth. “I wish I could believe you, Elizabeth, but the statue doesn’t lie.”

“Yes, it does.” Perhaps if she didn’t need to look at him, and that was far easier here at his feet, she could tell him. “I’ll try to explain, Fitz, but don’t make me look at you until I’m done. Please!”

He put one hand on her hair. “I promise. Tell me.”

“I was utterly revolted by the act of love-it still revolts me! I found it cruel, animal, anything but an act of love! It left me physically hurt and spiritually bereft. The Fitz I love is not that man. He can’t be that man! The humiliation, the degradation! I couldn’t bear it, and that’s why I turned into a statue. Eventually I prayed that you’d stop visiting me, and eventually you did stop. But somehow nothing was solved.”

Fitz looked at the fire through a wall of tears. The one thing he had never dreamed of! That what to him was evidence of the strength of his passion appeared to her as a rape. They go into marriage so virginal that its fleshly side is an utter mystery. Yet, coming from that family, I didn’t deem her so sheltered. The mother must have been a Lydia in her youth, and her daughters had all seemed anything but unaware of love’s physical side.

“I suppose,” he said, blinking the tears away, “that we men assume our wives will recover from the shock of the first time, and grow to enjoy what God really did intend to be highly enjoyable. But perhaps some women are too intelligent and too full of sensibility to recover. Women like you. I’m very sorry. But why did you never tell me, Elizabeth?”

“I didn’t think that man would understand.”

“Separating him from me.”

“You’re many men, Fitz, with many secrets.”

“Yes, I do have secrets. Some I’ll tell you, but not all. Just rest assured that the ones I keep from you are not concerned with you in any way. Those I’ll confide in Charlie, who is my heir and my blood son.” He began to stroke her hair rhythmically, almost as if he didn’t know what he did. “That man, as you call him, is absolutely a part of me! You can’t separate him from the whole. I was an unfeeling brute, I can see that now, but from ignorance, Elizabeth, not from deliberation. I love you more than I did Ned, more than my son or my daughters. And now that I’m going onto the back benches, you’ll have no rival in Westminster.”

“Oh, Fitz!” She lifted her head and pulled his down to kiss him, slow and languorous. “I love you just as much.”

“Which leaves us with the basic problem,” he said, moving over in the chair so that she could squeeze in beside him. “Is it at all possible to breathe life into the statue? Can I be Pygmalion to your Galatea?”

“We must try,” she said.

“It’s probably a good thing that this state of affairs has lasted so long. I’m a man of fifty, and have far more control over my primal urges than a man of thirty. It’s up to me to breathe life into you.” He kissed her again, as he had done during the halcyon days of their engagement. “You need something I’m not prone to give-tenderness.”

“I have hopes for that man as well as for you, Fitz. We’ve all changed over the past year, from Mary to Charlie.”

“Shall I come into your bed, then?”

“Yes, please.” She heaved a sigh and put her head on his shoulder. “I have hopes for my own happiness, but I fear greatly for Mary’s. If she weds Angus, married life will come as a shock to her.” She giggled. “However, she’s not as ignorant as I was. Do you know, Fitz, that when we gathered at Shelby Manor for Mama’s funeral, she actually said to me that she wished Charles Bingley would plug it with a cork for Jane’s sake? I was appalled! She was so pragmatic!”

“She’ll walk all over poor Angus.”

“I very much fear that you’re right about that. Yes, she’s changed in many ways, but she’s still the one-sided, stubborn and determined creature she always was.”

“Give thanks for one thing, Elizabeth. That Charlie told her she screeched. Think of the songs we have been spared!” R as a formal chairman, Fitz held a roundtable conference about the gold. Present were Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty, Mary, Angus, Charlie, Mr. Matthew Spottiswoode and Fitz himself. He explained very carefully to the four ladies that each had a vote, that each lady’s vote was the equal of a gentleman’s, and that, since Mr. Spottiswoode owned no vote, their votes therefore were in the majority: they could, if united, outvote the gentlemen four to three. This confused Jane and Kitty, but thrilled Elizabeth and Mary. It appeared, however, that despite refusing to act as a chairman, Fitz had every intention of conducting the meeting. He rapped a paperweight on the literally round table.

“Each orphanage will be known as a Children of Jesus orphanage, and we will be known as their Founders, with a capital F. Since we have an odd number of votes-seven-it’s not necessary to have a formal Chairman Founder,” Fitz announced.

Flutters and whispers broke out.

Fitz rapped the paperweight.

Silence fell.

“There are one thousand and twenty-three ingots of gold, each weighing ten pounds,” Fitz said, rather like a schoolmaster. “To Matthew’s and my surprise, we discovered that Father Dominus chose avoirdupois for his ingots, not troy weight, which is customary for precious metals. Therefore the ingots weigh a full sixteen ounces to the pound, instead of twelve ounces, which is troy weight. This increases their value by one-quarter or four ounces. A druggist as skilled as Father Dominus must have known what he was doing. My theory is that he cast an ingot of a weight no government would, and also of a portable weight. Even a child can carry ten pounds avoirdupois.”

“He made the children carry it, you imply?” Mary asked.

“Within the caves, certainly.” He waited for other remarks, then went on. “Because of her vast colonies and trade routes, our own Britain is the source of the gold for a number of European countries desirous of establishing a gold-based currency. They buy the gold from Britain.”

“How do you pay for gold?” Charlie asked.

“With raw materials and other goods Britain needs but cannot produce. Coal we have aplenty, but our iron is running out, so are our supplies of steeling metals and copper. We cannot grow enough grain to feed the populace anymore-the list is virtually endless. However, gold is in short supply too, though some is coming out of India and some other of the old East India Company countries. But that means that we Founders around this table are in an excellent position, as it cannot be proved that our gold was ever government gold.”

They were hanging on his every word; when he paused this time, no one spoke.

“I believe we can sell our gold to the Exchequer for six hundred thousand pounds, and no questions asked. It’s worth far more.”

Loud gasps went up; Charlie whooped.

