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AFRICA, 1833-34
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a young lady who has grown up knowing she is the plain, unloved misfit of her family, will not be a happy woman when she is older. Mary Malliot, once Mary Bennet, should have been such a woman.
The third daughter of five, she had been lonely all her childhood. Jane and Elizabeth, her older sisters, were already firm friends by the time she was born and did not want her to join in their games or gossip with her at night from their beds. And when Kitty and Lydia had arrived, they too became a partnership of silliness and mad-cap behaviour that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t join.
And so Mary had turned to her serious books, her music and the bitterness in her heart when even her beloved father laughed at her. She had adored her papa, but knew she wasn’t beautiful like Jane, or witty like Elizabeth. All his love was given to his favourites and she was not wise enough to realise that the flaw in his character that led to his dismissive behaviour where she was concerned, was not her fault.
Perhaps it had been no surprise that she had married an older man, who gave her the attention she craved. She had met the missionary, The Reverend Matthias Malliot, on one of her rare visits to Pemberley, to admire Elizabeth’s newly born twin daughters.
The Reverend Malliot, a tall, thin gentleman well into his fifties, had looked beneath her plain, awkward surface and to the astonishment of her whole family, most of all her mother, had seen well, whatever he had seen, he had married Mary very quickly and within months they were out in Africa, preaching to the native population. Their family had increased by one baby they had called Miriam, born early during a storm on the outward bound vessel.
In Africa, Mary had found a life she enjoyed, where she was valued and important to her husband, who was a very vague gentleman who often forgot to eat unless she reminded him.
She had lost touch a little with her family in England—letters took months to travel between continents and sometimes failed to arrive when ships foundered in a storm or became wrecked. Jane did, however, write regularly, Elizabeth less so, Mrs Bennet occasionally, Kitty and Lydia only on her birthday.
The one exception was when Kitty wrote a long letter in glowing terms to say she was finally getting married, to William Collins, their distant cousin who had recently been widowed. And then, when the sad news reached Africa of Mr Bennet’s passing, amongst Kitty’s grief was the hardly disguised triumph that the Collins family had moved from Kent to Hertfordshire and she was now mistress of Longbourn, her childhood home.
Mary had, of course, sent news of Miriam’s birth and had been pleased to receive a large parcel of presents for the child, none of which were actually suitable for the climate and their humble lifestyle. For several years the Malliots lived and preached at the Reverend’s mission station where they were indulged and cheerfully ignored by the local population, except for the children, who were curious about Miriam’s bright red hair.
By the age of ten, the soles of her feet were just as hard as theirs as they ran and played together and the little girls of the local community taught her how to cook over an open fire, weave a basket and sing their strange, plaintiff chants. With masculine disdain, the little boys showed her how to throw a spear. None of which activities were known to her parents who were unaware that she regularly gave her nurse the slip to explore on her own.
Miriam flourished; stubborn, hot-tempered, and having inherited several of her father’s characteristics, she was always on the side of the downtrodden; any child she thought was ill-treated or bullied. Then, when Miriam was eleven, Mary had suddenly realised that her little girl was little no longer and turning into a young lady.
With great regret, the Malliots had said goodbye to their mission and returned to Cape Town where the Reverend was granted a living in a small run-down church and Mary spent her time playing the ancient harmonium for his services and administering charity to people in need.
The dilapidated little house that went with the church was hot and dusty and Mary battled continually with the insects that infested the rooms and a roof that leaked whenever rain fell. She could never quite overcome her dislike of the smells from the street outside, however, and the constant noise from the people in this overcrowded part of town.
Miriam hated Cape Town, she missed the wide open spaces, the freedom of her life before. Because there was no money for a governess, she was sent to a school run by two elderly ladies who had both been widowed by one of the fevers that struck that part of Africa at regular intervals.
They taught sewing, geography and the history of England to young ladies—it was accepted that as long as you understood how many shillings were in a guinea, arithmetic and other mathematical subjects could safely be left to boys.
Miriam attended some classes but regularly spent the hours when she should have been studying, roaming the town. She was a familiar sight wandering around the harbour, watching the boats unload, gazing out at the horizon, wondering what lay beyond. She knew the school’s owners would never report her to her mother; they needed the fees she paid them too much.
