“She’ll walk all over poor Angus.”
“I very much fear that you’re right about that. Yes, she’s changed in many ways, but she’s still the one-sided, stubborn and determined creature she always was.”
“Give thanks for one thing, Elizabeth. That Charlie told her she screeched. Think of the songs we have been spared!” R as a formal chairman, Fitz held a roundtable conference about the gold. Present were Elizabeth, Jane, Kitty, Mary, Angus, Charlie, Mr. Matthew Spottiswoode and Fitz himself. He explained very carefully to the four ladies that each had a vote, that each lady’s vote was the equal of a gentleman’s, and that, since Mr. Spottiswoode owned no vote, their votes therefore were in the majority: they could, if united, outvote the gentlemen four to three. This confused Jane and Kitty, but thrilled Elizabeth and Mary. It appeared, however, that despite refusing to act as a chairman, Fitz had every intention of conducting the meeting. He rapped a paperweight on the literally round table.
“Each orphanage will be known as a Children of Jesus orphanage, and we will be known as their Founders, with a capital F. Since we have an odd number of votes—seven—it’s not necessary to have a formal Chairman Founder,” Fitz announced.
Flutters and whispers broke out.
Fitz rapped the paperweight.
Silence fell.
“There are one thousand and twenty-three ingots of gold, each weighing ten pounds,” Fitz said, rather like a schoolmaster. “To Matthew’s and my surprise, we discovered that Father Dominus chose avoirdupois for his ingots, not troy weight, which is customary for precious metals. Therefore the ingots weigh a full sixteen ounces to the pound, instead of twelve ounces, which is troy weight. This increases their value by one-quarter or four ounces. A druggist as skilled as Father Dominus must have known what he was doing. My theory is that he cast an ingot of a weight no government would, and also of a portable weight. Even a child can carry ten pounds avoirdupois.”
“He made the children carry it, you imply?” Mary asked.
“Within the caves, certainly.” He waited for other remarks, then went on. “Because of her vast colonies and trade routes, our own Britain is the source of the gold for a number of European countries desirous of establishing a gold-based currency. They buy the gold from Britain.”
“How do you pay for gold?” Charlie asked.
“With raw materials and other goods Britain needs but cannot produce. Coal we have aplenty, but our iron is running out, so are our supplies of steeling metals and copper. We cannot grow enough grain to feed the populace anymore—the list is virtually endless. However, gold is in short supply too, though some is coming out of India and some other of the old East India Company countries. But that means that we Founders around this table are in an excellent position, as it cannot be proved that our gold was ever government gold.”
They were hanging on his every word; when he paused this time, no one spoke.
“I believe we can sell our gold to the Exchequer for six hundred thousand pounds, and no questions asked. It’s worth far more.”
Loud gasps went up; Charlie whooped.
“Very well, let us assume that we’ll have six hundred thousand pounds in trust for the Children of Jesus orphanages,” Fitz went on. He gave Mary a minatory glare. “And before you go off half-cocked, Mary, kindly hear me out. To spend money on the construction of an orphanage is one thing, but the cost of a building and its land doesn’t mean we can build a hundred of them, or even half a hundred. Before even one additional institution can be contemplated, we must first arrive at the cost of keeping the original orphanage going. If one hundred children are to be properly fed and clothed, comfortably accommodated, adequately supervised and satisfactorily educated, we will need three teachers and one headmistress, ten nursemaids and a matron, four cooks, and at least twenty general servants. Otherwise you’ll have a typical parish orphanage, in which the staff are too few, too poorly paid and too discontented to be fair or kind to the children, where education does not happen at all, and the children are put to work in place of general servants. It’s my understanding that you wish to conduct an institution which will serve as a model for all other orphanages. That means you’ll want to prepare the children to set forth at fourteen on productive and lucrative careers, rather than unskilled. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” said Mary.
“Then your original orphanage will cost you about two thousand pounds a year in staff wages alone. You must allow about twenty-five pounds per child per year for food and clothing. That’s another two thousand, five hundred pounds. Many items from bedding to towels will wear out at least once a year. And it goes on, and on, and on. I mention these figures to give you some idea of the expenses incurred in running one institution. Take them in and keep them in your minds.”