“Very well, let us assume that we’ll have six hundred thousand pounds in trust for the Children of Jesus orphanages,” Fitz went on. He gave Mary a minatory glare. “And before you go off half-cocked, Mary, kindly hear me out. To spend money on the construction of an orphanage is one thing, but the cost of a building and its land doesn’t mean we can build a hundred of them, or even half a hundred. Before even one additional institution can be contemplated, we must first arrive at the cost of keeping the original orphanage going. If one hundred children are to be properly fed and clothed, comfortably accommodated, adequately supervised and satisfactorily educated, we will need three teachers and one headmistress, ten nursemaids and a matron, four cooks, and at least twenty general servants. Otherwise you’ll have a typical parish orphanage, in which the staff are too few, too poorly paid and too discontented to be fair or kind to the children, where education does not happen at all, and the children are put to work in place of general servants. It’s my understanding that you wish to conduct an institution which will serve as a model for all other orphanages. That means you’ll want to prepare the children to set forth at fourteen on productive and lucrative careers, rather than unskilled. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“Then your original orphanage will cost you about two thousand pounds a year in staff wages alone. You must allow about twenty-five pounds per child per year for food and clothing. That’s another two thousand, five hundred pounds. Many items from bedding to towels will wear out at least once a year. And it goes on, and on, and on. I mention these figures to give you some idea of the expenses incurred in running one institution. Take them in and keep them in your minds.”

He glanced to right and to left, avoiding Angus’s eyes for fear he’d laugh. “If we invest our six hundred thousand pounds in the four-percents, they’ll yield an income of twenty-four thousand pounds a year. I would suggest that four thousand be re-invested to allow for rises in prices as time goes on. So your income for running expenses will be twenty thousand pounds per annum. I strongly urge that you err on the side of caution, my fellow Founders. Build a second orphanage, by all means, but no more. Then you’ll always have the money to keep them solvent, for once you apply to any other sort of body for additional funds, you’ll lose control, autonomy. In conjunction with Matthew and my solicitors, I’ll draw up deeds of trust that prevent any future trustees looting the funds. It will be Angus’s task to commission external auditors.”

I am so happy! Elizabeth was thinking, her mind far from the business at hand. Why did I fear it so much? Oh, how lovely it was to be in his arms, hold nothing back! He was so gentle, so tender, so considerate. He led me like a little child, explaining to me why he did this or that, the pleasure he felt in doing them, encouraging me to let go of my fear and feel the pleasure too. I am voluptuous, he says, and now that I know what the word means, I’m not offended by it. His hands stroke me so perfectly! How did he put it? He sent that man-no, I mustn’t think that way!-he sent that part of himself to sleep for ten years. As time goes on it gets easier, he said. And I sent myself to sleep too. Or rather, I never awoke. But now that we’re both awake, it is a whole different world.

“Lizzie!”

Blushing scarlet, Elizabeth recollected her surroundings and looked anywhere but at Fitz, who was smiling as if he knew what she had been thinking about. “Oh! Yes?”

“You didn’t hear a word I said!” Mary snapped.

“I am sorry, dear. Say it again.”

“I think we should build at least four orphanages, but no one agrees with me-not even Angus!” She turned on the hapless Scot in fury. “I hoped for your support at least!”

“I’ll never support you in foolishness, Mary. Fitz is in the right of it. If you built four orphanages, you couldn’t split yourself into four segments, which means the institutions wouldn’t be properly supervised. You’d be cheated, taken advantage of. What we view as charity, others will view as rich pickings. There’s an old saying, that charity begins at home. Well, many who work in charity institutions have adopted that as their credo-but not in any admirable sense.” Angus looked heroic at successfully defying Mary: Mary looked taken aback.

“Bitten by a tartan moth, Mary?” Charlie asked wickedly.

“I can see that no one masculine agrees with me,” said Mary sulkily.

“And I do not agree with you either,” said Elizabeth. “I suggest we build two Children of Jesus orphanages-the one near Buxton, and a second near Sheffield. Manchester is too vast.”

And so it was arranged.

The forty-five existing Children of Jesus had settled in at Hemmings and discovered all the horrors of reading, writing, and sums. In one respect Mary retained her common sense; the senior teacher and the head nursemaid were to be sparing with the rod, but not spare it entirely.

“Having been so isolated and regimented, they are bound to go the opposite way for a while,” she said to teacher and nursemaid, both petrified of her. “They must be given good principles now, not later. Their true characters will emerge under our kind regime, but we must not hope for forty-five angels. There will be imps-William is one-and possibly a devil or two-Johnny and Percy. Set them predictable standards, so that they will all know which deeds will be praised, which condemned and which will earn the birch rod. The sort of child who cannot be disciplined by the birch rod will have to be threatened with expulsion, or some other dire consequences.” She looked around. “I see that there is a pianoforte here. I think we should offer music lessons to children who like music. I will look for a music teacher. In our Children of Jesus institutions, we will offer pianoforte and violin.” She looked fierce. “But not the harp! Fool instrument!”

And off she marched to the carriage. It was a long way to visit Hemmings. Once ensconced in the vehicle, she leaned back against the squabs and sighed in sheer pleasure.

Who could ever have believed what would come out of her brief odyssey? The days when she had dreamed of Argus seemed lost in the mists of time, so much had happened. I suffered a schoolgirl’s passion, she thought. His ideas inflamed me, and I took that as evidence of love. Well, I still don’t know what love is, but most definitely it isn’t what I felt for Argus. Who hasn’t corresponded with the Westminster Chronicle since I went away. I wonder what kind of summer he has had? Perhaps his wife has ailed, or a child. Those are the kind of things that destroy private passions. I can wonder, but I don’t feel anything beyond a natural sorrow for his plight, whatever it may be. He has done great work, but what else can be done, when Fitz says the Parliament won’t act? The Lords rule Britain because the Commons is stuffed with their second, third, fourth and so on sons. Nothing will happen until the Commons is filled by true commoners: men whose roots do not lie in the Lords.

She must have dozed, because the carriage had passed through Leek and was now on the Buxton road. Waking, she didn’t remember quite what she had been thinking. Well, time to think about her own future. Fitz had seen her yesterday and apologised to her sincerely-how changed he was! Not proud or haughty at all. Of course any fool could see that he and Lizzie were on much better terms; they floated around like newlyweds, exchanged speaking glances, shared private jokes. Yet at the same time they had developed that irritating habit only people who had been married for many years possessed: they said the same thing at one and the same moment, then smirked at each other.

