Beginning, Section II, Next Section
Chapter 3 A
Thanks again to Pat for helping me to give Seth a more historically consistent outlook! The Kant suggestion was hers.
The next morning found John Barrow and Willie Barton crossing the street corner where they knew Mr. Tim Scoggins would be waiting. The pair walked past the young man leaning disinterestedly against the wall and pretended not to notice when he pushed himself off of it and began to follow. This was their standard procedure: Scoggins waited daily on that particular street corner, just in case 'Mr. Blevins' should happen by in need of his assistance. He would then tail his employer into whichever dark alleyway or obscure coffeehouse he chose for their meeting on that day. 'Mr. Blevins' chose to vary the meeting spots a bit, knowing that regular habits could be easily noticed and not a good thing to form in his particular field.
But today's procedure had an alteration that was even more unusual than a change in place and not at all welcomed by Mr. Scoggins. "Wot's the deal, guv'nor?" Scoggins accused as soon as they had wandered far enough down a side street, "I told 'em yesterday that I don't deal with just anybody!" He jabbed a finger angrily towards Willie Barton.
"I agree," John said smoothly, slight smile flashing across his face, "You don't deal with just anyone. But then, Mr. Barton, as my associate, is not just anyone, and you'll be just as courteous and helpful to him as you are to me or you'll find yourself out of a position!"
And, without further preamble, he asked Tim for the information that he was sure the man had collected. "What did you manage to find out about our friends the resurrectionists?"
John could tell that Willie was holding his breath while standing next to him, waiting to see how Scoggins would respond. John was a good deal less expectant: Scoggins, John knew, was a reasonable man and realized when he was in danger of losing a good situation. And it was a good situation for him: Scoggins was paid regardless of whether or not John needed his assistance. Scoggins' eyes narrowed skeptically, not yet willing to accept the new terms of the agreement, but willing to share what he had already discovered with the man who paid him a very good wage. Deliberately he pulled a small, leather-bound book from his back pocket and opened it with a flourish. "It wasn't the Cox brothers," he began, "they were at St. Albans' two nights ago. Nor was it Gruen and 'ollingsworth; Gutch, Fitch, and Barkins; or Neale and O'Malley. Those boys 'ad the day off."
He looked up and John knew that this was his cue to make some sort of response, not necessarily at the information, but at Tim's method for relating it. Scoggins, John knew, did not make a wage sufficient enough to pay for such expensive writing materials. "Where did you get the book, Tim?"
Scoggins smiled widely, "It's nice, isn't it?" He turned it over, admiring the binding and number of empty pages just waiting to be filled.
John nodded and thought of the fact that Scoggins hadn't always had such a need for paper and ink. In fact, it was John who, while recognizing his illiteracy, had discovered the boy's rather extensive photographic memory and had begun to take advantage of it. Scoggins had the gift of being able to transcribe pages and pages of text just from a quick perusal. It had turned into a wonderfully simple solution to John's occasional need to read a document without having to 'borrow' it from the owner. Later in their acquaintance, John had noticed that the young man had begun to teach himself how to read and write. Soon after that, elegant writing materials had begun to find their way into Tim's hands.
"Did you find it?" John asked, lifting an eyebrow significantly.
Scoggins returned the gesture with his own brow. "It seems that a certain gent'lman no longer 'ad a use for it," he replied cryptically, returning to the first page, scanning the text that he had written, and continuing.
"Young and Charles aren't yer men, and neither are Turlington and Fosset," Tim closed the book with a snap and looked up at Barrow and Barton.
"Which leaves?" Barton blurted out, sounding frustrated by the way that Scoggins was slowly drawing out his information.
"No one," Scoggins pronounced with emphasis. "I checked wit' 'em all!"
Willie smacked his hand against the rail that he had been leaning upon in disgust. "You could've just said that first!" he exclaimed in frustration.
Tim glared at him. "I thought the guv'nor would 'preciate such a complete pitchure," he said evenly.
John jumped in to the conversation, "Are you sure that you located all of them?"
"Wot do ya take me fer?" Scoggins looked offended. "I knows 'ow to find out everythin'!"
John looked over at Willie who was staring at Scoggins with a mixture of skepticism and contempt. "There's no one else?" he pressed.
"Nope," Scoggins said, cracking a self-satisfied smile.
"Then, who was it in that graveyard two nights ago?" Willie asked.
"Whoever they are, they ain't resurrectionists!" Scoggins restated the obvious.
John nodded in agreement. "Then, that's your next job," he said, "Find out who they are!"
Scoggins looked put out. "And 'ow do ya suggest I does that?" he challenged.
"I know that you have your methods," John answered, smiling. "Barton will be back tomorrow to hear what you have learned."
"Willie?" Scoggins said his name with the same measure of disgust he would add to his voice if he were discussing an incompetent youngster.
"Yes," John said, in a voice that did not allow for interpretation. "Willie will see you tomorrow."
And with that, Barrow touched his hat in dismissal and turned back the way they had come, not bothering to notice the exchange of dangerous looks that passed between the two young men.
Darkness had enveloped the church yard by the time Seth had returned to its gate from his fruitless attempt to visit Miss Mary Bennet at her sister's house on the other side of town. He supposed that he should have known that she wouldn't have recovered enough by the next day to be allowed downstairs to receive visitors and he should have known that her sister, Mrs. Darcy, was far too proper to allow him upstairs to see her. In the end, all that he was allowed to do was sit in Mr. Darcy's study and attempt to drink his tea without upsetting it, all the while being closely scrutinized by both Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. By their leading questions and occasional glances towards one another, Seth had been able to tell that they hadn't yet figured out what to make of him. Just how had he fit into their sister's life?
He almost wished that they would have been forthright and asked him to explain the nature of his relationship to their sister. Then he would have been able to answer them with equal frankness: he had been her friend, but not her confidante. It appeared that he hadn't known her fully and he certainly wouldn't have condoned what she had kept secret. But then, later on during that same conversation, he realized that all they really wanted to know was if he had ever shared her bed. He recalled that his light-colored skin flushed as red as his hair when that revelation came upon him. Had he been Mary Bennet's lover as well as her friend? Certainly not!
Was this what could be construed from his walking four miles to visit her the day after she had left his home? Could his Christian concern for her health and well-being be so misread as to make them wonder if their relationship had become physical? Seth would not be making a pilgrimage to the Darcy home any time in the near future if this was what would be assumed! That and that the walk from the east end of the city to the affluent neighborhoods surrounding St. James' Court had taken up most of his day, leaving him no sunlight to illuminate his path as he ended his walk back to the parsonage. He certainly couldn't make such a journey tomorrow in between preaching two Sunday services. Well, perhaps he could, if he were willing to take them up on their offer of a carriage for the trip home. Seth had found that he was too proud to accept such charity today and couldn't imagine that he would feel so inclined on another day.
