When the good people of Meryton begin to fall ill to a strange sickness, Mary Bennet Sutton has her suspicions as to the cause. But what to do when science and tradition are at odds? Will she and her doctor husband find a cure in time? Or, will the death toll continue to rise? Read an excerpt from The Troubled Waters of Mary Bennet. “Pem-ber-ley,” Isla repeated, savoring the syllables for a moment, her face in concentration. They were nearing the low stone wall that marked the boundary of the Ryerson farm, ordinarily a picturesque example of English countryside. But today, a horrid odor, one to which both Mary and Atlas were far too familiar, assaulted their nostrils far before reaching the open gate. “Oh no!” Mary whispered, wishing there was somewhere to take her daughter, far from the reek of death. But it was too late, the farm, some distance from any other, was quite isolated as well as nearly three miles from Longbourn. Isla, having smelt the same, wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Mama! That stinks!” Over the head of his daughter, Atlas exchanged a knowing glance with Mary. If at all possible, he would have spared his wife and child what was surely to be a miserable sight, but unfortunately, a dilemma presented. The Ryersons, known for their animosity towards doctors, would not receive him with any hospitality, no matter the situation. This, Mary knew first hand, and made the decision for him, however unpleasant for everyone. “I know it does, Papa will take you for a little ride whilst I go and visit. How does that sound?” “Will you be terribly long? I want to go home!” “I will be as quick as I can, now be a proper young lady and remember that we must be kind to those less fortunate.” “Even if they smell?” “Especially then.” Alighting, Mary walked swiftly to the cottage as the curricle rolled away, knowing that Atlas would not venture far should she require immediate assistance. Calling out her presence, so as not to alarm anyone in distress, Mary was met with silence, and as she approached the open door, the stench became nearly intolerable. Normally person of strong constitution, Mary felt her stomach recoil. Lifting a scented handkerchief to her nose and mouth, she tried to breathe in as little of the noxious miasma as she dared before entering. Oddly enough, once inside, there was no obvious origin of the putrescence. A small parlor, neat and tidy, welcomed any visitor, as did the adjacent kitchen, aside from what appeared to be the remains of an unidentifiable meal. Of these chambers, Mary passed quickly, not pausing longer than necessary before reaching the narrow stair leading to the family’s sleeping quarters. There, it was a gruesome scene, far worse than any she could have imagined. Lying in pools of their own fluids, each member of the Ryerson family had passed. Anna Ryerson, draped in a sheet, must have died first, allowing enough time for care to be taken with the body. But of the patriarch, Warren Ryerson was not found in bed. Appearing to be in the process of trying to care for his ailing children, the dead man, with one hand still curled about a tin cup, lay at the foot of his son’s bed. Realizing that nothing could be done to reverse the situation, Mary ran from the cottage, gasping for breath as she gulped the fresh air. Atlas, fearing the worst, had not ventured, far, but circled close, telling Isla fantastic stories of creatures that whilst foul smelling, were quite pleasant when one got to know them. Unfortunately, there was no such friendly monster awaiting an introduction as he spied his wife’s hasty exodus. Leaping down from the carriage, he allowed Mary to bury her face in his shoulder until her composure was regained. “Are they?” he ventured, already knowing the answer “All of them, but as to the cause, I cannot say. I could not remain long enough.” Mary replied, knowing full well, that she would return.