Fitz had told her that she would receive a reward for her discovery of the gold-fifty thousand pounds. Invested in the Funds, she would have an income of two thousand pounds a year-more than enough, he assured her, to live exactly how she wished, anywhere she wished. If she wanted to live unchaperoned, he wouldn’t object, save to caution her against living in a city. How much of her original nine and a half thousand pounds did she have left? he asked her. She was proud to be able to tell him, almost all. Then use it to buy a good house, he said. Promising to think about everything, she had escaped, very uncomfortable with this sympathetic Fitz. For she had discovered that she thrived on opposition, and now no one was opposing anything she said or did. Only in the number of orphanages were people against her, but she had come around to their way of thinking: two, and two only.

Oh, it was too bad! Independence had been a challenge when everybody was against it, but now that, in effect, she could do whatever she liked, independence had lost some of its glitter. However, dependence was infinitely worse! Fancy needing another person the way, it was all too obvious, Lizzie needed Fitz, and he, her. As a child she had never enjoyed the closeness Lizzie and Jane had, or Kitty and Lydia. Mary in the middle, and overlooked. Now Mary was in the middle again, in a far better way. Lizzie, Jane and Kitty all admired her as much as they loved her, and they loved her now more than they used to. Being a rational creature, she admitted that she had earned their love, had expanded her always-present nucleus into something huge and well-rounded. But none of that was an answer to her dilemma: what was she going to do with her life? Could she fill it with orphanages and other good works? Highly satisfactory, yet not-satisfying.

Buxton had come and gone by the time she had arrived at one conclusion: that she would be responsible for the Sheffield orphanage alone, leaving the Buxton one to Lizzie and Jane. If she did that, she wouldn’t be perpetually on the move in a carriage between the two. After a while, she suspected, the children’s faces would become blurred, and she would lose track of which child was which in which institution. Having families, Lizzie and Jane could share the duties in an alternating fashion. The Sheffield orphanage was being built in Stannington, so perhaps she could have a house at Bradfield or High Bradfield, on the edge of the moors. That appealed; Mary liked beautiful aspects. She didn’t need a manor house. Just a roomy cottage with a cook, housekeeper, three maids and an outside handy-man cum gardener. Renting in Hertford, she had learned that no servant liked a heavy load of work, and that all servants had ways of evading work. The thing to do, she decided, was to pay well and expect value for money.

It was time, for instance, to sit at the pianoforte again; she hadn’t even practised in weeks. That would fill in some spare time. A library. Her new house would have a magnificent library! Once a week she would spend the day at the Sheffield orphanage. Yes, once a week was sufficient. Were she to visit more often, the staff would grow discontented, feel that they had no independence. That word again! Everyone needs a measure of it, she thought. Without it, we wither. So I must not seem to be the superintendent, just what in fact I am-a benefactress. Though they will never know which day of the week will see my arrival!

What puzzled her most was her yearning for Hertford, for the tiny life she had led there after Shelby Manor had been sold. Yes, she was missing the receptions and parties, the people-Miss Botolph, Lady Appleby, Mrs. Markham, Mrs. McLeod, Mr. Wilde. And Mr. Angus Sinclair, in whose company she had spent nine wonderful days. Longer, actually, than she had during the weeks at Pemberley, where so many people gathered for every meal, every conversation, every orphanage meeting, every everything. At Pemberley he wasn’t hers the way he had been in Hertford, and that hurt. Such talks they had enjoyed! How she had missed him when she set out on her adventure! And how glad she had been to see his face when her ordeal was over! But he had stepped back into the shadows, probably feeling that, now she was reunited with her family, she had no need of him.

But I do! she cried to herself. I want my friend back, I need my friend in my life, and when I move closer to Sheffield I’ll never see him except on visits to Pemberley when he’s there, which isn’t often. Just for the summer guest parties. This year he has stayed longer because of me, but not in any personal way. To aid his friends Fitz and Elizabeth. Now he’s talking of going back to London. Of course he is! London is his home. While I was in Hertford he wasn’t far away, but the north is an interminable and arduous journey from London, even by private carriage. I will never see him! What an empty, horrible sensation that causes in me! Like losing Lydia, only more so. She was important to me as a duty; I didn’t admire her or think her a nice woman. And Mama’s death was like being sprung from a trap. I didn’t even miss Papa, who regarded me with contempt. Oh, but I’ll mourn Angus! And he isn’t even dead, just no longer in my life. How terrible that is.

She wept the rest of the way home.

Indeed, the party was breaking up. Fitz and Elizabeth had decided to accompany Charlie to Oxford, then go to London, Fitz to attend Parliament, Elizabeth to open up Darcy House in preparation for Georgie’s coming-out in the early spring. Angus had elected to travel with them, but it didn’t occur to anyone to ask Mary. With Georgie and Kitty in the coach, Elizabeth wouldn’t be alone. How strange it would seem not to have the dark presence of Ned Skinner lurking out of sight! thought Elizabeth. He protected me, and I never knew it.

The orphanages had commenced a-building, but neither would be fit for occupancy until late spring, and Mary admitted that there were many decisions to be taken that could only be taken by one of the Founders. Her days at Pemberley would not be idle ones.

So at the beginning of September she waved them off on their journey to Oxford and London, then, abhorring inertia, summoned Miss Eustacia Scrimpton to have a little holiday at Pemberley in order to discuss the appointment of senior staff. Naturally Miss Scrimpton came with alacrity, and the two ladies settled down to discuss what sort of qualifications were necessary to fill such desirable vacancies.

“You will have your pick, dear Miss Bennet,” said Miss Scrimpton, “considering the generosity of the salaries. We will call them salaries for the senior staff-it makes them feel very important. Wages are for the lowly.”

By the time that Miss Scrimpton departed for York a week later, all was in train to advertise in the best papers nearer to the time.

Mary gravitated to Matthew Spottiswoode, who had good ideas too, some of them at the suggestion of the builders.