Night came so soon during the winter months! Seth looked around at his grim surroundings, shapes barely identifiable in the dim light. It couldn't be later than five in the afternoon by his reckoning, yet the sky was already the color of pitch. And the frozen ground icy and difficult to walk upon. Seth breathed out, resting before the church gate, and watched his breath crystallize in front of him. It had turned unusually cold, even for late January. He pushed his hat further down on his head and listened to the frost crunch under his boots, glad that the weather, if nothing else, was providing a deterrent to the resurrectionists that had been discovered in the church yard two nights ago. The ground was as hard as granite! Not even the most desperate of men would want to wrest a body out of the ground in such conditions. It would hardly be worth the two guineas that Seth had learned was the going rate for corpses.
Seth had learned quite a few things about that profession of men, in the hopes that he would be able to keep bodies safely tucked in the ground in the future. For the next few burials, Seth planned to post a temporary night guard, hopefully being able to rely on the family of the deceased to assist him in making up a watch. He would also be on the lookout for the women that the resurrectionists occasionally sent to attend the funeral, the aging former prostitutes that would join the group of mourners in order to reconnoiter the situation for their men. He wasn't sure that he would be able to tell the difference between the genuine mourners and those that had other motives, though. He understood that these female spies always came respectably dressed in black bombazine, the fabric of their dresses not even reflecting the light of day. That would make them very difficult to pick out in the crowd of people attired in the same fashion.
Seth knew that he had to figure out how to combat the problem of resurrectionists without having to employ the expensive solutions that John Barrow had described or without having to resort to a violent attempt to catch one of them again.
Seth tried to put that thought out of his mind, but it would not be dismissed. He did not think of himself as an aggressive person and he knew that he shouldn't have attempted to strike the mysterious figure with his cane that on that terrible night. Nothing had been served by his momentary lapse of judgment and loss of control, and he still didn't completely understand what had come over him two nights ago in the church yard. All that he could remember was the sound of a shovel being struck against the ground and being filled with the awful realization that someone was defiling a grave. It was an unexplainable reflex that made him lift up the stick and bring it down on the shoveler's head. Seth cringed as he remembered how the cane was jarred out of his hands by the force of the blow and the hideous sound of the wood made on the man's skull.
He was a grown man now and responsible for a church, now! Could he not regulate his own behavior?
Or was he turning out to be as violent and erratic as his father?
Seth shuddered, though from the cold or from the icy fear of that idea, he could not tell. Seth believed that he'd rather be buried alive in a deep grave rather than turn out to be like the man who had acknowledged him as a son, but had never been a father to him. Seth hated what his father stood for and, if he could have denounced the man, he would have -- loudly, repeatedly, and with little mercy. But his father was already beyond reach. He had lain dead for the last fifteen years, the result of a duel with better aimed, less intoxicated adversary.
The aunt who had raised Seth from the age of eight, after his own mother had returned to her own family in Ireland, had been quite keen on lingering over all of her brother's faults, beginning with the fact that he was a weak shot and an even weaker reckoner of time. Had he not overstayed his welcome one night in the bed of the local magistrate's wife, perhaps he would have never been forced into the duel that had resulted in his death.
This had been his aunt's explanation of his father's untimely demise, however, she may have turned it into a cautionary tale for Seth's benefit. That woman had always assumed a likeness in Seth to his father. She was fond of reminding Seth that this was not the first time that his father had raised a gun in anger towards another man. The elder Seth Shackleford had killed before and would have probably killed again had he not met his own death. He was an inherently violent man.
Seth wanted to believe that it hadn't been his aunt's repeated reminders that made him strive to be completely different from the last Seth Shackleford. He hoped that he would have desired a different path without her constant attempts to influence. Where his father had been vicious and capricious, Seth tried to be caring and deliberate; where his father had been lustful and intemperate, Seth had chosen to be stoic and sober; where the father had been foolish and cowardly; Seth had attempted to be wise and brave; where the father had been wild and ungovernable; Seth had learned to be controlled and regulated.
A young boy's journey towards manhood is a difficult journey to take in the best of circumstances and, considering that Seth had no father, had been abandoned by a weak mother who left with him only the color of his own hair to remember her by, and lived with an aunt and uncle who had no real love for him, it is almost a wonder that he grew up with any good principles at all.
Governing principles was not something that Seth Shackleford was lacking. He had more than enough for three young men. What he had not gathered during his youth was joy. Seth, unfortunately, had missed out on the idea that the world could sometimes be good. Nothing in his upbringing had helped him to learn that life -- while filled with challenges and frustrations and problems -- could also be filled with hope and cheer and contentment. He hadn't discovered that a memory of the sweetness of life could even be summoned on darker days, so that the thought would glow like a beacon, shining a path towards better days to come.
His childhood had taught him, by negative example, many things about obligation, duty, and self-control -- but it hadn't taught him anything about love.
On the day that he came of age, Seth had renounced all that his father's family had held important, including the small fortune that his grandfather had made shipping human cargo to the Americas. He had refused to touch the money, preferring that it languish unused and unclaimed in a bank to enriching his own pocket or even benefiting his poorer parishioners. It was ill-gotten, made on the backs of innocent people, unnaturally stolen from their homes and forced to do hard labor. He couldn't imagine touching it without becoming tainted even further by it.
Seth had gone to Cambridge, had studied, was ordained, and had taken orders at the first London parish that had called him. And it may have been the only church that would have had him: his theology not being as settled and self-serving as what was expected in certain London bishoprics. Seth had not gone into the ministry to make friends, however, and he certainly hadn't become a clergyman in order to achieve a degree of consequence or importance. He had gone into it to serve those less fortunate, to assuage the guilt that he carried as the third Seth Shackleford, and perhaps to challenge others to do the same.
Although his first challenge, an initial thesis on the motivation behind the doing of good works, hadn't been well received. In fact, his tutor, upon reading it, had laughed with derision, dismissed it as an idea that had already seen the light of day, and Seth's take on it as hopelessly juvenile -- proving that to be the case by throwing a translation of Immanuel Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" on the table in front of him and "Religion within the Limits of Pure Reason" on top of that.
A less cocky, not so self-assured Seth had emerged from that first disappointment, more open to the new ideas that were beginning to take form. He read, discussed, and argued with the other students at Cambridge and even occasionally the tutors and deans. He eventually had been branded a radical and a troublemaker for his thoughts and his willingness to voice them.
But he had also been acknowledged a man who was willing to admit when he had been wrong or when he needed to grow in wisdom, and for that he was rewarded a grudging amount of respect.
What John Barrow had suggested yesterday night continued to frustrate and unsettle Seth. In fact, Seth had laid awake last night considering it carefully. Was he wrong in thinking that the best place for Mary Bennet would be with her family? Seth couldn't imagine allowing her to continue her charade and -- even if he had been willing -- Mrs. Fenton would surely expose her. His housekeeper had made that patently clear last night as she bustled in between the kitchen and the dining room, a plate of burnt fish pie in hand. She said that she would not work in a house that had such indecent goings on. Later the same evening, she had even threatened to give notice and had to be placated back into staying.
