Section I, Next Section
Chapter 1 A
Author's Note: As in Bennet...Mary Bennet. The year is 1818 and Mary, who disappeared from Hertfordshire six years ago, has just been found living in London under an assumed name -- Dr. Thomas Townsend. (Shades of "Yentl", "Twelfth Night", and "Shakespeare in Love"). Michele V. is letting me borrow her John Barrow from "Favors Returned" for this! (Thanks Michele!) But you won't get to see him until chapter 2 (or whenever Michele finishes naming small children).
"Thomas, I need your help," a voice whispered through the bedroom door, "Dress quickly!"
Half groggy with sleep, but sensing the urgency in his friend Seth's voice, Thomas Townsend rose from the bed and began to pull on his pants. He bound his chest up before throwing on his shirt and warmest waistcoat. It was a matter of minutes before he joined his friend on the landing, still pulling on his jacket. "What is it?"
"There are lights shining in the church yard," Seth whispered, handing over a candle.
"Oh no," Apprehension sickened Thomas' stomach. "Not again."
Seth nodded grimly, "I don't see how we can keep on scaring them off."
Thomas shook his head, "We can't. It's not as if they're pigeons!" He followed Seth downstairs. "And we don't have anything stronger than rocks to aim at them!" Thomas sighed heavily. The fact that Seth refused to keep a weapon in the parsonage was a contentious issue between the clergyman and his physician friend.
Seth ignored his comment and grabbed a walking stick from the stand next to the front door. Thomas could only arm himself with an umbrella.
Attempting stealth, the pair made their way towards the lantern glowing in the distant row of crosses. The night visitors had returned to the same patch of pauper's graves that laid on the edge of the church yard, all with only a small wooden cross as a marker, most falling into disrepair and decay, names barely readable in any light.
The night visitors had been there twice before, each time fleeing quickly from the approaching figures of the parson and his friend. Thomas prayed that they would prove to be just as skittish this time.
But on this occasion, Seth didn't seem as inclined to announce their presence. He blew out the candle he had been carrying and motioned for Thomas to do the same.
Heart pounding wildly in his chest, he did so and laid the taper on the ground.
Seth was already creeping towards the lantern, his footsteps masked by the sounds of shovels hitting dirt. What were they doing out there? Could they actually be disturbing a grave this time?
Thomas watched as Seth raised up with his walking stick and kicked over the lantern with his foot. In the darkness that followed, Thomas could hear the walking stick connect with a skull and a man grunt in pain. He would have rushed in to assist his friend, but just then he was grabbed from behind and something sharp and long was stuck into his left side.
Involuntarily, Thomas screamed. He felt something heavy hit the back of his own head and all went black.
"She's awake now, Seth."
Seth Shackleford raised his head from his knees and saw the figure of his housekeeper, Mrs. Fenton standing in front of him, a worried frown wearing down her already tired face. How long had she gone without sleep? Seth realized that he she had not rested since he had arrived back at the parsonage last night, carrying his friend -- Thomas -- over his shoulder. He had not slept either.
"I gave her some of my garments to wear," she added, nervously. "What she was wearing -- was beyond repair. They were too -- soiled and torn."
He closed his eyes and shook his head, knowing Mrs. Fenton's decision was based on propriety rather than the state of the clothes.
"Does -- she -- know that I know" he asked, searching for each word.
"She knows." Mrs. Fenton nodded grimly. "I didn't have to tell her. When she awoke it was apparent that we had learned the truth."
"What am I going to say?" he asked.
Mrs. Fenton shook her head and pressed her lips close together. It was apparent that she had no suggestions to give. "You need to go in now," she said quietly. "That one will not be resting again until the story has been told."
With that charge, Seth Shackleford hoisted himself up from the bench and made his way to -- her -- bedside.
The figure on the bed lay still, quilt smoothed over legs, delicate hands resting quietly above it. The dark brown eyes stared at him as he walked through the door, registering no emotion.
"You haven't slept." It was a statement of fact.
"No, I haven't," Seth admitted, "I've been worried."
"And shocked."
He walked towards the side of the bed and looked at her, attempting to rearrange his understanding of his friend. Mrs. Fenton had thought it appropriate that she wear a small bed cap on her head, strings tied underneath her chin. Her dark hair was hidden, except for a straight line of fringe above her brow. Mrs. Fenton must have combed down it in order to make her more presentable. There was a little bit of lace around the collar of the nightgown that she had been given to wear. The eyes now watching Seth looked larger than before. It was a familiar face, and yet completely strange.
"Yes, I was shocked," he admitted, looking away from her.
"I'm sorry that I've deceived you," she whispered, looking away as well. "I never wished to hurt you."
"I don't even know who you are. All I know with any certainty is that you aren't Thomas Townsend."
"My name was Mary Bennet. My father's name was Thomas."
"So you have been using his name," Seth assumed. A chair had been placed next to the bed. Seth sat down. "Tell me the rest."
She sighed. "I'm not sure where to begin."
Seth felt the impatience rising within him. He was not accustomed to this lack of straightforwardness from his friend. "It doesn't matter where you begin," he growled, "just as long as you explain yourself fully."
She turned back towards him, anger flashing in her eyes. "How am I to explain all that has happened since I left home seven years ago without considering how to begin?"
"You're angry," he remarked, attempting to keep his voice even.
"Yes, I am!" she shouted.
"I don't see how you can be!" he returned. "If anyone should be angry here --"
"-- it should be yourself?" she scoffed.
"I'm the one who has been played for a fool!"
She shook her head, "You're life has not been changed. You will be the same person when you wake up tomorrow as you were yesterday."
"But I've lost my friend."
She started at this, and Seth wished that he hadn't said it. He watched as she bit her lip and looked down at her hands. "I've lost myself as well as my friend," she whispered.
"I shouldn't have said that," Seth whispered back.
"But it is the truth."
"What is the truth?" Seth pressed.
She shook her head sadly, "I'm not sure anymore."
"Tell me," he insisted.
She sighed and began. "I don't know if I could ever explain my past in such a way that would allow you to properly judge what I have done and the lengths that I have gone to. I know that masquerading as a man was an extreme measure to take, but I had to escape a fate that would have been worse than death."
"Really?" Seth asked skeptically.
She nodded, scowling slightly at his remark, and went on. "I was born in Hertfordshire, at Longbourn, a little village where my father was the principal estate holder. I have four sisters, two older and two younger. Being in the middle of two pairs of sisters meant that I was close to none. My older sisters suited each other in temperament and ability and my youngest suited each other as well. They were all beautiful and talented in their own ways and I, as you can imagine, was not. I did manage to become very proficient at the pianoforte and was probably the most well-read of all of them but these things count for very little when you are a woman. It would have been better had I enjoyed talking about silly things like dresses and balls and young men, but it did not suit."
Seth looked down, hardly able to imagine his solemn friend enduring a discussion that centered around dresses and balls. In all the time that he had known his friend, he didn't believe he ever heard such frivolity come to her lips. But insipid topics of conversation and the confinement of village life would surely not be a fate worse than death.
"Most of my sisters were married the year that I turned eighteen," she went on. "I and my nearest sister Catherine were left at home with our parents. This I did not mind. While I loved my sisters, they had never been companions to me. I thought that I might be allowed to remain at home with my mother after Catherine had married and until my father passed away. My mother and I might then be asked to live with one of my sisters, two had married very well. At one time, I believed that this would be something I could bear."
"When I was nineteen, something happened that made me realize that I could never be happy living this fate. One day, as I was walking to Meryton, the nearest market town, I happened upon a man lying in the road. He had fallen from his horse and his arm had been trampled upon by the beast before it had run away. The man was crying out in pain, his arm twisted unnaturally, the bone protruding from his flesh.
