A Learned Romance Read online

  Whether it was an insult of Lydia for never having been presented at court, or a slight at the Wickhams’ ambivalent place in society with great wealth but a shady background, Mary could not tell, but Lydia bristled. “We go everywhere we wish to, Lady Crestwood,” she said, then pressed her mouth shut as if that were the only way to ensure her politeness.

  “No doubt, no doubt.” Lady Crestwood’s bland smile told another story. “Have you seen Miss Poppit, dancing over there?” She directed their attention to a tall young woman in a white silk gown, her blonde hair swept high off a snowy neck, a demure cross pendant bouncing at her throat as she hopped from foot to foot. “She is something of a protégée of mine. You would be astounded at the interest my little friend has attracted already. She is quite the belle of the Season.”

  “The Season has only just begun,” Lydia said, and Mary could hear the pique in her tone, although if Lady Crestwood did, she did not acknowledge it.

  “Yes, it is, and that is why it is so astounding, how decided the preference for her is already. Sir Reginald Colton, the great geologist, seems quite taken with her.” Lady Crestwood beamed down on Miss Poppit from afar, and Miss Poppit, alert to her patroness’s attentions, flushed with happiness.

  “Sir Reginald, indeed,” said Lydia in a tone just short of scoffing. With a sweet smile, she added, “And I am sure that old scandal of his is quite forgotten, is it not?” She gave a nod at the dance floor, where Sir Reginald’s white locks had become tousled with his extraordinary efforts to keep up with a woman wearing a saucy smile.

  “Sir Reginald is a great man, no matter what minor indiscretions gossips may whisper about,” Lady Crestwood said, the sternness in her voice making Mary shift her feet uneasily, even though she was not its target. “But there is also Mr Covington, who is already disposed to pool all his thousands at Miss Poppit’s feet, so I hear.”

  “Mr Covington?” It seemed as though Lydia was well prepared to speak heedlessly, so Mary interceded.

  “Mr Covington? Now that would be a great match,” she said, although in truth she did not know the man.

  Lady Crestwood’s smiled in a satisfied way and nodded at Mary. “Yes, it would, Miss Bennet. It would indeed.”

  Mary’s face grew hot as Lady Crestwood examined her, seeming to gauge her as a potential rival to her Miss Poppit. When her ladyship settled back, clearly dismissing her from her calculations, the breath caught in Mary’s chest loosened. She did not want any part of the competition, however much Lydia seemed to enjoy it.

  “A very genteel young lady,” Lady Crestwood said, as if a judge pronouncing Mary’s fate: incapable of causing mischief in the great lady’s plans, and therefore innocent. Mary curtseyed at the compliment while Lydia fumed at the faint praise. Before her sister could launch into any further discussion of Mary’s attractions, Mary backed away, bumping into the lady she had forgotten was with them.

  Why, she is as quiet as I usually am! Mary begged her pardon, and Lady Lucy murmured that it was nothing. Lady Crestwood’s daughter was nothing like her; where Lady Crestwood was thick, authoritative, and attired in the latest fashion, Lady Lucy was reedy, meek, and adorned with a heavily ornamented gown of last Season’s style. Her hair was the same washed-out brown colour as Mary’s, and Lady Lucy’s grey eyes shone like wide, round mirrors, betraying nothing but the passing reflections of others. But Mary liked her hesitant smile. As Lydia, Lady Crestwood, and passing guests chatted, Mary and Lady Lucy maintained their companionable silence, exchanging occasional smiles.

  I like her. Lydia would never have understood making friends by silence rather than chatter, but Mary sensed Lady Lucy knew the way of it. Understanding that neither expected the other to talk, the two young ladies settled into a friendly repose. It was only when Lydia threw a glance of impatience at her that Mary decided she had better make an effort to converse, if not with the intimidating Lady Crestwood, with someone.

  Lady Lucy had an embroidered handkerchief clutched in one hand, and the arabesques of green vines attracted Mary’s attention. “What lovely embroidery!” she said. Her voice was too low to be caught by the other ladies, but Lady Lucy acknowledged her compliment with a nod.

  “I did it myself,” Lady Lucy said, the admission colouring her cheeks. Mary knew the sensation her new friend must be undergoing well—the flush of embarrassment, not because one had done anything wrong, but simply because any focus on one’s own life made a ‘mouse’ feel awkward. Seeing Lady Lucy’s timidity made Mary feel brave in comparison.