So, that only left allowing a newly unmasked Mary Bennet to care for the parishioners, and Seth was not certain that anyone would be willing to be treated by a physician who happened to be a woman. And -- even if the parishioners had been willing -- Seth was quite sure that the Royal College of Physicians would never allow it. From what Thomas had described once, the college was full of fusty old men, who couldn't be bothered to touch their own patients, much less new ideas and ways of doing things. Thomas had almost been sorry that he had chosen to join them and had felt a greater affinity with the surgeons of London -- who weren't afraid of getting their hands dirty in order to treat disease -- than with the physicians were content to throw medicine at all ailments.
But then, would the Royal College really care what happened at the clinic of one poor, East-end parish? Seth knew that the wealthy doctors routinely overlooked their part of town. In fact, Seth remembered that Thomas was subjected to a fair amount of ridicule from his fellow physicians for choosing to work where he did. They wondered if Thomas weren't afraid of the wealth that would come from tending to a more affluent clientele. They reminded him about the many infectious diseases that ran rampant through the back alleyways and cramped quarters of the East End. They questioned his motives constantly, considered his charity to be misplaced, and -- although they did not admit to this -- felt threatened by the small successes that he was racking up.
But Thomas hadn't cared what their opinions had been. He seemed content with his poverty-stricken patients and had tended to their ailments with the same concern that he might have shown for the few paying clients that he had taken on to defray the expenses of the clinic.
Where was he ever to find someone that could replace Thomas?
Seth sighed loudly and pushed open the wrought iron gate. Here was yet another question that he didn't have the time or energy to consider. Nor did he really wish to dwell upon the loss of his closest friend. And it was a loss, wasn't it? Even if he were to go visit this newly exposed Miss Bennet at her sister's house again, he would never learn to be as close to her as he had once been to Thomas. How was he to do that, when that woman hadn't placed any trust in him in the first place?
The loss of Thomas was going to be quite a blow to Seth's well-ordered life. And there had been a certain admirable structure to it. In fact, Seth's life had been so consistent and well-managed that his untidy appearance and overly-long and eternally-unruly reddish hair always looked to be at odds with the substance of his character. It was as if all of his organizational energies went into structuring his thinking, leaving nothing left for the management of his clothing or hair. Thomas had frequently commented on it, occasionally teasing Seth by asking if he had misplaced his comb or if undone or crooked knots were the latest fashion for cravats. Seth withstood such reproofs with good humor, often asking Thomas if he could borrow his comb or if he would help him make his tie presentable.
And Thomas had always assisted him in fixing his vestments before he preached services on Sunday. Seth sighed, remembering that this was something that he would have to do by himself tomorrow.
How was he ever to find another friend like Thomas?
Seth walked down the darkened path, wishing that Mrs. Fenton had thought to hang a lantern up outside of the door so that he could make his way to the parsonage with greater ease. Not that one tiny lantern would have made that much of a difference. Seth recalled how the lanterns moving through the church yard on those two nights prior to the attempted grave robbing had barely brightened up three square feet of space. From his window, they had appeared as tiny pin pricks of light moving slowly through the field -- as if methodically scouring the field for something lost.
Seth supposed now that they were searching for evidence of a fresh grave -- overturned soil and perhaps a new grave marker or cross.
But there hadn't been a new grave for them to find on the first two nights, had there?
Seth gasped out loud and stopped, eyes widening, realizing for the first time that those first two appearances of light in the graveyard had occurred before the death and burial of Mary Sutherland!
Seth turned around and looked towards the black field, stone grave markers and wooden crosses barely definable in the distance. The resurrectionists had made their appearance before there had been a body to collect! And Seth hadn't officiated at a funeral in months prior to that. There were no fresh bodies in the grave yard on the nights that the lights had appeared.
Seth remembered what John had explained to him about the resurrectionist trade: the men watched the obituary columns carefully and planned their nightly activities from there. They would never have wasted their time by wandering around a grave yard that had no fresh bodies to give.
Seth felt almost as if someone had grabbed onto his shoulders with a pair of ice-cold fingers, fixing him in one position -- staring out at the field towards Mary Sutherland's grave. Had those first night visitors been different from the ones that had come for Mary Sutherland's newly dead body?
Chapter 3 B
Mary awoke to a persistent thumping sound. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked about, trying to make sense of her surroundings. She couldn't remember where she was or how she came to be in such an unfamiliar, but lovely room. Looking up, she saw the bright colors of a tall canopy, suspended by four lathed posts. The sun was streaming through the curtains, casting patterns on the rich carpet. In front of the window sat a chair and in the chair sat a little girl, kicking her heels up against the bottom of the chair. Mary sat up and looked at her, supporting herself with one shoulder.
The little girl looked up and stopped kicking. "You aren't awake, are you? Mamma told me that I mustn't wake you!" She bit her lip contritely and looked down at the object that she was holding in her hands.
"I am awake," Mary had to confess, almost feeling guilty for having to tell her that she was. "But I don't think that it was you who woke me up."
"Oh good!" the girl hopped off her chair, relieved, and walked over to Mary's side. "Mamma said that you're very, very sick and that you needed lots of time to sleep."
"She did, did she?" Mary commented, beginning to wonder who the little girl's Mamma was. And who the little girl was, for that matter. Mary looked at her closely. She was a very somber looking little thing, long brown hair pulled back with a bow and large brown eyes fixed earnestly on Mary's face. "What's you name?" Mary asked.
"Marianna Darcy," the little girl replied efficiently, "I'm six."
"Are you?" Mary commented, finding it hard not to smile at the little girl's business-like demeanor. She realized that this must be the child that Elizabeth had been carrying the year that Mary had left Longbourn. Mary shook her head, marveling at how quickly children grew up. And, Mary realized, if this was Elizabeth's child, then she must be in a room in Elizabeth's house. Foggy details began to come back to Mary. She remembered Seth and John bringing Elizabeth to her room at the parsonage and Seth carrying her out to John's carriage. She also remembered not being able say anything in protest of this.
Now, why was that? Mary tried to sit up further and the pain in her side reminded her. She groaned uncomfortably as the knife wound asserted itself into her thoughts. She must have been feverish when they removed her from the parsonage and unconscious when they carried her into Elizabeth's home.
She still felt groggy and wondered just how long she had been asleep. Then, she realized that the little girl was still watching her curiosity playing through her large brown eyes.
"Marianna," Mary whispered to her, "That's a lovely name."
"I was named after my aunties," Marianna offered.
"Really?" Mary tried to think of any aunts the child might have that were named Marianna. There certainly weren't any on Elizabeth's side of the family and Mary thought that Mr. Darcy only had one sister named Georgiana.
