by John Kessel
“I care for you,” Mary said. As she said the words, she realized that the fear of him that she had never wholly abandoned was no longer in her heart.
The Creature’s face twisted in agony. “Do not say that.”
“I do,” Mary insisted.
He sat in the skiff, his perfect, hideous sham face exposed to her study. It did not frighten her anymore. He said, “A year ago those words might have meant more to me than the air I breathe. It’s too late.”
“It is never too late.”
“If you knew how bitter what you say makes me feel, you would hold your tongue. The cup you offer me is as poisonous as that he gave Eve.”
“Only if you cast it aside.”
“What practical consequence does your caring have? Will it make me a man in the eyes of the human race? Will it cause the next person who sees me to give me succor? Will it change me from being what I am?”
“It can change you in here,” Mary said, touching the sodden breast of her dress.
“It is easy for you to speak of changed hearts, who may return to her home and the arms of the family that loves her. And where shall I reside?”
“I will not abandon you.”
“You will pardon my skepticism. Shall we now move to the wilds of South America together? Will you even touch my hand?”
Mary recalled when he had seized her wrist back in the inn in Matlock, the warmth of his grip, so alive. She reached forward and touched his hand. He snatched it away as if she had scalded him.
Whatever else this accomplished, she had caused him to think on something other than his desire to torment Victor. Victor had failed to take the opportunity to save himself. Perhaps here she might act to better effect.
The truth was, she did not know what would follow of her bold avowal. For the Creature was right: she had no power to change what the world would think and do. But that was the nature of love: one did not offer it with any assurance that it would change the world, even if in the end it was the only thing that could.
“Eve is dead,” the Creature said. “How can you ask me to forget her, to forgive him?”
“I don’t ask you to forget her. I cannot ask you to forgive him—if that comes, it must come from your own heart.”
The Creature watched her as warily as a beaten dog offered food by a stranger. “What would you have me do, then?”
“I don’t know. I think that you will need to keep out of sight of men, while I go into the town and seek some help. If I can write to my family, they will perhaps send some money.”
“So I hide and wait for you, rather than Victor, to make my life whole. This does not alter my condition.”
“I am sorry I cannot do more.”
The Creature said, “You have done more than anyone has ever done, however little that may be, and however I doubt that you will be able to do more.” He looked across the dawning beach. “We are exposed here; the fishermen will see us. You are cold. Take my coat, and I will sail up the coast until I find a place where I can hide.”
“Whether I succeed or not,” Mary said, “I will return to this place by the time the sun sets.”
“I will be here,” the Creature said.
St. Peter’s Kirk was in the old part of the town, in the wedge of land bordered by the river on the east and the sea on the north and west. A somewhat dilapidated old stone structure, it stood just a short distance from the river and not far from the docks.
Mary entered through the porch door. The nave was empty; she knelt in one of the pews and tried to quiet her disordered mind. She was engulfed by the Creature’s huge coat. Her dress was still wet, she smelled of salt and worse, hunger ground the pit of her stomach, and she felt cold and weary through to her bones. The experiences of the last month, Eve’s horrifying death, Victor’s actions, and her worry about what Adam might do left her overwhelmed with contradictory emotions. She bowed her head and sought some guidance.
She had never questioned that there was a moral order to the universe just as there was an order to nature. In the world of men, injustice was common, but that was because men were the authors of their own miseries. Evil occurred in nature—the hawk kills the starling, the starling kills the locust—but these savageries, seen through the eyes of faith, have a plan. Mary believed that even the terrible, inexplicable trials of innocent lives—the babes lost at birth, the lightning that struck Mary Anning when she was an infant—also fell according to some plan, difficult as it might be for mortals to understand it. She had always placed her faith in Providence, and it had comforted her on those occasions where injustice had seemed to prevail.
What she had experienced in the months since Kitty’s death challenged this faith. She supposed she could explain all the evil that she had seen as resulting from the actions of men. She herself had lied repeatedly. She had stolen Mrs. Buchanan’s shoes. God was not responsible for these things.
But the figure of Adam, hiding somewhere in the stolen skiff awaiting her return, increased her doubts. Yes, all the evil that had arisen could be laid at the feet of human beings. But was God indifferent to the death of Eve? Her mind told her that all could be explained, but her heart did not rest easy. She prayed that God might give her a sign to guide her through this thicket.
Kneeling there, her sleepless night soon caught up with her, and she fell into a half slumber, her lips resting on her folded hands.
She did not know how much time had passed when she was awakened by a hand on her shoulder.
“Ye canna sleep here,” a man’s voice said.
Mary lifted her head, bleary eyed, her thoughts running slow. It was a man of middle years in a dark coat. “Who are ye?” he asked.
“I am sorry,” Mary said. “My name is Mary Bennet.”
“An Englishwoman, are ye? What do ye here?”
“I have no money. I need to write a letter to my family.”