"The man needed a surgeon, or at least he needed more assistance than I could possibly give him and it was my intention to run quickly to the nearest farm house in order to gather some help. As I was about ready to run off the man called after me. He feared that he might die from a loss of blood before I returned again. He begged me to remain with him and tend to his wounds as best I could. He would be able to advise me, as he was a physician and had been on his way to Meryton to take up practice. What bitter irony that the physician should be in need of a inexperienced passerby, but there it was. On the side of the road, I attended him, resetting the bone and splinting it, staunching the flow of blood and keeping him from going into shock. He explained how to do all of this, but it was I who carried it out."
Seth found himself nodding in understanding and appreciation and she went on, "Eventually, a neighboring farmer happened along with his ox cart and helped me to transport the man to Meryton. The man recovered quickly and was very effusive in his praise of my skill and my calm nature. He said on many occasions that I would have made an excellent physician if I had not been a woman. Such praise burned into my soul. It was pleasant to be rewarded for a job done well, but it was a half-hearted pleasure, for I had realized how much joy I received from being able to help someone and that I would never be allowed to do it."
She looked up, bit her lip and began to blush hotly. The next admission that she was contemplating must be giving her some pain. "I had never been a romantic woman, but I found myself beginning to indulge in fantasies about that physician -- Dr. Townsend."
"His name was Townsend?" Seth asked in surprise. "You took his name?"
"He gave it to me to use," the woman shifted in the bed and smiled wryly. "He was the one who sent me to Oxford."
"Why would he do that?"
"To get me out of the way," she sighed painfully. "You see, my romantic fantasies eventually led me astray. I began to hope that he might eventually consider making me his wife."
Seth felt his eyes widen in shock.
She looked down, embarrassed. "I can see how surprised you are. Why would anyone want to make me their wife? Much less an amiable, eminently eligible young doctor who was of a good family and had many connections?"
"It's not that --" Seth interjected.
"It IS that!" She retorted. "And both you and he were right. Unfortunately, I had allowed myself to imagine that his appreciation for my other abilities would eventually make him think of me." She looked down, twisting the ends of her bed spread with her fingers. "I thought that he valued me."
Seth felt an urge to look away, the admission seemed too intimate.
Eventually, she went on. "He paid calls to my parents' house, to sit with me and my sister Catherine, or to invite me to accompany him on his rounds. He found me a very willing assistant, almost as useful as a third hand when it came to tending the wounds and maladies of the townspeople."
She looked up, directly at Seth. "I found myself walking to Meryton almost every other day, to sit with him in his surgery, watching him, trying to absorb his knowledge, wishing that I had the opportunity to practice it myself. And he would always drive me back to Longbourn in his little curricle. He never allowed me to walk home." She raised her eyebrow questioningly at Seth, "Wasn't that a symptom of some particular regard?"
Seth nodded, confused.
"Unfortunately, the regard was all for my sister Catherine. It was she that he came to court on these visits to Longbourn. She accepted his proposal when he made it three months later." She shook her head sadly. "Catherine had never known how I felt about Dr. Townsend just as I had never known how he felt about her. It seems that we were all blinded by our own desires, only allowing ourselves to see what we wanted to see."
Seth pressed his lips together, disapproval washing over him. He wasn't ready to think of his friend as having loved once. "Then how did he learn of your own feelings?"
She looked down, still toying with a corner of the quilt. "It was clear by the change in my demeanor towards him. I became awkward in his company and made excuses to remove myself from it. Eventually, he confronted me about it and I -- in a moment of weakness -- confessed it all." She went on, "My admissions were unwelcome to say the least."
"So, he suggested that you go away?" Seth prodded.
"I had revealed just how much I was going to miss the opportunity to heal people now that I --," she faltered, " -- could no longer assist him. He came up with the idea of making my way to Oxford disguised as a man, even going so far as to say that my features were plain enough to make it possible."
Seth watched as his friend winced at the slight. "I believe the word he used was --'neutral' -- neither masculine or feminine. It was still painful."
She went on, "So, he helped me to engineer my disappearance. He found a benefactor to pay my way, a very liberal man who was more than willing to help a poor, but intelligent boy from Hertfordshire achieve his dream of becoming a physician. Dr. Townsend created a new identity for me, portraying me as his cousin so that I might gain admission to Cambridge. On the night of his wedding to my sister, he met me in our stable with a horse, appropriate clothes, money, and papers. He even cut off my hair when I was too squeamish to do so for myself."
She looked back up at him, a level gaze, unashamed. It was as if she was daring him to find fault with her reasons for choosing such an unusual and dangerous path. "You know the rest of the story," she reminded.
Seth nodded, images from the past six years of their acquaintance filling his mind, aspects of some memories fitting into place for the first time. Slight of build and young in appearance, Seth had noticed that his friend didn't even shave yet, but had always assumed that this was because he had been slow to grow to maturity. Now, Seth began to understand the reason behind Thomas' occasional naiveté, his reticence to join his fellow scholars in their night visits to town, and his persistent need for privacy. But why hadn't Thomas ever confided in him? Anger welled up in Seth when as he realized that something so weighty had been kept a secret. Hadn't Thomas trusted him enough?
But what would he have done had he known? Seth had to admit that it would have destroyed their friendship. And he certainly couldn't have asked his friend to join him in London, encouraging him to set up a clinic to serve the needs of his poor, yet respectable London parish -- even going so far as to provide a room for him in the parsonage.
Seth closed his eyes as he realized that his friend wouldn't be able to remain at the parsonage. An unmarried man and an unmarried woman living under the same roof with only Mrs. Fenton as a chaperone?
Seth would have to find her family. She would have to be sent to live with them.
And then he would have to find another physician to take Thomas' place. The clinic was too important to close. It wouldn't be easy convincing another young man to take the thankless, low-paying job, though.
"What are you thinking of?" Thomas' voice broke into Seth's thoughts, making him start and look back over at the bed. The large dark eyes were regarding him closely from under the bed cap. The face of his friend, unnervingly familiar -- yet completely unknown. The voice that he had knew so well now attached to a different name -- Mary. This wasn't Thomas Townsend -- that name belonged to no one. This was a Mary Bennet from Hertfordshire. Seth sighed heavily. Would he ever get used to this?
Perhaps he shouldn't try. He would do his duty to Mary by helping her to find her family. And then he would attempt to forget. "I was just thinking about what needed to be done next," he explained, "Your family will need to be informed and plans need to be made for your return to them."
"My return to them?" she exclaimed, half rising from the bed. "I can't return to them! There's nothing for me there!"
"There's nothing for you here!" Seth retorted.
"There's my work!" she began to challenge, "There's the clinic -- Emmaline Hoover is about ready to deliver and all the children in the Jenkins family have the whooping cough and --"
"But you're not qualified!" Seth interrupted.
"Not qualified? You know that I'm qualified!"
"Thomas Townsend was qualified," Seth corrected. "Mary Bennet knows nothing about medicine."
"I'm still the same person!" she said, voice beginning to betray some fear.
"Thomas!" Seth shouted before recalling that this name was invalid. He stopped and tried to rein in his emotions. He went on, calmly. "Mary," he addressed the person on the bed and then went one further, "Miss Bennet," he pronounced.
She shuddered involuntarily at the sound of that name, but it didn't make a difference to Seth. "Miss Bennet, you can't continue your work at the clinic. Tomorrow, I will look around for your family and assist you in your endeavor to return to them."
Mary gasped audibly and rose up further in the bed, eyes large and fearful, "Seth! No!"
Seth rose from the chair. "May I suggest that you get some rest now?" he said formally, before turning around and making hastily for the door. He had to leave the room before the voice of Thomas could sound another protest.
Chapter 1 B
The door shut behind him with a slam and Mary reminded herself not to start crying. That was something that she had trained herself never to do. Even after being berated and abused by pompous, self-important proctors and tutors, even when she had been affected by the painful condition of the ailing and the dying, even when she was exhausted in body and spirit and lonely for some loving human contact, she had never cried.
But she was completely unsuccessful this time. She wiped away the tears that had started to form in her eyes and remembered the last time that she had done so. It had been that first night, the one that she had spent at the road-side inn after leaving Longbourn far behind. The gravity of what she had done had not hit her until that night. She had been too busy, too caught up in the whirlwind of wedding preparations to truly consider the step that she was taking. In the end, she had found herself mutely following Dr. Townsend's instructions, without any regard for the consequences.
