by John Kessel
“You are a woman of faith.”
Mary blushed. “I had faith that we might meet again—and see, it has come to pass. You may yet have the chance to grant me that promised dance.”
We were interrupted by the entrance of Henry, accompanied by Miss Bennet’s sister and another woman. “There you are!” said the younger Miss Bennet. “You see, Mr. Clerval, I told you we would find Mary poring over these heaps of bones!”
“And it is no surprise to find my friend here as well,” said Clerval. He renewed his acquaintance with Mary Bennet, and she introduced the other woman as Mrs. Georgiana Golding, younger sister of Elizabeth’s husband, Darcy.
Henry said, “I encountered Miss Catherine at the beginning of the riverside walk, quite scandalously unaccompanied.”
“I was taking respite beneath the trees from this heat,” said Kitty, fanning herself.
“So I served as her chaperone on the way back to the milliner’s, where she introduced me to Mrs. Golding.” Henry was at his most cheerful. “I propose that we assay the Lovers’ Walk along the riverside to Matlock Bath. I am told we shall see some excellent prospects of the river, the High Tor, and the Heights of Abraham. These ladies can tell us of the history of the town.”
Young William returned, and our party crossed the road and went down to the Derwent. The way was flat along the riverbank, but as we proceeded, the waters became swifter. The walls of the valley narrowed, and vast ramparts of limestone, clothed with yew trees, elms, and limes, rose up on either side. William ran ahead, and Kitty, Georgiana, and Clerval followed, leaving Miss Bennet and me behind.
Eventually we came in sight of the High Tor, a sheer cliff rearing its brow on the east bank of the Derwent. The lower part was covered with small trees and foliage. Massive boulders fallen from the cliff broke the riverbed below into foaming rapids. The noise of the waters left us, some yards behind the others, in the shade of an ancient oak, as isolated as if we had been in a separate room. I might have preferred to be about my business, but I could not deny the loveliness of the scenery, and the relief of Miss Bennet’s company, and the provocation of her conversation.
“This does remind me of my home,” I said. “Henry and I would climb such cliffs as these, chase goats around the meadows, and play at pirates. Father would walk me through the woods and name every tree and flower. I once saw a lightning bolt shiver an old oak, larger than this one, entirely to splinters.”
“Whenever I come here,” Mary said, “I realize how small I am, and how great time is. These rocks, this river, will long survive us. We are here for a breath, and then we are gone. And through it all we are alone.”
Every time I thought I understood her to be simply an aging spinster, her reasoned frankness surprised me. “Surely you are not so lonely. You have your family, your sisters. Your mother and father.”
“One may be alone in a crowded room. Kitty teases me for my ‘heaps of bones.’ ”
She said this not with bitterness, but as objectively as one might observe some natural phenomenon.
“You might marry,” I said.
She laughed merrily. “Come now! I am thirty-two years old, sir. I am no man’s vision of a lover or wife.”
I took some time before answering. The sound of the waters surrounded us. Ahead, Georgiana, William, and Clerval played in the grass by the riverbank, while Kitty Bennet stood pensive some distance away.
“Miss Bennet, I am sorry if I have made light of your situation. But your fine qualities should be apparent to anyone who took the trouble truly to make your acquaintance.”
“You needn’t flatter me,” said Mary. “I am unused to it.”
“I only speak my mind.”
William came running up. “Aunt Mary! This would be an excellent place to fish! We should come here with Father!”
“We shall have to speak with him about that, Will. It’s a long way from home, in a public place.”
Henry and the two other women returned from the riverbank. He said, “I propose now that we adjourn to the coffee shop I spied next to the milliner’s, to enjoy some strawberries and cream before you have to set off back to your home.”
But Kitty Bennet objected to this. “I have a headache,” she said to Mary. “I’m afraid I would not be very diverting company,” she told Henry.
“Alas!” said Henry. “I’m heartbroken.”
“I must return to the hotel, Henry,” I said. “I need to see that new glassware properly packed before shipping it ahead. You needn’t come.”