Coal fires, fires in the dormitories, hot water for ablutions, said Mary, brooking no opposition.

“Those will make a Children of Jesus orphanage kinder than Eton or Harrow,” Matthew said with a smile.

“No doubt it is good for the over-indulged sons of the Mighty to shiver,” said Mary, bristling, “but our children will have done their share of shivering by the time they join us.”

“Quite so,” said Matthew hastily; my, she was fierce!

Choosing the actual children was a difficult task indeed, since only forty-five of the two hundred were, so to speak, already enrolled. One hundred and fifty-five were but a few grains in the sandpiles of colossal poverty and neglect. Apart from the obvious qualification of having no parents, no lucky child could be on the parish. No less a personage than the Bishop of London had written to give Mary the names of two gentlemen with some experience in this kind of activity.

Now what to do? Mary asked herself when December came and Christmas loomed. Lizzie had sent her what seemed a wagonload of boxes and bandboxes, all containing clothes for her. Clothes! What an outrageous waste, Mary thought in disgust, opening box after box upon gowns of finest lawn and muslin, exquisitely soft wools, silks, taffetas, satins and laces for the evening. So that was where her favourite shoes had gone! Lizzie had stolen them as templates for the shoemakers! Oh, the waste! What was wrong with black, even if she was out of mourning? For Lizzie had decreed that they would not go into mourning for either Lydia or Ned.

Still, there was a very pretty dress of lilac lawn oversewn with multicoloured sprigs of flowers, and a pair of lilac slippers apparently meant to go with it. Silk stockings! Silk underwear! However, if she did not wear these beautiful things, Lizzie could not; Lizzie was nearly a head shorter, and much plumper in the bosom. Her feet were much smaller too. Waste not, want not, said Mary to herself the next morning as she donned the lilac dress and slid her silk-clad feet into the slippers. Lizzie had assigned her a maid, a nice child named Bertha, and Bertha had a knack for dressing hair. Since Mary refused to adopt the fashion of cutting the hair around her face so it could be twisted into framing curls, Bertha took the whole red-gold mass and piled it on top of Mary’s head, but softly, so that it looked as thick and wavy as it really was.

“I will say this for you, child,” Mary said gruffly, trying to avoid looking at herself in the mirror, “when you do my hair, I don’t feel the pins and combs.”

It took all her courage to venture from her room to eat her breakfast, but everyone she encountered gave her a dazzled smile that she couldn’t interpret as condescending or amused.

Her appetite was still hearty, though once she had regained her usual weight she seemed to stop growing stouter. Of course that was because she was a busy person, active, prone to walk even long distances; she disliked riding a horse, never having done so at Longbourn. Nellie had been their only steed, and she was a plough horse, too broad in the back to fall off, and too slow to cause any panic. But whenever Mary saw Lizzie or Georgie atop one of Fitz’s beasts, her heart soared into her mouth.

True winter had not yet arrived. When it did, Mary guessed, Pemberley became rather like a snail, withdrawn into itself. Best walk while she still could.

The silk underthings felt exquisitely comfortable, and the soft slippers seemed sturdy. They didn’t rub at her heels or toes. Her feet were so long and narrow that her store-bought shoes and boots always gave her blisters. Yes, wealth has its compensations, she decided as she draped a heavy lilac silk shawl around her shoulders. Leaving the house, she headed for the woods across a little stone bridge so artfully built that it looked as if the Romans had put it there.

Discovering no blisters thus far, she turned off the path into her favourite glade, where in spring Lizzie said daffodils turned it into a tossing yellow sea, for it got the sun. Time to rest; she sat upon a mossy rock at the edge of the big clearing, gazing about in delight. Squirrels frantically gathering a last nut or two, a fox lurking, winter birds.

And back came her private grief, the one thing that marred her busy and productive existence: she missed Angus, wished him here, exclusively hers now that the rest were gone. So much to tell him! How much she needed his advice! For he was wise-wiser than she. And strong enough to oppose her when she should be opposed.

“Oh, Angus, I wish you were here!” she said aloud.

“That’s good,” he answered.

She gasped, sprang up, whirled around, gaped. “Angus!”

“Aye, that’s my name.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to Glasgow, where the family businesses are. They don’t run themselves, Mary, though I admit I have a younger brother who keeps the steam engines chugging and the foundry chimneys reeking. We always spend Christmas together, then I do something very mad and sail back to London through the wintry seas. Like all Scots, I love the sea. ’Tis the Viking in us.” He perched on a rock opposite hers. “Sit down, my dear.”

“I was wishing so hard for you,” she said, sitting.

“Yes, I heard. Is it lonely now they’ve all gone?”

“Yes, but it isn’t Lizzie or Fitz or Charlie I miss. Jane doesn’t visit, though I don’t miss Jane either. I miss you.”

His reply was oblique. “You look delicious,” he said. “What brought on this transformation?”

“Lizzie sent me what seems a ton of clothes. An appalling waste! However, if I don’t wear them, no one else can. I’m taller and thinner than the others.”

“Waste not, want not, is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Why have you missed me in particular, Mary?”

“Because you’re genuinely my friend, unrelated to me by blood or marriage. I’ve harkened back to our time in Hertford, when it seemed that we talked about everything. Nothing stands out, except that I so looked forward to seeing your face when you joined me in the high street, and you never disappointed me. You didn’t try to cozen me or wheedle me out of my expedition, even though I can see now how foolish it was. Of course you knew that at the time, but you never dampened my enthusiasm. And how idiotic I was over Argus, poor man, whoever he may be. Truly, I am so grateful for your understanding! Nobody else understood, even remotely. No matter how mistaken it was, I had to make that trip! After seventeen years cooped up at Shelby Manor, I was a bird finally flying free. And the ills of England-Argus-gave me a valid reason to explore a wider world. For that reason I’ll always love Argus, though I don’t love him.”

“In which case it’s time I made a confession,” he said, face serious. “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, but even if you don’t, still I must tell you the truth.”

“The truth?” she asked, eyes gone grey.

“I am Angus, but I am also Argus.”

Her jaw dropped; she gaped at him. “You are Argus?”