Robert Townsend had arranged everything, including the diversion needed for both he and she to break away from the revelries going on after the wedding, escaping to the stable, where he had hidden everything that she would need to assume a new identity.
Mary had changed quickly from her dress to a pair of pants, shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, immediately detesting the feel of the scratchy material against her legs. She had tentatively emerged from the stall, dress in hand and Robert had taken the frock from her, nodding approvingly, "They're a good fit," he commented. "They will do."
Then he had thrown the dress into the stove where the cotton threads quickly caught fire. Mary gasped in shock.
"Don't get squeamish now," Robert had admonished.
Mary had bit her lip and nodded, allowing Robert to explain all that she had to know of the journey before her. "I've arranged for you to take the name Thomas Townsend. The college believes that you're a cousin of mine." Robert held out some papers with the new name. "And I thought that you'd like to take your father's name with you."
Mary had thought back to an earlier time, when she had dared to hope that one day she would assume the name Townsend without having to relinquish the name Mary. Now, it was her own sister that had done so.
Robert had gone over the route to Cambridge once again, making sure that Mary knew where to stop in order to feed and water the horse -- and how much she should pay for such a service. It was a great deal of information to assimilate all at once and Mary had done her best to understand it all quickly. She had not been raised to know all the subtle rules that governed how men interacted with one another and was not quite sure that she would be able to pass undetected into their world.
She had also not been raised to ride a horse with anything but a side saddle, and she was an indifferent horsewoman at best. Robert Townsend had walked an unfamiliar horse from where it was hitched behind the stable, mentioning that he had purchased it for her in a market town miles away from Meryton. Her mount would not be connected with Longbourn or the Bennet family. The beast was saddled up and ready to go.
All too quickly, it had seemed like there was nothing left to do but get on the horse and ride away, and it seemed to Mary as if Robert Townsend was becoming increasingly anxious to return to the party and to his new bride. "Well," Mary had attempted, "Thank you for this." She had not felt as appreciative as she probably should have at that moment and her attempt at gratitude sounded unconvincing.
"You're welcome," he had returned quietly.
Mary had placed her hat on her head and would have put her foot in the stirrup if Robert hadn't called her off.
"Wait!" he had exclaimed, "We've forgotten about your hair!"
Her hair. She had reached up to touch the solid knot at the nape of her neck. She hadn't thought about that. Mary had always known that she had very little to be proud of in the way of physical attractions. Her face was too plain and her eyes were all too frequently hidden behind the mask of the spectacles she used to correct her farsightedness. But she had always appreciated her hair. It was thick and long and richly colored, the same brown shade as the very best kind of chestnuts. "I'll have to cut it," Mary had said dumbly, not quite sure how she was going to do that. She had looked to him for advice.
Robert had sighed in exasperation and reached into the saddlebags, pulling out a small shaving kit with a pair of scissors and mirror. "Do it quickly, then."
Mary had taken the hairpins from the knot, loosening the strands of hair from her head. It had fallen all around her shoulders. Bravely, she had grasped the scissors and brought them up to her head.
"I can't," her courage had failed her, as butterflies attacked her stomach, the act invested with too much meaning. There would be no turning back after that, would there? Mary was still not sure that she wanted to go forward.
"Come on now!" Robert had cried in frustration. "Don't be such a child!" He had taken the scissors from her. "I'll have to do it."
Quickly, as if he feared detection at any moment, Robert had chopped away at the long brown tresses, throwing the hanks of hair into the fire, along with the discarded frock.
The hat fit loosely once he was done. He had replaced the scissors in the kit and gave her a leg up. Mary had remembered to swing one foot over the horse, attempting to get used to the unfamiliar feel of the animal beneath her.
"Keep to the side of the road until you're away from Meryton," he had uttered a final piece of advice, slapping the rump of the horse as he did so. The horse had taken off and Robert had gone back to the party.
Later that night, when Mary had found the inn to sleep at, making arrangements for a private room, Mary would again pull out the shaving kit from the saddlebags and wonder why Robert had included it in with the other things that he had packed. Perhaps he was just thinking of what any young man would need to take with him to school, even though Mary would have little use for the razor and strop. The mirror and scissors she had found necessary again as she had attempted to repair the damage that had been done to her hair. In his haste to return to his bride, he had chopped the strands off unevenly, some very close to her scalp. Mary had spent an hour in front of the mirror, deliberately trimming in an attempt to bring some uniformity to its length. When she had finished, the short hairs stuck out from her head like the fur of a hedgehog. Mary remembered that she had run a comb through the bristly crop, trying in vain to get it to lay down.
She had cried then, all the time berating herself for sobbing over something so foolish.
And now she found herself sobbing again, no longer able to pretend that she was Thomas Townsend. She laid in bed a woman again, the wound in her side radiating searing heat and stabbing pain. But it was the emotional pain that hurt even more. Her closest friend Seth had just walked out of her room, convinced that the right thing to do was for her to return to her family.
And if there was one thing that Seth Shackleford always insisted on doing, it was the right thing. Mary had never known someone so tied to the idea of duty and responsibility. That was what impressed her on the first day of their acquaintance, six years ago in the library at Cambridge.
Mary recalled that she had snuck into the room reserved for the divinity students, needing to find some solace in the re-reading of her favorite sermons, the writings that had been a constant companion to her when she still lived at her parents' home. She wished that she had been able to take her father's volumes of Fordyce's Sermons with her when she left Longbourn -- she suspected that neither her mother or her father would miss them -- but Robert Townsend had pointed out that there was no room in the saddlebags that he had packed for her.
She had to sneak through the doorway to the reserved room with a group of other students, the black of her gown both helping her to blend in with the divinity scholars, even as the size of her hood and cut of her sleeve set her apart. Once inside, it had taken her several minutes to discern that all of the volumes of Fordyce's sermons were missing. She had to content herself with the writings of Mr. Beveridge, a less inspired minister of the Gospel.
She had just sat down at a table, easing into the straight-backed wooden chair as well as she could, quickly becoming engrossed in Mr. Beveridge's thoughts on man's sinful nature, when she found herself being addressed by another student.
"Are you reading volume one of the Beveridge?" an impatient voice asked from behind.
Mary had turned and looked up towards the other person. He was large and tall, wearing a frustrated scowl under a tangled mop of unruly reddish blond hair. Mary could tell by the robe that he was a student of the divinity school, and therefore, had a right to the books housed in the room.
Mary had known fully well that the garment that she wore identified her as an interloper. She tried to draw the cloth closer to her, attempting to hide the differences from view.
He had reached over her shoulder and turned the book in order to read the spine, "Ah, I see that it is."
He had begun to flip through the pages hastily, not bothering to save the place where Mary had begun reading. "And I can also see by the sleeve which you are attempting to hide that you have no need for this book." He was still leaning over her, close enough for her to pick up the warm, masculine scent of his body. "While I --" he located the page he had been seeking, "I have a great need for it."
"You're a devotee of Beveridge as well?" Mary had asked in an awed whisper. She had not met anyone since her cousin Mr. Collins had visited with whom she might hold a rational conversation about the Scriptures.
The man had looked down at her disapprovingly. "Good Heavens, No!" he had exclaimed. "What ever gave you a thought like that?"
"Well, you --" Mary had been surprised. "You are looking at his book."
"So that I can quote him correctly when I refute his statements on the nature of Christian piety and the carrying out of good works!" The man slid the book over to the other side of the table and sat down in front of it, pulling open his own composition book and producing a vial of ink and a pen. "This ignorant man seems to think that the only reason for helping your fellow man is to ensure your Heavenly reward."
"Well," Mary had been confused. "Isn't it?"
The man had rolled his eyes disparagingly. "You've been brainwashed by Beveridge, I see."
"I have not!" Mary had exclaimed angrily, even as she wondered if it might be true. "I am quite capable of thinking for myself!"
The man had looked up, "Then, tell me, why is it that you have come to Cambridge?"