"But I only know one of them," the little girl shook her head. "Aunt Georgie is Papa's sister. Mamma's sister Mary disappeared before I was born, and Mamma hasn't been able to find her yet."
Mary's heart lurched as she listened to this little girl give such a sober account of her own history.
"Mamma keeps on looking, though." Marianna went on, "When Mr. Barrow brought you in his carriage two nights ago, I thought that you might be my Aunt Mary. But Mamma didn't say that you were. She just sent me to bed without my bedtime story."
"Two nights ago?" Mary asked. She had been asleep for two nights?
Marianna nodded. "Mamma was busy all yesterday talking to Papa and Dr. Folsom in the study," the little girl revealed.
"Dr. Folsom?" Mary echoed, a picture of the staid, proper physician came to mind, and she instantly knew why she had been asleep for two nights. Dr. Folsom prescribed strong doses of laudanum for almost every ailment. It was no wonder that Mary felt so fuzzy today: she had been in a drug-induced stupor for the last two days! And that just confirmed for Mary that she was right in considering Dr. Hiram Folsom one of the least capable members of the Royal College. How was it that he was called in to care for her? Could he actually be the Darcy's physician?
"And she forgot my bedtime story again last night!" the girl's voice turned petulant and hurt. "She would have told me if you were my Aunt Mary, wouldn't she?"
The girl's earnest brown eyes were fixed on her own, making it impossible for her to look away. "Would you like for me to be your Aunt Mary?" she asked the child, voice almost cracking with emotion.
"Yes," Marianna answered simply, "Because that would mean that Mamma and Aunt Jane wouldn't have to miss their sister anymore."
Mary felt tears prick her eyes again. Her sisters had missed her? They had missed her enough to keep looking for her? Had Elizabeth even loved her enough to actually name her daughter after her?
"Would you like for me to read to you?" the somber young girl asked. "Mamma's been teaching me to read." Marianna held up a tiny, little primer. "Mamma says that sick people like to hear stories. She always reads me stories when I'm sick."
Mary smiled and felt a tear fall out of her eye as it crinkled. "I'd like that very much, Marianna, but, first, I think that you need to tell your Mamma that I'm awake."
Marianna seemed to see the rightness of that. "All right," she agreed. "My nanny hasn't given me my breakfast yet either. And my little brother eats all the jam if I'm not there to stop him." She put on an adult looking scowl of frustration as she remembered her little brother, which made Mary want to laugh. She remembered looking the same way whenever Kitty or Lydia contemplated something just as naughtily. "Then, you'd better attend to him," she prompted, brushing away the tear that she had let fall a moment ago. She didn't want her new little niece to think that she couldn't control her emotions.
Marianna nodded one last time and, placing her primer on the bedside table for later, skipped out the door. "Mamma!" Mary heard the little girl begin to call as she walked out the door. "Mamma! She's awake!"
A second later, Mary heard Elizabeth's voice reprimand her daughter for sneaking into the room and bothering the sick woman.
"But she said that I didn't wake her up!" Marianna protested. "Is she my Aunt Mary? Have you brought her home at last?"
"Yes," Mary heard Elizabeth's voice confirm softly. "She's your Aunt Mary," then she went on, her voice sounding authoritative. "Now, go back to the nursery and have your breakfast. You can talk to her later."
"She said that I could read to her," Marianna's voice sounded a last comment as she walked down the hall.
The door opened a bit wider and Elizabeth appeared in the room, regarding her sister warily.
"She's lovely," Mary said, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she thought of her new niece, Marianna, walking down the hall to make sure that her brother didn't eat too much jam on his toast.
Elizabeth said nothing in response and walked slowly over to the chair that her daughter had vacated and sat down in it. It was still quite a distance from the bed and Mary wondered if her older sister were afraid of approaching her. Mary watched as Elizabeth smoothed the folds of her dress over her knees and composed her hands on her lap before she spoke. It seemed as if she were settling herself in for a lengthy discussion, one that might be uncomfortable for both. She was still the same Elizabeth, wasn't she? A lady not afraid of voicing her own opinions or confronting others with frankness. And she looked exactly as she had when Mary had left six years ago, same light figure and handsome face. "She was born not a month after you disappeared," Elizabeth began.
Mary nodded, stomach sinking, in preparation for the reprimand which she knew was to come.
"Fitzwilliam and I decided to name her after you and Georgiana."
Mary bit her lip and nodded, not sure of what to say. "Thank you," she mumbled eventually.
"We thought that you were dead." Elizabeth said, letting the baldness of her statement stand for itself. Mary would have some explaining to do before she was welcomed back fully. "You can't imagine the pain that you have inflicted upon your family."
"I remember the heartache we all went through when Lydia ran away," Mary attempted.
"That was a completely different matter!" Elizabeth responded quickly, "We, at least, knew that Lydia was still alive and in no danger greater than losing her good reputation. With you, we were left to imagine the worst! Even Fitzwilliam's friend Mr. Barrow wasn't able to determine your whereabouts!"
"You called John in?" Mary was surprised.
"A week after you had left and we had exhausted all other options," Elizabeth revealed.
"I had no idea that you would go to such lengths," Mary was astounded.
"You didn't think that we would go out of our minds with worry?" Elizabeth was incredulous. "Mary, you were our sister and we loved you!"
Mary bit back something cutting about not showing such love for her while they were young girls together at Longbourn, but thought that such an expression might be unfair. Elizabeth seemed to sense where her thoughts were leading and began to blush slightly, contrition playing across her face. "We did love you, Mary." Elizabeth said softly. "Perhaps we didn't know how to show that to you when we were younger, but you were loved."
Now it was Mary's turn to be contrite. "Then, I'm sorry for the hurt I've caused you," she looked down at her hands, fingers resting limply on her lap. She did feel some regret for having left her family to imagine the worst and she was beginning to have a sense of all she had missed while away: the birth of Elizabeth's children and perhaps others nephews and nieces not yet discovered. But, as she looked at her hands, she realized that she didn't regret leaving. How was she supposed to regret all that she had been able to accomplish after having done so? And it wasn't just achieving something unheard of for her sex -- initiation as a fellow of the Royal College of Physicians and a degree from Cambridge -- it was the people that she had been able to heal. That was where the real power had been for Mary: preserving health. Prestige and consequence meant nothing to her and the Royal College could be forgotten for all she cared! They were all a bunch of self-serving dilettantes who couldn't be bothered to touch weak, human flesh, preferring to dispense medications, take lengthy physical histories, or translate from ancient, Roman texts in search of outdated cures to modern problems!
Mary had felt a greater affinity with the surgeons of London than she ever had with their gentleman counterparts in the Royal College.
In fact, she had often questioned if belonging to that institution weren't more of a liability to her need to go unnoticed. Society in London was quite small and the pool of eligible young men was even smaller. Belonging to the 100 member society of physicians would have placed Dr. Thomas Townsend on the guest lists of quite a few eager hostesses, had Mary not done her best to repel such attention. She couldn't take the chance that she might meet with a sister at some gathering.