She had not the slightest interest in sewing or embroidery and her piano playing was of the very basic kind. Often Mary wished there was some nice, quiet hobby she could discover that would interest her daughter, other than rescuing lost puppies and bringing home abandoned kittens and once even a baby piglet she had found wandering the streets! Mary had to admit that Miriam had inherited her father’s desire to help every lame dog she came across which was all very commendable but it made for a difficult home life.
Then the Reverend’s fortunes changed, and although the Malliots’ style of living didn’t alter, enough money had somehow become available for him to open up his own small school for the poorest children in the neighbourhood. Miriam had been told all her life that she was there to serve the deserving poor. By the time she reached thirteen and realised that their family was living just above poverty level, she wondered why they weren’t the deserving poor, too!
But the Reverend Malliot gave away every penny he had to whomever asked. Together with his wife, they taught the lessons of the Scriptures, the basics of reading and writing, their pupils learnt to recite the kings and queens of Great Britain and the books of the Old and New Testaments in chronological order. A new harmonium was purchased and Mary delighted in playing all the tunes that her family had detested all those years before, secure in the knowledge that there was no one to criticise her.
And so, under the shadow of Table Mountain, Longbourn, Meryton and Pemberley, the soft green of England, faded into the distance, only remembered when letters arrived, folded and salt stained, to tell—happily—of various births and—sadly—of Mr Bennet’s death and a small bequest to his granddaughter—and the shocking news that Lydia’s daughter, Cassandra, was shamefully illegitimate, although that did not seem to have stopped her marrying some young doctor.
The last letter from her mother, received only days ago, told Mary of another wedding, her distant cousin Catherine Collins to a Sir Robert Courtney. Even at this great distance, Mary could read the irritation in every crossed line that slashed blackly across the paper. None of Mrs Bennet’s daughters had a title, even the wealthy Elizabeth remained plain Mrs Darcy.
Mary was pleased to hear about Catherine’s great success in the marriage market; she had liked the girl’s mother, Charlotte Lucas, when they were growing up as neighbours, and envied her marriage to Mr Collins whom she would have been only too pleased to have married herself—if he had ever looked in her direction.
Charlotte had never been sarcastic or impatient with her when they’d met and, although she had been Elizabeth’s special friend, she had always had a kind word for Mary. It was delightful that her daughter had married so well, outdoing the Darcy and Bingley girls in society, if not in wealth.
Now black edged envelopes were on their way to England, informing Mary’s relations that the Reverend Malliot had passed away from a fever, leaving his wife with no money. After Mary had sold the school and settled his affairs in Africa, she intended to return to England to devote her time to what good works she could continue to achieve and trusted that between them, her older sisters, who had great fortunes at their disposal, could find her a small house in a pleasant neighbourhood for her use.
Friends of hers were travelling home on the next ship to dock in Cape Town and they had agreed to chaperone Miriam who could spend the time in England making a house comfortable for her mother’s arrival.
The African sun glared down outside and Mary dabbed at the perspiration that gathered on her temples and dampened the bodice of her thinnest dress.
“So Miriam, my dear, you will return to England at once. I have booked you a passage on a fast ship, the Sea Sprite, so you will be comfortable. Dear Reverend Poole and his good lady have agreed to take care of you on the journey, you will have their daughter, sweet Delphine, for a companion and your Aunt Jane will send someone to meet you when you arrive in England.”
“Go to England? What will I do in England? My home is here in Africa.” Miriam Malliot, just turned eighteen, tall, slim, with dark brown eyes and a mane of red hair, fiercely braided to protect it from becoming tangled or attracting flying insects, stared at her mother in consternation. “I won’t go! And I loathe Delphine
Poole. She is the silliest girl ever.”
Mary sighed and rubbed her forehead where another headache was forming. She hadn’t found motherhood an agreeable state. To be fair Miriam had been very little bother as a child, as long as she got her own way, but the young woman standing before her was a constant thorn in Mary’s side.
She could see nothing of herself in Miriam; no liking for quiet contemplation of great thoughts, sensible books or music. The red hair, hot temper and stubborn disposition must have been inherited from somewhere in the past of dear Matthew’s family, but the dark eyes and passionate tones could have been those of Elizabeth Darcy and her complete disdain of proper behaviour reminded Mary only too well of her younger sisters.
She admitted to herself now that, absorbed as she had been in all the good works that needed doing in this vast continent, she had left her daughter too much to her own devices and to a succession of nurses who had had no sense of discipline at all.