Mary had sat back in her chair, half shocked by the impertinence of such a question, half stunned by the fact that she couldn't think of an easy way to explain her motives. She had come to Cambridge to learn something that she could never know as Mary Bennet of Longbourn, certainly. But she had also come to avoid seeing Dr. Townsend and the new Mrs. Townsend blissfully happy in their marriage. Neither reason could be given to a stranger. She thought further.
"Or, didn't you have a reason?" the intrusive young man had asked from across the table. "That's typical of you physicians. You aren't able to admit that you just went into medicine so that you could better tend towards your ailing, gouty relatives, like the common sycophants that you are."
"I am not a sycophant!" Mary had exclaimed.
"Really?" the man had commented, disbelief sounding in his voice.
"Really!"
"So, you haven't been sent to school by your wealthy relations so that you might develop some sort of usefulness, rather than continue to idly spend their money?"
"No." Mary had delivered that syllable in a voice that allowed for no interpretation. She was not pleased by this young man's assumption and she had been on the books at Cambridge long enough to become grateful to the anonymous benefactor who had chosen to support her. She had even managed to learn some degree of gratitude towards Robert Townsend. It would take her at least ten terms at school before she could stand for liscening from the Royal College of Physicians. That is, if she succeeded with her disputations and managed not to faint while viewing the anatomy dissections. Mary knew that she had every right to be grateful to the people who sent her there and wouldn't stand for anyone making light of it.
But if her response had ruffled the pompous young man who had stolen the book from her, he didn't bother to show it. "My mistake," he had said, not sounding as if he really meant it. "I was under the impression that your branch of study was filled with penniless second sons who couldn't stomach the thought of joining the army."
Mary had bristled. "I thought that this was what the clergy was for," she had retorted icily.
"Touché," the man had yawned.
Mary hadn't thought that she had ever met a man as annoyingly self-important as he. "So, what is your opinion of Christian piety and good works, since Beveridge has no doctrinal import for you?" she challenged.
The young man had looked up, fixing his light gray eyes directly on her. "If you really want to know --" he had said cautiously, as he slid his composition book towards her. "You can read my thesis."
Tentatively, Mary had taken it and began to read.
It was a cogent argument, well thought out and persuasive. It attacked the widely held belief that a person should do their Christian duty as a way to store up a greater reward beyond the grave. Rather, this man had posited that people should be involved in good works because they needed to be done.
It was a simple suggestion, but one that Mary knew would be difficult for most people to accept. Society did not want to hear that they should be responsible for those less fortunate than they, or that they should lend assistance simply because it was the right thing to do. Most people needed to see the carrot of a glorious divine future stored up for them before they were willing to act.
She finished the essay and had passed it back to him, noticing that he appeared to be waiting for some sort of response.
"It's very -- idealistic," she had finally said.
He had nodded. "Of course it is," he agreed. "But isn't that what Christianity should be? An attempt to create a Heaven on Earth?"
Mary had not known what to say in response. "You're speaking of an impossibility," she had eventually said.
"And, therefore, why bother?" the man had asked leadingly.
"Well --" Mary had hedged, voice lifting into a question mark. "It does appear to be a daunting prospect."
"That is just what I suspected you'd say," the man had railed at her triumphantly. "If a problem is too difficult, then it should not be tackled. We should all just sit at home and sip our tea and eat our hot buttered scones and try to forget the misery of those less fortunate. Let's all try to forget the meager lives and painful deaths of those that walk past us on the street. We're warm and safe. Is that not enough?"
He had stopped his diatribe only to draw breath and was making ready to launch into it again, when Mary held up her hand.
"How is it that you seem to know so much about the misfortunes of others, Sir? I can't imagine that you have experienced them first hand."
"Oh! No, I was once as innocent as you," the man had explained. "And the genteel members of my family expected me to cheerfully move about their drawing rooms as if the only occupation in my life should be the passing of judgment on the suitable young ladies that were being paraded in front of me."
He had leaned forward again, eyes focused completely on her. It was a gaze so penetrating that Mary had found herself looking away quickly. "And then, I went to London and saw for myself the misfortunes that my family had been able to ignore."
He had gone on to describe the poverty and degradation he found there and what he intended to do about it. "Once I have finished here, I'm going to find a parish in London where I can be of some use and can encourage my parishioners to do the same," he had revealed. "There will be no easy country living to satisfy me -- with my only duty being the gratification of my patron's every whim. There are hundreds of souls just begging to be saved."
Mary had listened to his speech without uttering a word of interruption, not that she could thing of anything to quickly say in response. She had never met someone so zealous, so committed to a cause. "Then, I wish you all the luck in the world," she had finally whispered at the end. "And," she had swallowed in an attempt to gather some courage, "I hope that the souls that you are intent upon saving reside in bodies that are healthy enough to withstand your vigorous cerebral attacks."
It had taken the man a full minute to digest her last statement. Mary remembered quailing in embarrassment while he had sat in silence and stared at her from across the table. She knew that her tendency towards wordiness had often confused her listeners in the past. In fact, she knew that her verbosity had often turned her sisters against the idea of holding discussions with her on more substantial topics. She wished that she knew how to express her thoughts without sounding pompous and self-righteous. "Vigorous cerebral attacks?" he had finally echoed in confusion.
Mary had nodded in affirmation, trying to repair the damage that she had assumed was done. "Surely, the human soul cannot be saved if the body is not strong."
It was apparent that the man had not thought about that. "Well --" he began.
Mary had held her breath as she watched the man consider further, almost daring to hope what the outcome might be. Could she allow herself to imagine further conversations with this exasperating, yet intriguing man? Mary had never found an individual willing to partner her in discussions and debates, Meryton society having always assumed that these conversations would quickly become tiresome and boring. In fact, she had spent most of her girlhood devising arguments in her mind but never giving them voice.
Eventually, the man had spoken. "You bring up an interesting point, Mr. --" he had left space for Mary to fill in a name.
"Benn -- " Mary had begun and quickly caught herself. "Townsend. My name is Thomas Townsend."
"Seth Shackleford." The man had introduced himself. And then, closing his composition book and standing up from the table, he suggested that they talk further over dinner. "There's a small pub in town that serves a good meat pie."
Mary had nodded, too pleased by the idea of starting a friendship to consider the propriety of eating dinner with a man in a pub at the center of town.
Then again -- it hadn't been improper for Thomas Townsend.
And it had been highly unlikely that this Seth Shackleford would ever discover her secret.
But six years and countless conversations later, that's just what happened. Seth had discovered the truth. And it didn't look as if he were going to be able to forgive her for it.
Of course there was another truth that she was still keeping secret: she was in love with him and had been for some time. Self-important and pompous as he often times was, she had fallen in love with him. Could she imagine telling Seth that? Mary shook her head and tried to clear that thought from her mind. What would he have done had he known? Surely it would only horrify him further, to know that the friend that he had trusted and looked towards almost like a younger brother had, for most of their acquaintance, been wishing for a different relationship? She could hardly keep herself from wishing for it: Seth's honesty and straightforward manner was a marked contrast from all the other men that she had ever known, including Robert Townsend. Even her father could not compare to him. No man she had ever known was willing to act on his principles like Seth.
Mary rolled over in her bed, wincing at the pain and feeling hot all over. She was becoming feverish, wasn't she? That was not surprising, considering the injury she had sustained to her side. She pulled up the covers and the nightgown so that she could take a closer look at the wound.
She pulled the bandage away from the skin and regarded the laceration with a critical eye. Mrs. Fenton had done a horrible job of dressing it and it was swelling and reddening from the lack of attention. She would have to do it herself if it were to heal properly.
She wanted to get to her kit of medications and supply of bandages, knowing that there was something that she should give herself to bring the fever down, but not sure that she remembered what that substance was. That was a frightening thought. Was she losing some of her ability to treat ailments? Surely that was the work of the fever, addling her brain, not the work of assuming her original identity.
Mary's confused mind could not be sure. All she knew with any certainty was that she wanted to get out of bed and walk over to her kit, but she couldn't seem to muster enough strength to swing her legs out from under the quilts.
