A Learned Romance Read online

  “Was there a great deal of arguing in your home?”

  “The opposite. No one dared to contradict her.” Lady Lucy gave a wry smile. “It was very peaceful.”

  Mary thought of how Lady Crestwood’s powerful self-assurance had crushed the squabbles of the ballroom, her own opinion reigning supreme as a result. She supposed it was a kind of peace, that brutal intolerance for dissent. I suppose peace is not always pleasant.

  “It is very interesting to hear Mrs Wickham talk,” Lady Lucy said, and Mary prepared herself to hear more of the chatter Lydia called insipid. Her expectations were soon upset. “I often wonder what it would be like to be like her, and if that would please my mother. I am afraid Mama does not know what to do with me. I sort of—disgraced her.”

  “You mean your marriage.”

  Lady Lucy turned over the gloves to inspect the other side. “She did not like my running away, and she does not approve of Captain Roarke. She does not understand how good he is.” Her wide eyes appealed to Mary as if asking her to support her claim.

  Uncomfortable, Mary forced herself to nod. “He is a wonderful husband, I am sure.” A sick feeling of wrongness slid into her belly, but she ignored it. She believes it, so it is true. Besides, it is not my business.

  “Exactly.” Lady Lucy’s voice thrummed with satisfaction. “He says my parents are too—too frugal, too old-fashioned. They do not understand what a young couple needs to live on in these times. I am sure if we but had some small addition to our income, everyone would get along much better.”

  Does that mean she and her husband too? Mary did not ask, but she wondered about Lady Lucy’s desire for a child and the dismal lodgings. Surely there was enough fodder for marital discontent there. Yet she idolises him.

  “Have you made your selection, ma’am?” A shopgirl appeared at Lady Lucy’s side, but Lady Lucy backed away.

  “No, I have not,” she said, hauteur entering her tone. “Kindly wait until you are summoned.” The girl gave an uncertain smile and curtseyed, then hurried back to the counter. Lady Lucy pushed the kid gloves back into the pile. “Tradespeople are so coarse. I find I can bear it less and less these days. Can you bear them, Miss Bennet?”

  “I…have not had many difficulties,” Mary said uncertainly.

  “They say Mr Ingleston is to marry a chandler’s daughter. A chandler! His family is nearly as old as ours, and he degrades himself with a tradesman’s daughter.” Lady Lucy huffed in indignation. “Mama says they will never hold their heads up again after that—or should not, any way.”

  “I did not know.” Mary could not see that the difference in rank mattered very much, but she supposed Lady Lucy had to cling to something in the upheaval of her life. Perhaps her reverence for rank, and the idea of herself as belonging to an elevated class of society, was her only sense of esteem now. “Those gloves are very pretty indeed, now that I see them better,” she said, diverting the woman’s attention. “Allow me to gift you with them, Lady Lucy, as a token of friendship.”

  “Oh, no.” Lady Lucy blushed, and the hauteur drained from her voice. “I could not accept.”

  “Of course you may!” Lydia said, hurrying up to them. “Snatch them up quick, Mouse—I mean to give you both presents, in honour of our day together, and Lady Lucy shall not protest.”

  Lady Lucy did, however. “I really do not need any gloves, Mrs Wickham.” Her gaze wandered to the cards of lace stacked in tasteful array on another counter. “But what about some lace? I am embroidering a handkerchief for Betsy, a little charity girl I patronise. This lace would make it quite elegant.”

  “I think Betsy has had enough boons,” Mary said. The memory of the shoes, gown, and tarts made her tone firm enough to surprise herself.

  “Lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, for a little girl!” Lydia’s breath caught in indignation. “Surely not!” She accepted the kid gloves Mary offered her for the noblewoman’s gift and threw a glance of disgust at the lace table. “Not that I deny that little girls have plenty of running noses. I grant them that.” She moved on to another table, a shopgirl trailing after her. “I shall give you these gloves, instead, Lady Lucy. And a tippet.” She bent in consultation with the shopgirl, but Lady Lucy thumbed through the cards of lace with a regretful sigh. Though Mary was too far from her to see closely, she thought Lady Lucy paused on examining a particular card of double-edged French lace. Mary passed on to another display, this one bearing bonnets of every shape and colour.

