The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet. Colleen McCullough

spinster sister was did not mean a different approach. A Ned Skinner might have preferred taprooms and stables, but Angus knew lawyers were like a maypole: all the threads connecting a district came together in them. Of course this was only true in small towns, but England was a place of small towns and villages. Big towns and cities were a result of that new phenomenon, industry on a scale undreamed of in the days of Charles Bingley’s grandpa.

      Conveyed into the courtyard of the Blue Boar, there to deposit his chaise, his baggage and his valet, Angus discovered from the landlord that Patchett, Shaw, Carlton and Wilde was the firm of solicitors patronised by Hertford’s best people, and that the man to see was Mr Robert Wilde.

      In Mr Robert Wilde he found a younger, more presentable, less hidebound man than he had expected, and decided to appear frank. Of course his name had been recognised; Mr Wilde knew him for a hugely rich fellow from north of the Border as well as the proprietor of the Westminster Chronicle.

      “I am a great friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s,” Angus said easily, “and have learned that he has a sister-in-law residing in Hertford. A Miss Mary Bennett — is that one t, or two?”

      “One,” said Mr Wilde, liking his visitor, who had a great deal of charm for a Scotsman.

      “As I feared, an amputation — no, no, Mr Wilde, I am being whimsical! It is not on Mr Darcy’s behalf that I am here. In actual fact I’m on a trip into East Anglia, and Hertford being on my way, I thought to call on Miss Bennet with news of her sister Mrs Darcy. Unfortunately I left in such a hurry that I did not think to obtain Miss Bennet’s address. Can you furnish it?”

      “I can,” said Mr Wilde, eyeing Mr Sinclair with some envy: a striking-looking man, between the silvering sandy hair above an attractive face, and the fashionably tailored apparel that shouted his means and his social pre-eminence. “However,” he said smugly, “I am afraid that you will not be able to pay her a call. She does not receive gentlemen.”

      The blue sailor’s eyes widened, the fine head went to one side. “Indeed? Is she a misanthrope? Or indisposed?”

      “Perhaps a little of the misanthrope, but that is not the reason. She has no chaperone.”

      “How extraordinary! Especially in one connected to Mr Darcy.”

      “If you had the privilege of knowing her, sir, you would better understand. Miss Bennet is of extremely independent turn of mind.” He heaved a sigh. “In fact, she is fixated upon independence.”

      “You know her well, then?”

      The Puckish cast of Angus’s countenance lulled most of those who met him into confiding facts to him that were not, strictly speaking, any of his business; Mr Wilde succumbed. “Know her well? I doubt any man could say that. But I had the honour of suing for her hand some time ago.”

      “So I must congratulate you?” Angus asked, feeling a twinge of excitement. If Miss Bennet had elicited a proposal of marriage from this well set up and prosperous young man, then she could not be either skinny or hatchet-faced.

      “Lord, no!” cried Mr Wilde, laughing ruefully. “She refused me. Her affections are reserved for a name in your own journal, Mr Sinclair. She can dream of no one save Argus.”

      “You do not seem cast down.”

      “Nor am I. Time will cure her of Argus.”

      “I am well acquainted with Mrs Darcy, also with another of her sisters, Lady Menadew. The most beautiful of women!” Angus exclaimed, throwing a lure.

      Mr Wilde took it, hook and sinker. “I believe Miss Mary Bennet has the edge on both of them,” said he. “She is in the mould of Mrs Darcy, but she is taller and has a better figure.” He frowned. “She also has qualities more difficult to define. A very outspoken lady, particularly about conditions among the poor.”

      Angus sighed and prepared to go. “Well, sir, I thank you for the information, and am sorry that it will not be possible for me to convey Mrs Darcy’s regards to her. Norwich calls, and I must take my leave.”

      “If you could stay in Hertford overnight you may meet her,” Mr Wilde said, unable to resist the impulse to show his beloved off. “She intends to be at the concert this evening in the assembly rooms; Lady Appleby is taking her. Come as my guest and I will gladly introduce you, for I know that Miss Bennet is very fond of her sisters.”

      And so it was arranged that Angus would call at Mr Wilde’s house at six. After a good lunch at the Blue Boar and a rather unstimulating stroll to see the attractions of Hertford, he presented himself at six to walk just across the high street to the venue.

      There, half an hour later, he set eyes on Miss Mary Bennet, who came in with Lady Appleby just as an Italian soprano was about to launch into several arias from the operatic works of Herr Mozart. Her garb was dismal in the extreme: depending on the governess, they dressed better. But there could be no diminishing the purity of her features, the glory of that wonderful hair, or the charm of her willowy figure. Entranced, he saw that her eyes were purple.

      A supper was laid out after the concert, which was voted excellent, though privately Angus rated the musical talents of La Stupenda and Signore Pomposo mediocre. With Mr Wilde at his elbow, he was taken to meet Miss Bennet.

      At the news that Mr Angus Sinclair was the publisher of Argus, she lit up like a Darcy House chandelier.

      “Oh, sir!” she cried, stepping in front of Mr Wilde and thus excluding him from the conversation. “I can find no compliment lavish enough to bestow upon the publisher of such a one as Argus! If you but knew how his letters thrill me!” A gleam shot into those amazing eyes; Miss Bennet was about to ask questions maiden ladies were not supposed to upon first meetings. “What is he like? What does he look like? Is his voice deep? Is he married?”

      “How do you imagine him, Miss Bennet?” he asked.

      The question flustered her, especially since she had come to the concert in no expectation of more than music to while away the time. But to meet the publisher of Argus! Mind in a spin, Mary fought for composure. The proprietor of the Westminster Chronicle was not at all what she might have imagined had it ever occurred to her to wonder, so how could she find words to describe the god Argus?

      “I see him as vigorous and dedicated, sir,” she said.

      “Handsome?” he asked wickedly.

      She froze instantly. “I begin to think, Mr Sinclair, that you are teasing me. That my unmarried state and my advanced years make me an object of pity and amusement to you.”

      “No, no!” he cried, horrified at this prickliness. “I was merely trying to prolong our conversation, for the moment I answer your original questions, Miss Bennet, it is over.”

      “Then let us get it over, sir. Answer me!”

      “I have absolutely no idea what Argus is like, literally or metaphorically. His letters come in the post.”

      “Have you any idea where he lives?”

      “No. There is never a mark upon the exterior, and no kind of return address.”

      “I see. Thank you.” And she turned her shoulder on him to speak to Mr Wilde.

      The devastated Angus returned to his rooms at the Blue Boar, snapped Stubbs’s head off, and sat down to scheme how he could further his acquaintance with Miss Mary Bennet. The most ravishing creature! Where did she get those awful clothes? How could she sully the ivory skin of her graceful neck with rough serge? How could she cram a black cap over that glorious hair? If Angus had ever dreamed of the one woman he would make his wife — he had not — he would have stipulated beauty and dignity, of course, but also a measure of ease in any situation. In other words, the gift of genteel chat, the ability to conjure up an expression of interest even if the subject, the occasion and the object were hideously boring. Prominent men needed such wives. Whereas his Mary — how could he be thinking of her so possessively after one short and disastrous encounter?