Pride and Prometheus

by John Kessel

  Mary distracted herself by her daily practice and walks in the countryside, where she would stop beneath an oak and read. Some time after their return, she received a letter from Mr. Woodleigh.

  Hartwell, Devonshire

  My Dear Miss Bennet,

  My good friend Mrs. Marigay Travers, wife of Mr. Joseph Travers, MP, for whom I worked when in Mr. Pitt’s government, has informed me that Miss Catherine was taken ill some weeks ago, prompting your remove from London to Hertfordshire. You may imagine my immediate concern, and I write to send my best wishes for her renewed health and well-being, and for that of your mother and father. And yourself, certainly. Though our acquaintance is slender, the week we spent together in Lyme Regis shewed that your regard for your sister is such that, should she suffer any permanent debility, it would be as if it had happened to you as well. I fervently wish that that eventuality is not the case.

  I thought I might inform you on a matter that, though it does not bear directly on your own situation, might be of interest to you. A collector of my acquaintance from Lincolnshire has announced that he will auction off all those fossils in his possession. I have seen his collection, and he has several specimens that I would dearly love to own. And I am afraid that it will cost me dearly to own them!

  All jests aside, I will venture to say that I should be able to pay any likely bid without trouble. Should I succeed in obtaining any of the fossils in question, I will write you giving the particulars of each specimen, and accompany my descriptions with drawings that I will endeavor to make. But it would give me greater pleasure still should you find it possible to visit Hartwell, in the company of your mother, sister, or any guardian who may be appropriate, and allow me to show you these wonders in person, once I acquire them.

  You may consider this a formal invitation.

  Yours ever,

  Charles Woodleigh

  In the same post with Mr. Woodleigh’s letter came one from her uncle.

  My Dear Niece,

  You may, I am sure, imagine how pleased and relieved your aunt and I were to hear that Kitty has recovered her health. I expect she regrets her removal from London but I hope her spirits have recovered as well, and that you will give her our best wishes.

  But I write on another manner. After we spoke in the Egyptian Hall, I discreetly put out inquiries about Charles Woodleigh, in particular as regards his earning so much money in Ireland. From sources I am not at liberty to disclose, I have discovered the following:

  Mr. Woodleigh was involved, in a small way, in the drafting of the 1800 Acts of Union between England and Ireland. He was also an acquaintance of Mr. George McLennon of Belfast, a large landholder and owner of an export house with offices in Belfast and Dublin. Article VI of the Acts established a customs union eliminating the tariffs on certain goods traded between the nations, but there was a list of items on which the customs duties would remain for a period of ten years. There was considerable debate in both the British and Irish parliaments over which items should be on this list. Mr. Woodleigh argued that certain items be left off that list, and in the final draft of Article VI his party prevailed. Mr. McLennon’s enterprises have profited well in the ensuing years.

  My friends in banking tell me that Mr. Woodleigh owns a substantial interest in Mr. McLennon’s export firm.

  I hasten to add that this sort of dealing is common in government and business, niece, and that no charges of impropriety have ever been raised against Mr. Woodleigh. It may be that his success has as much to do with trade restrictions caused by the recent wars in Europe as with any stipulations of the Acts. All reports I have name him as a respectable and diligent servant of His Majesty’s government for the time he was associated with it, though I will say he was mocked a bit for his behavior, by all accounts harmless, during a laughing gas evening of the Askesian Society in 1801. Also for his fossil collecting. But this will, perhaps, not be such an impediment to your association as it might be for another.

  Give my regards to your mother and father, and do not hesitate to inform me if I can be of any further assistance in any matter dear to your heart. I remain, as ever,

  Your loving uncle,

  Edward Gardiner

  When Mary was forced, after repeated inquiry, to disclose the contents of Mr. Woodleigh’s letter to her mother, Mrs. Bennet was eager to accompany her to Devon. Rather than tell her mother what her uncle had written, since she did not herself know what to make of it, Mary told her that she believed that neither her slender acquaintance with Mr. Woodleigh, nor the strictures of propriety, warranted such a visit, and suggested that Mr. Bennet’s fragile health should prevent any precipitate departure.