“A stranger in a shabby dress, wearing a man’s coat. I doubt that yer family will be eager to see ye again. I’ll not be played on by a vagabond.”
“Please. You can tell by my speech that this is not the station to which I was born. My sister is married to Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
“Ye may be sister to James MacLaine, for all I know. Away with ye, now. If ye must beg, come stand by the door on Sunday with yer head bowed, yer mouth shut, and yer hand out and maybe one of the Saved will have mercy on ye.”
Mary got to her feet. The cleric followed her as she moved slowly toward the door.
On the porch she turned to him. “Would you tell me where I might find the magistrate? Perhaps he might be able to help me.”
“He’ll clap ye in gaol, if he knows his duty.”
Mary looked into his eyes. He shifted one foot to the other and said, less abruptly, “The hall is on Traill Street in the New Town.” He closed the door on her.
Mary sighed and leaned on one of the stones that filled the churchyard.
ALASDAIR FINDLAY, 1675–1737
ISOBEL, WIFE, 1687–1723
She walked to the high street. The pale sunlight was without warmth. Townspeople were up and about, in the streets and the shops she had passed when she had searched for Victor. The town hall was a square brick building that contained the office of the magistrate and the town gaol. As soon as Mary entered, a hard-faced old woman accosted her. “What want ye here?” she asked.
“I wish to speak with the magistrate.”
“Mr. Kirwin is not here.”
Mary was reluctant to go back out into the cold. Beside a battered table stood two wooden chairs. “May I sit here a while to recover myself?”
“Ye aren’t from these parts,” the woman said. “Unless ye state yer business, you’ll have to go.”
“I have been on the road for weeks now. I was robbed by highwaymen and lucky to escape with my life. I hoped that the magistrate might see his way to allowing me to write my family. My sister is married to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, one of th
e richest men in Derbyshire. All I need is paper, pen, and—”
“And ye want to send a letter to Derbyshire, I don’t know how many hundred mile from here?” She looked Mary up and down. “I doubt your sister, if ye have a sister, will want to pay the post on a letter come from so far, asking for money.”
“My sister will be worried about me and would be grateful to know that I live.”
“From the looks of ye, I’d not warrant you’ll be alive when yer rescue comes.”
“Will Mr. Kirwin be here later today?”
“I think it best that ye be on your way,” the old woman said.
Mary was so weary, and faint from hunger, that she ignored her and slumped into one of the chairs.
“Here, now! I gave ye no leave to sit.”
Mary rested her head in her hand. “I’m sorry. I have not eaten in a day.”
Before the woman could reply, a man of about her age came into the room from the back of the building. A large ring of keys hung from his belt. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“This woman comes here, bold as you please, to beg Mr. Kirwin for money and food.”
“Not for myself alone. My friend, too, needs help.”
“Go round to the church and beg there,” the woman said. “On your feet, now.” She took Mary’s arm, the one by which the Creature had yanked her out of the water, and drew her to her feet.
“Wait,” said the man.
“What is it now, John?” the woman said with irritation.
The man stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with a slice of hard brown bread, which he gave to Mary. “From yesterday’s supper,” he told the woman.
Mary thanked him. The woman scowled at the man and pushed her out the door. “And don’t be coming back.”
Mary stood in the street. She slipped the bread into the pocket of the Creature’s greatcoat, and kept her hands in those pockets against the cold. She did not know what she might do next. Even had she been able to write home, no help would have come for weeks. She and the Creature would have to find some way to survive. She wondered if, in the hours since she had left him, his rage had lessened.
She realized that, after all her noble vows, she was relieved to be in a town full of ordinary people going about their days in something that she could comprehend as civilized life. That Scotswoman across the street at the butcher’s shop might live modestly by the standards of Longbourn, but she was the kind of person Mary had known her entire life. Those idlers outside the inn, watching the courtyard for the arrival of some coach, were the like of the men who loitered about the inn in Meryton.
She stepped into the street and crossed before the inn yard. Just then the awaited coach arrived, trundling up the high street. It circled round and rocked to a halt. The driver hopped down, and from the inn a boy ran out to place a step below the coach door.
The door of the coach opened, and the first person who stepped down was Henry Clerval.
“Mr. Clerval!” she said.
He stopped. Seconds passed before he recognized her. “Miss Bennet?” He seemed nonplussed. “What a—what a happy accident that we meet again.”
“Yes,” she said. “A happy accident.”
The other passengers stepped down from the coach while the porter and driver lifted down their baggage. The idlers clapped hands on the back of a young man who had arrived and headed for the taproom.
Henry stared at the vast, worn greatcoat that swamped Mary. “Mr. Clerval,” she said. “I need your help.”
Henry frowned. “I can see that. What has he done to you?”
“May we go somewhere to talk?”
“Come,” he said. “Let me buy us both some dinner. You look starved.”
He told the porter to have his bags placed in his room, and took Mary into the inn, where he ordered some cider and a meal for both of them. The smell of food from the kitchen made Mary dizzy.