“Yes, for my sins. I was bored, Mary, and idle. Alastair ran the family businesses, and the Chronicle had begun to run itself. So I invented Argus, with two objects in mind. One was to keep myself busy. The other was to draw the attention of the comfortably off to the plight of the poor. That second motive was never as important to me as the first, and that is the truth. There is a spirit of mischief in me, and it gave me intense satisfaction to dine in the best houses and listen to my hosts rave about the vile perfidies of Argus. A delightful feeling, but not as delightful as walking the corridors of Westminster to encounter members of the Lords and Commons. I gathered ideas from all these people, and I wallowed in the mischief I made far more than in the social conscience I was helping to engender.”

“But those letters were so real!” she cried.

“Yes, they’re real. That is part of the power of words, Mary. They are seductive, even on paper. Spoken or written, they can inspire the downtrodden to revolt, as happened in France and in America. It is words that separate us from the beasts.”

Anger didn’t seem to want to come; Mary sat in shock, trying to remember what she had said to Angus about Argus. How much of a fool had she sounded? How much of a silly, love-starved spinster? Had he, with his self-confessed spirit of mischief, taken pleasure in duping her?

“You made a fool of me,” she muttered.

He caught her words, sighed. “Never deliberately, Mary, I do swear it. Your transports over Argus filled me with humility and shame. I longed to confess, but dared not. If I had, you would have spurned me. I would have lost my dearest friend. All I could do was wait until I judged you knew me well enough to forgive. I beg you, Mary, forgive me!”

He had dropped to his knees, and lifted his clasped hands to her imploringly.

“Oh, do get up!” she snapped. “You look ridiculous. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were proposing marriage.”

“I am proposing marriage!” he yelled. “I love you more than life itself, you idiotic, stubborn, pragmatic, opinionated, blind, deaf, adorable wench!”

“Get up, get up!” was all she said.

Defeated, he dragged himself back onto his rock and gazed at her, utterly confounded. She hadn’t lost a scrap of her composure, though apparently she didn’t mind being called names. How very beautiful she was, with her hair done properly and clad in a gown that became her fetchingly. Her lips parted.

“You are Argus, you say-that is a shock. And you love me-that is another shock. You want to marry me-a third shock. I must say, Angus, that when you start on serious subjects, you do not seem to know when to stop.”

Inside herself, a coal of wonderful warmth was glowing, but she had no intention of telling him about its existence until he had suffered more than thus far he had. Oh, my dearest friend! If we are married, you will always be there for me. I do not know if that is love, but it will certainly do as a substitute.

Her face must have betrayed a little of that coal, for he relaxed suddenly, produced the dimples in his cheeks that hovered on the verge of fissures. “The time to stop,” he said, “is when we’ve sorted everything out to our mutual satisfaction. I have loved you since our first meeting in Hertford-oh, the mortification of knowing I was Argus while you extolled the wretched figment’s virtues! My self-esteem shrank to nothing because I, the rich and powerful Angus Sinclair, was no more to you than a contact with your hero, Argus.”

“That did not last very long. On our first walk I began to see that I’d made a friend who wasn’t going to force me to send him away by declarations of love and proposals of marriage. And by our ninth walk, as well as all the dinners and parties, I did not know how I was going to get on without you. Even today, after declarations of love and proposals of marriage, I find I cannot send you away.”

“If you forgive me, it’s because you love me in return,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “Will you forgive me?”

“I have already done so. Does that mean love? I must take your word for it. What I do know is that I must have your constant, perpetual friendship if I am to be happy. I will marry you to keep you as my dearest friend. And when I drive you mad, you must tell me. I find I am the sort of person who does indeed drive other people mad. Poor Miss Scrimpton was gibbering when I let her return to York, and Matthew Spottiswoode has taken to hiding whenever he thinks I’m coming. Charlie says I am an eccentric. I see no point in trying to dissimulate, Angus. I am a very difficult and wearying person,” said Mary without a trace of self-pity or sorrow that she should be that way. The truth was the truth, why repine?

“That’s why I love you,” he said, almost bursting with happiness. “In some ways we’re alike-we take pleasure in poking and prying, for one, and when we sink our teeth in, we can’t let go, for another. Also, I’m a little mad myself. Were I not, I wouldn’t sail the North Sea in winter. But my greatest joy, my dearest Mary, is that life with you will never be dull.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” she said, rising. “Come, it’s time we walked back. I want to know all about Argus.”

Yes, he was bursting with happiness-but was she? I may never know that for certain, he thought. Her composure is like a stone wall. How do I batter it down?

They had dinner а deux that evening, which rather perturbed Parmenter, always disconsolate when the family was away. Darcy House had its own servants. The easy camaraderie between Miss Mary and Mr. Sinclair didn’t suit his ideas of propriety, but he knew Mr. Fitz and Mrs. Darcy would find nothing untoward in two fortyish people spending the evening alone together. So when they repaired to the plushly purple little drawing room which held a Fra Angelico, a Giotto, a Botticelli and three Canalettos (hence its name, the Italian Room), Parmenter finally gave up. Having put out the port, the cognac and the cheroots, he left them to their own devices.

“I wonder which Darcy collected this glorious art?” Mary asked, accepting a port to keep up her courage.

“I have no idea, except that I’m positive they were sold for a hundredth of their value by some impoverished Italian.”

Angus didn’t bother looking at the paintings; he was too absorbed in watching Mary, who was wearing a low-cut taffeta gown of marmalade shot with vermilion. That long and graceful neck, he was thinking, needs no gems to improve it, but diamonds would draw attention to it. Such a perfect curve!

“I though Elizabeth was the most beautiful woman I knew,” he said, “but she can’t hold a candle to you.”

“Nonsense! You are besotted, Angus, which warps your taste as well as your judgement. I am too thin.”

“For the fashion, perhaps. But spareness suits you where it would reduce most women to scraggy old hens. Caroline Bingley springs to mind.”

“You may smoke if you wish. I am not supposed to drink port, but I like it more than I do wine. Less vinegary.”

He shifted from his wing chair to a sofa and lifted one brow at her. “I don’t feel like blowing a cloud. Come and sit here with me. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

She came to sit with him, but slewed sideways just too far away for kisses and cuddles. “We must talk about this.”