  It could be said that Mary’s hesitance had less to do with Mr. Woodleigh than with the fact that, to her embarrassment, since the evening of Lord Henry’s ball, hardly a day had passed that she had not thought of Mr. Frankenstein.

  All this might not have convinced Mrs. Bennet, but when Kitty said that she would not go, and countered with the proposal that they visit Elizabeth and Darcy in Derbyshire, the matter of whether Mrs. Bennet should go north with one daughter, south with the other, or stay at home with her husband, became too confused for immediate resolution.

  Kitty maintained that there was no reason for Mrs. Bennet to accompany her to Pemberley when Mr. Bennet and Mary both required her attention, and she became quite insistent on her desire. She used her London disappointment as an argument for her Pemberley hopes, and in the end, under the circumstances it seemed to both Mr. and Mrs. Bennet that remanding Kitty to the care of her older sister might be best. They agreed to let her go. Mr. Bennet wrote Lizzy, and she and Darcy agreed immediately.

  Kitty’s spirits improved. She ate better, went for walks, and began packing her clothes. Though the society of Derbyshire could not compare with that of London, the nearby town of Matlock was famous for its scenery and hot springs, and many people of distinction stopped there on their journeys to the Cumberland lakes and Scotland. Its society was far superior to that of sleepy Meryton.

  On the Sunday before she was to leave, Kitty, Mary, and their parents rode to church for the morning service. In church Mrs. Bennet was careful of her appearance, aiming for elegance without ostentation. Her bonnet should not be too adorned with frills, but it should not indicate in any way that it had not cost very much.

  Mr. Bennet took her arm and Mary and Kitty led them into the church. Their accustomed place was near the front, on the left. On the opening hymn, Mary sang harmony over Kitty’s melody. She thought they sounded beautiful together. The music drew Mary away from the frustrations of their home into a world of contemplation. This was what she liked the best about church: it was a place where for an hour or two, while light streamed in the windows or rain drummed on the roof, she might consider her own relation to God without having to worry about other people.

  Midway through the service, the Reverend Pottsworth stepped to the pulpit. “My text today is from the nineteenth Psalm:

  “Who can understand his errors?

  Cleanse thou me from secret faults.

  Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins;

  Let them not have dominion over me:

  Then shall I be upright,

  And I shall be innocent from the great transgression.”

  The reverend launched into his sermon about the dangers of presumptuous sins, and how we must examine ourselves to try to discern our secret faults, faults that might look to us like virtues, or merely harmless habits. If we do not keep vigilance over these, we are subject to the greatest sin of all, the sin of confusing our own desires with those of God.

  The nineteenth was one of Mary’s favorite of the Psalms. Rather than the passage the reverend had selected, she liked best its beginning:

  The heavens declare the glory of God;

  And the firmament sheweth his handywork.

  Day unto day uttereth speech,

  And night unto night sheweth knowledge.

  T
here is no speech nor language,

  Where their voice is not heard.

  Their line is gone out through all the earth,

  And their words to the end of the world.

  This spoke to her sense of the natural world as an expression of the mind of God. Everywhere men looked, if they looked closely, and were patient, and used the gifts that Providence had given them—Mary believed for exactly these purposes—they found order.

  Day unto day uttereth speech, / And night unto night sheweth knowledge. When she contemplated these words, she felt herself very close to King David. He had seen what she saw: that the earth and heavens spoke to men, not in words, but in a language that all persons might understand if they took the time to listen. The psalm told her there was no conflict between her faith and her desire to uncover the mysteries of nature.

  At the end of the service the four Bennets walked out of the church into the bright spring sunlight. As they strolled side by side to the carriage, Kitty surreptitiously reached for Mary’s hand. Mary looked Kitty in the eye, smiled, and turned to their parents. “Father, might Kitty and I walk home today? The weather is so fine, and it’s only a mile.”

