The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet. Colleen McCullough

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      “What kind of man is Fitz?”

      Elizabeth blinked at such bluntness. “After nineteen years of marriage, sister, I confess I do not know. He has such — such exalted ideas of who and what the Darcys are. Perhaps that is inevitable in a family that can trace itself back to the Conquest and before. Though I have sometimes wondered why, given this centuries-old pre-eminence, there has never been a title.”

      “Pride, I expect,” said Mary. “You are not happy.”

      “I had thought to be, but entering the married state is to commence a voyage into the unknown. I suppose I thought that, given Fitz’s love for me, we would settle to an idyllic life at Pemberley, our children around us. But I was not aware of Fitz’s zeal, his restlessness, his ambitions. His secrets. There are elements in his nature that elude me.” She shivered. “And I am not sure I wish to know what those elements are.”

      “It grieves me to see you so blighted, Lizzie, but I am glad we have had this opportunity to talk. Is there a definite element to Fitz that worries you most?”

      “Ned Skinner, I would have to answer. That is a very strange friendship.”

      Mary frowned. “Who is Ned Skinner?”

      “If you had come to Pemberley, you would know. He is Fitz’s general manager, overseer, factotum. Not his steward — Matthew Spottiswoode is steward. Ned travels a lot for Fitz, but what he does exactly, I do not know. He lives in a beautiful cottage on the estate, has servants of his own, and his own stables.”

      “You called it a friendship.”

      “It is, a very close one. That is the mystery. For Ned is not Fitz’s equal in society, which under ordinary circumstances would disbar him from friendship. Yet they are close.”

      “Is he a gentleman?”

      “He speaks like one, yet is not one.”

      “Why have you never mentioned him?”

      “I suppose the subject has never come up. I have not had any opportunity in the past to speak with you so openly.”

      “Yes, I know. Mama was always there, or Charlie. How long has Fitz been close with this Ned Skinner?”

      “Oh, since before he married me. I remember him as a young man lurking in the background, looking at Fitz with adoration. He is a little younger than I —”

      Elizabeth cut off whatever else she might have been going to say when Fitz walked in, bringing a rush of cold air with him. Still a fine-looking man, Mary thought, even at fifty. Everything a young, sheltered female could have wanted in a husband, from circumstances to presence. Yet she remembered Jane’s saying once, with a sigh, that Lizzie had not loved him as she, Jane, loved her dear Mr Bingley. A true Jane statement, holding no condemnation or disapproval; just something about Lizzie’s setting eyes on the glories of Pemberley and thinking much better of Mr Darcy thereafter. When he had renewed his addresses in the wake of Lydia’s scandalous elopement, Lizzie had accepted him.

      “Mary, a word before I go,” Darcy said, then turned to his wife. “Are you ready, my dear?”

      “Yes. Did you find Charlie?”

      “Naturally. Encumbered with a dozen rats.”

      Elizabeth laughed. “I hope he washes his hands. I want no fleas in the coach.”

      “He has gone to do so. After you, my dear Mary.” And he stood aside for her with his customary chill courtesy, thence to follow her to the library, a genuine one stocked with thousands of books.

      “Sit down,” he said, going to the business side of the desk with the calm authority of one whose purse had paid for it and all the rest of Shelby Manor. Knees suddenly weak, Mary sank onto the client’s chair and faced him, chin up. Just because her knees gave way did not mean her backbone would!

      For a moment Fitz said nothing more, simply gazed at her with a trace of puzzlement. Then, “How like Elizabeth you have become. It was the pustules, of course. Fortunate that they did not pock your skin.” The physical niceties over, he embarked upon her other deficiencies. “I never heard a worse voice, nor one more prone to give vent in song. My hair still stands on end at the memory.”

      “You should have informed me of its lack, brother.”

      “It was not my place.” He folded his hands together in front of him, their pose indicating their owner’s indifference. “So, Mary, your duty is done.” The cold black eyes bored into hers, gradually taking on a tinge of uncertainty when she neither withered nor shrank. “At the time that your father died, Charles Bingley and I decided that you should be adequately recompensed for your willingness to stay with your mother. Your father was not in a position to leave you anything, preferring to bequeath his unentailed capital to Lydia, in greater need. You, he understood, would put Charles Bingley and me in your debt by caring for your mother at a distance remote from the North.”

      “Insulate you from her idiocies, you mean,” said Mary.

      He looked taken aback, then shrugged. “Quite so. For which service, we have funded you to the tune of five hundred pounds per year. Eight and a half thousand pounds in all.”

      “It is certainly true that lady’s companions are not so well paid as I have been,” said Mary tonelessly.

      “However, Shelby Manor must now be sold in the same manner as it was bought — whole and entire, including the books in the library and the services of the Jenkins family. A buyer has been found already, not least because of the Jenkinses. I must therefore uproot you, sister, for which I am very sorry.”

      “Lip service,” she said, snorting.

      A soft chuckle escaped him. “The years may not have wrought destruction upon your face or figure, but they have coated your tongue with more acid than syrup.”

      “For which, blame the exhaustion of a religion picked to bare white bones, and the enticements of far too much leisure. Once I had Mama properly trained — which was not difficult — the hours of my days sat upon me heavily. To change the metaphor, you might say that the creaking gate of my mind received lubrication from the contents of this excellent library, not to mention the company of your son. He has been a bonus.”

      “I’m glad he’s good for something.”

      “Let us not quarrel about Charlie, though I take leave to tell you that every day you do not appreciate his quality is yet one more day proves you a fool. As to me, I, myself, what do you propose doing with them now their task is ended?”

      His colour had risen under her scathing words, but he answered civilly. “You should come to us at Pemberley, or to Jane at Bingley Hall — your choice, I imagine, will depend upon whether you prefer girls or boys.”

      “At either place it would be an empty existence.”

      The corners of his mouth turned down. “Have you any kind of alternative?” he asked, sounding wary.

      “With over eight thousand pounds, a measure of independence.”

      “Explain.”

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