She wondered if Seth or Mrs. Fenton would come if she called. She uttered their names, but it was a weak cry, too thin to penetrate the wooden door. Mary swallowed and wondered how long it would be until they visited her of their own accord.
But she was too feverish to consider that question for very long. She quickly found herself dropping back into unconsciousness.
Chapter 2 A
Author's Note: The resurrectionist info is correct for the time period and comes from the "Cemetery Culture" website (City of the Silent). Pretty wicked, huh? Anatomists weren't provided with legal cadavers until the 1832 Anatomy Act.
"Thomas is what?" John Barrow exclaimed in complete shock, rising involuntarily from his chair.
"Thomas is really a woman," Seth repeated, still having difficulty with the new concept. "Her --" he emphasized that new word, "-- name is Mary Bennet."
"Mary Bennet?" John sat back down behind his desk. "Thomas' name is really Mary Bennet?"
"Yes," Seth affirmed and began to relate all that he had learned from Mary the night before. John Barrow listened intently and with increasing interest to his friend's tale. It had become his practice to listen carefully, not interrupting or dismissing any information as unnecessary, knowing how often the smallest piece could solve a puzzle. It was a well-developed skill that John Thomas Barrow -- serving the public as Mr. John Blevins, private agent of inquiry -- called upon with great frequency.
But he already knew the answer his friend Seth Shackleford was seeking: the whereabouts of the family of Mary Bennet. In fact, he had dined with her brothers-in-law just last week. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Charles Bingley were in town for the season, along with their respective spouses, the two eldest Bennet sisters.
John Barrow had known of the disappearance of Mary Bennet for quite some time. In fact, he could never think of her name without causing a twinge of embarrassment to the professional side of his soul. He had never been able to trace the elusive Mary Bennet for her family. She had vanished into thin air and by the time he was called in to search for her, any trail that had been left was completely cold.
In the end, he had to counsel the family to fear the worst, a painful reality to accept. Accept it they eventually had, but not without any ease, especially on the part of her older sisters, Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy. John Barrow was particularly aware of the guilt that the pair had harbored, both agreeing that Mary might have never come to harm if they had taken better care of her.
John wondered how the two sisters would react to the news that their sister was alive and had been living as a man in London for quite some time. And not just any man, but one of the best trained physicians that John had ever met.
Both John and his wife, Arabella, had reason to be indebted to Dr. Thomas Townsend. Arabella had miscarried their first child and the birth of their second child had proven to be almost as troubled. The midwife that they had called was quickly shown to be too little qualified to handle the breeched delivery. As the situation became desperate, John's assistant, Willie Barton, had volunteered to fetch the doctor from the new parish clinic. He had heard that the young man was able to save quite a few lives in the short months that he had been in London. The man, much to John's relief, returned with Willie and -- with an almost business-like calm and professional methodicalism -- was able to turn the baby around so that it would deliver correctly. Charles William Barrow was now two years old and as fine a little boy as anyone would wish to see. But then, John knew that he had a father's impartiality when it came to being proud of the cheerful little boy with the soft auburn curls and freckles. Thankfully, John thought, Little Charlie took after his mother when it came to appearance and disposition. He wouldn't have wanted to share his sharp, angular features and dark humor with another generation. Arabella had attempted to contradict this, of course, and had told John that she thought the finest feature of her son's face was the dark, heavily lashed eyes that he shared with his father.
Arabella had also recovered quickly, giving John even greater reason to be indebted to the young doctor. John could not countenance losing Arabella: it was a thought too painful to dwell upon.
It had been only natural for John to strike up an acquaintance with Dr. Townsend and his clergyman friend, especially after the service that Dr. Townsend had rendered John's small family. And the two idealistic young pups from Cambridge certainly did need a bit of looking after. John had become quite protective of them during the two years of their acquaintance, using his ever increasing network of influence to ensure that the pair in the parsonage came to no harm.
And now, John would be able to be of more specific use to them. The reunion of Mary with her family would not be difficult to orchestrate -- he could drive Seth over in his carriage after luncheon. They were sure to find at least one of the ladies at home that afternoon. But even as he devised that plan in his mind, he wondered if that was what would be best for the young woman. He couldn't help recalling her professional manner and the quiet pride that she had taken in being able to care for the sick and helpless. If she were to return to her sisters, John was certain that they would not allow her to continue practicing medicine.
"Is this what Mary wants?" John had to ask his friend. "Does she want to return to her family?"
Seth stared incredulously back at John, his large frame sitting inertly in the chair on the other side of the desk. John could tell that he had already considered that question and dismissed it. "It doesn't matter what she wants!" Seth said, the response exploding from lips pressed tightly together. "She can't continue this charade any longer!" He shook his head with vehemence and went on, "Nor can the two of us remain living under the same roof. An unmarried woman living with an unmarried man?" He let the question hang open in the air.
John nodded in agreement. Seth did have a point, but he still couldn't imagine the diligent and careful physician quietly accepting a changed fate.
But the Bennet family did have a right to know where she was.
"Well, you're in luck, Seth." John finally explained. "It just so happens that Mary's sisters are currently in town. Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, I'm sure, will be very glad to see her. I can drive you over to the Darcy townhouse after lunch."
"You're acquainted with them?" Seth's widened eyes registered his surprise. He obviously hadn't expected it to be this simple.
"I was at Eton with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley." John admitted quickly and then changed the subject. He wasn't in the habit of dropping names or making a show of his education. "Why don't you stay for luncheon?"
Seth nodded his acceptance of the offer, still mute from the speed at which things were moving.
"In the meantime, why don't you tell me why you and Thomas --" John stopped and corrected himself, "-- Mary -- were out in the graveyard at night." He suspected that this was an area in which Seth needed assistance as well.
John was not mistaken. Seth looked somewhat relieved as he sat back in his chair. "There were lights moving through the church yard again," he began. "The third time in less than a week."
"The third?" John was surprised.
"The first two times Thomas and I were able to scare them off by shouting loudly," Seth went on. "This time, I decided that we should try to catch one of them."
"That was a dangerous decision," John commented wryly.
Seth shook his head guiltily. "I shouldn't have attempted it. Thomas might not have been harmed."
"So, you walked up behind them?" John questioned.
"And kicked over their lantern and hit one of them on the head with a cane. The other grabbed hold of Thomas, stuck him with a small knife, and hit him over the head. Thomas screamed and blacked out. I ran over to him and they fled. I carried Thomas inside and -- " he stopped, suddenly realizing that he was still referring to his friend by the wrong name. "I mean, I carried Miss Bennet inside."
"And discovered that she wasn't really Thomas Townsend." John concluded, saving him the trouble of explaining what must still be a painful revelation for him. He had noticed that Seth was having difficulty remembering to use her real name. "Have you gone out to the yard since then?"
"This morning," Seth nodded. "Our -- visitors," he smiled weakly at the euphemism. " -- had begun digging up a grave this time. Mary Sutherland's. She died last week and was laid to rest on Saturday."
John reclined further in his chair and propped up his head on the points of his long, slender fingers. "Mary Sutherland?" he mulled the name over in his head, trying to figure out why it sounded somewhat familiar. But then, John was sure that there were at least thirty Mary Sutherlands living in London right now, not to mention twice as many lying under the ground. "Is there any reason you can think of why someone would want to disinter her body?"
Seth shook his head. "None. She was an old woman, ready to pass on. She died peacefully in her sleep and left only a small inheritance to the spinster sister that lived with her."
"No enemies to speak of?" John asked for confirmation.
"Hardly any friends either," Seth furthered. "Thomas, the sexton, the spinster sister, and I were the only mourners at her grave last Saturday."
"You mean Mary," John decided to correct his friend this time.
Seth looked confused, then remembered. "Yes, I meant Miss Bennet was one of the mourners," he shuddered involuntarily.