“But at least we should escort these ladies to their carriage.”
“Glassware?” Georgiana asked.
Henry chuckled. “Victor has been purchasing equipment at every stop along our tour—glassware, bottles of chemicals, lead and copper disks. The coachmen threaten to leave us behind if he does not ship these things separately.”
Mary gave me a speculative look.
We did not exchange another word as our party walked back to the Crown Square. At the inn, a carriage and footman awaited the Bennets, Mrs. Golding, and William.
“Thank you for your company,” Mary said. “It has made for a most pleasant afternoon.”
“I hope we meet again, Miss Bennet,” I said.
We helped them into the carriage, the footman shut the door, and they rode away down the cobbled street. Mary’s face was visible watching us, and then she settled back beside her sister.
It was quite warm on the pavements outside the inn. “I still desire some strawberries and cream,” Henry told me.
“You may content yourself,” I said. “But I must pack that equipment.”
Henry gave me a sad smile and left for the coffee shop. As soon as he had departed, I set off to discover what more I could about the unfortunate, recently departed, very young Nancy Brown, including where she was buried.
SEVEN
During the hour’s ride back to Pemberley, William prattled with Georgiana; Kitty, subdued, leaned back with her eyes closed; while Mary turned each word of her conversation with Victor Frankenstein in her hands so that she might view it in every light, and painted his every expression in her mind’s eye.
Her own behavior in reaction to him was as much a source of wonder to her as the accident that had brought them together again. She did not banter this way with gentlemen. What had come over her, to speak to a man of her spinsterhood?
Reason told her that it mattered little what she said. There was no point in letting some hope of sympathy delude her into greater hopes. They had danced a single dance in London, and now they had spent an afternoon together in Matlock; soon Frankenstein would return to Switzerland and Mary would be left with her “heaps of bones.”
Yet she could not leave it at that. Fate had brought them together again. Mary felt an affinity unlike any she had ever experienced. He was not an amiable man, or rather, he was passing through a time of his life that did not evoke the amiability of his nature. She could not doubt that his story of his brother’s death was true—the way Victor had blanched at the sight of William Darcy had borne that out—but it seemed to her that beneath that true story lay some deeper trouble.
At supper that evening, Georgiana told Darcy and Elizabeth about their encounter with the handsome Swiss tourists. Mary was closemouthed about them at the table, but afterward, in the drawing room, she took Lizzy aside and asked her to invite Clerval and Frankenstein to dinner.
“This is new!” said Lizzy. “I expect as much from Kitty, but you have never before asked to have anyone come to Pemberley.”
“I have never met someone quite like Mr. Frankenstein,” Mary replied.
Elizabeth’s place in the family relative to Mary’s—and her other sisters’—was evident to all. She was the stable center of their emotional whirlwinds. Their father’s favorite, she had his quick wit and sardonic view of society, but she also possessed a heart that could be moved. Unlike Kitty and Lydia, Lizzy had never been unkind to Mary, but at some point Mary had realized t
hat Lizzy spent their time together stifling her annoyance at Mary’s hopeless pomposity, her inability to get beyond her copybook morality, and her vanity at thinking herself wise.
Mary envied Lizzy’s adroitness. Lizzy could say unexpected things and, though she might offend some people, always came out all right, whereas Mary, saying things in no way offensive, drew sidelong glances. Lizzy had despised Darcy and then she had married him, and yet no one in the family thought her a poor judge of character. Mary had admired Mr. Collins and then come to despise him, yet she got no credit for an increase of sense.
Lizzy said, “I had heard about your meeting a Mr. Woodleigh in Lyme Regis, but who is this Monsieur Frankenstein? How did you come to know him?”
“Mr. Frankenstein and I met at Lord Henry’s ball in Cavendish Square, before Kitty took ill and we had to return to Longbourn. He is involved in some scientific researches, though he and Mr. Clerval come here seeking recreation.”
“Well, perhaps we may recreate them here. From Georgiana’s description, I understand Mr. Clerval to be a charming man. She said little about Frankenstein.”
