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Chapter 12 A
It wasn't until the next day that Mary had an opportunity to petition Elizabeth about her burgeoning plans for the small dinner party that she was to hold in her honor. And Mary had to accompany her sister on a shopping excursion in order to do it. She had agreed to go on the trip after remembering just how difficult it was to be granted a moment of Elizabeth's undivided attention. In fact, Mary had lived in her sister's household long enough to realize just how busy Elizabeth's life had become since her marriage. Between managing her large home, taking care of her three children, and upholding her status as one of London's most entertaining hostesses, Elizabeth had very little time to spare for discussions with her young daughter, much less her younger sister.
And it seemed as if this little dinner party was quickly becoming the current center of her world.
"How do you suppose that Dr. McConnaugh was given the impression that there is to be dancing at that tiny little evening party you're giving next week?" Mary asked as soon as the carriage had pulled away from the curb.
Elizabeth colored slightly and turned evasive. "There frequently would be dancing on such occasions," said she, looking out the window at the street passing by. "All of our guests will expect dancing."
"Not all of our guests will expect dancing," Mary retorted, thinking of Seth, as she frequently did. After living with the man for two years, it was almost second nature for her to consider his opinions, and she was certain that he would not be expecting dancing on such an occasion. "I can think of several other occupations that could be offered as entertainment," she continued, thinking of card games and rational discussions.
"That is true," Elizabeth agreed, but obviously considering something else entirely. "We could open up the pianoforte, if you'd like. Would you like to play for our guests? You used to crave any opportunity to exhibit your talents."
Mary blushed furiously, remembering her silly need to play and sing in front of anyone. She had always known that, while she was the plainest of all of the Bennet sisters, she was also the most accomplished. At one point in time, Mary had thought that these accomplishments would make up for her lack of attraction in other areas. Acting on such a supposition, she had made every attempt to showcase her ability. But that was all in the past and, looking back on it now, she realized just how pathetic she must have seemed and how affected. While she had played with a good deal of skill, she had never been able to play with feeling.
"We could go to the bookshop and select a few musical scores for you to practice," Elizabeth continued.
"I'm too far out of practice to consider performing in front of anyone." Mary said quietly. "And I have no desire to perform in front of others."
"Not even Dr. McConnaugh or Lord Rodale?" Elizabeth probed further, am innocently teasing smile playing across her face. "I'm sure that both of those gentlemen would love to hear you play." Elizabeth's expression turned sour in the next instant. "And Mr. Percy as well," she added, grimacing.
Mary's face mirrored that of her sister as she thought of that disagreeable man.
"I can't understand why you allow him to continue to visit," Elizabeth commented. "He really is a disagreeable man. I'm sorry for introducing him to you."
Mary couldn't tell her sister the truth behind her reason for continuing to welcome Mr. Percy, so she said nothing.
"He's nothing compared to Lord Rodale and Dr. McConnaugh," Elizabeth observed as the carriage rolled on. "Surely you can agree to that."
Mary said nothing in response to that either. It appeared as if their conversation was quickly spinning out of her control. She had only meant to reprimand her sister for not giving her the opportunity to voice an opinion against dancing. Now it seemed as if her sister were close to examining all of her most privately held opinions.
"The question is -- Mary," Elizabeth leaned forward and gazed into her sister's eyes. "Which gentleman do you fancy more?"
"How do you know that I fancy either?" Mary looked out the window, trying to figure out a way to divert her sister's attention from such an intimate line of questioning.
"It is almost written across your forehead whenever either is in the room with you," Elizabeth said assuredly. "But I can't yet tell which one is written in a larger hand or a bolder script."
Mary winced at the thought that she was still so easily read. She continued to remain silent.
"You will not tell me?" Elizabeth asked, eyes attempting to make contact with Mary's. "You are determined to keep your own counsel?"
Mary looked over at her sister and didn't know what to say. Especially since she did not know herself. While she had appreciated Lord Rodale's easy manners and willingness to discuss his experiences and travels with her, she knew that she could not be completely herself with him. The great secret of her life remained between them. And Mary sensed that he had a secret that he was keeping as well. This reserve was not necessary from Hugh of course. He already knew the truth the last six years of her life. He even appreciated what she had done with her life in a way that Lord Rodale could never match.
But Seth had been with her for those last six years.
Her heart always flew back to Seth. Even now, as she wished to entertain other possibilities and hoped to be able to form another attachment, her heart remained with Seth. It wandered back to the parsonage that they had shared together and to the parishioners that she had aided.
Mary was not yet able to forget him, was she?
Elizabeth had watched Mary as she had struggled with her own thoughts and feelings. "I see that you are," she said finally, looking almost sorry that her sister was not yet willing to confide in her.
Mary almost wished that she could gratify her by giving her some idea of the state of her heart. But, until she knew for herself, how could she consider enlightening her sister?
Tim Scoggins slouched along the wall that led to the servant's entrance to the hotel and wondered when his patience might pay off. For the last two days he had stood before that door, waiting for the boot boy with whom he had an understanding to come out and present him with a letter. But it appeared that Captain Linson was not that great of a correspondent. Or perhaps he didn't have a large enough acquaintance in London to merit much use of the two penny post? Regardless, Tim Scoggins was beginning to feel very badly used by all involved: the boot black for not bringing him a letter, Captain Linson for not writing anything, and John Barrow for sending him on such a fool's errand in the first place.
Scoggins looked up at the gray sky and tried to reckon the correct hour of the morning. He still had his appointment with John Barrow to keep. He never kept his employer waiting and he wouldn't like to begin now, regardless of how frustrated he was with his current task. Regardless, the meeting with Barrow would certainly give him an opportunity to vent that frustration.
Tim sighed heavily and allowed his back to slide further down the brick wall, jamming his hands into his pockets in disgust and stabbing his finger on the hat pin that he had continued to carry around instead of presenting to Bette. He swore sharply and pulled the object out, noting the smear of his blood that had soiled the little bead at the end of the pin. His ancient friend at the pawn shop did say that it was a bloodstone, didn't he? Scoggins wiped the red mark off of the bead and looked at the red flecks and veins that remained embedded in the stone. It was supposedly Christ's own blood that had made those marks, not that Scoggins believed in such things. Regardless, Tim chuckled to himself; the substance of his own blood was probably as far removed from that of the church's 'Blessed Savior' as anything could be. He shook his head and smiled cheerfully to himself, he rather liked being considered such a bad boy.
Scoggins still had no idea what to do with the little hat pin that he had purchased as a gift for Bette. He continued to worry that she might think more of such a present than he would wish. And had decided to keep it for the time being. He'd have to come to some sort of a conclusion soon, however, and either give it to her or return it to the pawn shop. He had become quite tired of pricking himself on it every time he put his hands in his pockets.
Tim stood up from the wall and went over to the window next to the door, peering into it and down the empty corridor. He saw no reasonably frightened boot boy with a letter in his hands coming down that hall. He swore under his breath again and put the hat pin back into his pocket. It looked as if Captain Linson hadn't anything important to say yet again. It was either that or he was just severely tardy in completing his thoughts. The two penny post would begin making its rounds very soon. Scoggins looked back through the window and hoped that the young boy would be smart enough to honor his part of the bargain and not mail the letter until he returned tomorrow.
Just as he was about ready to mount the stairs that led from the basement entryway back onto the street, Tim heard the quick steps of the young man. In another instant, the door flew open and the boot boy came rushing out. "'Ere ya are, mister!" he said, putting the letter into Tim's hands. "Ya won't 'ave to break me kneecaps now, will ya?"
"Finally!" Scoggins ignored the boy's question and made quick work of removing the seal in one piece. He opened it and scanned the print quickly, memorizing the loops and strokes of the letters with ease.
Percy,As my cousin has not made any attempt to rectify our current situation by proposing a mutually beneficial agreement, I believe that I will need to call you in to testify as to his parentage. I will set about arranging a meeting immediately. By the way, I understand that you are becoming increasingly interested in that homely sister of your potential patron, Mr. Darcy. If I were you, I wouldn't give that little token of your affection to your dear Miss Bennet until this business is quite settled.
The writer had not signed it, but Scoggins knew enough of the situation to realize that Mr. Barrow's good friend Mr. Darcy was involved in it. Mr. Scoggins thought back on his first visit to Mr. Darcy's townhouse and how Mr. Barrow had insisted that he only deliver a message, taking nothing of value from the mansion even as sorely as he had been tempted. Tim wondered now if the message would make sense to either man.
