Pride and Prometheus

by John Kessel

  Mary swallowed her emotions. “Not well. Pray for her, if you will.”

  Walking back to Kitty’s room through the still twilit mansion, climbing the marble stairs to the second floor, Mary, dizzy with sleeplessness, felt as if she were in a dream. This could not be real. Soon she would wake and Kitty would be there, complaining about their mother’s moods, planning for the next dance at the assembly hall, speculating about some gentleman who had recently moved into the parish.

  When she returned to Kitty’s room, Darcy and Lizzy were there. Dr. Montgomery leaned over Kitty on the bed, his hand on her forehead.

  “She has not improved,” Lizzy whispered to Mary, her voice choked.

  “I shall send for the priest,” Darcy said.

  There was nothing to do but to sit and wait, wait for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, wait for Reverend Chatsworth, wait for whatever outcome lay ahead for Kitty. Mary had no doubt that they would not have to wait long. As they sat in the warm room, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the grate and Kitty’s labored breathing. An occasional murmured word passed between Jane and Elizabeth. A soft knock came at the door, and Bingley entered to stand behind his wife with a troubled countenance.

  To her shame, Mary found her thoughts slipping to Mr. Frankenstein. How excited she had been, despite telling herself not to have expectations, when Frankenstein had agreed to visit Pemberley. How long ago? Three days. It did not seem possible for such a revolution in circumstances to happen so quickly, yet here, in the person of her sister struggling to breathe, not five feet away from Mary, lay the simple proof. It was inexplicable. It was not just. It was the hard truth.

  An hour and a half later Mr. Chatsworth arrived and hurried into the room, his cheeks flushed from his haste in riding the ten miles to the estate. It was a matter of minutes only for him to administer the last rites.

  An hour later, at ten in the morning, Kitty died.

  On the evening of the next day, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet arrived, exhausted and desperate, only to find they had come too late. The day after that brought Lydia and Wickham—the first time Darcy had allowed Wickham to cross the threshold of Pemberley since they had become brothers by marriage. In the midst of her mourning family, Mary felt lost. Jane and Lizzy supported each other in their grief. Darcy and Bingley exchanged quiet, sober conversation. Wickham and Lydia, who had grown stout with her four children, could not pass a word between them without sniping, but in their folly they were completely joined to each other.

  Mrs. Bennet was beyond consoling, and the intensity of her mourning was exceeded only by the degree to which she sought to control every detail of Kitty’s funeral. There ensued a long debate over where Kitty should be buried. When she was reminded that Mr. Collins would eventually inherit the estate back in Hertfordshire, Mrs. Bennet fell into despair: Who, when she was gone, would tend to her poor daughter’s grave? Mr. Bennet suggested that Kitty be laid to rest in the churchyard at Lambton, a short distance from Pemberley, where she might be visited by Elizabeth and Darcy, and also by Jane and Bingley. But when Darcy offered the family vault at Pemberley, the matter was speedily settled to the satisfaction of both vanity and tender hearts.

  Though it was no surprise to Mary, it was still a burden for her to witness that even in this gravest passage of their lives, her sisters and parents showed themselves to be exactly what they were. And yet this did not harden her heart toward them. The family was together in one place as it had not been for many years, and, she realized, as it should never be in future except on the occasion of further losses. Her father was grayer and quieter than she had ever seen him, and on the day of the funeral even her mother put aside her sobbing and exclamations long enough to show a face of profound grief, and a burden of age that Mary had never regarded before.

  The night after Kitty was laid to rest, Mary sat up late with Jane and Lizzy and Lydia. They drank Madeira and Lydia told tales of the days she and Kitty had spent in flirtations with the regiment. When her turn came, Mary told a story of how Kitty, in order to impress a potential suitor, led him to believe that all of Mary’s books on singing and harmony were her own, and that she was expert at playing the pianoforte. Then for two weeks she had twisted herself into agonies of furious practice while avoiding singing or playing in his presence, until her stratagem was exposed.

