A Learned Romance Read online

  “Oh, yes! He is a delight. I shall introduce him to you if you like, but you must not monopolise him.”

  “We will not be long enough in London to monopolise anyone,” Lizzy said, “but I had heard you tend to monopolise him yourself.”

  Lydia looked rather pleased than otherwise at the rumour. “I told you, he is great fun.”

  “But any rumours of monopolising are unlikely to do you any good.” Gentle hinting seldom did any good with Lydia, so Lizzy moved on to more directness. “You may be married now, but that does not mean your reputation is inviolable.”

  “Mr Wickham does not think I am doing anything wrong.” Lydia’s brows drew down in annoyance.

  Mary dared to correct her. “I do not think he was pleased with your saying you would go to Mr Cole’s lecture. Perhaps you had better not go.”

  “What, slight my friend because of people and their ridiculous talk? Nonsense! I should lose all my friends that way.”

  Lizzy’s compressed lips suggested she thought that discarding all of Lydia’s friends might not be much of a loss. Certainly, Lydia did not favour good sense or decorum in her friendships. “Had you not better focus on helping Mary find a suitor instead?”

  “I can do both.” Lydia’s tone was sour. “Seeing as I have been a married woman longer than you, I know more of what things are all about. None of this is your business.”

  “When it comes to our family’s reputation, it is a business that belongs to us all.” Lizzy’s gaze turned to Mary as if to suggest something, and Mary shifted in uneasy incomprehension. “Think on it.”

  Rising, her own tone shifted to one more light-hearted. “Mary, perhaps you would like to come with me to Bond Street?”

  Lydia seized her reticule and stood up. “Mary never wishes to go, but I will go with you.”

  “I have invited Mary, Lydia. She can help me select some books.”

  Lydia sat down again. “Oh, a bookstore. Never mind.” She tossed her reticule onto the sofa, the coins in the muslin bag jingling faintly. Mary accepted her sister’s invitation, sensing Lizzy wanted more than a discussion of what books to purchase. Sure enough, as the Darcy carriage launched into the flood of coaches and carts swelling the road, Lizzy’s brow furrowed with worry.

  “I want to talk with you about Lydia. She is as heedless as usual with this Mr Cole. If she goes any further, her respectability as a married woman will be at serious risk.”

  Mary twisted the strings of her reticule on her lap. It was nice to feel her sister deemed her worthy as an ally, and Mary felt a small satisfaction that her predictions of grave results might yet prove true, but in her heart of hearts she dreaded interfering. She liked the idea of being the patient consoler in the aftermath of a great scandal, but she had no desire to be an active participant, not even in preventing it. “I fear the same, although I do not see what I can do about it. Lydia does not listen to me.”

  Lizzy’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “You are living in their household. Should Lydia be deemed less than respectable, you will share in that judgment more than the rest of us. That is a great disadvantage—but being in their household also means that you are uniquely placed to help avert a catastrophe.”

  Mary slouched a little in her seat. “I cannot do anything. Lydia always goes her own way. She will not do anything just because I tell her.”

  Lizzy took her hand. “I have thought of that. You cannot disassemble this flirtation of Lydia’s from her side. Anything we do to try to persuade her will only spur her on more recklessly.”

  “Then what?”

  “You must work on Mr Cole instead.”

  Mary blinked in surprise. “But I do not know him. Why would he listen to me?”

  Lizzy leaned back a little. Her increased ease made Mary wary; it meant Lizzy thought she could bring Mary round to her way of thinking. And Lizzy is usually right. Mary squared her shoulders and tried to look imperturbable as Lizzy said, “He may be a sensible man; perhaps all you will need to do is drop him a hint, or tell him outright it would be better for him to stop flirting with Lydia.”

  “And if he is not so sensible?” Experience had taught Mary that Lydia’s friends usually were not sensible people.

  “Then you must draw his attention away—split it between you and Lydia. There will still be gossip, but it will mean less if the world is not sure who Mr Cole favours. Indeed, if they think she was only paying him attention for your sake, it will be very respectable indeed.”

  Mary’s dry laugh hurt her chest, as though it scraped against an old wound. “Attract a gentleman myself? And worse, one who likes Lydia first? Lizzy, this is a poor joke.”