John watched as the progression of emotions played across Seth's face. It was easy to discern just how difficult this was for him. It was also simple to understand: he had never seen a pair of men so unified in purpose and committed to a shared cause as Seth Shackleford and Thomas Townsend. It was this that made them appear as close as brothers. Seth wouldn't be able to revise his understanding of his friend quickly, if ever.
That was what John feared for the pair: that Seth would never be able to forgive his friend for her duplicity and that the two would be lost to each other for good.
John watched the grief grow in Seth's terribly transparent face, every feeling reflected in his strong features. John felt uncomfortable watching such bare emotion. To save both Seth and himself further pain, John decided the bring him back to the matter at hand. "You said that the grave was disturbed this time?"
Seth nodded, attempting to compose himself. "Yes. But they didn't get that far, only a few feet of dirt were turned over."
"And what does the hole look like?" John asked further. "Is it as large as a casket or just part of one? Was it begun at the foot of the grave or at the head?"
Seth tried to think back, looking a bit perplexed by John's need for such a specific description. "It wasn't as large as the casket. It was perhaps three feet in length and width, situated at the top of the grave."
John nodded, knowing at once what the night visitors had been after. "It sounds as if you were visited by a pair of resurrectionists last night."
"Resurrectionists?" Seth looked as if he had never heard the word before, and certainly not applied in such a way. There would only be one resurrection familiar to him and that one had happened several centuries ago.
"Mary Bennet might know more about this," John replied. "Being trained as a physician, she may have even come into contact with the -- fruits of their labor." Seth's eyes widened in shock at that thought, so John explained quickly. "Anatomists require bodies for study, of course. Students have to observe dissections. How do you think that they get their corpses?"
John watched as Seth turned pale. "You don't mean to tell me that they dig up dead bodies!"
"No, I mean to tell you that they pay money for dead bodies and don't ask any questions about how the corpses were procured," John explained dryly and then went further. "To be honest, I'm surprised that you've never heard of this before. It has been a persistent problem for the sextons and vestrymen at many of the London parishes. Perhaps your own church has just been lucky."
"And our luck has come to an end?" Seth asked dully.
"Well, there are a few solutions to the problem," John said, rising from his chair and going over to the sofa where he had left the morning paper. "You could install a taller fence around the perimeter of the church yard, you could hire a night watchman, you could even go so far as to invest in wrought iron coffins from now on." John picked up the paper and began scanning the advertisements printed within. "Here it is -- Edward Little Bridgman's iron works. It says that they have patented a coffin lid that is impervious to sledgehammer blows." John handed the paper to Seth, who took it and tried to turn his attention towards the page of information. "That's what they do, you know." John said, leaning on the side of his desk as Seth read the ad. "They dig a small hole down to the top of the wooden casket, break into it with a sledgehammer, and drag the body out by the shoulders. There's no need to expose the whole coffin. A good team of resurrectionists can have a body out of the ground in less than thirty minutes."
Seth thrust the paper away, hand raking through his overly long, bright colored hair in frustration and disgust. John felt momentarily uneasy and a bit sorry for having delivered the information with such brutal honesty. But Seth was in London now and could no longer afford to be such a little innocent. Still, his heart went out to the young fool, making him feel even more protective of the man.
"There is another option," John revealed and watched as Seth's face turned towards him guardedly. "I have a few -- friends," he said, choosing that word specifically, "who might be able to locate these resurrectionists and -- talk to them for you."
"You mean --" Seth began, gulping.
"They could be persuaded to leave your church alone." John finished for him, running his thumb unconsciously along a thin, white scar that ran from the bottom of one ear down to his neck, a memento from a meeting with a thick knife in a narrow alleyway. It was an odd habit, of which John himself was not aware. It was as if his mind liked to remind itself of the consequences that were all too frequently attached to the odd profession that he had chosen -- if one could even call it a profession. Generally, he tried to obscure the ugly mark under a tall neckcloth and hair hanging longer than he would have kept it had he not something to hide. "These men generally have a good head for business. They always know what is in their best interests."
Seth nodded, looking as if he were sickened by John's thinly veiled suggestion, and the added threat of personal injury from the scar. John knew that Seth abhorred violence and what John was proposing probably offended his sense of Christian charity and forgiveness. "All right," he consented eventually, closing his eyes to the brutality of it, and pulling slightly at the collar around his neck, as if he were trying to widen his windpipe in order to receive a better supply of air. "That sounds like a good plan."
John shook his head at the sight of his young friend trying to compose himself and felt sorry for him once again. It wasn't every day that a man had to confront two difficult new concepts. He planned to do all he could for the struggling boy, beginning with the introduction to Mary Bennet's family. He could send his assistant Willie Barton out to find Tim Scoggins while he was attending to Seth and Miss Bennet. Scoggins, John was sure, would know just how to get in touch with these resurrectionists. He might even be of use in leaning on them a bit. The dodgy, half criminal could always be counted on for his finesse when it came to dealing with the less-than-honest businessman.
"How about a drink?" John suggested to the clergyman, going over to a decanter of claret that he kept in the room.
"Before lunch?" Seth looked at John incredulously.
"Just this once." John affirmed. "I think that you need one."
Chapter 2 B
Mary had spent the entire night passing from sleep into consciousness and back again. Her head felt as if it had rocks tumbling around within it and she couldn't change positions without imagining that her side were going to split open. The bandage that had been placed over the knife wound had fallen down and Mrs. Fenton hadn't been by to change it. It had begun bleeding again, staining the sheets with patches of drying blood.
It appeared to be early afternoon by the light streaming through the windows before Mary felt strong enough to attempt a change of the dressing herself. Grunting in pain, she pulled her legs from under the covers and planted her feet on the floorboards. The cold wood was almost a welcome change from the heat of the messy bed, but Mary knew that the sweat that was standing out on her brow would chill her even further. She had to dress quickly.
But speed was not something that Mary had in her power. Her limbs felt heavy and all movements were labored. She had to rest after accomplishing even the smallest gesture. With all the breaks between tasks, it took her the greater part of an hour to discard Mrs. Fenton's nightdress, redress the wound, and pull on a pair of pants and shirt. The waistcoat, neckcloth, and jacket seemed more trouble than they were worth to Mary. She left them in the closet along with the small pair of leather shoes that had been made for her just last week, the cobbler commenting on the surprising size of her feet just as he always did. He was very quick to joke about Mary's diminutive size, as was the tailor and the barber she patronized.
Mary closed the closet door and sat on the edge of the bed. Thankfully, Mrs. Fenton hadn't decided to destroy the contents of her wardrobe last night. The parsonage housekeeper could be very vengeful when crossed -- especially when it appeared as if she had been played for a fool. Mary assumed that this was the reason why she hadn't bothered to check on her that morning, not even bringing her something to eat or drink at breakfast.
Seth hadn't visited either, something that hurt more than Mrs. Fenton's blatant disregard for her needs. She knew that he had been upset by her revelation, but Mary still held out some hope that he might, in time, forgive her. He was a good man and brave when he needed to be. Mary had never known him to turn away from things just because they're difficult.
But this might be more than even Seth could bear. Last night, his resolution to find her family and return her to them had been quite strong. Perhaps that was where he had gone that morning. But he wouldn't be able to find them in a morning, would he? Not unless he had gone to ask for help from John Barrow. Mary's heart sank. John was acquainted with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley! It would take the intelligent private inquirer no time at all for him to make the connection!
Mary swallowed, placing all her hope in the idea that Seth hadn't thought about going to John that morning. She had to have more time!
But more time to do what? Convince Seth not to send her back to her family? And what would happen after that? Even if he agreed to let Mary continue on with her masquerade, Mrs. Fenton would never play along. Mrs. Fenton would think herself far too moral to continue to allow a young woman to pretend to be a man in order to continue her work at the clinic. Mrs. Fenton thought herself quite proper in her own judgmental way.
Mary wondered if she shouldn't just leave the parsonage as quickly as possible and disappear once again. London was a very large town, wasn't it? And there were other places besides London. She could go to America, couldn't she? She was sure that there were many in that new nation who would be glad of her skills and wouldn't ask too many personal questions. But even as that thought formed in her mind, Mary began to realize that she would never get that far. She felt unequal to the task of walking into the kitchen in order to find something to drink. How was she supposed to pack a valise and throw on a jacket so that she could put several miles between herself and Seth Shackleford's parish before dusk.