"Can I 'ave the letter back as you said?" the boot black made his presence known. "Ya said that ya just needed a look at it. I still needs to get it to the post. And ya broke the seal!"
Scoggins looked down at the little boy. He seemed quite concerned about the state of the letter. He pulled a bit of sealing wax out of his pocket along with a book of matches. Folding it up, he reaffixed the closure and handed it back to the boy. "'Ere you are, then," he said cheerfully.
The boy took the letter back and scampered away with it, seemingly pleased to still have knees with which to run upon.
Before returning to the street, Scoggins took out his notebook and created a perfect facsimile of the letter that he just read. Mr. Barrow was sure to be interested in the substance of such a missive. Once he had finished with his copying job, he replaced his notebook in his coat pocket and set off towards his meeting, wondering about the substance of the letter. Was this 'dear Miss Bennet' really Mr. Darcy's sister? And what about that token of his affection? Was this Mr. Percy on the verge of proposing marriage to Miss Bennet?
Were any small tokens of affection an indication of marriage plans?
He continued to think about the prickly little gift that he had purchased for Bette. He didn't want to give her any ideas about a wedding of their own. That was the furthest thing from his mind when he had purchased it. He wasn't interested in settling down.
Not even with her.
Mr. Barrow was very punctual in walking past their designated meeting place. Scoggins followed him into the nearest coffee shop and to a table in a darkened corner. He sat down and Tim sat across from him.
"Do you have anything for me?" John asked, after ordering two cups.
Scoggins pulled his notebook out and ripped the copy of the letter out of it. "Just this," he said, attempted to understate his sense of triumph.
Barrow's eyes widened as he read Linson's missive.
"So, it means summin' to ya?" Scoggins assumed.
"Yes," Barrow nodded his head in affirmation. "Most definitely. Good job, Tim. I see that you haven't lost your gift for transcription."
Tim tried not to look pleased as he took the cup of coffee that the tavern keeper brought back to the table. It wasn't often that Mr. Barrow handed out praise. He wasn't sure whether it was the hot drink that he had started to sip or the praise that made him feel nearly warm inside, but there was something quite pleasing that had begun to fill him.
He stretched comfortably and was jabbed in the leg by the nagging little hat pin. He winced and John noticed.
"What is it, Tim?" he asked.
"Oh, nothin'" Tim shrugged it off, but wasn't as easily able to forget the present that had not yet been given.
"Nothin'?" John echoed.
"Not really," Scoggins shrugged his shoulders and affected indifference.
"All right then," John agreed, finishing his cup of coffee and standing up. "I'll need you to continue intercepting this gentleman's mail." He said.
Scoggins finished his own cup and stood up as well. He followed his employer back into the light of the street where they were just about ready to part when Tim's curiosity got the better of him. "C'n I ask ya a question?" He said.
"Yes Tim?" Barrow turned towards him expectantly.
Scoggins wasn't quite sure how to continue now that he had begun. "Say I've got this friend," he hedged.
"This friend?" Barrow lifted one eyebrow significantly.
"An' this friend likes this girl and wants to give her a gift" he rushed on quickly. "But 'e doesn't want the girl to get the wrong ideear."
"The wrong idea?"
"'e isn't int'rested in marrying the girl," Scoggins clarified. "'e jus' wants 'er to know that she's --" he searched for a word to describe Bette. Thinking of none that would quite fit her, he had to settle for something that didn't do her justice at all. "She's special." He finished.
John looked at him for a long time, regarding him with an earnest, probing look. "Special?" he finally asked.
"Yeh -- special." He agreed sheepishly.
John smiled slowly, a look that was far too knowing for Scoggins' taste. "Well," he began. "It's been my experience that ladies always consider gifts as having greater significance than the giver ever could consider. I'd caution your friend against presenting anything to a young lady until he was sure that he could follow it up with the right feeling."
That wasn't what Scoggins had wished to hear. "I see," he nodded somewhat numbly. "Well --" he drifted off, looking down the road.
Barrow smiled sadly and shook his head. "Same time tomorrow, Tim."
"Same time tomorrow." Scoggins echoed and turned to walk down the street.
John walked Tim walk away, still shaking his head. "So, it's come to that, has it?" he murmured to himself. He never would have thought that Mr. Tim Scoggins would have succumbed to any young woman's charms. But how else could you explain what had just happened and what he had just asked? Still mulling it over, he returned to his carriage and drove back to his home, where Simmons was waiting for him at the front door, an express letter from Yorkshire in his hands.
"Thank you Simmons," John said, handing his man his coat and hat and making his way into his study. Seated behind his desk, he broke open the seal and unfolded the paper, quickly realizing that it wasn't a letter at all that he had been sent, but a drawing done in pencil.
John stared in astonishment at the paper before him, quickly realizing that it wasn't a drawing at all, but the rubbed likeness of an etched stone. It was almost too wild to be believed -- yet there it was, a roughly-rubbed impression of a headstone for a Richard Percy who lived from 1792 to 1812. The simple arithmetic sent John to the only conclusion that he could make: the Richard Percy who resided in this grave and the one that walked around London were the same age. And the dead Richard Percy had died just before the living Mr. Percy had made his appearance at Oxford.
It was just another surprising coincidence to add to a situation that was awash in nagging similarities. John was not willing to believe that there could be two Mr. Richard Percys from the same remote part of Yorkshire, not to mention the fact that the two similarly named men would have been the same age! John put the rubbing down and hunted around his desk for any note that Willie might have sent with it, finding one that was surprising in it's brevity. "What do you make of this?" it asked before going onto to affirm that Barton was attempting to answer that question and would be sending another express just as soon as he knew more.
John carefully folded the rubbing and thought about what to do next. He didn't feel as if he had enough information to confront Mr. Percy and he still had no idea just how that man and Captain Linson had met. He knew that he should wait for Willie to unearth some more information, but he also knew that patience had never been a strong suit of his. In fact he would much rather join Willie in his investigation up North.
It bothered him that Willie was having all the fun up there.
If he were to venture up to the North, he would risk not returning in time to attend the Darcy's dinner party with Arabella.
John heaved himself back in his chair and considered further. He hated the idea of disappointing Arabella. They were so seldom invited out in company. He knew that she was looking forward to the Darcy's dinner party.
But he had the feeling that Willie needed some assistance. Regardless of how efficient his assistant had become, he was still not an experienced investigator.
And John certainly needed to bring this case to some conclusion soon.
Standing up, he resolved upon finding Arabella immediately. He was sure that she would understand.
Chapter 12 B
Seth was unable to make his pilgrimage of gratitude to the Darcy townhouse until the following day. It was an occasion that he found himself looking forward to even as he regretted the necessity of it. It was not easy for him to summon a proper sense of obligation towards any person, no matter how beneficent, and he wasn't quite sure if he would be able to phrase his thanks in the proper phrases and sentences. He knew what was owed to the man, however, and he was quite grateful. Mr. Hart, the surgeon that had been hired to replace Dr. Townsend, had spent all of yesterday ministering to the needs of the sick and feverish, and had even managed to send a few of his patients home, somewhat better and on their way to recovery. Mr. Hart had also agreed to remain with the few that continued to recuperate on the floor of the parsonage until Seth returned from his visit. In short, the man had proven himself to be capable and efficient and was just what the parish needed at that time.
And it was all due to Mr. Darcy's largess, wasn't it? It was that and Mary's own degree of thoughtfulness. As Seth walked over from his church, he realized that he was quite excited about being able to see Mary again and also be able to thank her for her kindness with a small gift from the Harris twins. Those little boys had quickly recovered from their fever and had managed to slip over to his desk while he wasn't looking. He hadn't known that the twins were quite gifted artists, albeit rather sloppy. The results of their moment of abandon at his desk was a puddle of spilled ink that no blotter would be able to soak up, an entire stack of wasted paper, and a rather well-drawn sketch of Dr. Townsend clothed in the dress and hat that she had been wearing on her last visit. Until that moment, Seth hadn't realized that the two feverish boys had also been able to recognize the former physician despite her womanly disguise. That was a very humbling realization: that so many ailing parishioners, who hadn't known Thomas nearly as well as he had himself, had been able to recognize her instantly, regardless of the way that she was now wearing her hair or the thickness of the brim of that hat that he thought had obscured her familiar features.