  Why, this one looks just like my doll’s! She pulled the bonnet down with glee, scrutinising the close-woven straw, the white satin trim, and the decorative cherries. The sight bubbled up happiness and warmth within her, reminding her of the day she had made the purchase, spreading her pennies on the counter with tiny fingers, eager to treat her doll and hasty to spend before her younger sisters could claim her pocket money for themselves. What fun it would be to wear this! I still think it the prettiest bonnet I ever saw. Mary suppressed a giggle, and she turned to beckon to Lady Lucy.

  Mary’s breath caught. Lady Lucy had been holding a card of lace—the same French lace she had been admiring—but quick as a flash, the card seemed to disappear, and a bulge swelled the woman’s sleeve.

  Did she just—take that? Mary turned back to the stand and replaced the bonnet with a slow, hesitant motion. Surely not. Lady Lucy was aristocracy. She was moral, upright, kind. I must be imagining things. That was it. It was a discombobulating place, a millinery shop full of fripperies and fun. It was natural to become a little confused. She must have set it down next to her sleeve, and I was a goose and thought it went up it. Relieved, Mary gave the bonnet a twist on the stand to reposition it. It was a very pretty bonnet, indeed. Mary could not remember asking for any item for herself, from anyone, except her doll all those years ago. Perhaps it was unwise, with Lydia already spending so much—But I need to distract Mr Cole, don’t I? Even if he does not care for the bonnet, I will, and that will make all the difference in my demeanour. “Lydia, may I have this bonnet?”

  “Heavens, what a question! Take it, and the one beside it, and any other that you see. We shall ransack the entire establishment!” Lydia’s cheerful voice drifted from where she still consulted with the shopkeeper. Mary took down the bonnet she liked and carried it to her sister. When the shopkeeper gave a firm nod to Lydia’s instructions and hurried to complete them, Mary dropped her voice.

  “Are you sure it is all right?” Mary spun the bonnet in her hands, unable to keep from admiring it from every angle. “I thought Mr Wickham…I mean, we spent a great deal on cloth from the warehouses, and then the dressmaker…” Her fingers began to fumble, and the bonnet pitched askew in her hands.

  Lydia’s eyes flashed, the good humour of moments before turning instantly into peevishness. “What do you mean by that?”

  Mary hesitated, but her conscience prodded her further. The allowance that Papa gave her would never cover what had been spent on Mary, even if she had saved it all. “I mean that I still do not understand how Mr Wickham even became so wealthy, and as he now complains that you spend a little too freely…”

  Lydia put a stack of gloves down with more force than necessary, scattering a few from their careful arrangement. “Ladies do not need to know anything about all that, Mary. My husband says he is just lucky in things—cards, shares, commissions—but I know it is his cleverness. He is as clever as anything, so of course he became rich. And why should I not spend what we have? It is so dull at home!” She puffed out a breath, as if trying to calm herself. “Well, to set your anxious little mind at ease, I will tell you I asked Mr Wickham how much I might have to fit you out, and I have not gone beyond that yet. So there!”

  “Please do not be angry, Lydia.” Mary’s eyes watered, and she pressed her chest with her hand, willing the pounding heart to slow. It is nothing only a little spat, even if it feels monstrous and huge. What is wrong with me? Why do these things trouble me so? Others seem so unaffected by them. She hated the ange
r that swept through people, destroying homes, upsetting her peace, and she hated even more when that anger was directed at her. Verses from the Bible pertaining to anger and temperance sprung to her lips, but she resisted them; they would only vex Lydia further.

  Her plea mollified Lydia, and her sister dropped her tone and tidied the gloves she had disarranged. “However nettled Mr Wickham gets at my purchases, he is not at all averse to spending what is proper. Especially not for you. He thinks we cannot do too much for our little Mou—our Mary.” She corrected herself with a smile, and relief flooded Mary. The pounding in her chest became less palpable, and she could breathe easier.

  “I understand,” Mary said, nodding with a bit too much enthusiasm in her eagerness to return to harmony.

  “Now, which ribbons would you say suit the white silk gown we planned?” Lydia led her to another table and prodded the ribbons to put their loose curls in better light.

  The white silk evening gown. ‘We’ certainly did not plan that one. The sharp decolletage, costly material, and distinctive shell-shaped sleeves were all Lydia’s idea. “The crimson is very bright,” Mary said, meaning to disparage it.