But she was meeting with her sister now, wasn't she? Mary looked over and watched as Elizabeth nodded, seeming to accept her apology for leaving home. Then, she went further: "How did you do it?" she asked, voice sounding mystified. "Did Robert, Kitty's husband, having something to do with it. John Barrow told us that you were using the name Thomas Townsend and Dr. Folsom confirmed that yesterday."
Mary hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. She couldn't figure out how to explain why she had taken Robert's name, "He gave it to me to use when I left," she said eventually. "Yes, he did help me."
"He couldn't have paid your way to Cambridge, he wouldn't have had enough to do that." Elizabeth questioned further. "Who did?"
"I don't know," Mary shook her head. "It was some benefactor that Dr. Townsend found for me. The man wished to remain anonymous, and I never chose to ask for his identity."
"And you actually graduated from Cambridge?" Elizabeth still sounded astonished. "Fitzwilliam admitted to being surprised. He couldn't imagine how you would have accomplished it, considering that your education up until that point had been conducted at home."
"And supervised by our mother," Mary rejoined.
Elizabeth smiled slightly and went on, "And our mother had no knowledge of Latin or Greek."
"But Father's library was quite complete," Mary explained, "I had ample resources with which to learn the classical languages."
"You learned Latin?" Elizabeth was astounded. "Did father know?"
"I don't believe so," Mary considered, "I was very careful about the books that I borrowed from the shelves. I always tried to hide the gaps I made in the ranges and never put the book back in the wrong place."
Elizabeth continued to look her astonishment, so Mary went on, "Actually, the Latin was most necessary to my education. In fact, the exam for the Royal College was conducted almost entirely in Latin."
"So, you did manage to obtain a license to practice!" Elizabeth exclaimed, "We had heard from Mr. Barrow that you had, but Dr. Folsom was unwilling to confirm it."
Mary wondered why Dr. Folsom would be so reticent to confirm a fact that he knew very well, but was more surprised that Elizabeth would be willing to question John's information. "You would doubt Mr. Barrow's information?" she asked archly, "From what I've come to understand, he's quite capable of keeping his facts straight."
"Then, you were the one who delivered Little Charles William?" Elizabeth named the Barrow's only child, still sounding as if she weren't able to give credence to the idea that her sister Mary was the intelligent and capable physician who was called in when Arabella's situation became dire.
"Yes," Mary said, feeling somewhat frustrated by her sister's inability to accept it. She could tell from his sister's continued expression of disbelief that she would not be convincing her any time soon. And her sister's lack of confidence in her began to be irritating. Rather than dwell on it, however, she chose to change the subject. "Marianna's a lovely child," she complimented sweetly.
That produced the expected response. The proud mother smiled and looked wistful, "She's such a little mother," Elizabeth commented, "-- always telling her youngest brothers how they should behave.
Now it was Mary's turn to sound disbelieving. "She has more than one little brother?"
Elizabeth began to laugh at her sister's apparent shock. "Yes, Mary, I have three children now. You've been gone for six years. Did you expect us all to remain as we were?" Elizabeth smiled further and Mary relaxed. It appeared as if some wall had been breached.
But had she expected her family to remain the same after she left? Mary had to admit that she tried to think of them as little as possible, fearing that if she dwelt on her family for too long, her desire to see them would overtake her sense, sending her riding back to Longbourn, if only to peer in windows and listen at the doorsteps facing the crowded Meryton streets. She had received only one piece of information from Longbourn in the last six years: Dr. Robert Townsend had written to inform her of her father's death two years ago, just as she was leaving Cambridge.
It had been bitter physic to swallow, not being able to return to her family when he died. She had to solace herself by mourning him in private, not even allowing herself to wear a black arm band in his honor.
The time for mourning was over, though, and Mary found herself wildly curious to know what had happened to her sisters in the last two years. Had they all been as successful as Elizabeth in bringing children into the world? How did their mother do now that the Collinses had turned her out of Longbourn? Did married life still go beyond her sisters' expectations? "Well, since you haven't remained the same, perhaps you should tell me all that has passed."
Elizabeth seemed more than willing to oblige, even drawing her chair closer to Mary's bed as she elaborated on the rather extensive family history. She and Fitzwilliam had three children, Marianna was six, George Fitzwilliam was four and little John Thomas was only two and very stubborn for his age. Jane and Charles had given up Netherfield and had bought a house in Yorkshire shortly after the birth of their first, and only child, William. Mr. Wickham was pursuing a rather shady business venture in the West Indies and had relocated Lydia and their five daughters to Martinique. Neither Jane nor Elizabeth had heard much from them since.
"And Kitty?" Mary prompted.
Elizabeth hesitated, looking unsure. For a moment, Mary was unable to account for her sister's reversion to wariness. Then, she remembered and began to blush at what Elizabeth must have assumed from Mary's choosing to disappear into the world with her sister's husband's name. Her embarrassment deepened as she imagined how transparent her emotions must have been back then. Perhaps Elizabeth had already known that Mary had been in love with Dr. Townsend, it must have been as plain as the eyes on her face.
She swallowed, eyes remaining down.
"Kitty's doing well," Elizabeth said quietly. "She and Robert are in Scotland right now."
"Scotland?" Mary questioned, looking up.
"He's decided to take additional studies in Edinburgh," Elizabeth explained.
Mary nodded, agreeing to the rightness of the idea. "He would want to do that," she commented, "Scotland's universities are much more innovative when it comes to medicine. And --" she went on, "Do they have any children?"
Now it was Elizabeth's turn to look away, "No, they haven't been blessed with children yet."
Mary bit her lip, understanding at once Elizabeth's earlier hesitancy. Catherine had always wanted to have children. The fact that she and her husband had not yet been able to create one would cause her a great deal of pain. Mary's heart went out to Kitty -- and to Robert as well.
Mary was now quite capable of feeling impartial sympathy for both her sister and her brother-in-law. In fact, she found that she had long-ago ceased to regret Robert. The only emotion that she could seem to summon up when she thought of him was gratitude -- gratitude for having assisted her in claiming a new life for herself.
And now -- she felt only compassion.
Mary leaned back, closing her eyes and wondering how long it would take her until she felt as sanguine and disinterested about Seth as she did about Robert. Falling in love with Seth had proven to be the antidote that Mary had needed to dismiss her infatuation with Robert.
And now, where was there to be found a remedy for the cure?
Chapter 3 C
The carriage was driven around to the front door and Mrs. Arabella Barrow came out of the entryway to her home, carrying an uncharacteristically fussy little Charlie in her arms. Arabella was not surprised at this change in behavior; she and his nurse had dressed him in a style that they knew he particularly disliked. Charlie detested being put into his best 'going visiting clothes.' Arabella would have it no other way, though. She wasn't about to call at the Darcy townhouse with a son that looked less than appropriately dressed. She climbed into the carriage, while speaking soothingly to him, promising that he could remove his hat, jacket, and shoes once his was safely tucked away in the Darcy nursery. By then, Arabella knew, he would have forgotten all about feeling uncomfortable in his outfit: he was always overjoyed to see his favorite friend, two-year-old John Thomas Darcy.