  “You can do it. We are a handsome family, every one of us. You think you are not pretty because you wear old clothes and compare yourself to Jane. None of us are anything compared to Jane.” Lizzy’s eyes crinkled in a rueful expression, showing she had had similar feelings.

  “You think that because you have made a brilliant match, we are all capable of it. I assure you, I am not.”

  “You are pretty and intelligent, and you have a good heart. You can turn this Mr Cole about your finger if you so choose,” Lizzy insisted.

  “Nonsense! I could not, and I would not if I could.” Mary’s chin jerked down. “It is wrong to engage in idle flirtation.”

  “Is it idle when it saves Lydia’s reputation?”

  “The ends do not justify the means.” Mary knew she sounded sententious, but she clung to her idea of virtue to avoid being swept away by Lizzy’s intensity—and a secret gleam of interest of her own. Was it true? Could Mary be the sort of person Lizzy imagined, a wily, charming belle who snatched men from the grasp of her sister? It seemed a ridiculous dream, but one with a glamour that intrigued her despite herself.

  “Are there not examples in the Bible of women laying out to attract men for the greater good?” Lizzy said.

  Mary could not resist the opportunity to display her scriptural knowledge. “I am no Esther, nor am I Ruth.”

  “I am only saying that your morals need not cavil at such a project.” When Mary hesitated, Lizzy made the most of it, bearing down with an entreaty Mary found hard to resist. “Please, Mary. It is for the good of the whole family, and Lydia’s as well. Surely you do not wish to see her scorned and shunned?”

  A sliver of guilt slid into Mary’s gut. She had entertained thoughts of some disaster befalling the Wickhams, and readied herself to deal with it—was that not wishing ill on them? Of course I do not really wish to see Lydia hurt. But the thought meant little when she compared it to her self-righteous imaginings of the last few weeks, and she felt she had no real evidence of sisterly kindness to prove her heart pure. Doing what Lizzy asked of her would be proof, though. “I will speak to Mr Cole, then. I cannot promise more.”

  Lizzy’s nose wrinkled in a way that suggested she thought Mary could promise much more, but she nodded. “Thank you, Mary. You have relieved Mr Darcy and me of a weighty burden of worry.” Her acquiescence to the compromise was so sudden and complete that Mary suspected Lizzy harboured hopes Mary would be led on to do more if it were necessary. But I simply cannot flirt with a man I do not even know. She could not even flirt with the Lucas boys, and she had known them forever and was close friends with Harry Lucas. At least, I was friends with him once. She drove that particular memory from her mind.

  Lizzy’s coachman set them down at a bookshop, and Lizzy rewarded her sister with a gentle camaraderie that warmed Mary’s heart despite her doubts. She and Lizzy had never been close before, but she felt her sister taking an interest in her, and she thought it not wholly a matter of winning Mary to her way of thinking about Mr Cole. Perhaps I am more interesting now that I am the only one unmarried, Mary thought, but she knew the cynicism was unjust. Lizzy was simply enjoying exploring the world—including the family members she might have passed over before—as a young wife yet without children. Though their tastes in reading were different, Lizzy selected one of the prosy s
ermon books Mary liked to read before bed, and Mary accepted a present of a light-hearted novel. Perhaps this is what a flirtatious belle would read. Mary traced the edges of the book with her fingertips, choosing to keep it in her lap in the carriage, rather than have it wrapped up in paper with the rest. She still could not picture herself charming any gentleman away from Lydia’s frolics, but rather than appearing the sordid tale of fallen humankind, the novel now seemed the bearer of a bright new world—one she would probably never enter but might enjoy looking in upon.

  When Lizzy dropped her off at the Wickhams’, Mary found Lydia stretched back in an unladylike pose on the sofa, her arms thrust upward. “So you are back? What a day I have had! All highs and lows. The low was that my new gown will not be ready for the Crestwoods’ ball next week.”

  “What was the high?”

  Lydia winked, looking even less ladylike. “Why, I just happened to run into a certain gentleman in the jewellery shop today. It is a pity you would not come. You could have met him.”