  “I think so, too. It will set off your brown hair very well, and attract just enough attention in a ballroom without appearing gauche.” Lydia sighed in satisfaction and tucked the roll with her other choices. Mary eyed the crimson loops with distaste, but she could not deny her plan was working. Her sister was immersed in the project of bringing her out with éclat. And that is the point. So long as she is happy and busy with this, she is not trailing after Mr Cole. It is worth a few red ribbons.

  And perhaps there was another point—Mary found herself wondering, again and again, just how Mr Cole would respond to the new gowns and bonnets. Would he notice? What if Lydia was right—that a few fripperies and well-made costumes could turn a mouse into a belle? Perhaps all this will serve to distract Mr Cole as well. The thought slid through her whole body like molten metal, and she had difficulty justifying the response. It is not that I care to attract him for my own sake. It is for the Wickhams. Lizzy said it was the best plan.

  She realised she had wandered over to the pile of boxes and packets containing Lydia’s purchases and had restacked them in neater piles, the heaviest on bottom, so that the footman could carry them more easily. One of the shop girls was staring at her, no doubt puzzled with her preoccupation when there was gleeful shopping to be done. Mary flushed and retreated, but now that she had found her bonnet, she seemed to have exhausted her stock of opinions. Lydia appealed to her for preferences in colours, sizes, and decorations in vain.

  “We have worn her out for today, Lady Lucy,” Lydia said, patting Mary’s shoulder. “And I could go another ten hours! La, you have no stamina for shopping, Mary. And here I was, thinking we could go on to the jewellers. Emeralds would be perfect with your new green gown.”

  “Mama says emeralds are only appropriate for those with green eyes,” Lady Lucy said. “Our family has a lovely emerald necklace that has been passed down for generations, but she never wears it because she says the emeralds would look ill on her. She said she would give it to me someday, but I do not see how that would help, for I have grey eyes like hers.” Lady Lucy dropped her chin, musing on the dilemma, but Lydia had no patience for it.

  “Well, I think emeralds would be beautiful on Mary. And Lady Crestwood’s grey eyes can pop right out of her head when she sees them on her, if she likes. Then she can wear as many emeralds as she chooses.” Lydia beckoned to a footman to begin carting out their haul to the carriage. “I wish we could go and buy them tomorrow, but I promised to go and read to Mrs Holt. She has been abed all week.” She turned to Mary, and her coral lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps you could go in my stead. You are so quiet, I dare say you are just right for a sickroom. Mrs Holt likes Bible reading and that sort of thing.”

  Mary averted her gaze, suddenly seeing Sir William Lucas’s drawing room and Harry Lucas’s head bent towards her, reading a psalm. The Bennets had often visited there, Lizzy closeting herself with Charlotte, Kitty and Lydia romping with Maria, and Mary engaging in calm, earnest debates with Harry about religion. His voice had been like embers softly glowing in the grate, quiet and soothing, until some ideal was touched, and then it sparked into passionate defence like flames leaping in reckless abandon.

  “Well, Mary? It would be a great favour.” Lydia tapped her fingers on her reticule impatiently, as if she resented having to ask twice.

  Mary knew her reluctance would not hold out, but she made a paltry effort. “I do not even know Mrs Holt.”

  “She will not mind that. It is settled; you shall go and read to her tomorrow, and I will plan a few more things for your gowns.” Lydia did not see Lady Lucy’s look of sympathy cast at her sister, but Mary acknowledged it with a rueful smile.

  “Yes, Lydia.”

  “A few more days of shopping, and a week or two of fittings with the dressmaker, and you shall be queen of the ton! Then Lady Crestwood and Miss Poppit will swoon with envy, and we shall all be content.” Lydia led the way to the carriage, where the boxes and packets had been strapped onto the back, stuffed into the seats, and piled onto the carriage floor.

  A few more days? A week or two? It was not enough. Keeping Lydia busy with bringing her out would only go so far, and Mary could already see the day approaching where her sister would return to her flirtations. She climbed into the carriage, propping a bandbox on her lap. Perhaps it was the one containing the bonnet she had chosen. The thought made her wriggle in her seat, as if she were a child. At least I have that to show for my efforts. She realised she had never even tried it on, and endeavoured to picture herself in it, but her doll’s face kept popping into her mind. Oh, well, I am sure it is fine. I wonder if Mr Cole will notice it. She glanced at Lydia’s face, searching it for some sign of discontent or ennui, but her sister merely looked satisfied with the day’s efforts.