  “I do a great deal of embroidery myself,” she said, glad to have found something in common. Though their conversation progressed very slowly from the kinds of threads and silks preferred, to the designs each had created, both Lady Lucy and Mary grew comfortable enough with one another to forget the other ladies chattering beside them.

  “It is so soothing to have an occupation one can pursue in quiet.” Lady Lucy’s hands folded over her torso. “My husband is often busy, and I have so many idle hours waiting for him.” The minor confession drew one from Mary in turn.

  “I passed many hours that way at home,” Mary said. “It seemed to keep me out of the way. I did not have many friends, and the few I had—” She broke off, thinking of the long hours hunched over her sewing, trying to forget the loss of Harry Lucas’s friendship. Kitty had declared her lovelorn, but their friendship had been something beyond her ken—a quiet sharing of religious ideas, passing tracts to one another, discussing sermons. There had been no flirtation in it, only the gentle pursuit of the same dignified ideals. Kitty had not understood it.

  “I had sisters, but we did not always get along. Families can be difficult.” Given Lydia’s predicament, that was an understatement, but Mary blushed with consternation. I should not talk this way to an acquaintance of mere minutes!

  “Yes, families are difficult,” Lady Lucy said, casting a wistful look at Lady Crestwood. That remark seemed to prompt another. “Have you met my husband, Captain Roarke, Miss Bennet? He is just there, dancing.”

  The blond, dashing young captain was leaning over Lady Sarah Randall and whispering something that made her giggle. Even if he had not been so engaged, Mary would never have guessed he was married to Lady Lucy. He was a handsome man, outfitted in the very pink of fashion. The captain’s grin showed a decided liking for his dance partner, and Mary could see why. The haughty line of Lady Sarah’s cheekbones, the richness of her raven locks, and the arch expressions flitting across her face made her suitable for the heroine of a novel. She and Lydia are women of spirit, Mary thought. Whereas I am—what Mr Cole said. Spiritless.

  “Lady Sarah is very beautiful, is she not?” Lady Lucy did not wait for an answer; she seemed to view the judgment as self-evident. “She is the daughter of an earl, you know. Her lineage is quite ancient.” She sighed. “I hear even her riding and singing are without flaw.”

  But her reputation is not. Mary dared not voice the criticism. She had scarcely been in London a week before Lydia had told her all about the scandalous Lady Sarah; Mary knew not whether Lydia censured her or admired her for her shocking behaviour.

  But she wondered if Lady Lucy knew the woman she so admired had a reputation for violent flirtations, and many of them—and more. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, even Captain Roarke says she is a perfect horsewoman, and he is quite particular about such things. She and my husband are great friends.”

  From the way the captain casually adjusted one of the curls on Lady Sarah’s head, the ‘friendship’ was not one Mary would like to see her own husband indulge in. Lady Lucy seemed to take no notice of the intimate gesture, but Lady Crestwood, who had appeared immersed in a debate with Lydia on sleeve length, suddenly set her mouth in a firm line as her gaze passed over the dancers, and Mary knew she had seen it. If the daughter does not resent it, the mother certainly does. As intimidating as Lady Crestwood was, Mary liked her the better for it.

  “Are you fond of dogs, Miss Bennet?”
/>   Mary drew her skirts together in unease, as if a mastiff might bolt through the ballroom at her. “Not—not so very much.”

  “I adore dogs,” Lady Lucy said, with an apologetic air, as if even a disagreement about pets were threatening.

  Mary made an effort at the conversation. “My sister Lydia has a pug. His name is Prince.”

  “Indeed? My mother has two pugs at home!” Lady Lucy’s eyes shone with delight, and she seemed to forget her hesitation. “He must be so charming.”

  Mary thought of the shreds of silk hanging from Prince’s mouth, and the gruff barks he saluted her with. “Not particularly.” She released her skirts and forced a smile. “Do you have any dogs yourself?”

  “Oh, no. Our landlady—” Lady Lucy was quick to alter her explanation. “I mean, it is not practical at our current home. And I do not think Captain Roarke cares for dogs.”