And then Arabella would be left alone with Elizabeth and she would be able to ask about Mary, if not see her for herself. To own the truth, she hoped that she might be allowed to sit with the invalid in her room, rather than stay below, attempting to formulate questions that would elicit some piece of useful information about Mary's condition and spirits. Both she and John had become quite concerned on Saturday, when a messenger had brought them a note from the Darcys saying that Mary still hadn't regained consciousness.
On Sunday the note had been more positive: Mary had awoken and seemed to be in control of her senses again. The information came as a relief to the Barrows, but Arabella couldn't help but think that Mary Bennet would still have a long, difficult recovery to make. And this recovery would be made more difficult by the need to adjust to her changed circumstances.
As the carriage drove through the streets of London, Arabella tried to coax little Charlie into a better humor by singing silly songs to him, all the while wondering about the woman that she hoped to visit today. Mary, as Dr. Townsend, had been with Arabella on the most difficult day of her life, had seen her at her worst -- fearful, angry, and vulnerable, frightened for both herself and her baby -- and had still managed to like her after that. Arabella not only felt gratitude for the physician, but had genuinely liked and admired Dr. Townsend. She couldn't imagine that her feelings would change now that Thomas Townsend had reverted back to her original identity. Arabella would admire and appreciate Mary Bennet as she always had.
But Arabella knew that other people would have difficulty making the transition.
Arabella continued her attempt to cheer little Charlie up as she thought of Mr. Shackleford. She shook her head sternly at her son as that man came to her mind, making the child giggle with delight. Arabella was not pleased with that man's behavior, but could understand it. Seth had relied on his friend in so many ways, and it was not just for the occasional reminders to straighten his jacket or re-tie his cravat before going out, although Thomas had always been quite useful in that regard. Arabella had to admit that Seth had looked sadly unkempt when he came to call upon John last night. He had just finished presiding at the evening service, and his eyes had drooped tiredly as he entered the Barrow home. He even quickly accepted their offer of refreshment with grateful thanks, not even bothering to ask if it were too much trouble as he usually did.
Arabella had remained in the room while the two men had discussed Seth's problem with the resurrectionists. Both had nothing but confusion to report to each other. John, instead of being able to discover the name of the men who had attempted to steal a body from the church's grave yard, had only learned that all of the known resurrectionist teams could account for their whereabouts on that night. And Tim Scoggins had not yet been able to unearth the names of the men who actually were there and had knifed Thomas on that night.
This information did not appear to be welcomed by Seth in the least. In fact, if a face could grow gray and ashen while in close proximity to a roaring fire -- his had. The color drained completely from it, making his light skin look even more white. Then, in a halting voice, he told John what he had recalled: that the lights had appeared in the church yard before there had been a body to collect.
The two men reached the same conclusion: that they were not dealing with the average resurrectionist. What the night visitors had been and their reasons behind those visits still remained to be seen. In response to this, John had agreed to visit the elderly sister of the late Mary Sutherland to determine if there might be any reason why someone would wish to disturb her body. Mr. Scoggins would also be instructed to continue his attempt to discover anything about the night visitors.
Seth had relaxed somewhat after that and the fire and claret had helped to return the color to his face. He had then asked if they had any news to relate about Mary. He appeared quite eager to have any information since he hadn't been able to make the journey over to the Darcy townhouse in between his two services on that day. John had handed him the note that they had received from Elizabeth earlier in the evening, explaining that she had regained consciousness that morning and appeared to be resting quietly. Arabella, after watching Seth carefully while he read the note, had invited him to come with her on her own visit the next day, even going so far as to offer to pick him up at the church. Seth had quickly refused, going over a list of all the people he was required to attend to on Monday.
Arabella saw through this excuse, but had allowed him to make it, pitying him all the more for his inability to allow himself to do what he wanted to do. Arabella was certain that Seth really did want to visit his friend and had a feeling that they would be seeing the confused young man at their house that night, and that he would attempt many sideways questions about Mary's health and condition.
The carriage pulled up at the Darcy townhouse and Arabella alighted, a somewhat more cheerful baby Charlie in her arms. It appeared that he had forgotten about the earlier indignity of being forced into a shirt that he detested in his anticipation of seeing his good friend, Johnnie. The footman answered the door and immediately showed her into the hallway where the Darcy's nurse was waiting to take charge of Charlie, leading the little boy away without even a backward glance for his mother, and Arabella was led into the morning room where Elizabeth was waiting for her.
"How is she?" Arabella asked after the briefest of greetings for her hostess.
"Somewhat better," Elizabeth commented with a smile. "I thought that we might like to take our tea with her upstairs.
Arabella agreed to that quickly, privately glad that she hadn't been forced into begging for an opportunity to see Mary herself, and followed Elizabeth out of the room and up the two flights of stairs to her room.
"Mary," Elizabeth announced, opening the invalid's room, "Mrs. Barrow has come to visit you."
Arabella hesitated at the threshold, realizing that she should, at least, have waited to see if Mary were ready or willing to receive her before venturing upstairs. Mary had not been given the opportunity to politely refuse the company that was being thrust upon her.
But it appeared that Mrs. Barrow would not have been refused by Miss Bennet had she waited downstairs. In fact, it sounded as if Mary were very glad to see her. "Is Arabella really out in the hall?" she heard Mary ask Elizabeth excitedly. Arabella chose not to wait for an answer, she walked into the room and over to the bed, a more than pleasant smile playing across her face.
Mary held out her hand and Arabella took it, squeezing it slightly as the other woman gestured towards a chair next to the bed. She sat down in it, trying not to look as if she were studying Mary too closely or, conversely, trying to avoid her eye. Arabella found it a little disconcerting to hear Thomas' familiar voice coming from this changed individual. There was nothing in Mary's appearance, however, that Arabella could identify as truly different: there were the same brown eyes as large and expressive as they always were, resting above a nose that had always seemed too dainty to belong to a man. Perhaps it was the white bedcap that made her seem so different from the Thomas Townsend that she had known. Perhaps it was the lace at the collar of her night gown. Maybe it was the fringe of brown hair that had been made to hang over her eyes instead of being swept across her forehead.
"Elizabeth told us that you are feeling better," Arabella began, hoping that she was not sounding too awkward.
"Somewhat," Mary agreed lightly.
The three women were then in danger of falling into an uncomfortable silence, but were saved such a fate by Marianna running into the room shouting for her Mamma. "John Thomas has hidden himself in the closet with little Charlie and is refusing to let go of the door so that Nanny can open it!" the little girl said breathlessly.
"What? Elizabeth exclaimed, "Why are they doing that?"