“Mr. Frankenstein is struggling with the aftermath of the death of his brother William. When I introduced him to your William, who it seems resembles Frankenstein’s brother, he went very pale.”
“We shall do our best to put him at ease.” Elizabeth took a glance around the room, and seeing that they were alone in this corner, said, “Mary, I am very grateful that you came to Pemberley with Kitty. I must apologize for not inviting you to visit more often. I have wanted to speak with you for some time about a number of things that have weighed on my mind.”
“What sort of things?”
“I must tell you how I regret the distance between us. I blame myself for it. I have been quite happy to let you take care of Mother while I went about my own life. In the beginning you seemed to enjoy having her attention, and that was enough for me to put the matter out of my mind. I never tried to help or understand you. I neglected to notice that you are not the person that you once were.”
“I believe I am that same person.”
“Your asking us to invite these gentlemen is a sign of how you have changed.”
“The circumstances have changed. As I say, I have never met a person like Mr. Frankenstein. He listens to me. And I find that, when I speak to him, I have things to say that are worth hearing.”
“I am glad of that,” Lizzy said. She paused. She laid her hand upon Mary’s forearm and leaned closer.
“This will perhaps sound strange coming from me, when it is clear to me that you have spent the better part of the last ten years protecting yourself, but I hope you will guard your heart. I remember that day at Netherfield. I believe you were completely unprotected that afternoon, and you have paid a price for that. I would not like to see you at risk for heartbreak. Something I never thought I would ever have to worry about—for which neglect I am sorry.”
Lizzy looked her in the eyes, assessing. Mary discovered to her astonishment that, whatever Lizzy decided about her, she was not afraid of Lizzy’s judgment.
They spoke for another ten minutes, the longest conversation they had enjoyed in five years. Lizzy had already planned a formal dinner to celebrate the coming visit of Jane and Bingley, who would arrive in a day for a fortnight’s stay. At Mary’s bidding she invited Frankenstein and Clerval to come for a period of days, and the Swiss gentlemen replied by return post that they would be happy to visit.
“Have you taken the Matlock waters?” Mary asked Clerval, seated opposite her at the dinner table. “People in the parish swear that they can raise the dead.”
“I confess that I have not,” Clerval said. “Victor does not credit their healing powers.”
Mary turned to Frankenstein, hoping to draw him into discussion of the matter, but the startled expression on his face silenced her.
The table, covered with a white damask tablecloth, glittered with silver and crystal. A large epergne studded with candles dominated its center. In addition to the family members, and in order to even the number of guests and balance female with male, Darcy and Elizabeth had invited the vicar Mr. Chatsworth. Completing the dinner party were Bingley and Jane, Georgiana, and Kitty.
The footmen brought soup, followed by claret, turbot with lobster and Dutch sauce, oyster pâté, lamb cutlets with asparagus, peas, a fricandeau à l’oseille, venison, stewed beef à la jardinière, with various salads, beetroot, French and English mustard. Two ices, cherry water and pineapple cream, and a chocolate cream with strawberries. Champagne flowed throughout the dinner, and Madeira afterward.
Darcy asked how Mr. Clerval had come to be acquainted with Mr. Gardiner, of whom Darcy spoke with great fondness, and Clerval described his meetings with men of business in London and his interest in India. For their entertainment he spoke a few sentences in Hindi. Bingley told of his visit to Geneva when he was a child. Clerval spoke charmingly of the differences in manners between the Swiss and the English, with witty preference for English habits, except, he said, in the matter of boiled meats. The vicar spoke amusingly of his travels in Italy. Georgiana asked about women’s dress in that country. Elizabeth allowed as how, if the threat of Napoléon Bonaparte could finally be settled, it would be good for William’s education to tour the Continent. Kitty, who usually entertained the table with bright talk and jokes, was unaccustomedly quiet.
Through all of this, Frankenstein offered little in the way of comment. Mary had put such hopes on this dinner, and now she feared she had misread him. His voice warmed but once, when he spoke of his father, a counselor and syndic, renowned for his integrity. Only on inquiry would he speak of his years in Ingolstadt.