At any rate, the boys had managed to create a very good likeness and Seth thought that she might like to have it. He had even attempted to turn it into a suitable present by rolling the paper into a scroll and tying it with a small piece of ribbon. He fished into his pocket and pulled it out as he rang the doorbell and waited for the footman to grant him entry.
Seth recognized the footman as the one who had opened the door on his last two visits and it appeared that the man recognized him as well. He held the door open and let Seth pass through to the hallway with the same disdainful curl to his lip that had been there on occasions before. Seth checked his cravat in the mirror that was hanging next to the door and saw that there was a very large ink stain prominently displayed on the cloth. He shook his head but was not surprised to see it. He hadn't been too careful while he was attempting to clean his desk after having sent the twins somewhere else to play. Seth laid the scroll down on the table in front of him and tried to hide the large spot without having to retie his cravat. He was doomed to failure: the stain was just too large to be secreted.
"Seth?" a voice called from the staircase.
Seth turned towards the voice and saw Mary descending it, smiling sweetly in welcome. She was wearing a different dress on that day, more understated and quietly elegant than the pink and red one that he had first seen her in. In fact, the rich brown velvet of the bodice matched her eyes almost perfectly, making them look even larger than he had remembered them. She did have lovely eyes, didn't she? That thought made him instantly feel foolish, however, and he dropped his hands to his side, leaving the neckcloth completely lopsided and uneven. "I brought you a gift," he said, voice sounding somewhat uncertain as he turned back towards the table and picked the drawing back up.
"Really?" Mary had crossed the room by this time and stood before him.
"Actually," he handed the scroll to her. "I can't take credit for it," he smiled wryly and continued, "It appears that the Harris twins discovered my desk this morning."
Mary looked perplexed at that explanation and began to pull at the ribbon, unrolling the scroll after discarding the closure. He heard her gasp as she recognized her figure in the portrait as well as the name below: "Dr. Townsend," she read, voice wavering somewhat with emotion.
"It appears that they knew who you were as well," Seth affirmed quietly.
Mary nodded at that, but couldn't seem to speak.
"It would be good if all of your friends would have known you just as quickly." He said, hoping that she would take that statement for what it was worth. He meant it as an apology.
Mary turned towards him and smiled slowly, seeming to accept what he could not say outright. "Perhaps they will from now on," she said.
Seth smiled as well and felt somewhat relieved. "I'm sure that they shall," he confirmed, feeling almost as if a weight had been lifted off of him completely. It had been a quite a burden to shoulder, bearing up this grudge that he had kept against her. He was glad to be putting it down now.
"Thank you for this," she whispered to him, looking back down at it.
"Thank you for what you've done for them," he responded just as softly. "I don't think that those two boys would have been well enough to create such an image had you not sent Mr. Hart to us."
Mary looked up at that and smiled somewhat sadly, and Seth thought that he could tell what she was thinking: it still was not easy for her to allow someone else to take care of the clinic that she thought of as hers. "Is he working out?" she inquired.
"Very nicely," he affirmed and wanted to tell her that Mr. Hart wasn't nearly as adept as she or yet knew his patients with the same degree of intelligence, but it was something that seemed to remain lodged on the tip of his tongue.
"I'm glad to hear it," she responded and Seth could tell that she wasn't all that pleased to hear just how easily she could be replaced.
But she couldn't have been that easily replaced, could she? Seth stepped closer to Mary and was on the point of making that clear to her when the door to the study opened and Mr. Darcy walked out. He was somewhat surprised to see Mary standing in the hall with a visitor, but appeared to recognize Seth quickly and came forward to greet him.
Seth was disappointed that his private conversation with Mary had to come to an end but knew what was due to the man who had become a patron of his church. He tried to express his parishioner's gratitude with a large degree of grace and sincerity and was glad when Mr. Darcy accepted his thanks quickly and changed the subject. "I hope that you will be able to join us for my wife's little ball later in the week?" He asked Seth.
Seth was surprised at his use of the word ball. "I thought that it was just a small dinner party --" he stuttered, looking over at Mary who appeared to be as discomposed as he.
Mr. Darcy cocked his head slightly and thought. "I suppose that it still is," he mused out loud, fond smile playing across his face "My wife seems to have a tendency to make even the simplest occasion an event."
Mary nodded her head forcefully at this explanation and tried to smile encouragingly at Seth, but it was a half-hearted gesture. Mary appeared to be uncertain about attending as was he. He knew that the night would be worse for her, because she had to play the role as the guest of honor.
Seth tried to return Mary's smile, but wondered if they weren't both getting themselves into an event that would be more than they could handle.
Seth departed not long after expressing his gratitude to Fitzwilliam. Mary hadn't even been able to persuade him to take some refreshment -- so eager was he to return to his parsonage! It appeared as if he couldn't bear for it to be out of his sight for extended periods of time.
Or was it that he wanted to be out of her sight as quickly as possible? Mary winced in pain when she thought of that possibility. Would a longer visit have been that horrid to him? Her heart whispered that this could not the case, but then she recalled that he really hadn't wanted to visit her at all. He had made that very clear two days ago when she had informed him of Mr. Hart. He had asked her to convey his thanks to his brother-in-law, and she had to point out the necessity of his doing it in person.
And just now he looked positively ill when Fitzwilliam had made a reference to the dinner party that was quickly turning into a ball. Could he actually be regretting that he had accepted her sister's invitation to the dance?
Mary had long since given up thinking of it as a dinner party, now that it had all the hallmarks of a ball. There most definitely was to be dancing, and Mary was already committed to leading everyone in the first dance with Dr. McConnaugh. What she assumed would be a very awkward dance with Mr. Percy would follow, then a third with Lord Rodale -- who had made his own petition yesterday -- and the fourth and fifth with her brothers-in-law. Mary's dance card was now quite full, a remarkable change from when she had attended assembly balls in Hertfordshire and had been overshadowed by her other lovely sisters.
The ball was not to be small or intimate either. That morning Elizabeth had shown her the list of acceptances and Mary barely recognized half of the names written on it! Her sister had tried to explain why those unfamiliar names were appearing on the list, but the reasons all sounded strange. What did it matter if Charles' latest hunting partners were selected to attend the gathering? Who cared how many members of Fitzwilliam's club they snubbed? And just who were these acquaintances of Miss Caroline Bingley's that were impossible not to invite? And did Jane's sister-in-law really have to attend herself? Mary barely knew her!
Mary had thought it all very irrational, but Elizabeth had been firm in her choices. She knew London society in a way that Mary did not, and it simply wouldn't do to give so many important individuals the hint that they were of no consequence. Such acts would quickly make Elizabeth 'persona non grata' around London. And, for some reason, Elizabeth had begun to care about what others thought of her. That did surprise Mary. She had never cared what others thought of her when she was younger, but people do grow and change.
Mary found that she herself was still growing and changing.
Mary wished that she would outgrow her silly love for Seth Shackleford. It was now quite obvious that they were never going to return to their old friendship and -- by the time that he had left on that day -- his awkwardness had made it clear that he wasn't eager to begin a new one.
Mary really had thought that they were moving past all of that. She had even begun to entertain very wild hopes as she had walked down the stairs to greet him. He had turned towards her, away from the glass where he had been attempting to re-knot his cravat in a more acceptable fashion, and she was almost sure that she had seen his eyes widen with some degree of appreciation for her. In fact, his expression had almost mirrored that of Fitzwilliam's while watching Elizabeth descend the stairs in a particularly attractive and new gown. Mary had lived in her sister's house and had followed her down the stairs often enough to become a careful study of the silent way her brother-in-law expressed his appreciation for her sister.
Mary tried to call up the expression on Seth's face in order to compare it with that of her brother's, but found that she couldn't remember it at all. She sighed angrily. It must have been a delusion.
Frustrated, Mary tried to push Seth and the awkward end of his visit out of her mind and focus on a few other men. Mr. Percy's background remained a mystery, despite all of her attempts to learn it, and Lord Rodale had not yet revealed anything to her that would point to him being the man who had robbed Mary Sutherland's grave. During his last few visits, Mary had dropped several small hints that she thought might make him to show his hand. She had mentioned the name of the church to him without any response. She had talked about the neighborhood and dropped the name of the street upon which the graveyard was situated. She had even gone so far as to bring up the depravity of the lowest classes and how unfortunate it was that some had degraded themselves by stealing bodies for a living without anything further than a brief and appropriate show of disgust.