"I don't know," Marianna exclaimed, beginning to tug at her mother's hand. "They're in there giggling as if something is really funny! You have to punish John Thomas this time, he's being really bad!"
And, with that, mother and daughter left the room, Elizabeth muttering something about incompetent nannies who couldn't even keep two-year-olds in check.
"John Thomas is frequently bad," Arabella said wryly. "My husband insists that it has nothing to do with the name he was given."
Mary smiled at that, but it was a half-hearted sort of attempt. "So, John Thomas was named after your husband," she commented, "I was wondering if he had. How is it that I never knew that you and John were so closely tied to my sister's family?"
"I'm not sure," Arabella considered, shaking her head. "It's not as if people frequently discuss their connections with one another -- who they know, who they're related to, whose dinner party they attended last week."
"That's exactly what society frequently discusses!" Mary retorted, laughing somewhat, at Arabella's surprisingly naive opinion.
Arabella thought for a moment and had to agree that Mary was right. "Well, John and I don't go out much in society," she attempted an explanation.
"And the friends that you do see aren't the kind to make a big show of their relations and friendships," Mary concluded.
Arabella smiled and had to agree with that summation. There weren't many in London that would admit Arabella's questionable husband into their drawing rooms and were even less likely to admit her, considering that her father had spent his life selling gloves and walking sticks in Cheapside.
But Mary had chosen to go on to another topic. She drew in breath and made an awkward segue: "Speaking of friends, has John been visited by Mr. Shackleford lately?"
It was an innocent enough question, harmlessly delivered, but Arabella knew that there had to be more behind it. Mary Bennet appeared to be missing Seth just as much as he was missing her. "Yes," she responded, "He visited us last night after his second service." Mary leaned forward somewhat in her bed, as if wanting to catch every bit of information that Arabella would throw her way and Arabella continued, attempting to be as descriptive and complete on the subject of Seth Shackleford as possible. Her heart went out to Mary as she began; she wouldn't find it very easy to be separated from such a close companion. "He is a bit worn down," Arabella summed up, "and is, of course, still concerned about you and this problem with the resurrectionists."
"Resurrectionists?" Mary asked in confusion. "What resurrectionists?"
It was then that Arabella realized that Mary had known nothing about the mystery in which she had already played such a pivotal role. "That's right, you haven't heard." And she went on to give Mary the substance of Seth and John's conversation last night. That Mary was shocked and appalled by such information needs no elaboration. In fact, Arabella began to be concerned that the tale was distressing her needlessly and suggested that they talk about something more pleasant, an idea that was quickly negatived by Mary. She wanted to hear all and would not be put off. Of course, she did know what a resurrectionist was and did, but was not certain whether on not she had ever witnessed a dissection of a resurrected body. She said that her professors were quite vague about where they had obtained the bodies that they cut open in the interests of education and research.
When Arabella finished relating all there was to know, Mary only had one further question: "Is Seth by himself at the parsonage?" she asked, obviously concerned that the same men who had injured him might prove a danger to her friend as well.
Arabella wasn't prepared for that. The issue of Seth's safety had never come up during his conversations with John or John's subsequent conversations with his wife. The couple hadn't considered it at all! "Well, yes," Arabella had to admit, "He is."
"All alone in the parsonage with only Mrs. Fenton for assistance?" Mary emphasized each word in turn, allowing the full weight of the sentence rest upon them both.
It was then that Arabella had to reveal that Mrs. Fenton had chosen to leave the parsonage and look for other employment. "I'm afraid Mrs. Fenton is no longer working for Mr. Shackleford," she said, her voice sounding somewhat guilty. Why hadn't she thought of Seth's safety? One of the few things that they all knew about those particular night visitors was that they had come to the graveyard armed and willing to injure.
"What?" Mary's hands flew to the mattress of her bed and pushed herself off of it, "She left?"
"She seemed to think that Mr. Shackleford's parsonage was not as respectable as it should be," Arabella said in a clipped voice, not pleased with Mrs. Fenton or her decision.
"He's completely alone?" Mary sounded appalled.
Arabella tried to reason with Mary, even as she knew how hollow and insignificant her protests would sound. "He's a grown man, Mary, and is quite capable of taking care of himself. And I will invite him tonight to consider staying with us, but I believe that we both know what he will say to that."
"That he can't leave his parish," Mary mumbled in resignation.
Arabella nodded sadly, they both knew him well enough to understand that he wouldn't be able to put his own personal safety before the needs of his parishioners. Arabella watched Mary closely, that woman's eyes darting around the room wildly as her mind raced, forming conclusions that appeared to give her even greater pain.
"He's such a child sometimes," Mary muttered to herself, "The man doesn't know how to take care of himself."
Arabella sensed that this needed no response, so she offered nothing. And, in actuality, she was too busy coming to a conclusion of her own. The phrase that Mary had uttered and the emotion behind it were all too familiar to Arabella; she remembered thinking the same about her own John Thomas, especially in the early days of their marriage. It had taken Arabella more than a few years to train John to put his personal safety first -- for her sake as well as their son's.
Mary's concern for Seth Shackleford's safety was too similar to her own concern for John's to be mistaken for anything else. Could it be that Mary was in love with Seth?
Arabella wasn't quite sure what to do with this speculation. She couldn't imagine confronting the wounded lady on the bed about it. Nor would she tell Seth Shackleford. She suspected that, as much as he missed his friend Thomas, he would not welcome the news that the former Dr. Townsend might have been harboring other feelings towards him.
In the end, all that Arabella could seem to do was feel even more pity for the young woman, but she sensed that this was the last thing in the world that Mary wanted to see right now. So, Arabella swallowed the lump of empathy that had risen into her throat and decided to go on with a more rational conversation. "I'll ask John about what could be done for Mr. Shackleford," Arabella promised, thinking of how Tim Scoggins had been forced into keeping sentry duty over her father's store while John waited for her to return from Hertfordshire. Perhaps John could come up with a similar solution for the lonely man at the parsonage. They had a few suitable men in their employ from which to choose and they certainly could spare a footman at a time like this.
The grateful expression that lit up the young woman's face only confirmed for Arabella the fact that Mary's feelings for Seth were as strong as her own were for John. "Thank you, Arabella," the young woman stammered more awkwardly than usual, "I'd really appreciate your help with this."
Chapter 4
Tuesday's newspapers trumpeted a new "scandal of the season", the incredible story even managing to eclipse the latest exploits of the Prince Regent and his many mistresses. Londoners were astounded: the illustrious Royal College of Physicians had actually admitted a woman into their ranks? It was a thought almost too wild to be believed and wouldn't have been were it not for two witnesses willing to say that it had occurred. The first was Mrs. Fenton, former housekeeper to the unfortunate "doctoress", as the papers kept on referring to her. Mrs. Fenton was described as a woman of sound morals and an upright character and, of course, had since left the employ of the clergyman who had harbored the unnatural woman. After finding herself a better situation, she thought that it was only right to warn the people of London of the sin and degradation that was possible when women begin to think too much of themselves.