He glanced to right and to left, avoiding Angus’s eyes for fear he’d laugh. “If we invest our six hundred thousand pounds in the four-percents, they’ll yield an income of twenty-four thousand pounds a year. I would suggest that four thousand be re-invested to allow for rises in prices as time goes on. So your income for running expenses will be twenty thousand pounds per annum. I strongly urge that you err on the side of caution, my fellow Founders. Build a second orphanage, by all means, but no more. Then you’ll always have the money to keep them solvent, for once you apply to any other sort of body for additional funds, you’ll lose control, autonomy. In conjunction with Matthew and my solicitors, I’ll draw up deeds of trust that prevent any future trustees looting the funds. It will be Angus’s task to commission external auditors.”
I am so happy! Elizabeth was thinking, her mind far from the business at hand. Why did I fear it so much? Oh, how lovely it was to be in his arms, hold nothing back! He was so gentle, so tender, so considerate. He led me like a little child, explaining to me why he did this or that, the pleasure he felt in doing them, encouraging me to let go of my fear and feel the pleasure too. I am voluptuous, he says, and now that I know what the word means, I’m not offended by it. His hands stroke me so perfectly! How did he put it? He sent that man—no, I mustn’t think that way!—he sent that part of himself to sleep for ten years. As time goes on it gets easier, he said. And I sent myself to sleep too. Or rather, I never awoke. But now that we’re both awake, it is a whole different world.
“Lizzie!”
Blushing scarlet, Elizabeth recollected her surroundings and looked anywhere but at Fitz, who was smiling as if he knew what she had been thinking about. “Oh! Yes?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said!” Mary snapped.
“I am sorry, dear. Say it again.”
“I think we should build at least four orphanages, but no one agrees with me—not even Angus!” She turned on the hapless Scot in fury. “I hoped for your support at least!”
“I’ll never support you in foolishness, Mary. Fitz is in the right of it. If you built four orphanages, you couldn’t split yourself into four segments, which means the institutions wouldn’t be properly supervised. You’d be cheated, taken advantage of. What we view as charity, others will view as rich pickings. There’s an old saying, that charity begins at home. Well, many who work in charity institutions have adopted that as their credo—but not in any admirable sense.” Angus looked heroic at successfully defying Mary: Mary looked taken aback.
“Bitten by a tartan moth, Mary?” Charlie asked wickedly.
“I can see that no one masculine agrees with me,” said Mary sulkily.
“And I do not agree with you either,” said Elizabeth. “I suggest we build two Children of Jesus orphanages—the one near Buxton, and a second near Sheffield. Manchester is too vast.”
And so it was arranged.
The forty-five existing Children of Jesus had settled in at Hemmings and discovered all the horrors of reading, writing, and sums. In one respect Mary retained her common sense; the senior teacher and the head nursemaid were to be sparing with the rod, but not spare it entirely.
“Having been so isolated and
regimented, they are bound to go the opposite way for a while,” she said to teacher and nursemaid, both petrified of her. “They must be given good principles now, not later. Their true characters will emerge under our kind regime, but we must not hope for forty-five angels. There will be imps—William is one—and possibly a devil or two—Johnny and Percy. Set them predictable standards, so that they will all know which deeds will be praised, which condemned and which will earn the birch rod. The sort of child who cannot be disciplined by the birch rod will have to be threatened with expulsion, or some other dire consequences.” She looked around. “I see that there is a pianoforte here. I think we should offer music lessons to children who like music. I will look for a music teacher. In our Children of Jesus institutions, we will offer pianoforte and violin.” She looked fierce. “But not the harp! Fool instrument!”
And off she marched to the carriage. It was a long way to visit Hemmings. Once ensconced in the vehicle, she leaned back against the squabs and sighed in sheer pleasure.