He sighed. “Mary, when you stand before God, you will demand to talk about that! I knew you were going to have something to say, because you always do. Sooner or later, my exasperating love, the kisses are inevitable. Also greater and more daring intimacies. I suppose you’re as ignorant as other maiden ladies?”

“I don’t believe so,” she said, considering the question. “There were all kinds of books in the Shelby Manor library, and I read them all. So I know quite a lot about bodies and copulation-connubial duty is the seemly phrase, not so?”

“And how do you feel about that side of marriage?”

“I don’t suppose you’d be content with friendship?” she asked hopefully.

He laughed. “No, I insist that you do your connubial duty.” He reached out to take her hand. “What I hope to see is the night when it becomes a pleasure, rather than a duty. May I kiss you? It is permitted between an engaged couple.”

“Yes, it is far better to begin as we intend to go on,” she said, composure undented. “You may kiss me.”

“First,” he said, pulling her very close, “it’s necessary to be in-er-intimate proximity. Do you mind?”

“It would be better if you took off your coat. I’m embracing naught but clothes.”

He removed the coat, a struggle, as it had been made by Weston and fitted like a kid glove. “Anything else?”

“The cravat. It scratches. Why is it so starched?”

“To hold its shape. Is that better?”

“Much.” She unbuttoned his collar and slid one hand inside his shirt. “How nice your skin feels! Like silk.”

His eyes had closed, but in despair. “Mary, you cannot act like a seductress! I’m a man of one-and-forty, but if you keep on provoking me, I may not be able to control myself!”

“I love your hair,” she said, running her free hand through it. She sniffed. “It smells wonderful-no pomade, just expensive soap. And you will never be bald.” Her other hand crept down to his chest. “Angus, you’re very muscular!”

“Shut up!” he growled, and kissed her.

He had wanted this first contact with her lips to be tender and loving, but the fire was lit in him, so the kiss was hard and passionate, probing. To his amazement she responded ardently, both hands working at his shirt, while his hands, despising idleness, did an expert job on the laces down the back of her dress. Her sweet little breasts somehow fell into his grasp, and he began to kiss them in an ecstasy of bliss.

Suddenly he pushed her away. “We cannot! Someone might come in!” he gasped.

“I’ll lock the door,” she said, lifted herself off the sofa, stepped out of her dress and petticoats, kicked them away, and stalked in her silk underwear to the door. Click! “There. It’s locked.”

Her hair had fallen down; the last petticoat was tossed into a corner, the camisole and drawers lying on the floor in her wake like exhausted white butterflies.

He had used the time to good advantage himself, and took her back into his arms as naked as she was, save that she let him peel off her stockings. Oh, what heaven! No composure now, just gasps and purrs and moans of delight.

“You’ll have to marry me now,” she said a long time after, when he got up to put more logs on the fire.

“Come to Scotland with me,” he said, kneeling at the fire, his head turned so that he could smile at her. “We can be wed across the anvil in Gretna Green.”

“Oh, that’s the perfect way to get married!” she cried. “I was dreading a family wedding, all the curious coming to gawp at us. This is far the best way. But isn’t Gretna Green a long way east? I thought the road to Glasgow would be farther west.”

“I’m in a carriage, dear inquisitive love, and between here and Glasgow lies a body of water called the Solway Firth. The road to Glasgow as well as to Edinburgh goes through Gretna.”

“Oh. It’s appropriate that one Bennet daughter should have a runaway marriage at Gretna Green.”

“I cannot believe you,” he said, utterly lost in love.

“I must have more Lydia in me than I suspected, dearest of dear Anguses. That was the loveliest thing I have ever done. Let’s do it again, please!”

“One more time, then, you insatiable wench.” He pulled her onto the floor and cushioned her head on his shoulder. “After that we have to make ourselves respectable and go to bed. Each in our own room, mind! Parmenter will have a stroke as it is. A short sleep, alas. At dawn we start for Gretna Green. If by any chance I’ve quickened you, we had best hurry, else all the old tabbies will be doing their sums.”

Fitz came into Elizabeth’s room looking concerned. “My dear love, I think there might be bad news from Pemberley,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, a letter in his hand. “A courier has just brought this for you.”

“Oh, Fitz! It must concern Mary!” Fingers trembling, Elizabeth snapped the seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper, then began to read its few lines.

She emitted a sound between a howl and a shriek.

“What is it?” Fitz demanded. “Tell me!”

“Mary and Angus are on their way to Gretna Green!” She thrust the letter at him. “Here, read for yourself!”

“If that doesn’t beat all!” he breathed. “They have not a soul there but themselves. Stolen a march!”

“How will they ever get on?” Elizabeth asked, feelings mixed.

“Very well, I hazard a guess. She is an eccentric, and he is a man who likes unusual things. He’ll let her have a free rein until she bolts, when he’ll curb her firmly but kindly. I’m delighted for them, I truly am.”

“So am I-I think. She says she has written to Charlie with the news. Oh, why are we in London? I want to go home!”

“We can’t until the season is over, you know that. I do have hopes that Georgie will continue to behave herself, but if we aren’t here-!”

“Yes, of course you’re right. You don’t think Georgie will accept the Duke, or Lord Wilderney?”

“No, she’s too much a Darcy to care for peers. I think she may choose Mr. John Parker of Virginia.”

“Fitz! An American?”

“Why not? He has the entrйe-his mother is Lady de Main. He’s also extremely wealthy, so he doesn’t need Georgie’s dowry. Still, it’s early days. The season hasn’t yet really commenced.”

“Our first chick will probably fly the nest,” Elizabeth said, rather disconsolately.

“We have four others.”

“No,” she said, blushing. “Five others.”

“Elizabeth! No!”

“Elizabeth, yes. In June, I think.”

“Then we’ll go home in April, Season or no Season. You won’t want to grow too heavy in London, it’s damp and smoky in spring.”

“I would like that very much.” She heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “Next year will be a quiet one. The year after that, we’ll have to bring out Susie.”

