Chapter Thirty-Six

Dear Miss Mary B –

I hope you will forgive the presumption. I have asked the editors of the Weekly Register to forward this missive to you. I just wanted to offer you my sincerest admiration and respect for your well-reasoned and skillfully argued letter of January 16th. Your thesis that the practice of limiting people’s opportunities for success due wholly to an accident of birth is damaging to our nation, both because of the inherent individual inequity which bleeds away the impetus to thrive for the common man and the untold costs of the ongoing loss of untapped talent on both the economic and military welfare of our nation …

Mr. Henry More, St. Albans

Dear Miss Mary B.

I was most gratified to receive your kind personal response to my previous communication. I am curious as to your thoughts on Lady Caroline’s most recent article in the Register. I wonder if she fully realizes the plight of the non-gifted. Even that term forces us to refer to ourselves only in reference to them, unless we accept their insulting appellations …

Mr. Henry More, St. Albans

Dear Miss Mary B.

I appreciate your desires to achieve progress without chaos. I just wonder how possible it is. And if the fear of repercussions should cause us to hesitate to push for change. I am not suggesting that these ExtraOrdinaries have the right idea, or at least I cannot say the extent to which they take their methods are at all acceptable, but …

Mr. Henry More, St. Albans

Dear Miss Mary B.

I cannot imagine how difficult it must be for you to be treated so unfairly by the rest of your family, simply because you were born sharing the characteristics with ninety-seven percent of the kingdom’s population. Including your mother and her family. It is so unfortunate that your own unique talents and intellect are so overshadowed by your sisters’ gifts. Your letters in the Register demonstrate a strength of character and a keen wit, with which no mere gift can compare …

Mr. Henry More, St. Albans

Dear Miss Mary B.

I must wonder if these Mohock attacks are a true reflection of the feelings of a majority of the gifted towards the normal population. I would hope not, but how can one be certain? It may just be another example of how we are exploited and repressed by our overlords. For example, I know of one man, possibly the greatest genius of my acquaintance, whose tremendous talent is wasted as the clerk to a highly placed government official. He could perform his boss’ role so much better than the old man, but is limited BY LAW to menial tasks. I apprehend that your potentialities are being equally discounted …

Mr. Henry More, St. Albans

Mary set down the latest communication from Mr. More. She was not certain that she agreed with his solutions to the problems they both recognized. He seemed to take a more strident stance on the need for direct action to raise the awareness of the issue among the general populous. She was more of the opinion that education and noncooperation might be more appropriate approaches.

As she strolled on the shaded lane, she pondered the tale he had told of his acquaintance in the government. She knew what it was like to have her prospects limited by the accident of her birth. Most recently, while she found Mr. Collins personally repugnant, she was mortified that neither he nor her mother had given her any contemplation in his obvious quest to marry a daughter of Longbourn. That he settled on Lizzy was no real surprise. But that she was not even considered was hurtful.

Her musings were abruptly curtailed upon her discovery of Lydia and Lieutenant Wickham walking together on the road to Meryton. Her youngest sister’s face was flushed with some excitement.

“Lydia?” she asked. She knew that Father had forbidden all of them having any intercourse with this particular officer, though his reasons had not been made plain.

“Mary!” Lydia exclaimed.

“Remember what I said,” Mr. Wickham urged Lydia. He then offered Mary a friendly smile and a bow, and took his leave.

“You know Father has made that man persona non grata,” Mary chided.

“Oh … um …”

“Come, walk with me.” Mary took her younger, but taller, sister’s arm and tried to lead her in to the gardens. At first Lydia resisted, and with her physical enhancements, she proved impossible for Mary to compel. Then the younger girl relented and let herself be led. “Why were you with him?”

“We were just talking.”

“About what?”

“Well …” From Lydia’s countenance and address it was obvious to Mary that she had some secret she was anxious to share.

“He did not insult you, or impose upon you in some way, did he?” Mary sounded scandalized, though she truly felt her youngest sister impervious to insult and resistant to most forms of imposition.

“Oh no! Nothing of the sort.” Lydia actually snorted. “Quite the opposite, I assure you. He’d heard of my conduct during the battle at Netherfield. It appears that it’s been reported up the chain of command and he’s been ordered by his superiors to approach me about a secret plan the War Office is considering.”

“The War Office?”

“Yes. Mr. Wickham said that they’ve a shortage of gifted soldiers to fight the French and are considering a special unit made up of gifted female fighters.” Lydia stopped and grasped both of Mary’s hands in hers. “He was offering me the possibility of a position in this new, elite unit!”

