“They are quite lovely, aren’t they? But here is my sister, Mary Bennet. Mary, this is Mr Richard Cole.”
Apparently he had been so little aware of Mary’s presence that he blinked in surprise when Lydia finally laid her gloved hand on Mary’s arm. Her heedless introduction matched the light of mischief in her eyes.
“My sister simply had to meet you, Mr Cole, after hearing so much about you.”
“Is that an homage to my scientific reputation, or have you been telling her ‘so much’ about me yourself?”
The two continued to chat, but Mary did not feel awkward standing silently by. She was accustomed to men overlooking her when Lydia was near, and Lydia tended to forget her. This time, being forgotten had a distinct advantage: she was able to watch the two together and gauge the nature of their friendship. The flirtation was evident, but then, Lydia flirted a great deal without necessarily tendering much affection to the gentleman involved. As for Mr Cole—
I do wish he would pay a little attention to me, Mary thought, admiring his good looks but beginning to feel prickled by the indifference in his stance. It would do him no harm! Her irritation puzzled her; although she had always disapproved of Lydia’s flirting, she had never paid much attention to it before, and so far as she could tell, Mr Cole’s attentions were perhaps foolishly public, but otherwise harmless. The annoyance spurred her to address Mr Cole with a surprising want of tact. “Your scientific reputation is receiving a blow today, Mr Cole. All the ladies have filed out for punch and biscuits rather than lingering to speak with you.”
Mr Cole’s eyes narrowed. “All the ladies except two, of course.” He paused, as if to reassert his good nature. “Perhaps your conversation is worth that of all the others put together.”
Lydia tittered in appreciation, but Mary frowned. “I doubt it. But I daresay you are welcome to it. That gentlemen with the white hair—Sir Reginald, was it? He will assist the ladies with any geological discussion they may want to engage in, I am sure. You have left them all in good hands.”
Now Mr Cole frowned. “I suppose we had better join them,” he said, and the sour note in his voice betrayed his jealousy of the other scientist. He offered his arm to Lydia, and they all treaded into the room with the collation. Sir Reginald immediately bent a low bow to Mrs Wickham and whisked her away as if he considered exchanging the heap of ladies in the room for the fashionable Mrs Wickham a fair trade. Lydia parted from Mr Cole with a friendly wave.
The room was lined on one side with long tables bearing sweetmeats, biscuits, and bowls of ratafia and punch, and on the other with matching tables bearing a scattering of little white boxes with open tops. Each box contained a rock, and most had labels scratched on the side, often with terse, unhelpful descriptions, like ‘Schist, Germany’ or ‘Feldspar mica misc.’ Mary busied herself with straightening the boxes so that the labels faced the viewer and spaced them symmetrically.
“Was that bothering you?” The humour in Mr Cole’s voice showed he had forgotten Sir Reginald for the moment.
“What?” Mary’s hands stilled, and she looked down at them and the little white boxes. She flushed. “Oh, I am sorry.” As a matter of course, she would have dropped into silence next, but something about Mr Cole’s amused smirk loosened her tongue. “When I was growing up, I was always tidying things for my sisters. Now I forget I must not touch what does not belong to me.”
“I daresay they could use some tidying,” he said in a careless tone.
He thinks I am simply fussing. “They could,” Mary said. “You put them on display here so that people could enjoy them, did you not? It is hard to enjoy these rocks when the labels are nearly illegible, and they are scattered about like broken toys.”
He had been scanning the group of ladies, but now he turned his full attention on Mary. “They should be valued whatever the presentation.”
“I rather think that is how you feel about the facts in your lectures.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Mary could hardly believe her own audacity, but she found herself not only speaking up, but being too forthright. “You made no effort to make the presentation of your facts pleasing to your audience. You must have seen many of the ladies found it dreadfully dull.”
“That is their own fault, if they cannot see how important geology is.” He shifted, his height tilting over Mary. “I posed a solid theory and weighty evidence. What more do you ask?”
“Nothing, if you are satisfied,” Mary said, backing down. Heavens, why am I trying to provoke him? It is hardly polite. She plucked at her sleeve, which still hung too wide of her arm. Lydia is right. I do look a fright. I ought to keep my mouth shut and hope no one notices. Had she not listened to a thousand dull sermons without bothering the speakers about it? Why should she care if Mr Cole’s lectures were dull? She was supposed to warn him off Lydia, but bringing up that subject felt impossible. Lizzy should have chosen a braver sister for the task. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had eaten nothing but half a breakfast. “I believe I will try the punch.”
It was a good excuse for leaving Mr Cole, too, but he did not allow it. He followed her to the punch bowl and served her himself, as if forcing her to accept a drink from his hands would humble her.
“You are Miss Mary Bennet, are you not?” he asked her as he passed her the cup. “The one who lives with Mrs Wickham? The sister she calls ‘Mouse’?”
“Of course.” Mary studied him, wondering what he was getting at.
His puff of breath made a slight mist in the cold air. The collation room had not had nearly enough time to warm as the lecture hall, but Mr Cole’s crooked smile made Mary feel oddly warm just the same. “I just never met a mouse with such sharp teeth,” he said. He bowed quickly and then waded into the group of chattering ladies, greeting them with an enthusiasm that made up for his previous neglect. Mary watched him go with a puzzlement that both excited and disturbed her. Perhaps he is more of a threat to the Wickhams’ peace than I expected. If she found it hard to ignore the man’s handsome face, no doubt Lydia struggled more to do so.