  When Mary climbed into her bed late that night, her head swam with wine, laughter, and tears. She lay awake, the moonlight shining on the counterpane through the opened window, air carrying the smell of fresh fields and the rustle of trees beside the river. She drifted into a dreamless sleep. At some point in the night she was half awakened by the barking of the dogs in the kennel. But consciousness soon faded and she fell away.

  In the morning it was discovered that the vault had been broken into and Kitty’s body stolen from the crypt.

  TEN

  While the house was in turmoil and Mrs. Bennet being attended by the rest of the family, Mary went down to the stables. She found the stable master in the paddock with one of Darcy’s riding horses. “Mr. Poole?” she called.

  He dropped the horse’s lead and walked over to her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Darcy would like you prepare the gig. He and I must drive into Lambton to speak with the constable.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He said nothing about the theft of Kitty’s body, though it must be the subject of every conversation between the servants.

  Mary waited while Poole had the gig rolled out. “Fetch Cicero,” he ordered one of the grooms. “He’s the best in the stable,” he told Mary.

  Poole himself harnessed the horse into the traces. When he had finished, she said, “I don’t know what is keeping Mr. Darcy. Do you think you might go up to the house and ask after him? As you may imagine, everyone is terribly upset about what happened last night.”

  “It’s no wonder, ma’am. I’ll go directly.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, and the other stable hands occupied, she climbed into the gig, took the reins, tapped the horse’s flank with the whip, and drove off across the bridge on her way to Matlock.

  Cicero proved to be equable and fleet, and despite her slender experience of driving, Mary was able to reach Matlock in an hour. All the time, despite the splendid summer morning and the picturesque prospects that the valley of the Derwent continually unfolded before her, she could not keep her mind from whirling through a series of distressing images—Kitty lying dead, bandaged arm resting on her breast in her room at Pemberley, their father’s face as he stepped down from the coach from Longbourn, Frankenstein’s creature as she had seen him in the woods.

  When she reached Matlock, she hurried to the inn and inquired after Frankenstein. The porter told her that he had not seen Mr. Frankenstein since dinner the previous evening, but that Mr. Clerval had told him that the gentlemen would leave Matlock later in the day. She left a note asking Frankenstein, should he return, to wait for her at the inn, and then went to the butcher’s shop.

  Mary had been there once before, with Lizzy, some years earlier. The shop was busy with servants purchasing joints of mutton and ham for the evening meal. Behind the counter one of Jonathan Clarke’s workers, in white shirt, vest, and apron, was busy at his cutting board. Helping one of the women with a package was a tall young man with thick brown curls and green eyes. He flirted with the house servant as he shouldered her purchase, wrapped in brown paper, onto her cart.

  On the way back into the shop, he spotted Mary standing unattended. He studied her for a moment before approaching. His manner held none of the teasing she had observed with the servant. Perhaps it was because she was a lady. Perhaps it was because Mary was not an attractive woman. She had experienced this indifference from men her whole life. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “I must speak with your master, Mr. Clarke. Where might I find him?”

  “Mr. Clarke has left Matlock. He’s gone to be with his wife in London.”

  “Could you tell me when he left?”

/>   “Yesterday morning.” The day of Kitty’s funeral.

  “He left Mr. Pike in charge,” the young man continued. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

  Mary shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I’d best be about my work, then. G’day, ma’am.” And he moved on to his next flirtation.

  Mary had seen enough to take Jonathan Clarke’s depth. Her momentary fancy that he might defile a grave, in grief or guilt, had been absurd. He had not even bothered to send condolences. The distance between his petty intrigues and the love Kitty had wasted on him only deepened Mary’s compassion for her lost sister. How desperate she must have been. How pathetic.