Jane descended on London shortly after the news of Mary’s sensational elopement reached her, free to do so because Caroline Bingley had finally found a useful occupation: turning the Bingley boys from harum-scarums into beautifully comported gentlemen. Though she did quite a lot of complaining, secretly she loved it. Nothing gratified her more than wielding power. Not that she had things all her own way. The Bingley boys were foes worthy of her steel.

“Louisa and Posy are free to do what they have yearned to do for years,” Jane said to Elizabeth the day after she took up residence in Bingley House.

“And what is that?” Elizabeth asked dutifully.

“Sell the Hurst property in Brook Street and move to Kensington,” said Jane.

“No! Among what Fitz would call the old tabbies?”

“Better to be the only Persians in a society of tabbies than be reduced to hanging on Charles’s sleeve for every guinea,” Jane answered, smiling. “Mr. Hurst left them with very little apart from the property, and that would have been mortgaged had Charles not put his foot down. Its sale has given them a comfortable income that will not require Louisa in particular to economise on her clothes or sell her jewels.”

“Well, Caroline was ever the driving force. Does she know?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What did she have to say?”

“Very little. Hugh had chosen to short-sheet her bed the night before she received Louisa’s letter, and Percival broke rotten eggs into her favourite walking boots.” Jane looked demure. “By the time she had found the culprits and exacted vengeance, Louisa’s news was a trifle stale.”

“How can you bear her at Bingley Hall day after day, Jane?”

“With equanimity, actually.”

“So what brings you to London?”

“I want to say farewell to Louisa and Posy, as I doubt I’ll ever have much time to visit Kensington.”

“And Charles is coming home,” Elizabeth accused.

“Yes, he is. Oh, it will be delightful to see him!”

“And so the babies will begin again,” Elizabeth said to Fitz that night, curled up next to him in bed.

“It is their business, my dear.”

“I would not mind, were it not for her health.”

“At forty-six, how many babies can she bear?”

“Oh! I never thought of that.” She sat up and linked her arms about her knees. “You are right as always, Fitz. We are all growing old.” She looked wistful. “Where do the years go?”

“Provided that you survive this child, Elizabeth, I don’t care,” he said, stroking her cheek. “When do you plan on telling our children that there will be a new addition to the family?”

“Not until February, I think. Just before Georgie’s coming-out ball.”

“Is that wise? Why not now?”

“If I tell them then, it will take the edge off Georgie’s nerves. With a duke and an earl refused, I don’t wish her to face that ordeal feeling that every debutante’s eye is upon her.”

“It is their mamas who are jealous, my love.”

And so the news was broken, though not without some discomfort on Elizabeth’s part.

Charlie was delighted, hugged and kissed his mama, shook his father warmly by the hand and announced that at his advanced age he would feel more like an uncle than a brother.

Susie and Anne were pleased, but not quite sure what to make of decrepit parents who produced babies. Cathy was furious; the family had to endure an outbreak of pranks that only ceased after Charlie shook her until her teeth rattled and told her roundly that she was a selfish little beast.

Georgie was so thrilled that she sailed through her ball and marked the occasion as memorable by declining to become Mrs. John Parker of Virginia.

“Why?” asked Elizabeth, exasperated. “To refuse so many advantageous offers is ridiculous! You’ll get a reputation for the worst kind of capriciousness and receive no offers at all.”

“With a dowry of ninety thousand pounds?” Georgie asked smugly. “I do not intend to marry yet, Mama-if at all. I am enjoying my season, especially breaking hearts. You were twenty-one when you married Papa, and had had other offers. Besides, I refuse to have a betrothed underfoot while I am busy watching our new precious mite grow into a person.”

Well, that answers one question, thought her mother: Georgie is not in love with any of her suitors.

What she didn’t know (and Georgie had no intention of telling her) was that every week Georgie wrote to Owen Griffiths, who had not yet succumbed to her charms, but would, she was sure. She had worked out how to have her cake and eat it too, even if Queen Marie Antoinette had failed. When time had proven that she was a dedicated spinster, she intended to buy a farm on the outskirts of Oxford; then she could be a farmer and Owen could be an Oxford don.

Word came from Glasgow that Mr. and Mrs. Angus Sinclair would shortly be embarking upon a ship to sail to Liverpool, as both orphanages were nearing completion, and Mary wanted to be on hand to drive both teams of builders mad. Everyone knew that builders might be relied upon for ninety percent of the works, but never bothered with the last ten percent. These two projects, vowed Mary, would be finished down to the last nail and the last touch of paint in the most obscure corner.

Angus had finally succumbed to the need a wealthy man was supposed to have for the status of a country seat. Alastair and his brood occupied the Scottish mansion, and some weeks of Mary’s company had reduced them to abject terror. The very thought of Mary resident in Scotland had Alastair’s wife in the throes of vapours and Alastair himself on the verge of emigration to America. So to learn that Angus intended to live in close proximity to the Sheffield orphanage caused rejoicing in every Sinclair breast north of the Border. They could escort him and Mary on board the ship with light hearts and sincerest good wishes. Let Angus live among the Sassenachs!

He found seven thousand acres outside Bradfield on the edge of the moors; they included a forest, a park and a proper number of tenant farms. Because the mansion could be sited atop a tall hill, Mr. and Mrs. Angus Sinclair agreed that the property should be named Ben Sinclair.

In the meantime, said Angus’s letter to Fitz in London, would Fitz object if they stayed at Pemberley until Ben Sinclair became a reality?

Everyone gathered at Pemberley or Bingley Hall for the summer of 1814, eagerly awaiting the birth of two longed-for, very worrying babies. The only defector was Owen Griffiths, who was not sure if he could withstand Georgie’s charms did he see her in the flesh, so prudently went home to Wales. His paper upon the movements of Caesar in Gaul had circulated far and wide, so perspicacious was it upon things like the inaccuracy of Caesar’s mileage; the academic Powers That Be were now hailing him a formidable future scholar. If the formidable future scholar kept Georgie’s letters in a neat bundle tied with a satin ribbon the colour of her eyes, that was his business, no one else’s. When he wrote to her, he addressed her as his dear Scruff. Her letters to him said “dear Owen.”

