The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet. Colleen McCullough

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СКАЧАТЬ by a black cap and hideous bonnet. Her handsome face wore its customary composed expression as she trod up the steps to his front door, there to ply its knocker.

      “Miss Bennet, sir,” said his clerk, ushering her in.

      By this time Mr Wilde was standing the correct distance away, his hand out to touch her fingertips, all the shake propriety allowed. “My condolences upon the death of your mother, Miss Bennet,” he said. “I was at the funeral, of course, but did not condole in person.”

      “I thank you for your sentiments, Mr Wilde.” She sat down stiffly. “You look a little young for a senior partner.”

      “I doubt there ever was a Patchett,” he said with a smile, “Mr Shaw and Mr Carlton are deceased, and my father handed the practice to me a full five years ago. I do assure you, Miss Bennet, that I have served my articles and am fully conversant with a solicitor’s duties.”

      This rather unprofessional statement did not thaw the lady’s expression; clearly she was impervious to charm, of which dubious asset Mr Wilde knew he owned much. He coughed an apology.

      “You are the custodian of a sum of money due to me, is that correct, sir?”

      “Why — er — yes. Forgive me, Miss Bennet, while I find your particulars.” And he ran a hand across a shelf of files marked B until a fat folder caught his attention, was removed. He sat down at his desk, untied its red tape, and perused it. “Eight and a half thousand pounds, invested in the four-percents.”

      Tucking her gloved hand back inside her muff, Miss Bennet looked relieved. “How much interest has it accrued?” she asked.

      His brows rose; ladies did not usually betray such a vast knowledge of financial matters. Back he went to the papers. “As of last quarter-day, one thousand and five pounds, nineteen shillings, and fourpence,” he said.

      “In toto, nine and a half thousand pounds,” she said.

      “That is correct, give or take a pound.”

      “How long will it take to withdraw it from the Funds?”

      “I could not advise that, Miss Bennet,” he said gently.

      “No one asked you to, sir. How long?”

      “Some weeks. Perhaps the middle of January.”

      “That will be satisfactory. Kindly commence the process, Mr Wilde. When my money is free, deposit it in the Hertford bank. You will arrange that I can draw upon it from any bank anywhere in England.” She paused, nodded. “Yes, England will suffice. Scotland, I believe, has its own laws and customs, and Ireland is full of Papists. Wales I regard as a part of England. Further to my needs, sir, I understand that Shelby Manor is already sold, and I must vacate it. It would suit me to vacate before Christmas, rather than after. Kindly find me a small furnished house here in Hertford, and rent it for six months. I will be travelling by next May, and will no longer need a Hertford residence.”

      His jaw had dropped; he cleared his throat, about to utter reasonable persuasions, then decided not to bother. If ever he had seen determination writ upon a face, he saw it now in Miss Mary Bennet’s. “With servants?” he asked.

      “A married couple, one maid above stairs, a cook and below stairs maid, if you please. I do not intend to entertain, and my needs are simple.”

      “And your lady’s companion?” he asked, making notes.

      “I will not have one.”

      “But — Mr Darcy!” he exclaimed, looking horrified.

      “Mr Darcy is not the arbiter of my destiny,” said Miss Bennet, chin out-thrust, mouth a straight line, heavy-lidded eyes anything but sleepy. “I have myself been a dreary female for long enough, Mr Wilde, not to want another foisted on me as a reminder.”

      “But you cannot travel unattended!” he protested.

      “Why not? I will avail myself of the services of the maids at the various hostelries I patronise.”

      “You will provoke gossip,” he said, plucking at straws.

      “I care as little for gossip as I do for idleness, and have been prey to both for far too long. I am not a helpless female, sir, though I am sure that you, like Mr Darcy, thus regard all of womankind. If God has seen fit to release me to do His work, then God will be my helpmate in everything, including the attentions of the unworthy and the importunities of men.”

      Terrified of so much iron purpose and quite unable to find any argument likely to deflect Miss Bennet from her chosen path, Mr Wilde gave up, only resolving that he would write to Mr Darcy at once. “All shall be done,” he said hollowly.

      She rose. “Excellent! Send word to me at Shelby Manor when you have found me a house. What little property I have, Jenkins can move. It will give the poor fellow something to do. With my mother gone, he is rather at a loss for occupations.”

      And out she sailed.

      Mr Wilde went back to the window in time to see her step into her chaise, her profile through its glass pane as pure and sculpted as a Greek statue. Lord, what a woman! She would petrify Satan. So why, asked Mr Wilde of himself, have I fallen in love with her? Because, he answered himself, I have been half in love with the vision of her for years, and now this one meeting tells me she is unique. Suitable ladies are inevitably boring, and I have, besides, a penchant for mature women. She enchants me!

      Oh, what a dance she will lead her husband! No wonder Mr Darcy looked disapproving when he broached the subject of Miss Mary Bennet and her tiny fortune. A fortune not imposing enough to form a decent dowry, nor sufficient, really, for a gentlewoman to exist upon without help. Mr Wilde had gathered that Mr Darcy wished her to retire to Pemberley, but such were very evidently not the lady’s plans. And what did she plan to do with her money, stripped of its potential to earn more? Uninvested, it would not last her into old age. The best alternative for Miss Bennet was marriage, and Mr Wilde very much wanted to be her husband, no matter how frightful the dance she led him. She was a nonpareil — a woman with a mind of her own, and not afraid to speak it.

      The chaise drew off; not a minute later, the hulking fellow who had been lounging against a nearby wall was riding his black thoroughbred behind it. Not precisely like a guard or escort, yet somehow tied to it, for all that Mr Wilde suspected its occupant was unaware that she was being followed.

      The letter to Mr Darcy had to be written, and immediately; sighing, Mr Wilde seated himself. But before he had dipped his pen in the standish, he had brightened; she would be in town for the winter … Now how did one get around the fact that she would be unchaperoned? No gentleman callers. A man of some resource, Mr Wilde mentally reviewed their mutual acquaintances and resolved that Miss Bennet would be invited to all manner of parties and dinners. Festivities whereat he might attend his awkward beloved.

      A nice young man, Mr Robert Wilde, but rather hidebound was Mary’s verdict as the chaise bowled along; one of Fitz’s minions, to be sure, but not subserviently so. Her stomach rumbled; she was hungry, and looked forward to a good tea in lieu of any luncheon. How easy it had been! Authority, that was all it took. And how fortunate that she had an example for her conduct in that master of the art, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Speak in a tone that brooks no argument, and even the Mr Wildes crumble.

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