In fact, all she felt equal to was crawling back into bed. Her brain was too muddled to form a plan that had any possibility of succeeding. She leaned her aching head against the bed post, beginning to feel exhausted from attempting to make sense of the thoughts that were sliding through her mind.
The sound of the front door opening caught her attention. Was Seth returning? Would he come to see her?
She didn't have that long to wait. Her bedroom door opened and Seth stood in the entrance. "Seth," she nearly gasped, somewhat relieved to see her friend. Her relief quickly turned into chagrin however, when she recognized the two people standing with him: John Barrow and her sister Elizabeth. Seth had gone to John Barrow, hadn't he? It was too late to escape now.
"Mary," Elizabeth came forward slowly and with some trepidation, almost as if she were approaching a strange and exotic animal. Her eyes narrowed, investigating further. "Mary, do you remember me?"
Mary felt like rolling her eyes deprecatingly at her older sister, but it seemed like too much of an effort. "Of course I remember you," she tried to spit out angrily, but the words came out as a thin slur. Her tongue became tied up on her sister's name so it came out in one long hiss "Lizzzzzzzz." It didn't look as if she was going to have the energy to put up much of a fight.
"She's delirious, Sir," the voice of Mrs. Fenton rang out over the small crowd at the door. Mary turned and saw the housekeeper trying to wriggle her large frame past the men and into the room. "Look, she's dressed herself in them clothes again!"
"Took me long enough," Mary attempted to scold Mrs. Fenton, but the words were hardly intelligible. "Where were you to stop me?" John Barrow made his decision and entered the room, walking quickly over to Mary and felt her forehead with the palm of his hand. The cool skin against her own hot brow was almost comforting. "Ahhhh," Mary exhaled, finding some relief.
"She has a fever!" John turned towards the others, "She's ill!"
Mrs. Fenton pursed her lips into a pout. "Well, I shouldn't wonder at that. Gallivanting around as she's done, pretending to be a man. Shameful, it is."
"No," Mary heard John retort, letting his hand drop from her forehead, but keeping a protective hold on her shoulder. "What's shameful is the fact that you've neglected her all morning. Where's her breakfast tray? Didn't you even bring her some something to drink?"
Through lids that seemed to be becoming even more heavy, Mary could see that Mrs. Fenton appeared slightly contrite. Mary wanted to ask for some water, but the task seemed to great and her reserve of energy to meager. She felt herself starting to slump over onto the floor.
John caught her, putting both of his hands under her arms and dragging her back onto the bed. "We need to get her some medical attention," she heard him address the others.
There was a moment of silence and then Mary heard Elizabeth's voice break in, "Bring her to the carriage. You can send one of the men to fetch our physician while we take her home."
"Home?" Mary gasped aloud, frightened. She wanted to shout that she was home and that she wanted to stay at the parsonage, but the words wouldn't come. What home was Elizabeth speaking of?
"I'll carry her out," she heard Seth mumble, from a distance away. Then, she heard his heavy footsteps come towards her and his large arms gathered her up. She knew that she should attempt to put her arms around his neck to make it easier on him to carry her weight, but she couldn't seem to manage it. She felt herself being lifted from the bed and slowly walked out of the room. She tried to look around to see where they were going, but her eyes wouldn't focus.
She couldn't seem to do anything that she wanted. She was completely powerless. "No," she heard herself attempt to say, but it came out as a sob.
Seth Shackleford leaned back in the carriage as it pulled away from the Darcy townhouse. He rested his head for a moment and closed his eyes, wishing that he could find a way to reverse time and return to the day before. Life had been so much easier yesterday. Thomas was still Thomas, the friend that he trusted above all others, the constant companion of his life, the person that he could be counted on to take a share of all the work.
Today, he just had more work, no friend to share in it with, and a bundle of complicated emotions. He sighed loudly.
"Should I take you back to the parsonage?" a voice asked from the opposite seat. "Or would you like to have dinner with Arabella and myself?" Seth opened his eyes and noticed that John Barrow was regarding him carefully, concern playing across his face. "You're most welcome to join us."
Seth shook his head, declining the offer. "Thank you, but I do have a few things to take care of yet today. The sexton has to be informed about the damage done by the -- resurrectionists," Seth still had trouble with that term. The word used to describe the miracle of the Lord's rising from the tomb should not be used to describe such insidious criminal activity! He was sure that his friend John hadn't coined it, though. Regardless of his odd profession, Seth had always found John Barrow to be a man of high moral character and respectability. "A digger will have to be called in to refill the hole," he finished.
John nodded his agreement. "And I'll be checking into the identities of your night visitors for you."
Seth smiled thinly. "I don't suppose you could also help me identify any young physicians or surgeons willing to take Thomas' place at the parish clinic?" The joke fell flat, though. There was no mirth in such an idea.
John cocked his head to one side, regarding his friend sadly. "Do you really feel that she needs to be replaced?" he asked.
"Of course!" Seth was surprised. "She's no longer capable of running the clinic."
"Because she's a woman," John concluded.
"Who would trust a woman to take care of the sick?" Seth asked.
"Countless families around the country," John mused, "-- who can't afford to call in a physician for every little illness. The mothers and sisters and daughters are frequently the ones who play the part of nurse in the sickroom. Arabella is the one who takes care of Little Charlie when he has a cold, not me." John laughed quietly at a private memory, "She was the unfortunate one who had to take care of me when I fell ill last year." Seth wished that he felt like joining him in the joke. Seth remembered hearing from Arabella that John had been a very trying patient, unwilling to lay quietly in bed when he wanted to be out doing things. Arabella had spent most of her time physically pushing John back onto his pillow, reprimanding him sternly for giving her so much trouble.
"But it was a physician that you called in when Arabella's life was in danger during Charlie's birth." Seth reminded his friend pointedly. "The midwife wasn't able to cope with such a difficult problem."
John appeared stunned by his friend's reasoning. "Seth --" he began. "It was Mary that was able to help us when no one else could."
"It was Thomas Townsend," Seth corrected.
"They're the same person!" John returned loudly and with some frustration. "I don't see why you can't accept that!"
Seth closed up, not sure of what to say.
Eventually, John went on, a calm voice trying to reason with a young child. "You're allowing yourself to throw something beautiful away simply because it doesn't fit into the normal pattern that society has laid out. It bothers me to see you dismiss Thomas' abilities because they belong to a woman instead of a man."
Seth bit his lip in frustration and looked out the window.
"And what's worse," John went on, "You're dismissing your friendship as well. How can you do that? Thomas has stood by you for the last two years, he gave up his own comfort to join you in London, he served the needs of your parishioners with tireless energy, and now that we've discovered that Thomas is really a woman, you walk away from her!"
"But she lied to me! She lied to us all!" Seth retorted sharply.
"She had a reason for doing so." John shrugged his shoulders. "I might have done the same had I been in her shoes."
"That doesn't make it right!"
"It doesn't make it wrong either." John shook his head with some disgust and leaned forward, eyes focused directly on Seth's face. "Listen," he went on slowly, "I'm only going to say this once. What you are doing is wrong. It's wrong for you, it's wrong for your parishioners, and it is certainly wrong for her!"
Seth inhaled sharply and tried to think of some response. Breath caught in his mouth and waited while he searched for an argument to make. Nothing came. Eventually he exhaled without saying a word.
Chapter 2 C
Little Charlie having been put to bed, John shared dinner with Arabella in the parlor. It had become their habit to eat these intimate dinners around a table smaller than the one kept in the dining room. In fact, they hardly used the dining room at all, not having the opportunity to give many dinner parties. Their circle of friends was quite small and both he and Arabella were content with its size. Neither felt as if they had anyone to impress.