  “I should walk with you,” Mr. Bennet said. “It is a lovely day. But I believe I would only slow you down, so unless your mother objects, you may go.”

  Mrs. Bennet’s eyes were on Mr. Bennet. His face was pale and he was short of breath. “Go on, girls. Have a care, and do not dawdle.”

  Their driver John helped Mr. and Mrs. Bennet into the carriage, climbed into his seat, took the reins, and they slowly rolled away. Mary and Kitty stood among the parishioners who lingered before the church speaking with one another or with the reverend. Some walked into the churchyard to visit the graves of loved ones.

  “This was a good idea,” Kitty told Mary as they began down the lane that led out of Meryton toward Longbourn. “We have hardly spoken since we came home. I will miss you while I am at Pemberley.”

  “And I shall miss you,” Mary said.

  Mary did not look forward to Kitty’s departure. This had been Mary’s story for years: her sisters off pursuing their own lives while Mary remained at home caring for their parents. True, the absence of Mary’s sisters caused their mother to attend to her more, but with Mrs. Bennet’s attention came curbs upon Mary’s interests. Mary had once suggested to her father that she might find work as a teacher or governess, but her mother would not countenance a daughter reduced to something little better than a servant. Such were the strictures of life at home. Mr. Woodleigh might offer an escape; much as he had occupied her thoughts in recent weeks, Mr. Frankenstein did not. Mary cast her mind forward to imagine herself a spinster, perhaps making a home with another such exile—Kitty, if she failed in her marital quest?—living together in a quiet town house in Bath, aunties to a score of nieces and nephews, taking meals together, reading books unbothered, inconveniencing no one.

  Mary and Kitty idled along the lane and soon were outside the town. The weeks since their return from London had brought mild weather, and trees rustled in a breeze redolent of the fields’ new growth. They passed an apple orchard where bluebells bloomed, and along the lane grew columbine, daisies, and buttercups. Mary stopped more than once to gather flowers. Kitty trailed her fingers along the hedgerows.

  She drew a heavy sigh. “I should be in Kensington Gardens right now,” she said.

  “You will be at Pemberley soon,” Mary said. “Many girls would consider that better than London.”

  “I am not a girl. In a week I shall be thirty years old.”

  Mary had said nothing to their parents about Kitty’s meeting with Mr. Clarke. In truth she felt sympathy for Kitty. As a girl Mary had believed that the notion of following the heart was foolishness, but could one find happiness without following the heart? Lydia stood as a warning of the consequences of letting the passions of the moment overcome one’s sense—but there must be some way to act in accord with one’s soul less destructive of oneself and others. If there was life to be found in the world of sensibility, Mary could not condemn Kitty for seeking it.

  She stood straight and held out her bouquet to Kitty. “Happy birthday, sister.”

  Kitty’s smile was fleeting. “You and I have reached an age where we should perhaps stop counting our birthdays.”

  “Be of better cheer. One might think that you did not want to go to Derbyshire.”

  “I do wish to go. I may see Lydia. She and Wickham now live in Manchester, not so far from Pemberley.”

  “Mother might consider letting you visit Lydia, but I doubt that Lizzy will allow it.”

  “And who is Lizzy to rule over me?”

  “Lizzy has done much for you,” Mary said. “And Lydia is not the best judge of her pastimes.”

  “She is as much my sister as Lizzy, and as you.”

  Kitty did not question Darcy’s contempt for Wickham, though it meant that she did not see her favorite sister as much as she would have liked, but when she spoke of Lydia, it was invariably with regret for the lost intimacy of their youth.

  “Lydia sought to live, not be sewn into a sachet,” Kitty said with some emotion. “Despite her wastrel husband, I would trade my place for hers in a second.”

  “Her marriage has not been an easy one,” Mary said.

  “At least she has felt something other than the pallid pleasure of a flirtation at a dance. Am I to marry Collins? He killed Charlotte as surely as if he had smothered her in her lonely bed.”

  “Kitty!”

