Chapter Text
Mary gazed at her mother as though she’d sprouted a second head on her shoulder. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, dropping her book into her lap.
“I think—that is, your Father and I think it would be best to give you some sort of occupation for yourself.”
“Mother, I’ve told you,” Mary said, reaching up and pinching the bridge of her nose, a gesture she had adopted from her own father. “The editor was very interested in my manuscript. Once the book gets published, I will no longer be a burden to you and Father.”
Mrs. Bennet waved a hand as if the very mention of the thing was offensive. “I won’t discuss this with you. We’ve already told this man that you will be there, and that is final.”
“So, you—you advertised my services like I was some sort of governess or lady’s maid?” When her mother offered no reply, she turned to her father, who was quiet (as usual) in the face of Mrs. Bennet’s ranting.
This time, Mr. Bennet had the decency to respond, even if it was vague and unhelpful. “Not like a lady’s maid, my dear. More like a companion,” he said with a dry smirk. Still, he redeemed himself (only slightly) when he added, “It’s only that you’re home so much, and you seem so discontent.”
“I’m not unhappy!” Mary protested. She felt a rush of indignation. “I’m just unmarried, which is considered to be such a grievous offense that you would willingly agree to your youngest daughter marrying a letch like Mr. Wickham. Much good that did her, since he died less than five years later.”
Mrs. Bennet’s face turned a rather ugly shade of puce, and Mary half expected her mother to reach for her smelling salts or pretend to faint on the chaise lounge. But instead, she startled both Mary and her father by saying in a firm, decisive tone: “You will go. And that is final. Is that understood?”
Mary was too stunned to reply.
Mrs. Bennet clearly took the silence to signify Mary’s agreement to the scheme, and she nodded her head as if it was all settled. “Good.” With that, she turned back to her embroidery as though it was the most engrossing activity in the world.
“Father,” Mary tried, feebly.
He just sighed and shook his head. Mary was aggravated. Why did her father cave to every one of his wife’s whims?
The next morning, she found herself bundled up in her best dress. Her flat hair had been poked and prodded into submission, and she was all but shoved into the waiting carriage. Her mother was “too weary” to make the journey, and so Mary was left to endure the ride in stony silence with her father.
“Well, do we know anything about this mysterious man?” she protested, once the carriage had pulled onto the main road.
“He’s wealthy,” Mr. Bennet said. “And a bachelor.”
Mary sighed. She was certain these were the precise qualities that Mrs. Bennet looked for in a husband for all her children (Wickham was one notable exception. He had died, leaving Lydia more in debt and in trouble than when they first married). “And this man just wants someone to keep him company?”
“As far as I understand.”
She bit back another frustrated sigh. Her father wasn't helpful. But she reminded herself that she had only agreed to this scheme to appease her mother. As soon as the editors returned with their plans for Mary’s book, she was backing out of this obligation without the least fear to her reputation (as if that sort of thing mattered to her).
However, Mary’s resolve was sorely tested when she realized her father wasn’t going to stay with her. He assured her that he would return “after a polite interval,” which left quite a lot to Mary’s overactive imagination. Surely this wasn’t one of her mother’s foolhardy plans, like sending Jane to Netherfield in the rain? They wouldn’t strand her at a reclusive, rich older man’s home.
Would they?
The moment they pulled down the long cobblestone driveway, she wasn’t so sure. This home rivaled the size of Netherfield and Pemberley. It was nearly as large as Lizzie’s descriptions of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s estate.
Mary was helped down from the carriage. She turned around to look at her father, who just gave her an apathetic shrug of his shoulders before the footman whipped the horses, and he was carried off. She was left standing at the end of a long stone walkway with several staff members eyeing her with a keen gaze.
“If you’d come this way, Miss Bennet,” the butler said as he gestured to the house with one white-gloved hand.
She was speechless when she saw the grandeur of the home. It was expansive with multiple wings and outbuildings. The ornate stone exterior was adorned with well-groomed ivy, and climbing roses. There was even a stained glass window above the front entrance. She had the bizarre sensation that she was stepping into a church and not someone’s home.
The butler, who introduced himself as Mr. Green, cleared his throat.
Mary jumped and realized she had been standing stock-still in the center of the grand hall. She had been mesmerized by the way the sun shone through the colored glass. She caught up with Mr. Green at the bottom of the stairs. But she soon lost her bearings as the butler led her upstairs, down corridors, around corners, and finally to the far end of a secluded wing.
“Mrs. Smith is here to provide companionship for you,” he said, introducing a red-faced middle aged woman who was knitting in a chair directly opposite an open door.
Mary paused on the threshold of that room, and it took another polite ahem from Mr. Green for Mary to follow him the rest of the way. She quickly discovered was a breathtaking library.
“Miss Bennet, may I introduce the Right Honorable Lord Whitmore?”
She turned and met the keen gaze of a man reclining on a nearby chaise lounge. He was propped up with a number of pillows and covered with a woven blanket. Though his appearance was quite ill, he had a sparkle of intelligence in his dark brown eyes, which studied Mary keenly.
She offered a polite curtsy and was feeling especially shabby, even in her nicest gown, when she realized she was standing in the presence of a baron.
He waited until Mr. Green departed before he turned to her and said, “Please call me Lord Fletcher. I can’t stand all those stuffy titles.”