Which was a helpful philosophy to have, considering the somewhat indefinable and barely discernible status the couple held in society. As the unacknowledged son of a peer, John had begun his education in the schoolroom with the other sons of gentlemen and had finished it as an apprentice to his predecessor, learning everything that he might need to know in order to serve as an agent for hire, capable of dealing with any affairs that had become too difficult or embarrassing to be handled by a regular solicitor. Of course, John billed his services at a higher rate than most solicitors, considering the sensitive and occasionally dangerous matters with which he was entrusted, and found himself paid quickly by his grateful and generally relieved patrons. John had managed to acquire a tidy fortune through his diligent efforts on the behalf of his social betters and was quite able to keep a nicely-appointed house in one of London's older, less-fashionable neighborhoods as well as a carriage. So, while John found himself equal financially to those able to afford his services, he would never find himself on the same level socially.
Especially not after he had taken the daughter of a tradesman as a wife. And that was all that Arabella was to most people: the daughter of a Mr. Smith who owned a shop in Cheapside. Arabella was even known to have worked behind the counter of that shop: selling umbrellas and walking sticks to gentlemen and would-be gentlemen alike.
Of course, the fact that Arabella was an assistant to her shop-keeper father didn't matter a bit to John when he had first walked into the store, looking for a pair of gloves to purchase. The auburn-haired woman had caught his fancy, and he found himself returning frequently, manufacturing excuses about lost gloves and disappearing walking sticks. Her father used to joke that he would have been put out of business but for John's constant absentmindedness. As it was, Arabella was still discovering never-used pairs of gloves tucked away in different corners of their house.
Arabella helped John to a portion of beef, prepared by the cook that she had hired to replace Mrs. Barton just last month, and asked him how Elizabeth Darcy had taken the news that her sister had been found. It was only fitting that she should be concerned: Elizabeth was one of the few people Arabella counted among her list of friends that need not need be impressed.
"She bore it very well," John considered. "Of course, she was shocked at the beginning, but tried to recover from it quickly," he smiled when he remembered how immediately she had wanted to be off to see her sister. "You should have seen how hastily she made her good-byes to Lady Metcalfe, who was taking tea with her at the time. I'm sure that that lady felt as if she was being shoved out of the door."
Arabella giggled at that. "Lady Metcalfe was very understanding, I'm sure."
"Yes, very." John agreed with a smile, recalling that the woman had become so flustered by Elizabeth's lack of manners that she had actually upset her teacup and stained her gown. "I certainly hope that Elizabeth wasn't courting Lady Metcalfe's favor for any reason. The woman left positively livid with anger. It will be quite some time before the Darcys have an invitation from her again."
"They'll probably be able to bear the deprivation," Arabella said dryly. "If the woman can't understand how Elizabeth must have felt hearing the news that her sister has been found. Would you like for me to visit them tomorrow?" Arabella questioned.
John nodded, glad that his wife was so perceptive. He had to admit to becoming quite concerned for Mary's condition on the carriage ride from the parsonage to the Darcy townhouse. "Although I'm not sure if you'll be able to see her. Perhaps you ought to delay one day. Mary will probably still be in bed tomorrow. Her mind was completely taken over by the fever, and she was as weak as a kitten. Seth had to carry her out of the parsonage."
"How is Mr. Shackleford handling this?" Arabella asked further.
"Very badly," said John and went on to explain, "It seems as if he wants nothing to do with her now that she is no longer Thomas Townsend. He's completely dismissed her abilities as a physician, not to mention their friendship!"
Arabella sighed, "He's probably hurting right now," she said, shaking her head. "This can't be easy for him."
"This can't be easy for her!" John exclaimed. "And the abandonment of her closest friend hasn't made it any easier. She's the one who deserves our sympathy."
"I think that they both deserve our compassion," Arabella said softly. "This has been a huge blow to Mr. Shackeford's well-ordered life. You know that he's not the type of person who handles change easily."
John thought back over the last two years, little instances coming to mind that would agree with Arabella's concept of him.
"For heaven's sake, John, how many times have we suggested that he dismiss Mrs. Fenton and find a more capable housekeeper, and yet he still keeps her on and hopes that she'll improve?"
John had to agree to that. In the two years since he had moved to London, Seth had never attempted to find a more suitable parsonage housekeeper, preferring to suffer through Mrs. Fenton's cooking and cleaning rather than deal with the difficulty of finding a better. The known evil, Seth had defended himself once, is almost always better than the unknown one.
John would have admitted to Arabella that she was correct and he was wrong, something that he had learned to do quite often in the six years since they had been married, but was prevented by a knock at the door. Simmons, John's valet and butler, appeared a moment later. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr. Barton is here and wishes to see you immediately." Simmons' well-regulated demeanor showed some signs of irritation. "I put him in your study."
"Did he say what he wanted?" John asked his man, somewhat surprised. Willie Barton, John's new assistant, generally judged better than to interrupt his employer at dinner.
"I believe that it has something to do with Mr. Scoggins," Simmons replied tersely, his features showing some disapproval of that man as he uttered his name. It was an almost imperceptible change, though, just a subtle downturn of the mouth as he formed the syllables for the name 'Scoggins.' Anyone who did not already know the butler's opinion of this man would have never been able to read it. But John happened to know that there weren't many people living in London that irked Simmons more than Mr. Tim Scoggins. And Simmons' opinion of the man wouldn't be improved by whatever Scoggins had done to upset Willie Barton. John happened to know that Simmons felt even more protective than John did of the young man that they had both known since he was a young boy, and had, until recently, served as footman on Simmons' staff. Willie was the grandson of John's cook, Mrs. Barton, who had died just last month.
Leaving his napkin on his chair and most of his dinner cooling on his plate, John followed Simmons out of the parlor and went down the hall to his study and found Willie sitting rigidly on the sofa, face glowering darkly -- a shade John had not often seen in his assistant's face. That young man was more inclined to grin without a reason and whistle without knowing what he did. Or, at least he had been inclined to display a cheerful countenance. The death of his grandmother had effected a change on him. He had become quite serious and very determined to prove himself a capable right hand man to John. That had been Barrow's last promise to Mrs. Barton -- that he would take Willie on as an assistant and train him up as Sir John Murdock had once done for him. It was a position much better than the one that he had occupied in John's house, and both Willie and his grandmother had been properly thankful for the elevation.
"Willie?" John asked as he walked into the room.
"He wouldn't talk to me," Willie seethed.
"He wouldn't talk to you," John echoed, not too surprised. He should have foreseen that the unscrupulous, often criminal man that he kept in reserve for the jobs that required a thorough understanding of the seedier side of London's east end, would not want to work with Willie. Scoggins did not deal with intermediaries. He talked to the man at the top or not at all. John had been hoping for a better outcome, though.
"Well, that's not exactly true," Willie qualified, voice beginning to rise in consternation. "He told me exactly what he thought of me and then went through all the reasons why he wasn't in the mood to talk to an underling such as myself. Then he asked me exactly what the business was that had made me so impertinent as to seek his assistance. When I told him about the resurrectionists bothering Mr. Shackleford's parish, he reminded me that, while he could easily discover the whereabouts of such men, he wasn't about to do it for the likes of me!"
"But you did manage to tell him about the resurrectionists?" John asked.
"Yes," Willie affirmed hurriedly and went on, "Then, he told me that he might happen by your normal meeting spot in the course of the morning tomorrow, and, if you wished to give him instructions, he might be willing to hear them then."
John shook his head, amused by the way that Scoggins had been able to direct the situation without making Willie suspicious. John was pretty sure that Scoggins would be on the case right now and would tell him whatever he had discovered about the resurrectionists tomorrow morning in the course of their meeting. This information, of course, would be couched within long strings of righteous indignation on having sent Willie to seek him out in the first place.
Young Tim Scoggins would have to get used to dealing with Willie Barton, however. John would make that clear tomorrow: if he wished to continue their mutually-beneficial working relationship, he would have to become a little less exclusive in terms of from whom he accepted orders.
But John would have to be diplomatic about it. Scoggins was too useful a connection to lose, and John feared that the young man was all too aware of this.