  She went back to the inn. The barkeep led her into a small ladies’ parlor separated from the taproom by a glass partition. She ordered tea and through an opened window watched the people come and go in the street and courtyard, draymen with their Percherons and carts, passengers waiting for the next coach to Manchester, idlers sitting inside at tables with pints of ale. In the sunlit street a young bootblack accosted travelers, most of whom ignored him. All these people completely indifferent to Mary or her lost sister. Mary ought to be back with their mother, though the thought turned her heart cold. How could Kitty have left her alone? She felt herself near despair.

  She was watching as two draymen struggled to load a large trunk onto their cart when the man directing them came from around the team of horses, and she saw it was Victor Frankenstein. She rose immediately and went out to the inn yard. She was at his shoulder before he noticed her.

  “Miss Bennet!” he said, startled.

  “Mr. Frankenstein. I am so glad that I found you. I feared that you had already left Matlock. Might we speak, in private?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. To the draymen he said, “When you’ve finished loading my equipment, wait here.

  “This is no place to converse,” Frankenstein told her. “I saw a churchyard nearby. Let us retire there.”

  He walked Mary down the street to the St. Giles Church. They entered the rectory garden. In the distance, beams of afternoon sunlight shone through a cathedral of clouds above the Heights of Abraham. “Are you aware of what has happened?” she asked.

  “I heard the reports of the death of your sister. I wrote you, conveying my condolences—”

  “I received them.”

  “You have my deepest sympathies.”

  “Your creature! That monster you created—”

  “I asked you to keep my secret.”

  “I have kept my promise—so far. But it has stolen Kitty’s body.”

  He stood, hands behind his back, clear eyes fixed on her. “You find me astonished. Your sister’s grave has been disturbed?”

  “Last night someone broke into the family vault and stole her away.”

  “What draws you to the extraordinary conclusion that my creation did this?”

  She was hurt by his diffidence. Was this the same man who had wept in her bedroom? “You spoke of his malice. Who else might do such a thing?”

  “But why? This creature’s enmity is reserved for me alone. Others feel its ire only to the extent that they are dear to me.”

  “You came to plead with me because you feared I knew he’d defiled that town girl’s grave. Now Kitty’s body has been stolen? Surely this is no coincidence.”

  “If the demon has stolen your sister’s body, it can be for no reason I can fathom, or that any God-fearing person ought to pursue. You know I am determined to see this monster banished from the world of men. You may rest assured that I will not cease until I have seen this accomplished. It is best for you and your family to turn your thoughts to other matters.” He touched a strand of ivy growing up the side of the garden wall, and plucked off a green leaf, which he twirled in his fingers.

  She did not understand. She knew him to have a heart capable of feeling. His denials opened a possibility that she had tried to keep herself from considering.

  “Sir, I am not satisfied. You are keeping something from me. You told me of the grief you felt at the loss of your mother, how it moved you to your researches. If, as you say, you have uncovered the secret of life, might you—have you taken it upon yourself to restore Kitty?”

  He sighed. “I wish I could do that, but I cannot.” His voice was melancholy.

  “Mr. Chatsworth said there were two men digging up Nancy Brown’s grave. Were you the second man? Perhaps a fear of failure, or of the horror that many would feel at your trespassing against God’s will, underlies your secrecy. If so, please do not keep the truth from me. I am not a child.”

  Frankenstein let the leaf fall from his fingers. He looked directly into her eyes. “I am sorry, Mary. To restore your sister is not in my power. The soulless creature I brought to life bears no relation to the man from whose body I fashioned him. Your sister has gone on to her reward. Nothing—nothing I can do would bring her back.”

  “So you know nothing about the theft of her corpse?”

  “On that score, I can offer no consolation to you or your family.”

  “My mother, my father—they are inconsolable.”

  “Then they must content themselves with memories of your sister as she lived. As I must do with my dear, lost brother William, and the traduced and dishonored Justine. Had I such powers as you imagine, would I not have sought to bring them back long before now?”

  “Yes, I believe that you would.”

  “I wish I could comfort you in your grief. Come, let us go back to the inn.”

  Mary began to cry. He held her to him and she wept on his breast. His hand pressed between her shoulder blades, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest. In her entire life, she had never felt her body against that of a man. She wept for Kitty, and for herself.