Who could ever have believed what would come out of her brief odyssey? The days when she had dreamed of Argus seemed lost in the mists of time, so much had happened. I suffered a schoolgirl’s passion, she thought. His ideas inflamed me, and I took that as evidence of love. Well, I still don’t know what love is, but most definitely it isn’t what I felt for Argus. Who hasn’t corresponded with the Westminster Chronicle since I went away. I wonder what kind of summer he has had? Perhaps his wife has ailed, or a child. Those are the kind of things that destroy private passions. I can wonder, but I don’t feel anything beyond a natural sorrow for his plight, whatever it may be. He has done great work, but what else can be done, when Fitz says the Parliament won’t act? The Lords rule Britain because the Commons is stuffed with their second, third, fourth and so on sons. Nothing will happen until the Commons is filled by true commoners: men whose roots do not lie in the Lords.
She must have dozed, because the carriage had passed through Leek and was now on the Buxton road. Waking, she didn’t remember quite what she had been thinking. Well, time to think about her own future. Fitz had seen her yesterday and apologised to her sincerely—how changed he was! Not proud or haughty at all. Of course any fool could see that he and Lizzie were on much better terms; they floated around like newlyweds, exchanged speaking glances, shared private jokes. Yet at the same time they had developed that irritating habit only people who had been married for many years possessed: they said the same thing at one and the same moment, then smirked at each other.
Fitz had told her that she would receive a reward for her discovery of the gold—fifty thousand pounds. Invested in the Funds, she would have an income of two thousand pounds a year—more than enough, he assured her, to live exactly how she wished, anywhere she wished. If she wanted to live unchaperoned, he wouldn’t object, save to caution her against living in a city. How much of her original nine and a half thousand pounds did she have left? he asked her. She was proud to be able to tell him, almost all. Then use it to buy a good house, he said. Promising to think about everything, she had escaped, very uncomfortable with this sympathetic Fitz. For she had discovered that she thrived on opposition, and now no one was opposing anything she said or did. Only in the number of orphanages were people against her, but she had come around to their way of thinking: two, and two only.
Oh, it was too bad! Independence had been a challenge when everybody was against it, but now that, in effect, she could do whatever she liked, independence had lost some of its glitter. However, dependence was infinitely worse! Fancy needing another person the way, it was all too obvious, Lizzie needed Fitz, and he, her. As a child she had never enjoyed the closeness Lizzie and Jane had, or Kitty and Lydia. Mary in the middle, and overlooked. Now Mary was in the middle again, in a far better way. Lizzie, Jane and Kitty all admired her as much as they loved her, and they loved her now more than they used to. Being a rational creature, she admitted that she had earned their love, had expanded her always-present nucleus into something huge and well-rounded. But none of that was an answer to her dilemma: what was she going to do with her life? Could she fill it with orphanages and other good works? Highly satisfactory, yet not—satisfying.
Buxton had come and gone by the time she had arrived at one conclusion: that she would be responsible for the Sheffield orphanage alone, leaving the Buxton one to Lizzie and Jane. If she did that, she wouldn’t be perpetually on the move in a carriage between the two. After a while, she suspected, the children’s faces would become blurred, and she would lose track of which child was which in which institution. Having families, Lizzie and Jane could share the duties in an alternating fashion. The Sheffield orphanage was being built in Stannington, so perhaps she could have a house at Bradfield or High Bradfield, on the edge of the moors. That appealed; Mary liked beautiful aspects. She didn’t need a manor house. Just a roomy cottage with a cook, housekeeper, three maids and an outside handy-man cum gardener. Renting in Hertford, she had learned that no servant liked a heavy load of work, and that all servants had ways of evading work. The thing to do, she decided, was to pay well and expect value for money.
It was time, for instance, to sit at the pianoforte again; she hadn’t even practised in weeks. That would fill in some spare time. A library. Her new house would have a magnificent library! Once a week she would spend the day at the Sheffield orphanage. Yes, once a week was sufficient. Were she to visit more often, the staff would grow discontented, feel that they had no independence. That word again! Everyone needs a measure of it, she thought. Without it, we wither. So I must not seem to be the superintendent, just what in fact I am—a benefactress. Though they will never know which day of the week will see my arrival!