  Mary gave an uncertain smile. “It was not Mr Cole, was it?” She had harboured a hope that Lizzy might be mistaken about everything, that Lydia’s interest would drift away without any need for interference, and things would go back to normal. But Lizzy was not often wrong about such things.

  “Of course it was Mr Cole! I thought he might be there, and I was right.”

  Lydia’s glee disturbed Mary, despite her attempts to reassure herself. She plucked at a thread in her embroidery, wondering what this Mr Cole was like. “What time should I be ready for his lecture tomorrow?”

  Lydia sat up straight. “You mean that you shall go? I was beginning to think I could never lure you out of that bedroom, Mouse! Be ready at two—no, be ready a little earlier, and you may help me choose my gown. I want to look the pink of perfection and thrust Lady Crestwood into the shade.” She laughed. “You will just adore Mr Cole. He is such fun!”

  “I am sure he is.” And that, no doubt, is the problem.

  It was absurd to think of a building as being like a bird, but when Mary arrived at Maddox’s Assembly Rooms, it reminded her of nothing so well as a fat raven. Theoretically, the building was grey and blue—dark grey stone with a light grey mortar and midnight blue shutters. In actuality, soot had saturated the top of the stone thickly enough to turn it black, and more soot and particles streaked down the sides in swaths that tapered, rather featherlike in shape. The midnight blue shutters had a sticky residue of ash that made them look rippled in darkness. Though the shops on either side had been well cleaned, Maddox’s Assembly Rooms sat between them in a dismal squalor, perched like a surly raven in a row of gentle grey doves, to continue the metaphor.

  The interior did nothing to dispel the illusion of a macabre bird. Maddox’s main hall would have ill served a ballroom in all practical matters—it was too small and too square, and the floor bore too many chipped places. It would have served even worse in decor. The drapes were the same midnight blue as the shutters, and though there was no soot sticking to them, they were frayed enough to look feathery. The spindly walnut chairs could have been bird legs. The podium hauled out onto the makeshift stage was also walnut, but it had been draped with a black cloth for some unaccountable reason…Mary’s first guesses included a witch’s gathering, funeral rites, or an assembly room manager with secret proclivities to vampirism.

  Lydia had declared that Maddox’s rooms were the only ones any ladies’ society of any note used. Apparently such groups weighed the cost of the meeting place heavily and the beauty of the place lightly, however willing they were to invest in their own beauty; and certainly Maddox’s rooms performed their function. The main hall adjoined two side rooms, perfect for arranging displays related to the lecture, helpful books, or sustaining viands for the weary learner. There were smaller rooms suitable for offices for the lecturers as well.

  The assembly hall where ladies gathered to be informed (as fashionably as possible) on scientific topics was crammed with ladies in their best afternoon finery. The cramming was desirable, not only for a show of popularity, but also for comfort; the assembly hall was not kept as warm as the Wickhams’ house, and Mary found the January cold unpleasant enough to inspire feelings of great affection for the stranger swaddled in merino on the chair beside her and overlapping Mary’s simple wool with swells of fabric. Lydia, on Mary’s other side, squashed against her with a sisterly informality that braced them both against the bite in the air.

  Placards placed at the entrance had revealed the relevant “-ology” to be geology and presented Mr Richard Cole as a member of the Geological Society of London, despite his only recently having completed his education at Oxford. Although the audience was mostly ladies, an elderly gentleman with a frost of white hair sat in the front row with his arms folded, and the young man who mounted the platform scoured the old man with a gaze of disdain before beginning his lecture.

  Even knowing Lydia was attracted to Mr Cole, Mary had expected to see some sort of spindly, anaemic-looking young man, her image of a scientist. Mr Cole was nothing of the sort. His body would have better fitted a bluff squire or a blacksmith: broad shoulders, thighs too muscled for the fawn cloth covering them to fit genteelly, and a height far beyond six feet. His chestnut hair curled slightly at the ends and was left mildly tousled in the current fashion. Although his nose was too broad for a sculptor’s preference, overall, his handsome face commanded the homage of the ladies before him. The deep bass booming out from his chest did likewise. Mr Cole was of good family, distantly related to the Darcys, though they shared more with the Darcys in hauteur and family pride than in wealth. Mr Cole had enough money to remain a gentleman of leisure, but not much more. From the reverent way he spoke of science, he prized his education at Oxford far more than gold, and preferred delving deep into the earth for knowledge rather than whatever treasure might lie there.