  Eventually Mary pushed herself away. Frankenstein looked down on her, his eyes full of emotion. She allowed him to take her arm, and they slowly walked back down to the high street. She knew that when they reached the inn, Frankenstein would go. The warmth of his hand on hers almost made her beg him to stay, or better still, to take her with him.

  But that was madness. They came to the busy courtyard. The dray loaded with Frankenstein’s trunks and boxes stood there, but the cart men were not to be seen. Frankenstein let go Mary’s arm and, agitated, strode into the taproom, where he found the men sitting with pints of ale. He upbraided them. “I thought I told you to keep those trunks out of the sun.”

  The older of the two men put down his pint and stood. “Sorry, guv’nor. We’ll see to it directly.”

  “Do so now.”

  The men stumbled from their table and went to move their cart. As Frankenstein followed them out, the evening coach drew up before the inn. Victor and Mary stood outside the entrance.

  “You and Mr. Clerval leave today?” Mary asked.

  “As soon as Henry returns from the bank, we take this coach to the Lake District. And thence to Scotland to visit a Dr. Marble, a friend of Henry’s father, in Perth.”

  “They say Scotland is very beautiful.”

  “I am afraid that its beauty will be lost on me. I carry the burden of my great transgression, not to be laid down until I have made things right.”

  She felt that she would burst if she did not speak her heart to him. “Victor. Will I never see you again?”

  He avoided her gaze. “I am afraid, Miss Bennet, that our meeting again depends on events over which I have no control. My duty is to banish that vile creature from the world. Until that is done, to be linked with me would bring you only danger, and I could not answer to my conscience if I allowed that to happen.”

  Mary looked away. A mother was adjusting her son’s collar before putting him on the coach.

  “I will miss you,” Mary said meekly.

  Frankenstein pressed her hand. “Miss Bennet, you must forgive the liberties I have taken with you. You have given me more of friendship than I deserve. If there is any justice in God’s creation, you will find the compa
nion you seek, and live your days in happiness. I am afraid that I must leave you with no more than that fervent wish. Now, I must go.”

  “God be with you, Mr. Frankenstein.” She twisted her gloved fingers into a knot.

  He bowed deeply and hurried to have a few more words with the draymen. Henry Clerval arrived just as the men climbed onto their cart and drove the equipage away. Clerval, surprised to find Mary there, greeted her warmly. He expressed his great sorrow at the loss of her sister, and begged her to convey his condolences to her family.

  Ten minutes later the two men climbed aboard the coach and it left the inn, disappearing down the Matlock high street.

  Mary lingered in the inn yard. Darcy’s gig stood in the corner against the wall; Cicero, heavy-lidded, munched from a feed bag. She did not feel she could bear to go back to Pemberley and face her family, to endure the histrionics of her mother, to have nothing to contemplate but the death of Kitty and the endless days that stretched ahead of her. Instead she entered the inn. She made the barkeep seat her in the ladies’ parlor and bring her a glass of port.

  The sun declined and shadows stretched over the inn yard. The papers arrived from Nottingham. The yard boy lit the lamps. Still, Mary would not leave. Outside on the pavements, the bootblack sat in the growing darkness with his arms draped over his knees and head on his breast. She listened to the hooves of the occasional horse striking the cobbles. The innkeeper was solicitous. When she asked for something to eat, he brought her some bread, ham, and boiled eggs. When she asked for a third glass of port, he hesitated.

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” He was a man of about fifty with a worried face, his thinning hair going gray. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “A lady like you don’t belong in a place like this. Might I send for someone from your family to come take you home?”

  “You do not know my family,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I only thought—”

  “Another port. Then leave me alone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He went away. She was determined to become intoxicated. How many times had she piously warned against young women behaving as she had this day? Virtue is her own reward. She had an apothegm for every occasion, and had tediously produced them in place of thought. Show me a liar, and I’ll show thee a thief. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Men should be what they seem.