The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

by Colleen McCullough

  “Well, that answers one question,” he said, and tossed the bag back into the ditch; the book went into his saddle bag. “There’s no point in carrying what’s in there—we’ll buy her much better at the nearest draper’s.”

  “Oh, Lord, the villain must have set upon her!” Charlie said, winking at tears. “I’ll have his guts!”

  “You’ll have to share them with me,” said Owen.

  They could find no sign of the other handbag, but her plain black reticule was lying on the road just as the Green Man came into view around a bend.

  “Empty,” said Angus. “However, we’ll keep it as proof, despite its aroma. See? She embroidered her name upon the lining. Black on black—her eyesight must be magnificent.”

  Perhaps because the hour was early and felons traditionally lay abed until noon or later, the Green Man looked the very picture of innocence. It was tucked into a pocket of land where the trees had been removed, had stables of a kind down a driveway to one side, and numerous dilapidated out-buildings that seemed to store everything from firewood to barrels and crates. The building itself was large, had a thatched roof and half-timbered walls; the Green Man had been sitting there for at least two centuries. Hens and ducks picked at the ground outside its entrance doors.

  No one peered through its bullioned windows as they rode up; clearly the Green Man did not cater to pre-noon patrons.

  “I’ll go in alone,” said Angus, preparing to dismount.

  “No, Angus, I’ll go,” said Charlie with authority. “I’ll allow you precedence in civilised places, but this is my country and I know how to go about things.” He flipped the frizzen off one pistol, made sure the powder pan was well primed, tucked the weapon horizontally in his breeches waist and then carefully cocked it. “Angus, take the other pistol and stand watch. The frizzen’s up, but it’s not cocked.”

  Angus watched in horror at the youth’s insouciance, carrying a cocked, primed pistol like that, especially after he draped his coat across it. A slip, a trip, and he would be a Mozart castrato. How familiar he must be with pistols! For himself, Angus made sure he held his pistol level, and made no attempt to cock it.

  When Charlie entered, he had to bend his head, and blinked in surprise; he had grown inches this past year!

  “Hola!” he called. “Anybody at home?”

  Came the sound of someone moving, then the distinctive clop-clop of clogs, popular footwear in the north.

  At sight of Charlie, the evil-looking fellow who appeared stopped abruptly, frowning at the expensive clothes and very beautiful face. “Yes, my pretty boy? Lost, are you?” He made an effort to smile, showing the rotten teeth of a rum drinker.

  “No, I am not lost. I and my two companions are looking for a lady named Miss Mary Bennet, and we have reason to think that one Captain Thunder—a fearsome name!—set upon her between the Friar Tuck and this establishment.”

  “There be no ladies here,” said the man.

  “But might there be a Captain Thunder?”

  “Never heard of the cull.”

  “That’s not what people hereabouts say. Kindly fetch the fellow, landlord—if landlord you are.”

  “I be the landlord, but I don’t know no Captain Thunder. Who might be asking?” His hand inched toward an axe.

  Out came Charlie’s pistol, absolutely level. “Don’t bother with such antics, please! I am the only son of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, and the lady I am trying to find is my aunt.”

  The mere mention of “Darcy” and “Pemberley” worked upon the landlord so powerfully that his hand flopped to his side as if felled by a stroke. He began to whine. “Sir, sir, you be mistook! This is a respectable house that has no truck with bridle-culls! I swears to you, Mr. Darcy, sir, that I ain’t never heard of your aunt!”

  “I’d be more prone to believe you if you admitted that you do know Captain Thunder.”

  “Only in a manner of speaking, Mr. Darcy, sir, only in a manner of speaking. The cull is known to me in a like way to what he’s known elsewhere in the district. He terrorises us! But I swears he brung no lady here! No woman of any kind, dear sir!”

  “Where may I find Captain Thunder?”

  “They say he got a house in the woods somewhere, but I don’t know where, sir, honest! I swears it!”

  “Then next time you see Captain Thunder, you may give him a message from Darcy of Pemberley. That his nefarious career is over. My father will hunt him down—from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, if necessary. He will hang, but worse than that. His body will rot in a gibbet.”