  Kitty sniffed the nosegay that Mary had made for her. “Do you really think that he is the father of their child?”

  Mary shook her head. “Charlotte would not have violated her vows.”

  Still holding the flowers to her face, Kitty lifted her eyes to meet Mary’s. “More’s the pity. What did it get her?”

  “We must not speak ill of the dead.”

  “I refuse to die alone,” Kitty said with vehemence. “When I see what Lizzy has with Darcy, I am determined to find the like.”

  “There aren’t eight men in England with ten thousand a year and an estate like Pemberley.”

  “You know that is not what I mean,” Kitty said. “When Lydia and I chased the members of the regiment, all we wanted was to be admired and pursued. The men were dashing and some of them were going to die in the wars. Or we sought out men of property, those who were said to be in line to inherit a fortune. We would live in luxury. We would travel, meet great people, dress well, and be the envy of all who saw us.

  “But all that means nothing—well, not nothing, but less than it meant for me at seventeen. I don’t want to be alone, Mary. I want to have a man who knows and understands me, who sees who I am and loves me. I want to look into his eyes and find a kindred soul.”

  It was Mary’s own desire. “I fear you shall find it easier to get the man with ten thousand a year.”

  Kitty smiled. “Nevertheless, that is what I seek. I don’t know how I shall survive without it.”

  “I hope you find this paragon,” Mary said. “You deserve him.” She remembered Mr. Clarke touching Kitty’s cheek in the hall of wax figures.

  “What about you?” Kitty asked. “What did Woodleigh say in his letter? He clearly keeps an interest in you.”

  “I shall not marry Mr. Woodleigh,” Mary said.

  “What?” Kitty said in surprise. “Has he asked you?”

  “No.”

  “Women in our position do not have so many opportunities, Mary. I may tease you about his fossils, but I would not have you miss a chance to be happy. Why would you not marry him?”

  “Well, for one thing, during the entire time of our visit to Lyme, whenever he was about to pronounce upon something I already knew, he pursed his lips like a fish. Because he makes such pronouncements very often, I would have to accustom myself to seeing that expression. And I do not like that expression.”

  Kitty laughed out loud. “Mary!”

  “Well, he does,”
Mary said, and laughed too.

  Kitty dissolved into giggles, to the point where she struggled to catch her breath. “Yes, he does!” she finally gasped. “When he spoke of the Jacobins at dinner, he looked like the haddock on the plate in front of him!”

  They laughed together for a while, until they fell silent. Longbourn and the great oak trees at the end of its drive appeared ahead of them.

  “I must get free of here,” Kitty said. “At least at Pemberley I have a chance to meet someone who might save me.”

  “Must you be so dramatic?” Mary saw the carriage in front of the house where their parents had gone inside. John stood beside it, talking with one of the grooms. “Perhaps we don’t need saving.”

  “Poor Mary.”

  “Don’t pity me,” Mary said. “I don’t wish to be pitied.”

  “I’m sorry. That was unworthy of either of us. Yet I don’t like to think of you here alone with Mother. I shall write you every day.”

  “Perhaps you should stay and I should go.”

  Kitty laughed as if nothing could be more absurd. Mary felt it.

  “I’m sorry to burden you with my moods,” Kitty said. “You have always listened to me with great patience, and been willing to discuss these things for as long as I have wanted—though perhaps you on occasion have bestowed moral instruction a little more than is compatible with lively conversation.”

  Mary sighed. “At one time it seemed to me that moral instruction was lively conversation.”

  “In that you are not what you once were,” said Kitty. “See how we improve with age!”

  “If only the male population of Britain were more clear-sighted,” Mary said.

  They approached their home. Kitty said, “We are a fine pair of spinsters, are we not? Come, take my hand. We shall give my birthday nosegay to Mother, a woman only slightly less foolish than I.”

  The next day, when Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had gone off in the chaise to Meryton to buy clothes for Kitty, Mary knocked on the door to the library. Her father’s voice, tinged with a bit of annoyance, said, “Yes? Who is it?”