Mary just nodded her head, unsure what she was expected to say to that.
He looked a little uncertain, too, and he asked, “Would you care to sit down?”
Mary did so, and she was shockingly incapable of thinking of anything to say. She stared at him hopelessly, wondering how on earth she was expected to keep a baron company.
Lord Fletcher cleared his throat. “How do you like this room?”
“You’re asking for my opinion, Sir?” she said, her light blue eyes widening at him.
“I’m asking your opinion, Miss Bennet.”
“Well—it’s wonderful,” she said, gazing around at the shelves of books that lined the sizable room. There was even a second level that was separated by an elegant spiral staircase and ornate railing above them.
He smiled, and when he did so, the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced. He was a nice looking man—perhaps a bit gray at the temples of his dark brown hair with a few careworn lines on his face. Still, it was clear he was ailing. Perhaps he simply wished for someone to keep him company until he recovered from his illness.
“Miss Bennet, I have been starved of company for quite a while. You’ll forgive me if I ever overstep those strict, polite social boundaries one must always maintain. But…are you afraid of me?”
Mary blinked at him owlishly. “I—beg your pardon?”
“Or perhaps you are simply one of those quiet individuals who prefers their own company. Clearly, you are a fellow book lover, which is automatically a quality in your favor.”
She realized he was teasing her. It was strange to have someone talk to her in such a manner—and a baron, no less. “I do love books,” she managed, a bit lamely. She swallowed. “You have a beautiful collection.”
“I designed this room myself. It used to be a ballroom, but that was hardly needed as the house is outfitted with two others.”
“What need has anyone for three ballrooms?” The question escaped her lips before she could reconsider.
Lord Fletcher leaned his head back and laughed, and the expression took years off of his face. “For hosting three parties at once, I suppose.”
Mary smiled, but her eyes kept wandering back to the closest shelf of books. She couldn’t contain her curiosity.
He observed this and said, “Please, feel free to explore. And if you find a book you like, perhaps you can read it to me. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.”
Mary was on the brink of saying something else impertinent—namely that he didn’t seem old enough to say that about himself. But he was dealing with illness, and she noted that he was wearing gloves. Just above the collar of his elegant cravat, she could have sworn that she saw some sort of lesion or blister on his pale skin.
She realized she was staring at him, and she quickly took him up on his offer of exploring the rows and rows of books.
She couldn’t help but exclaim when she encountered several of her favorite books. His eyes followed her as she made a swift circuit of the lower level of books. She hesitated before ascending the elegant spiral staircase, and she paused long enough to run a finger along the smooth railing. A sudden idea struck her that caused her to smile.
“I had high hopes of sliding down that bannister at one time,” he said. He gestured to his own prostrate figure on the couch.
She caught his gaze and realized he’d practically read her mind. “It is tempting,” she admitted. And she wasn’t sure why, but she felt the need to add, “And you may still have a chance to do so, Sir.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but he closed it just as quickly with a gentle shake of his head. He looked morose. Mary didn’t enjoy that particular expression on his face, and so when her eyes landed on a particular book, she grabbed it and returned to her seat.
She pulled her glasses from her small reticule, and once they were perched on her nose, she opened the book and began to read. “‘In a castle of Westphalia, belonging to the Baron of Thunder-ten-Tronckh, lived a youth, whom nature had endowed with the most gentle manners. His countenance was a true picture of his soul. He combined a true judgment with simplicity of spirit, which was the reason, I apprehend, of his being called Candide.’”
She glanced up only once to see that he had laid his head back on the cushions. His eyes wandered off into a far corner of the room, and she took that as a sign of encouragement to continue.
Mary stayed nearly three hours—broken only once by Mr. Green, who dropped off a tray of refreshments (of which Lord Fletcher ate none). Eventually, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a carriage pulling up outside the house. Sure enough, in a matter of minutes, it was announced that Mr. Bennet had arrived to take his daughter home.
Lord Fletcher, whose eyes had closed an hour prior and was breathing soundly, stirred from his light nap to give her a gentle smile. “Will you return tomorrow, Miss Bennet?”
She stared back at him and realized she had no reason, at present, to decline such an offer. Not from a baron. “Yes, Sir.”
And so, Mary returned the next day. And the following. For an entire week, she visited the baron for several hours each day. At the end of each visit, he asked for her to return the next day, and she always did.
Finally, it wasn’t until 10 days had passed (and they had moved on to a different novel of her choosing) that she caught Lord Fletcher staring at her.
She glanced up once from the book and returned her gaze to the page, faltering a little on the familiar text.
“‘So I will grow, so live, so die, m-my lord
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship who unwished yoke
My soul consents to give sovereignty.’”
She met his gaze again. “Are you quite alright, Sir?”
There was a particularly vexed look on his face. He startled at her question and glanced out the open door, where Mrs. Smith was fast asleep with her chin resting on her chest. Lord Fletcher sat up suddenly, swinging his legs to the floor as he gave her an intense look. “Miss Bennet, I think you are an intensely intelligent young woman.”
She blinked at him. “Thank you,” she replied, though it sounded more like a question.
“I need your assistance with something, but it has to be kept between us.”
Mary was silent. The book rested in her lap unattended. He had such an intense glint in his eyes that mesmerized her.
He glanced once more out the door before he said, “I think I’m being poisoned. And I need your help to figure out who is trying to kill me.”