She sounded so pleased with herself. Mary had to pry her hands free and turned her back on her sister. “This is just another example of how the government is overly focused on the importance of gifts.”

“What do you mean? They want gifted fighters to fight the French gifted soldiers. Nulls can’t fight the gifted. Everyone knows that.”

“No, everyone does not know that!” Mary whirled to face her sister. “Very few gifts can withstand a musket ball. Sir William was invalided out of the army because he was injured by a cannon ball fired by a non-gifted soldier. Generals Moore and Le Marchant were both killed by non-gifted enemies. There is no reason that, if they are opening the services to women, that all women should not be allowed to serve. It’s just more of the same foolishness!”

“You’re the one being foolish. Of course, nulls can’t serve like this. Not even all gifted can. He said I was special.”

“Arrgh!” Mary threw her hands up in frustration and stomped away. She knew that if she stayed, she would say something she would latter regret. She knew Lydia’s attitude was neither uncommon nor deliberated. But it showed how far the Ordinaries had to go to get through to the gifted population, as they were the ones that controlled the decision-making instruments of the nation.

Her angry ruminations lead her to the bookstore in Meryton. This was one of her sanctuaries. While her father and sister Elizabeth were both great readers, they had their own preferred places and did not look upon the shop as a refuge in the same way she did. It helped that the owner, Mr. Heathcliff, was a staunch Ordinary. In fact, it was he that first introduced her to the ideas of the movement and encouraged her development as a freethinker.

“Miss Mary! How good to see you!” Mr. Heathcliff said. He was sitting at the low table around which he had situated several comfortable chairs. Seated with him were three gentlemen. Two were familiar to Mary – Mr. Greely and Mr. Lawrence; two men from the neighborhood who were involved in the Ordinary movement. They would frequently meet informally to discuss the issues of the day. The third man was unknown to her. He was a well-dressed man in his late twenties. He was looking at her. Mr. Heathcliff noticed and made the introduction. “Mr. More has come to Meryton to discuss a monograph he is preparing for eventual publication. Mr. More, this is Miss Mary Bennet of Longbourn. She is an ideal person to offer you criticism on your scholarly efforts.”

“Miss Mary B?” Mr. More suggested. Mary was surprised to see her correspondent, but wondered if it might be him when she heard his name.

“Mr. More. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mary offered. “I do not believe you had mentioned that you were preparing a monograph. What is the topic?”

“I am writing on the cost of the wasted potential of British normals in the last century, as illustrated through three cases.”

“Who are the illustrative cases you are presenting?”

“I am still deciding between five or six likely people, some military, some political, and one mercantile genius.”

“And how are you determining the cost of the person to the nation?” asked Mr. Lawrence, an older gentleman who managed a small bank in Hatfield.

The discussion continued with all five participants offering opinions and ideas. After an hour, Mr. Greely had to return to his office at Ashworth and Mr. Lawrence realized that he too had afternoon appointments. As the impromptu gathering disbanded, Mr. More turned to Mary, “Might I request the pleasure of your company for a turn about the town?”

“The weather is conducive to a stroll.” Mary was not sure what to make of the man. They stepped out and Mary hesitantly took his arm when he offered it.

“I must say it is thrilling to meet you in person,” Mr. More stated. “I find it most agreeable to have such a face to put to the intellect displayed in your writing.”

“Thank you. I admit I was surprised to see you at Mr. Heathcliff’s. I do not recall seeing you there before.”

“I have not been in the area long. I moved to St. Albans only a few months ago. I recently heard of Mr. Heathcliff and began a correspondence with him. Our meeting there was entirely coincidental, though fortuitous.”

“How so?”

“I felt our correspondence had reached a rather delicate point. Given the topic of our discussions, I felt hesitant to offer further suggestions through such an insecure means of communication.”

“I am not sure I understand you.”

“You seemed troubled when you arrived at the shop this morning. If I might ask, what had caused your distress? I inquire because, from your taking sanctuary in Mr. Heathcliff’s domain, I assume that you were upset by something dealing with the repression of normal people.”

Mary looked at him for a moment, remembering the frustration she had felt after her encounter with Lydia. “I was simply upset with my family. What has that to do with our correspondence?”

“Your family, with whom I am familiar, though I did not know of your connection with them, are some of the leading examples of the system that stifles the normal folk in this area. I’d imagine you are intimately familiar with their paternalistic ‘care’ for the tenets and the draconian enforcement of the despotic domination of the ruling class.”