Elizabeth’s pregnancy had been uneventful yet burdensome; she swore to Fitz that this one was a giant. Her labour was exhaustingly long, though uncomplicated, and resulted in a huge boy child with curly black hair and Fitz’s fine dark eyes. Provided that he was fed by two wet-nurses, he was a quiet and placid baby, but alert.

“God has been very good to us,” Elizabeth said to Fitz.

“Yes, my sweetest lady. Ned has been returned to us, and this time he will rejoice in his name. Edward Fitzwilliam Darcy. Who knows? Perhaps he will be prime minister.”

Mary’s pregnancy was more eventful, chiefly due to the book Kitty had sent her. It was written by an aristocratic German obstetrician who had definite ideas upon motherhood, despite (as Angus protested) his inability to experience the phenomenon in person. Everything she consumed was measured or weighed, its proportion of the whole diet regulated, and her own bodily condition monitored ruthlessly.

As the months wore on Angus grew increasingly sure that an expectant Mary was a fair indication of her ability to don the mental trappings of a married lady. She had hopped into the connubial bed with all Lydia’s glee, rendering him profoundly grateful that her child-bearing years were nearing an end. Otherwise, he reflected, she would probably have followed Jane’s example and fallen again every time he hung up his trousers for the next twenty years. Therefore he could be confident that his bride was up to the physical demands of marriage.

As to the intellectual and spiritual demands-she took them in her stride too. Who else would have seized upon the ideas of an unknown German accoucheur as if his book were an obstetrical bible? Who else would have accepted pregnancy as a matter of course, made no attempt to hide herself away and, as her girth increased, shoved her belly into people’s midriffs thinking she was as thin as ever? Unaccustomed to witnessing blatantly pregnant ladies, those she met, including the staff of “her” orphanage at Sheffield, were forced to pretend she was indeed as thin as ever. When “her” children told her she was getting fat, she told them outright that she was growing a new baby inside her tummy, and made them a part of the process. Her frankness appalled the staff, but…hers was the hand that fed.

As if that were not enough, she insisted upon journeying to London to see how Angus lived there, and participated in the pleasures of choosing furniture, carpets, drapes, wallpapers and paints for the interior of Ben Sinclair. Much to Angus’s relief, her taste in these things proved better than he expected, and, besides, when it veered away from his own tastes, she deferred to him with equanimity. She met all his London friends, and held sway at several dinner parties with that distressing bulge un-camouflaged.

“The worst of it is,” she informed the insufferably stiff and proper Mrs. Drummond-Burrell with a peal of laughter, “that I cannot pull my chair into the table, and end in wearing everything from soup to sauce.”

Perhaps the time was right for change, or perhaps it was just that Mary was Mary; Angus didn’t know, save that even the most waspish among his acquaintances hungered for more of her refreshing candour, particularly after they realised that her grasp of politics was highly developed and she cared not a jot that ladies were not supposed to be political. Shorn of his anxieties on her behalf, Angus understood that over the space of one short summer Mary had changed from a dandelion into a most exotic orchid. What he suspected he would never know was how much of the orchid had always lain dormant underneath.

Entering her eighth month, she returned to Pemberley to make sure the child would be born surrounded by its family. So by the time that she began her labour early in September, Angus had a very good idea of what his married life was going to entail. His wife intended to be his partner in all his enterprises, and expected him to be a partner in all her enterprises. It was as clear to him as it was to Fitz and Elizabeth that the Sinclairs were going to be in the vanguard of social change, particularly education. Mary had found her mйtier-universal education. Over the wrought-iron gates to the Children of Jesus orphanages at Buxton and Stannington stood the motto Mary had coined: EDUCATION IS LIBERTY.

To the surprise of everybody save Angus, Mary bore her labour pains with patience, tranquillity and copious notes she wrote in a diary between contractions. Twelve hours later she produced a long, slender boy child with a magnificent pair of lungs; he screamed the house down until shown the purpose of a nipple, then mercifully shut up. Mary was following the dictates of her German bible still, and nursing him herself. Luckily she was brimful of milk, whereas the more buxomly endowed Elizabeth was dry.

“God has been very good to us,” she said to Angus, who was a ghost of himself after twelve hours spent pacing up and down the Great Library with Fitz and Charlie for company. “What do you wish to call him?”

“Have you no suggestions?” he asked.

“None, my dearest friend. You may name the boys, I will name the girls.”

“Well, with a head of hair that would set a haystack on fire, it will have to be a Scots name, my wanton wench. Hamish Duncan.”

“What colour other than carrots could his hair have been?” she asked, stroking the baby’s thick ginger fluff. “A dear wee man! I must arrange for Dr. Marshall to circumcise him.”

“Circumcise? I’ll have no son of mine circumcised!”

“Of course you will,” she said, unperturbed. “All manner of horrid substances collect beneath an intact foreskin, including a natural exudate called smegma that looks like cottage cheese. The foreskin is removed by all semitic peoples-Jews, Arabs-as hygienic principle. I imagine that if grains of sand got under it they would hurt dreadfully, so one can see why desert peoples originated it. Graf von Tielschaft-Hohendorner-Gцterund-Schunck says that the wall paintings in Egyptian tombs reveal that the ancient Egyptians circumcised. He recommends that all male children be circumcised irrespective of their ancestry. I have followed his advice to the letter, had an easy pregnancy and delivery in my forty-first year, and so must defer to him in this too.”

“Mary, I forbid it! What will they say of him at school?”

“No, you don’t forbid it,” she said comfortably. “You will consent because it is the right thing to do. By the time he goes to school, I will have taught him how to argue more successfully than a clutch of Privy Councillors.”

“The laddie’s doomed,” said Hamish’s father morosely. “Our son will be branded an eccentric long before he goes to school.”

“There is merit in that,” said Hamish’s mother thoughtfully. “He will have his own niche. Nor, with us as parents, will he be brought up too narrow, as I was.”

“Certainly he won’t lack character, or be a shrinking violet. But, Mary, I absolutely forbid circumcision!”

Mary squealed with delight. “Oh, Angus, look! He is smiling! Diddlums, tiddlums, coochy-coo, smile for Papa, Hamish! Show him how much you are looking forward to being circumcised!”