“And what did you study in the university?” Bingley asked.
“Matters of no interest,” Frankenstein replied.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Clerval gently explained, “My friend devoted himself so single-mindedly to the study of natural philosophy that his health failed. I was fortunately able to bring him back to us, but it was a near thing.”
“For which I will ever be grateful to you,” Frankenstein mumbled.
Lizzy attempted to change the subject. “Mr. Chatsworth, what news is there of the parish?”
The vicar, unaccustomed to such volume and variety of drink, was in his cups, his face flushed and his voice rising to pulpit volume. “Well, I hope the ladies will not take it amiss,” he said, “if I tell about a curious incident that occurred two nights ago.”
“Pray do,” said Darcy.
“So, then—that night I was troubled with sleeplessness—I think it was the trout I ate for supper, it was not right—Mrs. Croft vowed she had purchased it just that afternoon, but I wonder if perhaps it might have been from the previous day’s catch. Be that as it may, lying awake some time after midnight, I heard a sound out my bedroom window—the weather has been so fine of late that I sleep with my window open. It is my opinion, Mr. Clerval, that nothing contributes to the health of the lungs more than fresh air, and I believe that is the opinion of the best continental thinkers, is it not? The air is exceedingly fresh in the alpine meadows, I am told?”
“Only in those meadows where the cows have not been feeding.”
“The cows? Oh, yes, the cows—ha, ha!—very good! The cows, indeed! . . . So, where was I? Ah, yes. I rose from my bed and looked out the window, and what did I spy but a glimmer of light in the churchyard. I heard low voices in the distance, but was unable to make out what they said. I threw on my robe and slippers, took my good old walking staff from behind the door, and hurried out to see what might be the matter. I crept up, very quiet.
“As I approached the churchyard I saw the figures of two men, one of them—a great brute he was—wielding a spade. His back was to me, silhouetted by a lamp that rested beside Nancy Brown’s grave. Poor Nancy, dead not a week now, so young, only twenty.”
“Men?” said Kitty.
The vicar’s round face grew serious. “You
may imagine my shock. ‘Halloo!’ I shouted. At that the fellow threw down his spade, leapt out of the grave, and rushed toward me. I raised my staff. He was an immense man, yet he moved as quick as a panther.
“ ‘No!’ the other shouted. ‘Let him be!’ The brute, who I have no doubt meant to annihilate me, stopped dead in his tracks. He then turned, took two steps, and vaulted over the graveyard wall in a single leap. The other had seized the lantern and dashed round the back of the church. By the time I reached the corner he was out of sight. Back at the grave I saw that they had been on a fair way to unearthing poor Nancy’s coffin.”
“My goodness!” said Jane.
“Defiling a grave?” asked Bingley. “I am astonished.”
Darcy said nothing, but his look demonstrated that he was not pleased by the vicar bringing such an uncouth matter to his dinner table. Frankenstein, next to Mary, put down his knife and took a long draught of Madeira.
The vicar lowered his voice, clearly enjoying himself. “I can only speculate on their motives. Might one of these men have been some lover of hers, overcome with grief?”
“Men don’t weep over the graves of the women they have dishonored,” Kitty said, “else every graveyard would be full of weeping men. That only happens in novels.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair. “Gypsies have been seen in the woods about the quarry. They were no doubt seeking jewelry.”
“Jewelry?” the vicar said. “The Browns had barely enough money to see her decently buried.”
“Which proves that these were not local men.”
Clerval spoke. “At home, fresh graves are sometimes defiled by men providing cadavers for doctors. Was there not a spate of such grave robbings in Ingolstadt, Victor?”
Frankenstein put down his glass. “Yes,” he said. “Some anatomists, in seeking knowledge, abandon all human scruple.”
“That is unlikely to be the cause in this instance,” Darcy observed. “Here there is no university, no medical school. Dr. Montgomery in Lambton is no transgressor of civilized rules.”