  It will not last long, however. I must hope I have better luck distracting Mr Cole.

  Lizzy’s face showed exactly the disappointment Mary had feared for weeks. There was kindness in her smile, but also a tension that was plain evidence that she had hoped for more. “It sounds like a very good beginning,” Lizzy said encouragingly. “But I think you ought to put yourself forward a little more.”

  “Forward?” Mary frowned. Forward was everything she was not. “I cannot do so without becoming unladylike.”

  “Not so! I wish you had spent more time with Miss Bingley; she would strike the right note of ladylike impudence admirably.” Lizzy chuckled to herself, and Mr Darcy took her hand with a small smile. Mary did not like discussing such things in front of a gentleman, even if he was her brother. But Lizzy seemed to take him into the conference as a matter of course, not merely because they were all packed into the Darcy carriage and could not help sharing conversation, but also because sharing her plans with her husband—as she shared every other part of her heart and life with him—came naturally to Lizzy. Looking at the pair of them, one could never imagine there was a time when Lizzy had disliked him.

  Mr Darcy had noticed her study and spoke up. “From what I have seen of you, Miss Bennet, your decorum will never be bent to an unwise degree,” he said, and his vote of confidence gave Mary an unreasonable amount of reassurance. Blushing at the compliment, she stared at the doll in her lap. The Darcys had agreed to drop Mary off at Lady Lucy’s, and Mary was bringing her doll to show Betsy, as promised. She did regret the air of childishness carrying it gave her, though, especially in front of the impressive Mr Darcy of Derbyshire.

  “I just do not think I can do it. I am not charming, Lizzy.” Mary’s tone was still plaintive, but it held a new note of desiring to be persuaded now. Does Mr Darcy really think I can do this? Or is he merely seconding Lizzy’s wishes? Mr Darcy’s gaze, so solemn generally, warmed into a fervour that dazzled when he looked at his young wife, and it was easy to believe he would go to a great many lengths to please her. Bu
t he is also scrupulously honest. The thought, touching on a thousand sermons she had read, consoled Mary. She could rely on his principles.

  “You are quite pretty enough, I assure you,” Lizzy said, apparently sensing Mary’s need for cajoling. “Your new things suit you very well.” She gestured at Mary’s pelisse, fresh from the millinery, and the pearl comb pulling tresses from Mary’s neck. With Mary’s usual sombre colours exchanged for ones that better suited her, her mouse-brown hair now looked more like ripened wheat, a blend of light browns and richer shades melded together. “And even Lydia says your conversation has improved.”

  “She means that I do not preach at her so often.” Mary had not intended it as a joke, but Mr Darcy barked a laugh and Lizzy tried to hide a smile.

  “Well, at any rate, you have everything required for drawing off this Mr Cole,” Lizzy said.

  “Could not you speak to him yourself, Lizzy? Or you, Mr Darcy?” Mary turned from one to the other, but both shook their heads.

  “I do not even know him.” Lizzy’s tone was calm, but Mary sensed an undercurrent of amusement, as if Lizzy had other reasons she was unwilling to display.

  “And a warning from me would appear too serious, too offensive. I will do it if I must, but things are not at such a pass yet.” The light in Mr Darcy’s eyes suggested he was in on the secret, whatever it was.

  Perhaps they like the changes in me. Mary was not sure she liked them herself yet. They were too new, and she felt too different. She made one last effort to avoid her task. “Could not Kitty tempt him away then? Her husband is getting leave soon, and they are to stay with us at the Wickhams’ next month.”

  “We cannot wait a month,” Lizzy said firmly, but then she caught sight of the buildings out the window and gasped. “Good heavens, where is the coachman taking us? I thought we were going to the Roarkes’.”

  “This is the correct neighbourhood.” Mary could not say she had grown used to the dingy lodging houses, rickety meat carts, and swarms of beggars, but now that she had been visiting Lady Lucy regularly, her shock had decreased. “They are very poor, Lizzy.”