  It was lucky for Mr Cole that his physical beauty was great, for his theories garnered little mental application from the ladies, and he might have been entirely ignored without something to attract their fancy. The huddled mass of bodies gradually warmed the hall to a comfortable state, and several ladies nodded off, propped up by the pressure of frilled shoulders. Even Mary, used to diligently following the driest sermons, found her attention wandering. So schist is a form of granite—no, was it the other way round? And where does this feldspar come in? Oh, I do hope I do not have to talk to anyone afterwards. Lydia will do all the talking, I suppose. Not about geology, I am sure.

  Mr Cole shuffled his notes, making a cracking sound against the podium, and ladies sat up straighter as they recognised the end of the lecture. “Any questions?” Mr Cole’s voice reverberated with a pleasant rumble Mary could feel in her own body.

  The elderly gentleman shot to his feet. “You have not taken into account the force of the pressures creating these layers, not properly, anyhow, Cole.”

  “That is because my whole theory lies in the direction of those pressures.” Mr Cole’s tone had gone from powerfully sonorous to testy in an instant. “And that is not a question, Sir Reginald.”

  “I do not have a question because the theory is wrong, quite wrong.” Sir Reginald wiped his white hair back with an impatient gesture. “You cannot—”

  “Are there any genuine questions?” Mr Cole appealed to the audience. A matronly woman in pale blue silk waved one hand slightly. “Yes?”

  “Mr Cole, of what stone are the pyramids made?”

  “The pyramids?” Mr Cole looked blankly at her. “I have not mentioned the pyramids, Lady Crestwood. My whole theory is about the formation of rock along directed lines of pressure. The pyramids are quite irrelevant to me.”

  “But surely a geologist would know?” Lady Crestwood’s voice showed every confidence that her question was an important one, and the elderly Sir Reginald immediately responded.

  “The pyramids were made with mud brick and limestone, Lady Crestwood,” he said with a bow that showed spryness
belying his age.

  “Very informative! And what about the white cliffs at Dover?”

  “Chalk, madam. The very sort of thing your Lady Lucy might have used on her slate as a child.” Sir Reginald beamed at her. “And slate is, of course—” He continued at length, while Mr Cole shifted from foot to foot on his platform, making his tall figure teeter like a tower about to fall. When Mr Cole’s irritation grew too great for silence, he broke in.

  “Sir Reginald, I am quite able to field the questions myself. Kindly sit down.”

  “I am only helping out, my boy.” The frost in the older man’s voice suited his hair now, but he sat. Apparently the ladies had run out of questions, however, and Mr Cole was forced to dismiss the group to the refreshments provided in a neighbouring room.

  “How rude Lady Crestwood is, asking about pyramids,” Lydia whispered to Mary. “Poor Mr Cole looked quite upset. Never mind, I shall cheer him up.” As the other ladies swept into the other room, tugging their gloves tighter against the fresh chill there, Lydia approached Mr Cole. Mary trailed her, smoothing her skirts. She usually did not think much about her gowns, but somehow Mr Cole’s welcoming smile made her wish she had had time to fit this one better to her figure. Perhaps I should have spoken to Addleby about it after all.

  “Mrs Wickham!” The joy in Mr Cole’s voice rang out like a deep cathedral bell. “You are the only thing to give me any solace in this whole ridiculous—” He broke off, probably not out of politeness to the guests still filtering out of the room, but rather because his own irritation swallowed up his power of speech. Mary found the little wrinkle of disturbance between his brows oddly fetching; there was something open and frank in his countenance that attracted her.

  “I shall have to be solace enough to make the meeting worth while,” Lydia said, sidling her figure in a way that suggested both coyness and an attempt to draw attention. It was the sort of manoeuvre Mary had only seen made successful by her sister.

  “You alone could manage that,” Mr Cole said. The irritated draw of his brows was relaxing, and a hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “I see you are wearing the gems we discussed at the jewellers.”