“I confess myself astonished to see you, and, if you will excuse such frankness from one who has no claim to know you well, troubled by the condition in which I find you. What has happened to you the last months?” Henry asked. “Have you seen Victor?”
“I left him in his cottage in the Orkneys last night. You were right about many things, Henry. He is not well, and he greatly needs your friendship and attention. I fear he will do damage to himself. I am trying to see that he does not come to harm from others.”
“Others?” Clerval paused. “Must you tell your family what he has done? Has he not given you satisfaction in the matter of your sister?”
“Victor has wronged others far more than he has me or my family.”
The innkeeper came with two plates of mutton and potatoes. It was rude fare, but Mary fell to it.
She regretted saying anything to Henry about Victor being in danger from anyone other than himself. It became clear to Henry, however, that Mary’s regard for Victor had changed.
“I cannot believe he drove you out in this condition,” he said.
“I am well enough. If you could help me to write to my father, he will send me money to see me return home. And if you could spare even a little yourself so that I might survive until funds arrive—”
“Nothing is easier,” Clerval said. “Do not worry.”
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am.” Mary took another sip of the cider. With her lack of sleep, even a little made her dizzy.
Henry asked her how she had been living. Mary told him about the cottage in the Orkneys and spoke of Victor’s pursuit of scientific study, without telling him anything material about that study. She let him think her reticence was the result of shock at discovering Victor’s use of Kitty’s body.
“You were right, Henry. Victor is not well in his mind. His life is at risk, and the lives of those he loves. It would be best if you took him directly home, and took the utmost care for your own safety as well.”
“This is mysterious. How am I to understand what you say?”
“I cannot explain—I would betray Victor’s confidence if I spoke, even now—but perhaps he will tell you.”
“I wrote to Victor telling of my arrival,” Henry said. “I expect he will contact me here in the next day or so. I shall arrange a room at the inn for you.”
“I would be eternally grateful.” Mary’s mind was already moving to how she might assure shelter and sustenance for Adam. Finding a way to turn him from vengeance would not be easy.
“If you would wait here,” Henry said, “I will see that you have pen and paper. Your letter will go with the very next post.”
Henry spoke with the innkeeper and returned to the table with pen, ink, and paper. He drew a newspaper out of his bag and made a show of reading it while Mary wrote a brief letter to her father, telling him where she was and imploring him to send her money so that she could return home.
When she finished the letter, she folded and sealed it with candle wax. She gave it to Henry. “Please tell the innkeeper that it should leave with the next coach,” she said.
“I will speak to him now,” said Henry. “And I will arrange for a room in your name.”
The moment he had left her, Mary walked out of the inn.
It was late afternoon. The sky had clouded and shadows pooled in the gray streets and the lees of the buildings. Mary imagined Henry’s consternation when he returned to find her gone; she hurried up the street and turned a corner down to the old stone bridge over the river. The farther she moved from the town’s center, the fewer people were abroad.
She crossed the bridge and followed the road that ran along the other side of the river toward its mouth. This side was farms and fishing huts, widely scattered. It was a longer walk than she remembered, and by the time she came to the beach, it was dark. Aside from a light in a fisherman’s house on the bluff, the shore lay outlined only by thin starlight; the late moon would not rise until midnight.
Mary stood on the deserted strand. Lines of white surf showed as the waves came in to break on the gr
avel and sea-washed stones. Although she had told Adam she would be back before now, she saw no sign of him or the skiff. Had he come and gone already, thinking her faithless?
Then she spied, away from the shore, a small sail. It tacked past her west, and then turned and ran before the wind toward the beach. As it came to the breakers, the man in it dropped the sail and took up an oar. He was tall and his hair fell over his shoulders.
Adam steered the skiff through the surf, leapt out, and dragged it onto the strand.
Mary came forward. “When I did not see you, I feared you might think I had abandoned you.”
“There was no point in exposing myself. I waited offshore until I saw you.”
They stood facing each other. He said, in a different tone, “I will not expect you to live by the words you spoke this morning. I come only to say good-bye.”
“No,” said Mary. “I have written to my father. He will send money, and then you and I shall leave this place.”
“To go where?”
“You tell me you lived in London for weeks. With a little money, we can find a place to live there, or better still, some large city on the Continent. Among many thousands you will not stand out, and if we mind our own affairs, we may live unmolested.”
Adam laughed. “Miss Bennet, I think you do not understand what you say.”
“You will nevertheless do me the courtesy to listen. I have lived among human beings longer than you.”
“And I have been a monster my entire life.”
“Which is three years. I believe I may know some things that you do not.”
He shook his head slowly. “You are the best human being I have ever met. Yet still you flinch when I come upon you unawares, I see your eyes narrow when you inspect my face, I hear the uncertainty in your voice when you say, ‘I am your friend.’ ”
Mary did not doubt that this was true, and it shamed her. But what was it to be Christian other than to master one’s instincts? “Uncertainty. Can we not begin with that?”