  Charlie turned on his heel and left, the pistol still in his hand. At sight of him Angus sagged in relief; it seemed the young rascal did indeed know how to deal with Nottinghamshire villains. Concern for his aunt was honing him into the kind of man his father should have been, and was not; Fitz’s iron strength was there, but without the coldness. How could Fitz be blind enough not to see what lay in his son?

  “No luck,” Charlie said tersely, remounting. “I doubt Mary was ever taken there. The rogue who is the landlord knows Captain Thunder very well, I hazard a guess, but isn’t privy to all his business. Which makes sense. If he participated in the Captain’s every scheme, he’d be entitled to at least a quarter share of the spoils, and the Captain is too fly for that.”

  “Then we’re for Chesterfield?”

  “Yes. I won’t seek anyone official out—I’d rather sool my father onto the slugs of the constabulary from Nottingham to Leek to Derby and Chesterfield. If nothing else comes of it, Captain Thunder’s career is at an end.”

  “What I haven’t told you,” Angus confessed, “is that Mr. Beatty told me his wife saw the Captain lurking that Friday noon. And he followed Mary down the road toward the Green Man. He must have known she had guineas for the taking—but then, it seems that everyone in the Nottingham coach station knew that. Either the Captain was there to witness Mary’s fall, or some paid informant told him. The woods hereabout were perfect for his purpose.”

  “Mrs. Beatty deserves a dose of her own biblical retribution—may she be eaten by worms!” said Owen savagely.

  “I agree,” Angus said in soothing tones, “but the sentiment doesn’t help us find Mary. I’ll exhort Fitz to have the constables descend upon the Green Man armed with writs for the arrest of all in it, but like you, Charlie, I don’t think Mary was ever there. The Captain didn’t want to share his spoils, or tell a soul what he had done.”

  Owen had listened in growing horror. “Oh! Does this mean she’s dead?” he blurted.

  His question hung unanswered for a long time before Angus sighed. “We must pray she isn’t, Owen. Somehow I can’t see Mary giving up her life without a colossal struggle, and I don’t mean a physical one. She would have striven to convince the cur that she was too important to kill with impunity.”

  Tears were rolling down Charlie’s cheeks.

  “How do we begin to search the woods for her, Charlie?” Angus asked, to give the young man something to think about.

  One hand brushed the tears away. “We ride for Pemberley before we do anything else,” he said. “My father will know.”

  Even taking into account an overnight trip to Sheffield, Ned Skinner was ahead of them by two full days. While Charlie (and perforce, Angus and Owen too) kicked his heels waiting to farewell Derbyshire and the Speaker of the House, he had ridden from Sheffield to Nottingham. His technique was different; while both Angus and Charlie tended to apply to the top echelons for information, Ned knew better. So upon reaching the freight depot and coach yard in Nottingham, he spoke very briefly with Mr. Hooper, then located a groom who had seen what had happened with his own eyes. As it turned out, he was the same fellow whom Mary had accosted trying to find out which coach went to Derby. Without a scrap of surprise, Ned learned that the youth had maliciously directed her to the wrong conveyance, thinking it a huge joke.

  “One day,” said Ned, towering over the groom, “I will make sure you get your comeuppance,
you thoughtless moron. The poor lady deserved the most tender compassion—a gentlewoman thrown upon the world. Were I not in a hurry, you’d get a beating right now.”

  Desperate to save his skin, the groom came out with a gem he had mentioned to no one, including Mr. Hooper.

  “I know who the man was that picked her up when she fell in the horse piss,” he said.

  Ned loomed even more menacingly. “Who?”

  “A highwayman. Captain Thunder’s his road name, but his real name’s Martin Purling. He has a house hidden in the forest.”

  “I want directions—talk, you pathetic lump of inertia!”

  The pathetic lump of inertia babbled so incoherently that he had to repeat himself several times.