What puzzled her most was her yearning for Hertford, for the tiny life she had led there after Shelby Manor had been sold. Yes, she was missing the receptions and parties, the people—Miss Botolph, Lady Appleby, Mrs. Markham, Mrs. McLeod, Mr. Wilde. And Mr. Angus Sinclair, in whose company she had spent nine wonderful days. Longer, actually, than she had during the weeks at Pemberley, where so many people gathered for every meal, every conversation, every orphanage meeting, every everything. At Pemberley he wasn’t hers the way he had been in Hertford, and that hurt. Such talks they had enjoyed! How she had missed him when she set out on her adventure! And how glad she had been to see his face when her ordeal was over! But he had stepped back into the shadows, probably feeling that, now she was reunited with her family, she had no need of him.
But I do! she cried to herself. I want my friend back, I need my friend in my life, and when I move closer to Sheffield I’ll never see him except on visits to Pemberley when he’s there, which isn’t often. Just for the summer guest parties. This year he has stayed longer because of me, but not in any personal way. To aid his friends Fitz and Elizabeth. Now he’s talking of going back to London. Of course he is! London is his home. While I was in Hertford he wasn’t far away, but the north is an interminable and arduous journey from London, even by private carriage. I will never see him! What an empty, horrible sensation that causes in me! Like losing Lydia, only more so. She was important to me as a duty; I didn’t admire her or think her a nice woman. And Mama’s death was like being sprung from a trap. I didn’t even miss Papa, who regarded me with contempt. Oh, but I’ll mourn Angus! And he isn’t even dead, just no longer in my life. How terrible that is.
She wept the rest of the way home.
Indeed, the party was breaking up. Fitz and Elizabeth had decided to accompany Charlie to Oxford, then go to London, Fitz to attend Parliament, Elizabeth to open up Darcy House in preparation for Georgie’s coming-out in the early spring. Angus had elected to travel with them, but it didn’t occur to anyone to ask Mary. With Georgie and Kitty in the coach, Elizabeth wouldn’t be alone. How strange it would seem not to have the dark presence of Ned Skinner lurking out of sight! thought Elizabeth. He protected me, and I never knew it.
The orphanages had commenced a-building, but neither would b
e fit for occupancy until late spring, and Mary admitted that there were many decisions to be taken that could only be taken by one of the Founders. Her days at Pemberley would not be idle ones.
So at the beginning of September she waved them off on their journey to Oxford and London, then, abhorring inertia, summoned Miss Eustacia Scrimpton to have a little holiday at Pemberley in order to discuss the appointment of senior staff. Naturally Miss Scrimpton came with alacrity, and the two ladies settled down to discuss what sort of qualifications were necessary to fill such desirable vacancies.
“You will have your pick, dear Miss Bennet,” said Miss Scrimpton, “considering the generosity of the salaries. We will call them salaries for the senior staff—it makes them feel very important. Wages are for the lowly.”
By the time that Miss Scrimpton departed for York a week later, all was in train to advertise in the best papers nearer to the time.
Mary gravitated to Matthew Spottiswoode, who had good ideas too, some of them at the suggestion of the builders.
Coal fires, fires in the dormitories, hot water for ablutions, said Mary, brooking no opposition.
“Those will make a Children of Jesus orphanage kinder than Eton or Harrow,” Matthew said with a smile.
“No doubt it is good for the over-indulged sons of the Mighty to shiver,” said Mary, bristling, “but our children will have done their share of shivering by the time they join us.”
“Quite so,” said Matthew hastily; my, she was fierce!
Choosing the actual children was a difficult task indeed, since only forty-five of the two hundred were, so to speak, already enrolled. One hundred and fifty-five were but a few grains in the sandpiles of colossal poverty and neglect. Apart from the obvious qualification of having no parents, no lucky child could be on the parish. No less a personage than the Bishop of London had written to give Mary the names of two gentlemen with some experience in this kind of activity.