  “Perhaps you could come and visit Prince, then,” Mary offered. She was not sure it was polite to invite people to her sister’s home, but Lydia had known Lady Lucy some time.

  “I do not go many places. Indeed, this is the first time I have been out this Season.” Lady Lucy glanced over the ballroom, where ladies swung joyfully on the arms of gentlemen or sipped ratafia along the walls and chatted with their friends.

  “But why?” Mary did not realise her question was impertinent until she saw Lady Lucy finger a thin, worn spot on the front of her gown. It had not frayed there yet, but no doubt it soon would. It made Mary realise the gown was not a new one, but likely some relic of Lady Lucy’s more prosperous maiden days.

  But Lady Lucy merely said, “My husband does not wish me to expose my health to too many draughts. My constitution is not strong.”

  It was an excuse the translucent pallor of her skin might have made believable, had Mary not already guessed the truth. She found a budding irritation build in her gut. The captain gads about in the latest of fashions, flirting outrageously, all while keeping his wife sitting at home! In lodgings, no less! She struggled to press down the anger bubbling up. Lady Lucy was making efforts to keep peace with her husband, it seemed. It would be wrong to stir things up. I do not really know anything about it. Perhaps everything is innocent and in harmony. The idea soothed her. Yes, it is all probably fine. And if Lady Lucy needed any defender, I would be the last choice, for anyone. Lady Crestwood would be a better champion. Feeling better, Mary resolved to accept Lady Lucy’s fiction.

  “I can see you are quite pale. It is no wonder your husband worries for you,” Mary said.

  Lady Lucy nodded. “But of course I can—that is, if you have any interest”—the noblewoman took a deep breath and let her words out in a rush. “You could come a pay me a visit, Miss Bennet.” She gave the address in a hesitating manner that acknowledged the place was not fashionable. To Mary’s amusement, it was quite near Gracechurch Street; she wondered how many of Lydia’s new acquaintances knew that she had relations in that neighbourhood.

  “I will come.” Mary found herself pleased with the plan. She had never had a real female friend before; she had been so unwilling to leave Longbourn, and there was always companionship with her sisters. The idea of Lady Lucy actually enjoying her company warmed Mary’s heart. Perhaps London had more than annoyances and dangers in it. She could take the time to relax with a friend…

  Mary caught a glimpse of a tall, sturdy figure moving through the crowds, and the warmth of her heart chilled. In all her plans for enjoyment, she had forgotten the man who had insulted her and who was provoking Lydia’s downfall; the man who her elder sisters hoped would turn his eye to her: Mr Cole.

  Mr Cole must have just arrived; his cheeks were stung red from the winter wind, and a crust of snow clung to his gloves, though it was melting rapidly in the radiance of the ballroom. His sudden appearance made Mary think of a dark fairy intruding without invitation—no, that is silly. He has as much right to be here as anyone else. But her whole body tensed irrationally, fearing some explosion of gossip or wrath. His pace toward Mrs Wickham was resolute, but there were many clusters of guests to weave through before he could reach his object.

  Lady Crestwood had seen him, too. “Mr Cole is your particular friend, Mrs Wickham, is he not?” she said, with a clear warning in her voice. The caution was a reasonable one. No doubt she knew of the time Lydia spent with said gentleman. “Now you must not take up any of his dances. A married lady must leave the bachelors to the maidens who have not yet been so fortunate to secure their husbands.”

  Lydia tossed her head enough to make her curls bounce, despite the gold pin binding them. “Well surely one or two would not hurt. After all, I am not so married that I do not enjoy—”

  “I trust you will certainly not dance more than one. It would set tongues to talking.” Lady Crestwood replied firmly with eyes narrowed.

  Lydia rolled her eyes, scarcely bothering to hide the impertinent gesture for Lady Crestwood, and excused herself, moving from their group to approach Mr Cole. Mary sighed as Lady Crestwood drew back.

  I could have told her that would not work, Mary thought, watching Lady Crestwood’s disgruntlement. Even Mary’s efforts to rein in her sister had only compelled Lydia to set propriety at naught, and Lady Crestwood’s remonstrances were not half so gentle. In less than a minute, Lydia and Mr Cole were dancing. It was not unnoticed by the others in the room, and a buzz went about almost immediately.