Mary had to conclude from these conversations that the man knew nothing about the defilement of Mary Sutherland's grave, something that came as quite a relief. She couldn't imagine him as the culprit behind such an insidious act.
But she couldn't give herself leave to believe him completely innocent yet. John Barrow would have to do that for her. And, until he was able to do that, she would continue to guard herself against him.
Hugh McConnaugh came to dinner that night and was able to improve his acquaintance with both Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth. Mary was able to learn new things about him as well. He regaled them all with fascinating stories about his time exploring the arctic, drawing them in with his poetic descriptions of the aurora borealis, which he referred to as the Northern Lights, and presenting sketches of various exotic and amazing animals. His particular favorite appeared to be the narwhal -- an ungainly looking sea creature with one long horn that stuck out from its head like a unicorn.
Mary was more interested in the accommodations aboard the ship and the condition of the sailors on long cruises in inclement weather. That's when the Naval surgeon in Dr. McConnaugh resurfaced and he spoke of a strange malady that affected many on his crews. A few men became ill and wasted away, even though they ate enough from the cans of tinned vegetables and meats that had been stored away. The food had been canned using the new method that had just been put into place by Napoleon himself on his infamous march into Russia, and Hugh had found it to be an invaluable way of giving his crew the nutrients and vitamins that they would need to combat scurvy and rickets. Nevertheless, the same number of crew members still met early deaths! It was very frustrating, especially when no one could explain why these men had perished. When Mary pressed him to describe their symptoms further, Hugh explained that he would have suspected poisoning, except that he kept close watch over the supplies and knew that nothing of a poisonous nature had been taken. Nor did the men who had died appear to have any enemies aboard ship.
This medical mystery was quite intriguing to Mary, but she could see that Elizabeth found it somewhat distasteful and managed to change the subject while they were still at the dinner table. Actually, the mere idea that a woman might be interested in medicine was a thought that continued to give Elizabeth difficulty, especially after Marianna had begun to talk about becoming a physician so that she could heal people just like her 'Auntie Mary.' Marianna had even begun to bandage up her dolly's hands just like Mary was still bandaging hers. Her younger brothers had also become subjects to experiment upon as well, and their nurse frequently found the boys wrapped tightly in long strips of torn sheet like the mummies the archaeologists were starting to unearth in Egypt. Elizabeth tried to turn a blind eye to her daughter's continued interest in a profession that would never be open to her, but Mary knew that it was difficult for her.
After dinner, Hugh inquired politely about Seth and his parish. To Mary, this interest and concern seemed only natural. After all, he was the man who had suggested Mr. Hart to her. "Mr. Hart seems to be working out quite well," she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt about the subject. She still couldn't help comparing her situation to that of Mr. Hart and harbor a few feelings of jealousy towards his position.
"I'm glad to hear it," Hugh smiled and then went further. "But how is your friend Seth doing?"
Mary's feelings on that man were even more confused than they were about her successor Mr. Hart. "He's doing well, I think," she hedged somewhat uncomfortably.
"You think?" Hugh pressed, "Have you not seen him lately to discern for yourself?"
Mary bit her lip in consternation. "No," she admitted. "He actually came to thank Fitzwilliam today. But he didn't stay very long at all."
"You couldn't even convince him to stay for tea?"
Mary shook her head sadly, "No tea," she confirmed.
"That man doesn't seem to want to have any fun!" Hugh acted surprised. "Does he never leave his parish?"
"Hardly ever," Mary admitted, looking away.
"Not even for the ball this week, I suppose," Hugh said flippantly. "The man can't even be bothered to attend a gathering held in his friend's honor. How shocking!"
"No -- he did promise to be in attendance," Mary was somewhat glad to reply. She wasn't sure why Hugh had decided to be so antagonistic towards Seth Shackleford. They hadn't even met! Mary wondered about that. Why would Hugh care whether or not Seth partook in the enjoyments of life or if he managed to come visit Mary often enough?
Mary thought further and wondered if Hugh might not be jealous of Seth and the close relationship that they had once shared. She blushed furiously as the thought crossed her mind, however, and felt like a fool. Of course someone like Hugh would not be jealous of her friendship with Seth! Why should he care?
"I'm glad to hear it," Hugh scoffed somewhat. "It's good to see that the man has some sense of what is due to a good friend such as yourself."
Mary was too furious with herself to respond to anything.
"Perhaps I shall be able to meet him that evening." Hugh continued, smiling agreeably again.
"You seem to take a remarkable interest in my friend Mr. Shackleford," Mary said, still trying to make out why Hugh should care to meet him.
"I would take a remarkable interest in anyone who has been your friend for such a long time," Hugh replied, making that innocent response sound remarkably significant.
Mary blushed even more deeply and had to turn away from her companion's intent stare.
Chapter 13 A
Willie was not surprised to see Mr. Barrow's carriage pull up in front of Malconbury inn two evenings later. He had suspected that his cryptic missive with brief note and even briefer sketch would set his employer instantly towards Yorkshire. It was too tantalizing a clue to be left for another to evaluate. 'Mr. Blevins' liked to have his share in the fun as well as any other man.
Willie, knowing that Barrow would be descending upon Yorkshire as soon as his carriage could drive him to that desolate part of the country, had done the only smart thing that there was to do: he had worked diligently to discover everything possible about the long-dead Richard Percy. That man's history had been straight-forward and simple enough. He had been the only son of the rector who held the Edgemoor living as well as a few other churches in the neighborhood. It had been his father's wish that he attend Oxford, become ordained, and eventually take over one of the livings that were currently being done by a hired curate. Unfortunately, this Richard Percy had caught a chill -- no doubt from remaining out on the moor during a very cold night -- and had died a month before he was to begin his first term at Oxford. Brokenhearted, his parents had quickly followed their son to the grave. The stones of all three Percys now stood together in the churchyard, another clergyman pastored the church, and hardly anyone in the area remembered their name.
This was the story that Willie related to a very approving John Barrow as the two shared dinner in a corner of the inn's public room -- the establishment was not large enough to have a private parlor for its guests. By the time that they finished their shepherd's pie, Barrow had reached the same conclusion that Willie had the evening before. "I assume that our Mr. Percy --" he smiled ruefully at his way of discriminating between the two "-- took on the identity of this dead man and traveled to Oxford in his place."
Willie nodded in agreement. "That made the most sense to me as well."
"So, it remains for us to discover just who this false Mr. Percy is so that we may go back to London and confront him with it." Barrow thought aloud.
"And, hopefully, learning who he his will point us towards his relationship with Captain Linson." Willie concluded.
"Of course," John agreed. "And, hopefully, learning the nature of their relationship will help us to discover whether or not Linson's accusation about Lord Rodale's parentage is true."
"One thing must lead to another," Willie took a drink of ale, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before continuing. "Start tugging at one thread and it all should unravel."
"The difficult part is figuring out where to find the end of that thread," John mused further, taking a sip from his mug as well. "I assume that you've inquired closely into Captain Linson's background."
Willie nodded his head, "As much as I could," he responded. "The Captain has no friends around here even though many of the people of Malconbury and Edgemoor were willing to give a very bad account of him."
"But no one was willing to admit to knowing him well?"
"He did manage to keep most people at a distance," Willie agreed. "They told me a great deal about his constant shows of superiority, his brusque manner..." he drifted off in description, shaking his head. "He wasn't a man who shared his life with others, much less his secrets."
Barrow nodded in agreement and appeared to dismiss that line of investigation. "A dead end, then."
"I've tugged pretty hard at that string, sir," Willie concluded. "It's not going to unravel that way."
"Then, we'll need to find another string." John said, somewhat resignedly. "Since we aren't getting anywhere trying to find out the connections between these three men by asking the people of Malconbury and Edgemoor about them." He appeared to think further. "Perhaps we should be trying to find out if there was a Yorkshire man who disappeared around the time that Richard Percy should have left for Oxford?"