  Now what do I make of that? Ned wondered as he made his way to the Black Cat. A bridle-cull who gave her back her guineas? Why? The answer’s simple—he couldn’t rob her in Nottingham. Then the next morning she got on the wrong coach, but I’ll bet he was following her no matter which stage she boarded. Nineteen guineas, the groom said—Miss Mary Bennet, you are a fool! Captain Thunder would kill you for a quarter that sum!

  It was too late to pursue his quarry that day, but next morning Ned was mounted on his beloved big black Jupiter, and riding at a canter.

  Knowing more or less where Mr. Martin Purling’s domicile was, he didn’t go anywhere near Mansfield or the Friar Tuck, though he headed in that general direction. The rutted cart track he took into the forest suddenly stopped, blocked by a huge clump of brambles, but Ned had been warned. Gloved, he dismounted and found a place where one set of the long, thorny canes grew from one side of the track and another set from the opposite side met it; dragging them apart was not very difficult for such a big man. Having ridden through it, he pulled the brambles back into place—no need to warn anyone of his presence quite yet.

  Four hours from the Black Cat, brambles and all, he was at Captain Thunder’s hideaway. What a hideaway! A snug cottage sat in a clearing like an illustration for a children’s fairy tale. Thatched, whitewashed, surrounded by an exquisite garden in full early summer flower, it was so far from popular imagination of a highwayman’s lair that, even if found, those who saw it would admire, then pass it by. The back yard held stables, a neat shed for firewood, and an outhouse; a clothes line flapping shirts and sheets, under-drawers and moleskin breeches spoke of some careful wife—now why had he assumed Mr. Martin Purling would live alone? Clearly he did not. A complication, but not an insuperable one.

  Even as Jupiter stopped at the barrier of a picket fence, a woman emerged from the house. What a beauty! Black hair, pale skin, vivid blue eyes smutted by black lashes and brows. Ned felt a pang of regret at the sight of her long legs, tiny waist, swelling bosom. Yes, she was a rare beauty. Not a light-skirt crying out to be murdered, either. Just, like Mary Bennet, a virtuous woman cursed by beauty.

  “You’re on the wrong road, sir,” she said in a Londonish accent, eyeing Jupiter with appreciation.

  “If this is the house of Mr. Martin Purling, I am not.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, taken aback. “’E ain’t ’ere.”

  “Have you any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “Tea time, ’e said. That’s hours away.”

  Ned stepped from the saddle, tied the reins to the gate post, loosened Jupiter’s girth and followed the girl—she was more girl than woman—down the flagged path to the front door.

  At it she turned to face him. “I can’t let you come in. ’E wouldn’t like it.”

  “I can see why.”

  So quickly she had no idea what was coming, he took both her wrists in his left hand, clamped his right over her mouth, and pushed her through the door.

  The kitchen yielded meat twine to tie her up temporarily, with a long, narrow cloth for her mouth; the lovely eyes stared at him in terror above the gag, it never having occurred to her that anyone would tamper with Captain Thunder’s property. Ned carried her into the parlour, dumped her in a chair, and drew up another close to hers.

  “Now listen to me,” he said, voice calm and level. “I’m going to remove your gag, but don’t scream or shout. If you do, I’ll kill you.” He withdrew a knife from his pocket.

  When she nodded vigorously, he removed the gag.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Martin’s wife.”

  “Legal, or common law?”

  “What?”

  “Did you have a wedding ceremony?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you relatives in these parts?”

  “No, sir. I am from Tilbury.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Martin bought me. I was going to the Barbary coast.”

  “A slave, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A twelvemonth.”

  “Do you go into town? Into the village?”

  “No, sir. Martin does that, but in Sheffield.”

  “So no one knows you are here.”

  “No one, sir.”

  “Are you grateful to Martin for saving you from slavery?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  Satisfied, he put the gag back into her mouth, then went to the yard in search of something less cruel than meat twine to bind her, and found thin rope. Ideal. Poor soul. Her beauty was of an order that had made her stand out in a maritime village like Tilbury. Undoubtedly her parents, soaked in gin, had sold her for enough money to satisfy their liquid passion for months to come. Had she gone to the Barbary pirates, she would eventually have arrived in the harem of some Ottoman Turk, there to wither away from homesickness and a form of subjugation more alien than any in England. Poor soul. I hate to do it, but I must. For Fitz’s sake, if for no other reason. No loose tongues, no matter how ill-born.

