The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet. Colleen McCullough

would make a difference. But will I be let? No. My elder sisters and their grand husbands will descend upon Shelby Manor within the week, and a new sentence of lethargy will be levied upon Aunt Mary. Probably joining the horde of nurses, governesses and tutors who are responsible for the welfare of Elizabeth’s and Jane’s children. For naturally Mrs Darcy and Mrs Bingley enjoy only the delights of children, leaving the miseries of parentage to others. The wives of grand men do not wait for things to happen: they make things happen. Seventeen years ago, Mrs Darcy and Mrs Bingley were too busy enjoying their marriages to take responsibility for Mama.

      Oh, how bitter that sounds! I did not mean that thought to shape itself sounding so bitter. At the time, it was not. I must be fair to them. When Papa died they were both new mothers, Kitty had just married, and Lydia — oh, Lydia! Longbourn went to the Collinses, and my fate was manifest, between the spots and the tooth. How smoothly Fitz handled it! Shelby Manor purchased together with the services of the Jenkinses, and the fledgling maiden aunt Mary eased into her task as deftly as a carpenter dovetails two pieces of wood. Mama and I removed ten miles the other side of Meryton, far enough away from the odious Collinses, yet close enough for Mama to continue to see her cronies. Aunt Phillips, Lady Lucas and Mrs Long had been delighted. So was I. A huge library, a full-sized fortepiano, and the Jenkinses.

      So whence this sudden bitterness against my sisters now it is over? UnChristian and undeserving. Lord knows Lizzie at least has had her troubles. Hers is not a happy marriage.

      Shivering, Mary left the window to huddle in the chair on the far side of the fireplace from her still, utterly silent companion. She found herself watching the pink silk scarf, expecting it to puff with a sudden breath from underneath. But it did not. Dr Callum would be here soon; Mama would be taken to her feather bed, washed, dressed, laid out in the freezing air for the long vigil between death and burial.

      Starting guiltily, she remembered that she had not summoned the Reverend Mr Courtney. Oh, bother! If Old Jenkins has not returned with the doctor, Young Jenkins would have to go.

      “For one thing I refuse to do,” she said to herself, “is send for Mr Collins. I have been over that for twenty years.”

      “Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam Darcy as he entered his wife’s dressing room, “I have bad news, my dear.”

      Elizabeth turned from the mirror, brows arched higher over her luminous eyes. Their customary sparkle faded; she frowned, rose to her feet. “Charlie?” she asked.

      “No, Charlie is well. I have had a letter from Mary, who says that your mother has passed away. In her sleep, peacefully.”

      The stool in front of the dressing table refused to help her; she sagged sideways onto its corner, almost fell as she scrambled for balance, and found it. “Mama? Oh, Mama!”

      Fitz had watched her without going to her aid; finally he moved from the doorway, strolled across the carpet to rest one hand on her bare shoulder, its long fingers pressing her flesh lightly. “My dear, it is for the best.”

      “Yes, yes! But she is only sixty-two! I had fancied she would make very old bones.”

      “Aye, coddled like a Strasbourg goose. It is a mercy, all the same. Think of Mary.”

      “Yes, for that I must be thankful. Fitz, what to do?”

      “Set out for Hertfordshire first thing in the morning. I will send to Jane and Charles to meet us at the Crown and Garter by nine. Best to travel together.”

      “The children?” she asked, grief beginning as shock went. What were the old, when there were young to fill the heart?

      “They stay here, of course. I’ll tell Charles not to let Jane cozen him into taking any of theirs. Shelby Manor is a commodious house, Elizabeth, but it will not accommodate any of our offspring.” Reflected in her mirror, his face seemed to harden; then he shrugged the mood off, whatever it had been, and continued in his level voice. “Mary says that she has sent for Kitty, but thinks Lydia is better left to me. What a truly sensible woman Mary has become!”

      “Please, Fitz, let us take Charlie! You will ride, and I will make the journey alone. It is a long way. We can drop Charlie back at Oxford on the way home.”

      His mouth slipped a little awry as he considered it, then he gave his famous regal nod. “As you wish.”

      “Thank you.” She hesitated, knowing the answer, but asking the question anyway. “Do we hold this dinner tonight?”

      “Oh, I think so. Our guests are on their way. Your mourning weeds can wait until tomorrow, as can the subject.” His hand left her shoulder. “I am for downstairs. Roeford is sure to arrive at any moment.”

      And with a grimace at mention of his least esteemed Tory ally, Darcy left his wife to finish her toilet.

      A tear escaped, was whisked away by the haresfoot; eyes swimming, Elizabeth fought for control. How splendid a political career could be! Always something important to do, never the time for peace, companionship, leisure. Fitz did not mourn Mrs Bennet’s passing, she knew that well; the trouble was that he expected her to feel the same indifference, heave a thankful sigh at the lifting of this particular burden, part shame, part embarrassment, part impotence. Yet that shallow, idiotic, crotchety woman had borne her, Elizabeth, and for that, surely she was entitled to be loved. To be mourned, if not missed.

      “I want Mr Skinner. At once,” Darcy said to his butler, busy hovering over the first footman as he divested Mr Roeford of his greatcoat. “My dear Roeford, how splendid to see you. As always, first into the fray.” And without a backward glance, Darcy led his obnoxiously early guest into the Rubens Room.

      The curt but civil command had Parmenter fleeing in search of the third footman the moment his master disappeared. Something was amiss, so much was sure. But why did Mr Darcy want that forbidding man at this hour?

      “Run all the way, James,” Parmenter instructed, then went back to the hall to await more timely guests. Six of them appeared half an hour later, glowing with anticipation, exclaiming at the cold, speculating that the new year would come in hard and freezing. Not long after, Mr Edward Skinner stalked through the front door. He went straight to the small library — with never a please, thank you, or kiss my foot, the Pemberley butler thought resentfully. Valued he might be and speak like a gentleman he might, but Parmenter remembered him as a youth and would have gone to the stake maintaining that Ned Skinner was no gentleman. There were perhaps twelve years between his master and Ned, who therefore was no by-blow, but something existed between them, a bond not even Mrs Darcy had been able to plumb — or break. Even as Parmenter thought these things he was on his way to the Rubens Room to nod at Mr Fitz.

      “A difficulty, Ned,” said Fitz, closing the library door.

      Skinner made no reply, simply stood in front of the desk with body relaxed and hands by his sides loosely; not the pose of a minion. He was a very big man, five inches taller than Darcy’s six feet, and was built like an ape — massive shoulders and neck, a barrel of a chest, no superfluous fat. Rumour had it that his father had been a West Indian blackamoor, so dark were Skinner’s complexion, hair and narrow, watchful eyes.

      “Sit, Ned, you make my neck ache looking up.”

      “You have guests, I’ll not delay you. What is it?”

      “Whereabouts is Mrs George Wickham?” Darcy asked as he sat down, drawing a sheet of paper forward and dipping his steel-sheathed goose quill nib into the inkwell. He was already writing when Ned answered.

      “At the Plough and Stars in Macclesfield. Her new flirt has just become her latest lover. They’ve taken over the best bedroom and a private parlour.’ Tis a new location for her.”

      “Is she drinking?”

      “Not above a bottle or two. Love’s on her mind, not wine. Give her a week and things might change.”

      “They won’t have a chance.” Darcy glanced up briefly and grinned sourly. “Take my racing curricle and the bays, Ned. Deliver