Willie hadn't thought of that yet, but it made complete sense. The man who presented himself as Richard Percy at Oxford would have been from Yorkshire, probably leaving the county very quickly and with little fanfare six years ago. The disappearance of this county man may have been a very mysterious and intriguing event at the time, lingering in the memories of the people of Yorkshire. "I can start asking around about this tonight!" Willie said, eager to take up this suggestion and learn something useful. "The men should be coming in for their nightly mug of ale in less than an hour," Willie looked back over at the bar, where the innkeeper and his daughter were busily restocking their supplies for the eventual onslaught of local customers. "And the barkeep has proven himself to be very knowledgeable resource."
John smiled back knowingly, "And his very attractive daughter?"
Willie almost blushed. "She's been quite useful as well," he said, returning his employer's grin.
For the third day in a row, Tim Scoggins waited for 'Mr. Blevins' to pass by their normal street corner and -- for the third day -- he left disappointed. This surprised Mr. Scoggins quite a bit; he had thought that the information that he was supplying Mr. Barrow was crucial to the solving of this current case. This was enough of a change in Barrow's behavior for Tim to begin to worry, and he had even walked over to the Barrow home in order to make sure that no tragedy had befallen the man that he had begun to think of as his 'bread and butter'. When he saw Mrs. Barrow calmly strolling out for a quiet walk in the park with Little Charlie and his nurse, he assumed that nothing dire had happened to his employer.
That settled, Tim began to question whether or not his current assignment was all that important. He didn't think that Mr. Barrow would ask him to do something that was really not necessary, but he couldn't explain his absence in any other way. Especially since he had yet another transcription of a letter to share with him. And it seemed that Captain Linson had stepped up his activity to the next level: the current letter made an arrangement for a meeting between Mr. Richard Percy and a "cousin Edward" who needed to "be told the full story." The meeting was to take place tomorrow at Somerset House, where the annual exhibition of the Royal Academy was currently being displayed. Captain Linson seemed to think that a very public meeting place would be best for the revelation of these very private matters. His cousin would be forced into regulating his manners to match the location and would not be able to immediately retaliate against them.
And 'Mr. Blevins' was not available to receive this very vital piece of information? Mr. Tim Scoggins could not understand that.
Tim wasn't quite sure what to do next. He stood and waited on his street corner as uncertainty began to get the better of him. And, after spending an entire day disgusted with his own inactivity, he chose to do what he generally did when he felt frustrated. He went to see Bette.
It was almost as if she had been waiting for him to arrive, blond hair carefully held away from her face by two tortoiseshell combs and a very pleased smile on her face. "Well, look who's 'ere!" she whispered softly as led him inside. And Tim wondered, once again, why he was finding it so difficult to give an already-purchased gift to her. Would it really be that bad to have her assume that there was more behind the gift than was intended? Would that assumption really be so harmful, so detrimental to their present relationship?
But even Mr. Barrow had confirmed for him that he shouldn't be handing over a present unless he were willing to back it up with an appropriate show of feeling. So he kept the hatpin pocketed in a small box where he had placed it after the sharp point had jabbed him in the thigh just one too many times, and just enjoyed another chance to fall back in Bette's arms, to lean her head on his shoulder, to tangle his fingers through her hair. Why should either one of them be bothered with thoughts of the future or consequences for their actions? It was clear from Bette's response to him throughout the evening that she reveled in his company just as much as he reveled in hers. That made Tim wonder just how he had managed to be so lucky as to secure her patient and untiring affection -- especially when he offered very little to her in return. He had never made her any promises, but she always responded to him with an immediate and satisfying attentiveness and care.
Tim hadn't ever been cared for in such a manner. Never having known either of his parents, his earliest memories had been of the man who had taken him in, using him as an apprentice of sorts. He had lived with this master along with several other boys, sleeping during the day and thieving throughout the night. Young Tim had shown great promise at relieving gentlemen and ladies of their possessions without raising their immediate suspicions. In fact, he was the swiftest and most elegant of the young pickpockets that the kidsman had trained up and the one that had brought in the most funds.
But Tim hadn't enjoyed giving his own hard-won profit to another. It went against something very basic inside of him -- the instinct to take care of himself and not allow someone else to enjoy the larger cut. Eventually, he chose to leave his master and make his way in London completely on his own. It had not been easy to leave the protection of the kidsman and the wild band of children that comprised the only family that he had ever known, but his independent spirit wouldn't have it any other way.
And he hadn't needed anyone since then.
And he wasn't sure if he really needed anyone now.
Tim looked over at Bette, sleepily dozing next to him, a peaceful expression playing across her face as if she hadn't a care in the world. What was it that was so beguiling about her?
Bette rolled over and her hand flung out towards him, coming to rest on his shoulder. She opened her eyes for a moment and smiled sweetly, seemingly pleased to see him still there. Then she closed her eyes again and rolled back over, as if it didn't matter to her whether he stayed in her bed or not.
She laid down no requirements and had no expectations of him. He was free to come and go as he wished although Scoggins knew from past experience that she would be glad to see him still there when she woke up. And she would be equally glad to see him when he returned to her again.
It was a quiet kind of confidence that she exuded, sure that he would return but not really needing to know when or for how long. Was it that quality that made her so attractive to him? Could it be that she even shared his streak of independence?
"Bette?" he asked as he lay next to her.
"Mmm?" She turned at the sound of his voice, settling herself easily onto his shoulder.
He wasn't quite sure how to ask her what he wanted to know. And what was it that he wanted to know? "Where's your family?" he stammered out eventually.
She pulled herself up at that question. "Wot makes ya ask that?" she asked, propping herself with an elbow and looking at him inquisitively.
"I dunno," he shrugged, feigning disinterest. "Curious, I guess."
"Well," she began slowly, looking down somewhat. "My parents were in service over in Mayfair last time I checked. My sister as well."
"How's come you didn't follow them inta that?"
"I did," Bette admitted. "Scullery maid, 'tween stairs maid, even used as a parlormaid for a few years until --"
"Until what?"
"Until the master of the 'ouse discovered where my room was," Bette smiled wryly. "I didn't like that. Didn't like 'im."
"So wot 'appened" Scoggins was becoming increasingly interested in her tale.
"Left service, found a job in a shop." Bette said. "Nice shop. Sold candies and pastries and the like."
"Why'd ya leave that place?" Scoggins couldn't understand that.
"Couldn't use a 'mother-to-be' behind the counter, could they?" Bette shook her head sadly. "My own fault."
"Your own fault?"
Bette looked down, embarrassed. "There was this ... gentl'man," she began, "Used to call at the shop, purchasing all kinds of things, more things than 'e ever could eat 'imself. The shopkeeper told me that 'e was sweet on me and told me to be careful with him. I didn't listen. Eventually, the gentl'man asked me to meet him alone."
"And you did?"
Bette nodded slowly. "Seemed so nice, so good, so 'andsome," she tried to explain. She looked up, eyes cloudy. "I fell in love."
"You fell in love?" Something in Tim's chest tightened.
She nodded. "And I thought that 'e loved me. But as soon as I told 'im that I was with child, 'e ran away. I was fired from my position and 'ad nowhere else to go."
"So you came 'ere?" Tim looked around her tiny room.
"Where else could I go?" Bette replied, voice tinged with bitterness. "I 'ad lost my reputation. No respectable business would take me on."
"Then wot 'appened to the child?"
She shuddered and sat upright. "Lost it," she whispered, pulling her dressing gown around her frame as if she were cold.
Tim tried to reach over to her, but she pulled away from him. "I'm sorry," he said, thinking that the word sounded pathetically unhelpful.
"Don't be," she responded. "I'm fine. I don't want for anything 'ere," she gestured around the room bravely and tried to sound cheerful. "Much better 'ours this way. Never used to like waking up early to light my mistress's fire."
She smiled as if she had made a joke, and Tim tried to smile along with her, but the weight that had settled in his chest wasn't making that easy.
"And I meet such int'resting people this way," she leaned back towards him and touched his cheek affectionately.
Without thought, Tim reached up to take her hand and hold it against his face, kissing her palm lightly as he did so.
But he didn't go over to retrieve his gift from where he had left it. Bette was just as independent as he was. She might not thank him for changing their relationship by presenting it to her.