Miriam had grown up for the first eleven years of her life doing exactly what she wanted, when she wanted. It was a legacy that was hard to eradicate and Mary worried that her headstrong insistence on getting her own way could lead her into trouble. At the back of her mind lurked the dreadful tale of Lydia and George Wickham and their elopement all those years ago.
“There is no life here in Africa for a young, unattached woman. You know that you are already drawing the attention of certain young men whom your dear papa and I would not approve. And as a widow I cannot protect you, especially as you have no mind to keep from behaviour that causes gossip. Why, only yesterday, when you went to the haberdashery to buy black ribbons, you were seen talking to two young Dutch officers from the militia! Your reputation will soon be in tatters if you stay here.
“Now, let’s have no more arguments—I have to oversee your dear papa’s grave and sort out all his papers and business affairs. The Reverend Ogden is interested in purchasing the school: such a kind, dedicated teacher. I think our little pupils will be in good hands. But I cannot have the worry of caring for you at the same time. It is much more sensible for you to go to England straight away.”
Miriam sighed: she knew from the stubborn expression on her mama’s face that nothing would change her mind. And it was good news that the Reverend Ogden might purchase the school. She knew her parents had sunk all their capital into the building, although they relied on the charity of others to run it.
Surely the Reverend would be able to repay some of that money to her mother? He had been kindness itself since her papa’s passing. She turned her mind to other problems. “But where shall I live?”
“I have written to your Aunt Jane, requesting that you stay with her until I arrive in England. She was always the kindest and most considerate of my sisters and your Uncle Bingley is a very agreeable man. Their oldest daughter, Elizabeth, whom they call Beth, is only a couple of years older than you and I am sure you will get on splendidly. Jane has often written that she is a quiet, goodnatured girl.”
“So I am not to journey to Longbourn to my grandmother or travel to the great house of Pemberley and stay with the Darcys?”
Mary frowned: she wanted to have her own house and life back in England. She could still recall the way she had been treated when she was growing up, the feeling of being disliked, overlooked, laughed at. She had a feeling that if they once moved in with her mama and Kitty, they would be there forever. Kitty, whose letter boasting that she was now stepmother to a Lady Courtney, would play the queen of the house and Mary feared she would end up having to obey her orders, perhaps taking care of her small daughter.
“I believe we will be better suited going to the Bingleys when we first arrive. And their home is only twenty or so miles from Pemberley. I do not care for Mr Darcy—a proud man with an arrogant manner—I always felt he held me in contempt because of my views on literature and music which were different from his own. And Lizzie was never the kindest of sisters as I have often told you.
“Well, well, I’m sure his wealth has helped her cope with him. And with all the great estates that both Bingley and Darcy own, they must have some small house that would suit us. Perhaps in a village close by to a church. I am quite used to hardship. I do not require luxury but you can spend your time making it as comfortable as possible. I am sure my sisters will help with furniture and fittings.”
Miriam was annoyed and bewildered. She could not remember a time when her mother had not spoken of the harsh treatment she had received from her sisters, how her father’s love had been turned into scorn and sarcasm by the other four girls.
“But Mama, you have always said how much you disliked our relations in England. How can you bear to send me to them and ask for their help? I loathe the Darcys for how they treated you. What sort of people can they be? They must be without compassion for their fellow beings. Papa loved Africa, he wouldn’t want me to leave. He wanted me to take care of you. And the thought of being shut up in a ship with Delphine Poole is unbearable. She is such a silly, insipid girl.”
Mary sighed: she felt a little uncomfortable, wondering now if she hadn’t rather paid her family a disservice. She had only spoken the truth as she saw it, but then she’d never thought Miriam would ever meet the Darcys and Bingleys, except through letters.
“Nonsense, Delphine is a delightful young lady. She is only just sixteen, admittedly, but the Pooles have brought her out into the world early and so she will be amiable company. And forget about me—your father wanted what was best for you. As for the Darcys, they are my family and yours and hopefully time has softened their behaviour. I have learnt to turn the other cheek and you must do the same.
“Unfortunately, there are no connections on the Malliot side that I can call on. My family owe you their support until I can settle our affairs. Obviously you will find their ways obnoxious—you have been brought up to a life of service and denial, but there is no need for you to engage in any activities you know will offend me or your papa’s memory. Don’t forget you will have your grandfather’s bequest to draw on now you have turned eighteen. That will be of a great help to us. Now, run along and finish addressing those thank you letters for the condolences we have received.”