  All they are doing is dancing! It seemed unfair, but Mary supposed after all that had come before, simply seeing the two together made the beau monde talk. Asking Lydia to show more restraint had done nothing. Mary followed the movement of the pair with her eyes, lingering on Mr Cole’s face. I was supposed to ask him to show discretion, not Lydia. She owed Lizzy a letter, and had put off writing it in guilt of not having fulfilled her promise. The idea of broaching such a subject with a gentleman still rankled in Mary, but it was clear things were not settling down on their own. I should probably just do as Lizzy advised. She took a deep breath. I will ask Mr Cole to leave Lydia be.

  It was easier said than done, however. Lydia expended her energy in a dance with him, determined to show her independence of Lady Crestwood, and Mr Cole’s face shone with sweat by the time the vigorous country dance ended. Miss Poppit had slipped back onto the dance floor with a new gentleman, and Captain Roarke had shown enough sense of his duties to lead Lady Lucy there as well, but Lady Crestwood and Mary were there to witness Lydia’s supposed triumph.

  “I am so tired,” Lydia said, belying her words with a few steps of the last dance as she playfully re-joined the group. “Mr Cole, you are a fine dancer.”

  When he bowed at the compliment, Lady Crestwood shook her head solemnly. “You are unwise, Mrs Wickham,” the noblewoman declared in her most authoritative tone, and then she swept off to the card room, throwing one cross look over her shoulder as she went.

  “With whom have you danced, Mouse?” Lydia asked. “Oh, do bring me a drink, Mr Cole, or I shall perish.”

  “From thirst? Or from lack of opportunity to gossip with your sister?” His tone showed no rancour at the subterfuge.

  “First from one and then the other. I shall die twice—how is that for peril?” They exchanged smiles, and as he sauntered off to obtain her ratafia, Lydia set her shoulders in mock seriousness. “Now, Mary, tell me all.”

  “I have not danced at all since you left.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No one has asked me.”

  Lydia pouted. “Well, then, tell me which of the gentlemen I introduced to you caught your fancy.”

  Mary sighed. “I do not know, Lydia.”

  “That means none, only you do not wish to say so. Oh, you little mouse! How can you learn anything about men if you do not open your mouth? You must talk more, express your desires and let the gentleman serve you—that sort of thing.”

  Mary’s hands fidgeted at her gown. “You would not want me to act a queen, like Lady Crestwood, would you?”

  �
�No one is asking you to be a bully. Just speak up a little more. Show you have some spirit.”

  Spirit. The word nettled Mary, and she could not help looking into Mr Cole’s eyes as he returned with the ratafia. He had brought a glass for Mary, as well. Whether it was the unexpected politeness from him or Lydia’s implication she was spiritless, Mary resolved to take action. She sipped her drink and tried to muster her courage as Lydia talked.

  “Just imagine, Mr Cole, my sister has barely spoken ten words to a gentleman tonight, and now I find she has not danced once since you and I began,” Lydia said in irritation. “What a Season she is having! We shall have to dance twice as hard, you and I, to make up for her lack of contribution to the ball.”

  Mr Cole looked amused at the suggestion, but not tempted. “Dancing that hard is a task better fit for children who have been closeted in a schoolroom all day.”

  “Oh, I have just as much energy as any child, do I not, Mr Cole? If we dance another time—”

  Does she not see how foolish that would be? Mary resolved to stop her, even at the expense of a lie. “I think Mr Wickham was looking for you, Lydia.” Mary tried to steady her voice, but it had an unfortunately mouse-like squeak.

  “But I intend to dance with Mr Cole again. Do you hear? They are just beginning the allemande.” Lydia’s brow wrinkled.

  “I do so enjoy the allemande,” Mary said, trying not to wince at the untruth, “and I seldom have a chance to dance it. Perhaps while you are seeking your husband…” She looked at Mr Cole. The hint was too forward to be polite, but he responded immediately just the same.

  “Permit me, Miss Bennet.” He bowed and offered his arm, and his smooth, relaxed brow showed no discomfiture at exchanging one sister for another. Lydia watched them move to their position with an expression mixing disappointment and amusement. Mary could not help feeling a sense of triumph. For the moment, she had Mr Cole’s attention. Leading her to the dance floor, he inserted them into the line of dancers with an expertise that kept them from standing out. The grace of it reassured Mary and gave her a moment for her pounding heart to slow.