Chapter 13 B
A significant part of London appeared to already be visiting Somerset House when Hugh and Mary arrived. A veritable crush of people meandered inside the halls where the artists of the Royal Academy were exhibiting, stopping at will and gazing intently at certain portraits, while ignoring others altogether. And then there were some people who were not stopping to look at the paintings at all, but appeared to be more interested in viewing the spectators rambling about. In fact, there was one gentleman in particular who stood with his back turned to the wall and appeared to be watching the door very intently and with a disagreeable scowl upon his face. He was short, but had a military bearing that made him seem somewhat taller, and wore a very large blond mustache. Mary assumed that he must be waiting for a friend to join him and walked by the post that he had claimed for himself without further thought.
"Did your sister tell you which gallery to look in?" Hugh inquired as they walked through the main hall to begin their own tour of the institution.
"She said that it was in the East Wing," Mary replied, searching in vain for a sign that might direct them in the right way. None came into view. Mary nearly groaned in frustration as she took in the large number of portraits that ornamented the walls instead. And this was only one of the rooms in the gallery. How in the world were they to find Jane's portrait in such a place? It would be like attempting to find a needle in a haystack She turned towards Hugh, slight smile playing across her face. "I fear that this may be a more daunting task than either of us had imagined."
Hugh returned her smile reassuringly. "We shall find it," he said, "but I think that we might need to ask someone where the East Wing is," and he moved off to find someone that could assist them in finding the right room, if nothing else.
Mary waited for him at the center of the hall, thinking just how good it had been of Hugh to agree to accompany her to the gallery on that day. She knew that he had important work waiting for him back in his rooms -- he had explained to her that he was currently writing a paper on the effect of arctic weather on the human condition -- but had put that work aside when Mary expressed a keen desire to see Jane's portrait. Her eldest sister had her likeness taken last year -- at her husband's insistence -- and the portrait had come out so well that the artist had begged her to let him show it in the exhibition. Jane had acquiesced only after Charles had joined the artist in his pleas. Her painting had been hanging at the Royal Academy for quite some time now and all of the other members of the family had already gone to see it. They were, of course, willing to go again in order to take Mary to see it, but Mary was quite sure that they had more important things to do, especially with the ball coming up, and had decided to take herself.
But none of her family members were willing to allow that; they all still recalled what had happened at the theater when Hugh had recognized her and didn't want her to be alone if that were to happen again. Mary had ranted and raved about the injustice of their stand on the issue of her safety -- even as she realized just how valid a concern it was -- and the matter had only been settled when Hugh had volunteered to escort her.
Mary didn't mind being escorted by Hugh at all. In fact, she had enjoyed all of his attention towards her. He had been an almost constant companion to her during the last few days. A few days ago, he had walked with her in the park and had rowed her around the small lake in a pleasure boat rented for the occasion. The next day he took both Mary and a rapidly-healing Marianna to tea, and yesterday he had actually accompanied both Mary and Elizabeth on their journey to the shops. He had endured a great deal of ribbing from both Fitzwilliam and Charles after that little trip: weren't men supposed to stay safely inside their clubs when the ladies went shopping? Hugh certainly didn't think so and expressed himself very well last night in defending his actions.
Mary found herself smiling as she recalled the last three days and the time that they had spent together. Hugh was almost too amiable a companion. She watched as he walked towards one of the many liveried servants that lined the hall in order to ask his question.
Mary wandered around the hall, groups of people milling about her as she walked on, scanning the pictures on the wall in an attempt to find a face that resembled her sister. While all the figures were elegantly dressed and tastefully posed, none of them were Jane. She was just about ready to return to the place where Hugh had left her waiting when a discussion between an older woman and her companion arrested her ear. "It is a very fine resemblance, indeed," the older woman said, lorgnette held up to her eyes. "But you do know what has happened to the jewel, don't you?"
Her companion was shocked. "Was it stolen?" she gasped. "How dreadful!"
Mary walked closer, curious, and surreptitiously viewed the portrait for herself as well as the two ladies engaged in conversation in front of it. 'Lady Una Agnes McRae', the title plate read. Mary gazed at the stern figure with a tartan plaid sash draped over one shoulder. The fabric was held in place by what looked to be a very large pin, an odd, greenish-gray stone circled by brilliantly cut, if small, diamonds. It was a very intriguing piece and Mary strained her eyes to get a better view of it.
"Lady McRae discovered that it was missing when she went to put it on for Edinburgh's Highland Ball!" exclaimed the older woman.
"How dreadful!" her companion responded. "What has been done to recover it?"
"That's just the thing!" Their conversation continued. "They can hardly do anything to discover the culprit. Lady McRae does not know when it was taken."
"But surely..."
"The brooch is one that she only wears when she displays her plaid. And she hasn't worn it since she sat for this portrait."
"But that was a few years ago, wasn't it?"
"Unfortunately, yes. And how are they supposed to discover the thief when they don't even know who was in the house when it was stolen?"
"The thief could be long gone by now, couldn't he?"
"Most probably," the older woman sighed and took her companion's arm to lead her away. "I can't understand why she didn't have her banker lock such a precious ornament away, especially when she didn't wear it often."
As the ladies left, Mary moved in closer to the portrait so that she could examine the brooch further. It wasn't nearly the most attractive object she had ever seen. In fact, the painting made it look downright ugly -- just a mottled green-gray stone surrounded by the sparkling light of the accompanying diamonds. Mary cocked her head as she considered it further. Perhaps it would look more attractive if it hadn't been completely hemmed in by such bright objects. As she stared at the adornment reproduced in the portrait, Mary couldn't help but think that the jeweler had done a disservice to what she assumed was a very rare stone when he had surrounded it with such competitive gems. She wondered what kind of a stone it was.
Mary didn't have much time to ponder that question, however. Hugh found her at that moment and took control of her hand once again, hurriedly glancing at the portrait that he had found her admiring: "The man says that the East Wing is through the doors at the end of the hall and to the right," he explained, beginning to quickly lead the way into a gallery even more filled with paintings. "Isn't it amusing how the entire wall is taken up with portraits?" he commented as they walked. "It looks more like a puzzle with too many pieces."
With one last look at the portrait that had intrigued her, Mary followed Hugh and had to agree that the sheer number of portraits was quite oppressive. "It is very hard to focus on just one," she said. "And the ones hanging at the top can't even be seen!"
Hugh nodded absentmindedly to this. "Let's hope that the artist who painted your sister was on good terms with the hanging committee of the Royal Academy. I understand that those artists who aren't on good terms with the group find their paintings 'skied' very high indeed."
"I'm sure that Elizabeth would have mentioned that if it had been slighted in such a way," Mary responded.
"Regardless, I certainly hope that the artist was able to create a good resemblance of her," Hugh said, "It certainly won't be easy to find it in this chaotic mess."
"We need not worry too greatly," Mary explained. "Jane did say that there was a title plaque, and that she is wearing that dress with green trimmings that you saw her in yesterday."
"That will narrow down the field somewhat," Hugh agreed as they walked into what Mary assumed must be the East Wing. "Most of the young ladies in here are wearing yellow."
Mary scanned the walls for the lady wearing green, finding her quickly at the center of the wall. "There she is!" Mary exclaimed, walking towards it quickly, nearly having to push two other viewers out of her way as she did so. The man looked at Mary in shock at the rudeness of her manners, but the lady just seemed to smile in amusement before taking the man's arm and leading him away.
Mary saw nothing of this, however. She was too busy contemplating her sister's portrait. "In the thick of things," she commented wryly as she gazed at her sister's likeness in the middle of a wall of female figures.
Hugh came up behind Mary and placed his hand on her shoulder. "It's a very good resemblance," he mentioned. "The artist has managed to capture both her serenity and good humor."
Mary thought that this statement might be taking things a bit too far, but allowed that it was a good likeness.
"And where is your other sister's portrait? Hugh asked after he had taken a long look at Jane's painting. "Hasn't Mrs. Darcy sat for her own picture?"
"She has," Mary explained. "But the painting can only be viewed in the gallery at Pemberley."
"Oh?" Hugh asked.
"It seems that Fitzwilliam was quite unwilling to share the beauty of his wife with the general public in London," Mary admitted with a smile.
Hugh grinned at that. "So, he's of a covetous nature, is he? He would rather lock away his wife's portrait rather than share it with the world."
"Charles teases him mercilessly about that," Mary agreed with a giggle, "and said something about Jane's eyes being just as fine as Elizabeth's and that he saw no harm in displaying Jane's likeness in a public gallery."