Miriam hesitated, longing to say more, feeling all her pent-up grief at the loss of her father swelling up inside her. But she was reluctant to upset her mother, whose grey hair and a face aged before her time by the relentless sun aroused all of Miriam’s protective qualities.
How she missed her papa! He had been such a kind man, sometimes peering at her over the tops of his spectacles as if he was certain they had met but wasn’t exactly sure who she was! Saying goodbye to him had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life. He had clung to her hand, his face as white as the pillow he lay on and begged her to take care of her mama.
“You are such a strong young lady, Miriam,” he had whispered. “You face every problem with courage and fortitude. Mary will need your strength. Promise me you will always be there to take care of her.” And she had promised.
She accepted that Grandfather Bennet’s bequest was going to be useful. Thank goodness she was now eighteen. She smiled a little as she remembered the odd wording that papa had read out to her … “a sum so that none of my granddaughters need to marry the first fool who asks them.”
Miriam wished she had had the opportunity to meet him: she was sure she would have liked him. Her mama had loved him dearly and cried for days when news of his demise reached Africa. Miriam had been unable to ease her grief and had listened, once again, as her mother had declared that her sisters, especially Elizabeth, had stolen all of Mr Bennet’s affections.
And now she was to meet that very Elizabeth, to leave Africa—on one hand she hated the thought but then to travel by ship, to cross the oceans! She had always longed to do that and had often lingered on her way back from shopping or her weekly French language lesson to gaze at the ships in the harbour and dream that one day she would be carried away across the waves. She knew she had been born onboard a great sailing vessel and felt sure that was the reason for her desire to travel and explore.
Once she had reached the age of sixteen, she had realised that she should no longer wander around the harbour as she had done when she was eleven, even though she always felt perfectly safe. Her ability to talk to the local people in their own language and the fact that she was the daughter of their much admired Reverend, endeared her to them.
She wondered what her English relations were really like. Her mother had never said a great deal about Grandmama Bennet, just that she enjoyed ill health and often took to her bed for days at a time. Aunt Jane sounded kind; she always sent good wishes on her birthday but her daughter might not be as pleasant as people thought. And as for the Darcys!
Miriam felt a renewed surge of resentment and dislike against her Aunt Elizabeth. From what her mother had said over the years, she had been the sister whose sharp words had hurt the most, who had taken all of their father’s attention, leaving none for Mary.
Well, she would have to meet her, no doubt, but Miriam decided she would take care not to listen to her aunt or let her have any say in her future. In fact she was quite determined that no one would ever tell her what to do again now that papa had gone.
There were two other aunts as well: Kitty, who had written the first letter to her sister in a year, only to boast that her stepdaughter was now Lady Courtney! And Lydia whom her parents had only spoken about in hushed tones. Miriam was curious about Aunt Lydia and determined to find out all she could when she got to England.
And cousins! For the first time Miriam sat considering all the cousins she had never met. She pictured them all as tall and fair-haired with blue eyes, picking flowers in huge gardens, drinking tea in elegant rooms, their hands white as alabaster. She stared down at her own, square and tanned, scratched from where she had been trying to mend a broken window shutter.
Would they laugh at her? At her speech, her manner of dress? It would surely be very different from theirs; she was well aware from perusing the fashion magazines that sometimes appeared in the shops that her clothing was old-fashioned.
Let them laugh: she wouldn’t care. She decided she would hate them all. When she had lived at the mission, she had experienced being close to wild animals. She had learnt to be wary of their devious behaviour. For some reason she had the feeling that her cousins might need to be treated in such a way.
Their life would be so strange; here in Africa she walked by herself to the store or even down to the harbour. As the daughter of the much-loved Reverend, she was completely safe in even the most insalubrious of districts. But Miriam had the strongest feeling that her life as an eighteen-year-old girl in England would be vastly different.
Tossing back her long red plait, she set to work addressing the envelopes as requested, sighing as she dropped a large blot of ink on the desktop. Obviously, there were no condolence letters from England, news of her father’s passing wouldn’t even have reached them yet.
She felt tears burn her eyes but resolutely continued to work. She had loved her papa, admired his studious nature, his dedication to the poor and was determined to keep the vow she had made him on his death bed. If a part of her wished that he had thought as much about his own family’s future as he did others, then she pushed that aside. She was going to England; she had her grandfather Bennet’s bequest in her name to draw on, she was young, strong and determined. Life was sad now but the future looked exciting.