Of course, the papers and the reading public would have dismissed this story as a silly woman's ridiculous flutterings had it not been corroborated by an activity of the Royal College of Physicians. That vaunted group met on Monday to expel a Dr. Thomas Townsend from their rolls. This motion was introduced by a Dr. Horace Folsom, who had been called in to assist the young woman in question, when she was near death as a result of a knife wound to the side. This, of course, was used as further proof of the woman's incompetence as a doctor: no self-respecting physician would ever allow his own mind to become so addled with fever as to render him senseless. When the vote was eventually taken, after many vehement expressions of disgust from the body of men, it was nearly unanimous. In fact, there were only two men who opposed the motion: Dr. Marion Smith, who was a member of long-standing at the College and generally trusted and respected; and a Dr. Hugh McConnaugh, who was not.
Most members were not surprised that Dr. McConnaugh chose to go against the motion: almost everything that he did was contrary. But then, he was Scot and stubbornly used to doing things his own way. He had just returned to London after a two year journey as the medical officer on a ship exploring the North Atlantic in preparation for further expeditions into the arctic. It was not yet known whether or not he would go back to the arctic when the next mission was mounted, but many in the Royal College hoped that he would.
The motion maker, Dr. Folsom, did not bother to mention that "Miss Townsend", as she was now called, was the sister to one of the more illustrious couples in London and members of his own patient roster. He was a shrewd man and realized that the Darcys would not look favorably on a man who chose to expose their sister in this manner. And, since Mrs. Fenton had never known the name of the elegant woman who had come to collect her sister, "Miss Townsend" was allowed to disappear ignominiously into the streets of London. Not one of the papers was able locate her.
Most readers expressed shock and dismay while perusing this front-page article, then turned quickly to the more important pages during the London season: the society column, the place where marriages were published, comings and going were noted, and gatherings and meetings were described. In this particular issue, it was quietly noted that a Reverend Mr. Richard Percy had recently returned from the mission field in India and would be looking for a country parish. Sir Edward Rodale's return to England from the West Indies elicited an even larger flurry of interest: Lord Rodale was unmarried, had amassed a large fortune, and had just inherited his title through the unfortunate death of his older brother. It was also noted that he planned to move up to his country estate in Yorkshire at the end of the London season. At their breakfast tables, many of the London society mothers would speculate that he was delaying his return to the ancestral seat in order to find and marry a proper mistress for it.
For a different reason than the rest of London society, John Barrow took particular note of these two pieces of information while sitting at his own breakfast table: he was conducting an investigation of Mr. Percy at the request of Mr. Darcy, who had a living to dispose of, and Lord Rodale had contacted 'Mr. John Blevins' upon his return to London. Mr. Blevins' meeting with Lord Rodale was scheduled for the next morning.
Mary had been reduced to stealing the newspaper from the butler's pantry, quietly escaping from her bedroom in the middle of the night and wandering around the house in her dressing gown until she found the right room. She had been able to discern immediately that there was something in the paper that her sister did not want her to see; Elizabeth had visited Mary that morning with only the society pages. When Mary had asked her sister about the story that had been on the front, Elizabeth had made some excuse about her husband not allowing her to see the front page, limiting her reading to the more appropriate sections.
Mary saw through that ruse immediately. Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy denied access to anything? She would have never tolerated that or the husband who attempted it! And Mary had a feeling that Fitzwilliam understood his wife well enough not to try such a foolish thing.
The butler had left the paper on his own desk, sections placed back within each other, and folded neatly over. On her toes, Mary silently made her way over to the desk and settled slowly into the chair, attempting to keep it from creaking loudly as she placed her weight upon it. And, truth be told, movement was still coming slowly for her. The pain in her side hadn't subsided and the laudanum had not yet worn off. Mary wouldn't even have made this journey had she not felt that what was in the paper must be important.
The headline that screamed out from the page made her regret that she had made the trip. "'Doctoress' Expelled from 'College'" it shouted, leaving Mary no need to read further to see what her fate was to be. Mary did read on, though, hands clutched around her stomach. The Royal College had been very clear on their verdict: the 'physician' who called herself Dr. Thomas Townsend was a depraved and unnatural individual and should not be allowed to practice medicine within England's boundaries.
It seems that they were able to take it all away.
Mary gasped out loud and doubled over in the chair, not even caring who she disturbed by the loud creak of the battered piece of furniture. The sobs came quickly and were fierce. Her body shuddered against the wood and she felt the water of her tears start to pour down her face. How could it all be taken away?
Mary wanted to scream out every question that came to her mind -- beginning with how could the Lord allow this? But she kept her cries in check even as her sobs gained momentum. Mary found her body wracked with pain and frustration. It was too much! It was more than she could bear!
How could this have been done to her? Mary clutched even more tightly at her stomach, feeling her diaphragm begin to contract of it's own volition, not allowing her to stop sobbing even if she were able to find a way to stop the flow of tears.
Mary felt raw and exposed. It was as if a large part of that which had constituted herself was no longer there. It was like losing a leg or an arm or an eye. She was a physician, she defined herself as a physician, she took pride in the fact that she was addressed as a physician! And now -- all of that was gone!
How was she supposed to go on without so much of herself missing?
Seth fell into bed that night, completely spent. He tried to close his eyes and block everything out of his consciousness, but was completely unsuccessful. The days since they had discovered Thomas' secret had only increased in difficulty and frustration. And the press had come to 'visit' that day, brayingly insistent about learning 'Miss Townsend's' true name and whereabouts. They had quite a few questions for him as well, and not a small number of comments and jokes to make at his expense. Of course, Seth didn't reveal Mary Bennet's name or her current place of residence and never would.
He privately and selfishly wished that he were able to disappear as well as she had.
But he would not desert his parish.
Then again, he might not have a choice in that, if the bishop were to get word of this and decide that the parson who would house such a depraved and unnatural woman could only be just as depraved and unnatural himself. And there was no doubt that word would get back to the bishop, Seth's name and church were listed in that front page article denouncing Thomas and explaining all about the Royal College's decision to expel him.
Perhaps Seth's superiors would also consider him unable to continue his work in ministry as Thomas' superiors had in medicine?
Seth closed his eyes and prayed that it would not come to that. Anything but that! What was he to do if he couldn't serve others in this capacity? It just couldn't all be taken away from him like that!
But then, why shouldn't they take it all away from him? Much worse had been done to Thomas! Seth shuddered when he thought of how all this must be affecting his friend. He had never known anyone as dedicated and capable as Thomas! To know that Thomas would never practice medicine again -- that was a thought too great to be considered all at once. Seth didn't know how to break it down, though. Was there any way to cut it into small, manageable chunks that could be swallowed slowly and kept down? Or would it keep coming back up?
Would there ever be a time when both he and Thomas had managed to digest it all?