Hugh turned back to look at the portrait. "But Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy's eyes are quite dissimilar," he commented. "They aren't even the same shape, not to mention size or color!"
"You're right," Mary admitted. "I suppose that Charles was referring to the quality of their eyes being similar, not necessarily their characteristics."
Hugh appeared to agree to this and then went further. "I must admit to understanding your brother Mr. Darcy's motives over that of your brother Mr. Bingley's. It would be very hard to share a wife's 'fine eyes' with the general public," Hugh looked directly at Mary as he said the next. "In fact, I think that I should imitate Mr. Darcy if ever I happen to be blessed with a similar situation."
Mary blushed furiously, her thoughts racing too far afield. Surely he couldn't be speaking of marriage. And even if he were speaking of having a wife someday, surely he wasn't thinking of her! "Same situation?" she echoed weakly.
"If my wife had the same enchantingly dark and intelligent eyes as Mrs. Darcy, I might be inclined to hide her portrait on a country estate as well." He raised an eyebrow and smiled widely at Mary, something that discomposed her even further.
Mary swallowed and looked away. "I believe that your task will be quite difficult, sir," she replied. "My sister's eyes are very unique. I don't believe that I've ever seen their equal in another face."
"You haven't?" Hugh appeared shocked and went on "Surely you've looked in the mirror during your lifetime?"
"You can't be saying that..." Mary blurted out quickly.
"...That your eyes are just as enchanting as your sister's?" Hugh finished for her. "Yes I can."
And he looked at her with such sincerity that Mary didn't know what to think. She doubted his words, but was silent.
Hugh seemed to take that as an encouraging sign and spoke further. "Mary," said he, placing on hand on her arm, "Surely you already know of my feelings towards you."
Mary's eyes widened. "Your feelings?"
"Has my appreciation and value for you truly been unnoticeable?" he exclaimed. "Surely you must have seen just how much I've grown to admire you. Surely you've seen how this heartfelt admiration has deepened beyond what even I imagined was possible!"
Mary swallowed again and found that she couldn't look at his face as he said the next.
"Mary," he whispered. "I've fallen in love with you. I want to marry you."
"Marry me?" she gasped.
"Yes," the word was spoken with a degree of urgency, as if he was becoming unsure of just how she was receiving this information. Was his honest confession bringing more pain than pleasure? Even Mary didn't know the answer to that.
"I had no idea..." she began, eyes still not able to fix upon his face. They wandered around the room wildly, as if wanting to find any object that would be able to divert her attention away from his proposal. Marrying anyone was the farthest thing from her mind at that moment. And, while she liked Hugh very much and didn't want to lose his friendship by spurning his affection, she didn't feel as if she could wholly enter into an engagement with him.
"Mary...please," Hugh attempted, voice sounding uncertain.
She started to turn towards him when a man rushing through the door arrested her eye. He seemed to be quite distressed as he brushed past the spectators, coming towards their position at the center of the room. Mary gasped audibly as she recognized the gentleman. "Lord Rodale!" she called to him, walking quickly away from Hugh.
But that gentleman did not seem to hear her. She called his name again as she came closer and still didn't get a response. She touched his arm tentatively. "Lord Rodale?" she asked again.
The gentleman turned towards her and didn't appear as if he knew her. Instead of the look of recognition that she expected to elicit from the gentleman, what played across his face was a look of such palpable disbelief and agony that Mary almost wondered if it weren't a complete stranger that she was addressing.
A moment later, the gentleman seemed to recollect himself and where he was. It took another moment for him to pull himself together well enough to offer her a polite response and an apology. "Miss Bennet," he stuttered, "I'm sorry that I didn't recognize you. How are you today?"
"I'm well, Lord Rodale. I'm sorry to see that you aren't feeling the same."
Lord Rodale tried to negative this, but made a mess of the attempt. "No, indeed, madam, you find me... quite well..."
Mary had seen enough of people attempting to be brave rather than being truthful to see right through this ruse. She pressed her lips together and raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Is that so?" she said softly, not wishing to add to his distress. By this time, Hugh had come to stand beside Mary. He took possession of her arm once again, reminding her of his presence and his recent declaration.
Mary glanced over at Hugh, trying to convey her concern for Lord Rodale. In return, Hugh's eyes managed to convey his confusion. "I don't believe that I've had a chance to meet your friend, Mary," Hugh said, finally.
Mary, realizing that the two men had never met, made a quick introduction. Hugh bowed slightly to Lord Rodale and that man attempted to nod his head in return.
"Can we be of some assistance, sir?" Hugh went on, his voice sounding his solicitousness. "Do you have your carriage with you? Could I call one for you? I do believe that you need to go home and rest."
Mary watched as Lord Rodale attempted to collect himself further. "That's most kind of you," he stammered. "I do have my carriage with me and will make use of it as you suggest. In fact, I was on my way to the exit when I became lost..." he drifted off, looking around in an attempt to get his bearings.
"Let us show you the way, sir," Mary heard Hugh offer to the man. "Miss Bennet and I have had our own difficulties navigating around this strange place," he said, "I believe that we have mastered the floor plan, however."
"Most kind," Rodale murmured, somewhat incomprehensibly as Hugh gestured towards the actual exit to the room with Mary still in tow. Lord Rodale turned towards the door, step still hesitant, eyes looking warily at a pair of figures standing by it. Mary followed the direction of his stare and recognized the short man with the military bearing that had been waiting for someone in the main hall standing with Mr. Richard Percy! Mary gasped audibly and Mr. Percy turned away quickly and ducked back into the other room perhaps in the hopes that she would not recognize him.
But Mary had seen all, understood most of what must have just happened, and received confirmation as the three of them walked past the blond mustached stranger. The man stepped forward and addressed himself to Lord Rodale. "I hope that we understand one another," he said in a voice that sounded quietly menacing.
Lord Rodale looked at him, an expression of dark hatred boiling up in his eyes. "You'll be hearing from me, James," he spat out before stalking away in the direction that Hugh had indicated. Hugh looked over at Mary, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. Mary bit her lip and shook her head, hoping that Hugh wouldn't ask her any further questions about what they had witnessed, even though the reason behind Lord Rodale's discomposure was clear enough to her. Mr. Percy and the short man that she assumed was Captain Linson had just met with Lord Rodale and had given him some sort of proof that his mother had not been the woman who was married to his father.
And Lord Rodale must have believed it all! Mary looked over at the man as he made his way through the crowd. He looked utterly defeated. Her heart went out to him.
It was only after Lord Rodale was assisted into his carriage and were watching it drive away that Mary recalled what Hugh had asked while they admired Jane's portrait. She looked over at him with some disbelief: had he actually asked her to marry him? His own uncertain smile seemed to confirm that he had made her an offer -- and that she had not yet accepted it.
"Shall we get you home as well?" Hugh asked her, briefly looking down the street to see if there was a hack chaise that he could flag down in order to take them back to the Darcy townhouse. Mary nodded and Hugh stepped out into the road, hand extended in order to signal a carriage driving by.
It was only after they were both settled in the carriage and it was pointed in the direction of her sister's home that Hugh mentioned his proposal again. "Like that man who accosted your friend Lord Rodale at the last, can I hope to be hearing from you as well?"
"You will," Mary hedged weakly.
"And when might I be favored with an answer?" Hugh pressed, taking hold of Mary's hand.
"I --" Mary began, completely unsure of what to say. She knew that she liked Hugh a great deal. And he already knew all that there was to know about her. She knew that she could be herself around him and be valued for who she was.
But the memory of her love for Seth still remained.
Would her former friend always hold his own piece of her heart? Could she imagine giving the piece that she had at her command to another?
"At your sister's ball?" Hugh suggested. "That's two days from now. I believe that I could live in agonizing suspense until then." He smiled somewhat disparagingly, "But not much longer than that."
Only two days to make the most important decision in her life! It couldn't possibly be enough time. But she couldn't expect Hugh to be left hanging for much longer than that. "All right then," she said softly.
Hugh grinned more widely then, almost as if that interim affirmation could be taken for an eventual agreement to his proposal. "Until then," he said.
"Until then," Mary echoed, attempting to look directly at Hugh but finding that she still couldn't meet his eyes.
"And here's something to think about during your deliberations," he whispered, drawing himself closer to her and, taking her face with his hands, he kissed her.