“Mr. More!”

“Please forgive my candor, but you must be aware of these facts. I have seen it in your letters. I’d imagine one of your sisters was flaunting her gift over you or your mother. That was likely what had enraged you this morning. I want to help you find a way to free yourself from the shackles of your repression. Please let me help you.” He looked at her with burning eyes and clutched her hand to his sleeve.

She pried herself free of him and said, “Mr. More, I think you may be under a misapprehension. While I do not always agree with them, I am loyal to my family and will not hear them spoken of in such terms. I am afraid I must return home. I bid you a good day and safe travels back to St. Albans.”

She made certain he was not following her as she proceeded towards the safety of her home.

Upon her return to Longbourn, Mary was troubled. She was concerned that there was something untoward about Mr. More. It was possible that he was simply passionate about both his politics and his bourgeoning sentiments for Mary. But she doubted that somehow. After a time of pondering the possibilities, she realized that she needed to share her concerns with someone whose thoughts she respected and that she could trust. With Elizabeth in London, there was only one choice.

“Father, May I speak with you?”

“Mary? Please come in? How can I help you?”

“I have a very serious problem, perhaps two. One of them is I am not certain I trust you enough to talk about the other.”

Her father blinked several times. Then frowned. “I am sorry that I have not shown you that you can trust me. That has been a failing on my part.” He sighted heavily, then rose from his desk and walked around the room. He touched on several objects and artifacts he had displayed. He stopped, his hand resting on a worn piece of cloth under glass. “Perhaps I can show you that I trust you with my secrets. That may help you trust me with yours.”

She sat back and nodded.

“When you were only four years old, a year after Lydia was born, your mother bore me a son.”

Mary straightened in her chair. This was nothing she had ever known.

“Henry Bennet was born with green scaly skin and buds that would likely grow into wings and a tail.”

“No.”

“And, in accordance with the law, I took him to Liverpool.”

“You banished your own son?”

“It was the hardest thing I have ever done. And the thing I most regret in a life with more regrets than most. It is said that even the young Prince was brought to the Isle of Mann some decades ago. They say he still rules the tiny kingdom of the grotesques. After I left Liverpool, having abandoned my son to those that would bring him to that accursed island, I could not return to Longbourn. My grief was too great. I would have taken it out on my wife and daughters, though it was none of your fault. Instead I left the country. I was in Switzerland when an old friend found me. He needed my help. You know my gift. Whiskey found a way to use it in aid of the war effort. I spent almost a year in the Vendée providing intelligence support to Royalist forces fighting against the Revolution. It was a horrible period.”

“Eventually I’d had enough death to numb even my grief and shame. I returned to Hertfordshire.”

“I remember your return. I had no idea where you had been or for how long, but we were all so pleased to have you home.” Mary recalled.

“And now you know. None of your sisters know, nor does your mother share in all the details. I hope my telling you this may help you feel more comfortable in sharing your woes with me.”

“It does. And it may be more pertinent to our current situation than you might imagine.” Mary said.

“How so?”

“Give me one moment please.” She left and a shorty returned with a handful of letters. “These are from a man with whom I have been corresponding in regards to my letters in the Weekly Register. As I have been hiding my identity, I did not feel the communication too improper.”

“Hmm…” her father commented noncommittally.

“But today the author of the letters was at Mr. Heathcliff’s shop. We met formally and spoke for some little while. I have some concerns that he may not be what he purports himself to be. I wonder if your gift might tell you anything more about him.” She held out the letters. Her father took them and started holding them between his hands, one at a time. His eyes glowed.

After some minutes of his silent examination he turned to Mary. “These were written by a man using an alias. His real name is Richard Cranmer, and he is malicious in his intent. He means harm to you or yours. I cannot be more specific. Though if you were to bring me some personal article of his I could find out more.”

“He signs himself Henry More. I think … I suspect he might be involved with the ExtraOrdinaries and their attacks here in Hertfordshire.”

“Henry More … an historical allusion. I wonder that he would take that risk. It leads me to believe he is not a professional agent but an amateur or dilatant. I must admit I consider myself the latter when it comes to espionage.”

“What should we do? The direction on his letters is in St. Albans. He obviously knows where I live.”

“Thank you for trusting me to help you in this. Now I think it is time for me to send a letter.” Her father wrapped one arm around her and offered her his comfort. She reveled in the warmth that she had been denying herself for far too long.