  This time he trussed her so efficiently that she could not move, stuffed a small potato in her mouth behind the gag, and left her to watch the meeting between her Martin and this stranger.

  Martin Purling returned shortly after three, whistling cheerfully. His horse, exactly the right kind for a highwayman, was put into its stable and rubbed down; then he strode up the back path toward the kitchen, calling for her.

  “Nellie! Nellie, love! Whose is the black gelding? I hope he’ll part with it, for I have a mind to own it. Do a hundred miles with a big man up, I’ll warrant.”

  “The black gelding is mine.” Ned appeared just inside the doorway with a pistol levelled at Captain Thunder’s heart.

  “Who are you?” Purling asked, displaying no fear.

  “Nemesis.” Ned’s left hand came up holding a small sandbag, and struck the Captain on the nape of the neck. He went down, only stunned, but it was long enough for Ned to bind him hand and foot. Then he picked him up as if he weighed nothing and carried him into the parlour, where he was thrown into a chair some distance from Nellie. As he came around, the first face he saw was hers, and he began to struggle, trying without success to free himself.

  “Who are you?” Purling repeated. “I thought you were a fellow knight of the road, riding that horse, but you’re not, are you?”

  “No.”

  “It is despicable to be so cruel to Nellie.”

  “Probably two days ago, Mr. Purling, you did far worse insult to a far greater lady than yon strumpet.”

  Enlightenment dawned; Captain Thunder nodded slowly, all his questions answered. “So my instincts were right. She’s from an important family.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you employ the present tense.”

  But fright was creeping into the Captain’s dark eyes; he was remembering how he had disposed of her. “Naturally I speak in the present tense! I am not a murderer of women, sir!”

  “That’s not what they say in Nottingham.”

  “Stories! The highways and byways of Derbyshire, Cheshire and Nottinghamshire are mine and mine alone. They have been for nigh on fifteen years. Time enough for Captain Thunder to have acquired a mytholo
gy. Well, the stories are false, sir! And who are you?”

  “I’m Edward Skinner, Darcy of Pemberley’s man. The lady you robbed of nineteen guineas is his sister-in-law.”

  The breath hissed through the Captain’s teeth, his face mottled, he drummed his bound feet upon the floor. “Then what the hell was she doing on the common stage? How can a man sort the sheep from the goats if carriage folk ride in public coaches? Serves her right, the silly cow!”

  “You have a bad temper, Captain. I’m astonished that no one has caught you in fifteen years, though this bolt-hole must be a help. What did you do with Miss Bennet?”

  “Left her in the forest. She’ll find the road.”

  “Today is Sunday. That must have been Friday, early afternoon. But no one has seen her, Captain, I assume because she didn’t find the road. You never intended that she should. I’ll wager you left her a mile inside the trees with no idea of direction. Did you harm her when you took her money?”

  The Captain gave a bitter laugh. “I, harm her? Look at what she did to me!” Since he couldn’t point, he waggled his head about. “The woman is a fiend! She went for me like a terrier with a rat! Choking her didn’t work! I had to knock her out.”

  “Whereabouts did you abandon her?”

  “Five miles east of here, on the north side of the road to Mansfield. If you look in my left pocket, you’ll find all nineteen of her guineas. Take them. They’ve brought me naught but ill luck.”

  “Keep them.”

  Ned had primed his pistol, but didn’t bother bringing the frizzen down to shield the powder pan; instead he cocked it, walked to the girl, put its muzzle against her head, and blew her brains out. It was done so suddenly it took time for the Captain to produce a thin scream of grief. The spent weapon went down on the table; Ned unearthed a second pistol from his other greatcoat pocket and proceeded to tip a few grains of powder into the pan to prime it, brought the hammer back, pulled the trigger, and shot Captain Thunder, also known as Martin Purling, in the chest.