Chapter 13 C
Mr. John Barrow looked out of the small window that comprised the only source of outside light for his small room at the Malconbury inn and wondered just how much longer he and Mr. Barton would have to stay in Yorkshire. He had hoped to have discovered all of the pertinent information in a few days and be able to travel back to London in time to escort Arabella to the Darcys' ball, but it seemed as if he were now doomed to disappoint her as well as himself. The ball was the evening after tomorrow, and they were at least a day's journey away from the city, and that was only if he instructed his coachman to push the horses to their limit.
Frustrated, John turned away from the window and continued to dress, wondering what he and Mr. Barton could do on that day that might just help them to discover the true identity of the man who was currently calling himself Richard Percy. They certainly couldn't find anyone else to question. In the three days since he had arrived in Yorkshire, John believed that he and Willie had asked everyone if they recalled any mysterious disappearances of a young man resembling their Richard Percy around six years ago. No one, from the innkeeper's very obliging daughter to the ancient old man who had to be frequently kicked out of the inn's public room at the end of the evening, recalled such a fellow or such an occurrence. But they did allow for the fact that it was several years ago and that lots of people had been moving away from that part of the county at that time in search of better work.
So the man who had become Richard Percy six years ago, when the real one had relinquished his hold on the name through death, was allowed to remain undetected.
And John had no idea of what to do next.
Stomach growling in sympathy with his black mood, John shrugged himself into his jacket and buttoned it closed. The fire had gone out in his room and he was eager to get downstairs to a heated room and a warm breakfast. Walking out onto the landing, he knocked on the door opposite, wondering whether or not his assistant Willie Barton would already be awake. A muffled response from the other side of the door told him all that he needed to know. Mr. Barton just woke up.
John waited patiently as he listened to the sounds of a man jumping out of bed and pulling his boots on hastily. In another moment the door opened and Willie appeared, eyes still hazy from sleep and his clothes looking as if he hadn't bothered to change before falling into bed. He also had a strange mark on his cheek. It looked as if he had slept on something hard and the shape had imprinted itself into his face.
"Morning, sir," Willie greeted him tiredly, "Sleep well?"
"Better than you, I take it," John commented, smiling ruefully at his assistant. "What did you do with yourself last night?" He pointed his hand to his own cheek as an indicator.
"What?" Willie asked in confusion, hand shooting up to his face.
John suggested that he go take a look in his shaving mirror. Willie did so and John followed him back inside the room, going over to the unmade bed and noticing that Willie's notebook was still laying on the young man's pillow, its metal binding brightly obvious on the white of the linen. John went over and picked it up.
"A little light reading last night?" he brought the book over to where Willie was examining his cheek in the mirror, the sharp edges of the notebook corresponding with the red marks on Willie's face.
Willie looked over at the notebook and put down the mirror. "Well, I've been trying to work it all out from my notes," he began sheepishly. "We've talked to so many people. I thought that surely I could figure it out if I could just think about it for awhile."
John flipped through the pages of Willie's book. The young man really did take a copious amount of notes, didn't he? John, however, didn't think that any of them pointed to Richard Percy's true identity. They just hadn't talked to the right person yet. Or asked the right question. John handed the book back over to Willie. "Come," he said, "Some strong tea will wake you up. You shouldn't stay awake half the night just worrying over a case!" Barrow admonished, even as he realized that he should never dispense advice that he wouldn't be able to follow himself.
Willie smiled slightly and pocketed his book. "I'll sleep better when we get ourselves back to London," Willie answered truthfully, following his employer down the stairs. "If you don't mind my saying so, Yorkshire is far to quiet for my tastes."
John chuckled, "You need the clatter of hoofs on cobblestones to lull you to sleep, man?"
"That and the calls of the night watchmen," Willie agreed. "I wake up in the middle of the night expecting to be told what time it is and there's no one to let me know!"
John shook his head in amusement at his assistant's discomfort. "Well, we can't leave until we discover who Richard Percy really is," he reminded the boy, shaking his head in disgust at their situation. "I don't suppose that you had any thoughts as you laid on your notebook last night?"
"None," Willie negatived with a frown, touching the side of cheek, where the red marks had not yet faded.
The innkeeper and his daughter had already banked up the fire for their guests and were ready to lay a breakfast for the young man who they had gotten to know very well and his newly-arrived friend. The two sat down at an already-set table, and John asked the innkeeper's daughter to bring them two mugs of tea. The solicitous young woman returned with them in an instant. She set them down on the table and looked up at Willie, staring in surprise at the marks upon his face.
"If thy doesna mind me asking," she began, "What did thee do to thy face?"
Willie shook his head in embarrassment. "I must've slept on it the wrong way," he admitted.
"It will fade," John said somewhat dismissively. They wouldn't mar the attractiveness of his assistant's face for long. The innkeeper's youthful daughter had already proven herself to be somewhat susceptible to the charms of the equally young Mr. Barton. Luckily for John, Willie didn't seem quite as susceptible. Willie's appreciation of her certainly did not match his appreciation of him. John had nearly sighed in relief when he saw that. The last thing that he needed right now was another employee in love!
Scoggins was enough of a challenge as it was, especially since he had never expected that fiercely independent Mr. Scoggins would be influenced by anyone or anything, much less the charms of a young woman! But he couldn't explain that odd conversation that he had with Tim about his 'friend's' predicament in any other way. John knew that Tim had very few friends, much less ones that were contemplating giving gifts to ladies and needed advice on how to do it.
John looked back over at Willie and was pleased to see that his assistant still wasn't succumbing to the innkeeper's daughter's continued attempts to interest. That young man seemed bent on consuming his tea.
But the innkeeper's daughter wasn't as perceptive as John and pressed further. "Aye," the girl affirmed, blushing somewhat as she stared further at Willie. "It's a lucky thing that thee wasna born with such a spot. Some aren't so blessed as thyself."
John nodded without rolling his eyes and wondered if the young woman was just finding any excuse to remain in the company of Willie.
"In fact, there once was a man from around here with the largest mark on his face that I've ever seen!" The innkeeper's daughter continued, attempting anything to further the conversation. "Could hardly bear to look at him!"
John thought that this was probably less of a misfortune than she realized, but did not point this out.
She went on. "A big red blotch," she put her hand to her own cheek. "Right here."
Involuntarily, John looked up at where she was pointing on her face. Wasn't that where their Richard Percy had a birthmark? "Who was that man?" John asked.
"Oh," the young woman seemed to be calling the memory from a long way back, "I was only a young girl then. Hard to remember. But I remembered the look of that mark easily enough."
"Well, do you remember where he is now?" John pressed.
"I dunno," she admitted. "I seem to recall that he disappeared. Just left one day and never came back.
It was late afternoon before John and Willie were able to learn the full story about the man with the birthmark. All of the residents of Malconbury seemed to recall the unfortunate boy who had learned to live with the very obvious birthmark on his cheek, but none could say that they knew him well. The only things that they were able to agree upon was his name -- Edgar Mayhew -- that he had disappeared around six years ago, and that he had not been seen in these parts since. The details of his early life were less clear. It seemed that he was the youngest son in a family whose major claim to fame appeared to be an ability to reproduce; Edgar was the youngest of nine children. Another claim to fame was an even greater misfortune -- the eight that preceded Edgar all died when the smallpox raged across the county. Only Edgar had been spared and went on to enter adulthood. Unfortunately for John and Willie, both Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew had died soon after their last son left home, making Edgar Mayhew -- if that was their Richard Percy's real name -- the only surviving member of his family.
John and Willie also learned that these siblings were not the only children that Mrs. Mayhew had a hand in rearing. Mrs. Mayhew had served as a wet nurse to several prominent families, including the Linsons, and -- while no one could remember for sure -- it was quite probable that Edward Linson, James Linson, or both were under her care.
John knew that it wasn't much to go on, but at least there was enough of a connection with which to confront the false Richard Percy. John suspected that he would tell them the rest on his own. He just needed a little prompting. And it was a prompting that John was eager to get to. This case had lingered in his mind long enough and had taken him away from his family for a wretchedly long amount of time.
Both he and Willie packed quickly and left within the hour. If they didn't meet with any hazards on the road, he might just make it back to London in time to share at least one dance with Arabella. John suggested that Stevens, his coachman, attempt to make every effort to make it back to London in record time.