As if to confirm her thoughts, Lydia swept up to her and spoke in a low tone, throwing occasional sultry glances at the scientist as she did so. “Well, what do you think of him? He is perilously handsome, as a novel would say. That is what I think.” Lydia gave a throaty chuckle. “And so charming!”
“He is handsome, I grant you,” Mary said. “As for his charm, I cannot say. None of it has been directed at me.”
Lydia paused in filling a cup of punch, letting red droplets cascade from the ladle as she stared at Mary. “What a funny thing to say!”
“What?”
“Why, I have never heard you complain that a gentleman didn’t try to charm you before. Usually I say how glorious some beau is, and you say nothing at all.” She trilled a laugh and returned to filling her cup. “I think you must be smitten.”
“Certainly not!” Now the room was not chilly at all. It was far, far too hot.
“Oh, have no fear. I shall not expose your weakness for him, especially since his weakness is all for me.”
“But surely Mr Cole must understand your interest as a married woman is wholesome?” Mary said, as much to remind her sister of that as to speak of Mr Cole.
“Of course,” said Lydia carelessly. “But married women are still allowed to have fun, are they not? And I am only seventeen, you know, and therefore in need of fun more than most!”
Lydia’s confidence made Mary glum, and not just because her sister seemed oblivious to the dangers of gossip. It must be nice to feel one has a gentleman pining that way. Not that Mary expected it for herself; she well knew she was too bony, too quiet, and too bland for a man to appreciate. Well, usually I am bland. She did not know what had gotten into her this evening. She had been downright rude to Mr Cole, and she still felt an uncanny impulse of impertinence. Perhaps I had better make the most of it while it lasts. She might lack the courage to warn off Mr C
ole, but she had enough to speak to her sister.
“Lydia,” she said, dropping her voice further, even though her soft one was unlikely to be heard more than a few feet away. “People seem to be spreading tales about you and Mr Cole a great deal. Had you not better leave him alone?”
“You mean he ought to leave me alone,” her sister said with a smile.
“Whichever. I am sure you could discourage him, and that would give peace to so many minds. Mr Wickham’s, and Lizzy’s, and—” Mine, she might have added, but even in a moment of daring, Mary did not think her own opinion mattered much.
“I do not mind vexing my husband a little until the matter of the drawing room is settled. And it is not Lizzy’s business.” Lydia studied her, and whatever conclusion she drew did not please her. “I am sure you do not wish to interfere with me. You know it all means nothing. It is simply a bit of fun.”
“But if that is all it is, then—”
“I can brook no interference, and it does not suit you, any way. Now, where is my fan? I should not have brought it at all; I knew I would only lose it, and I certainly do not need it. This room is like Sardinia.”
“Siberia, I think you mean,” Mary said, scanning the room for the wayward fan. “The fan probably dropped to the floor in the lecture room. I will fetch it for you.” Keeping track of objects had been a vital skill for Mary in the chaos of Longbourn, and she was almost pleased to use it in London, to prove herself useful.
“Now where has Mr Cole disappeared to? I must tell him all the ridiculous things Sir Reginald has said to me today. He has really grown too forward in his speech, the old roué.” Lydia pattered off to look for Mr Cole, and Mary returned to the lecture hall in her own search.
The empty chairs were huddled too close together to make the search easy, but by hunching and peering, Mary at length found the fan slid under one of them. Her ear caught the sound of voices in the hall: Sir Reginald’s tremulous tenor and Mr Cole’s booming bass.
“And who was the young lady accompanying our divine Mrs Wickham?” Sir Reginald was asking.
“No one of consequence. Her sister, I believe.”
“I do not say she is pretty, but she has a prettiness about her—”
Mr Cole’s tone was decisive. “She stood with Mrs Wickham and me, and barely spoke for ten minutes.”
“Oh?” Sir Reginald’s disappointment carried in his voice.
“I do not think she would interest you much. Now a woman like Lady Sarah Randall—she is all fire. Dashing. Compared to her, this Miss Bennet is practically spiritless.” Mary could almost hear a wince in Mr Cole’s voice, as if part of him were ashamed of the harsh comparison. And yet he says it. “Do you know Lady Sarah, Sir Reginald?”
“Oh, yes, now that is a woman more to my taste.”
Mary straightened as she heard the voices die down. The two scientists were no doubt returning to the ladies, but Mary had no desire to follow. How abominable! To discuss ladies like that, as if we were—pigs in a market! Her face flushed, but for once it was not in embarrassment. She felt angry. And Mr Cole, first saying I am a mouse with sharp teeth, and then turning around and calling me spiritless! Her hands shook. He is a man with two faces, and I do not like either of them.
Mary sat down, hoping the unfamiliar wash of rage would pass quickly. First the irritation that pushed her to insult Mr Cole, and now this rage—was London changing her? She hated the rapid, unruly beating of her heart, the trembling in all her limbs, the weak, flimsy feeling in her muscles, as if nothing were safe, as if she had no way to protect herself. Just calm down. Sitting in silence, her body eventually returned to its usual peace, her heartbeat slowing, her arms and legs steadying. Mary breathed a sigh of relief. I should forgive them both. Perhaps they meant no real harm. All the sermon books said forgiving was the Christian thing to do, but, at the moment, Mary was more interested in it for keeping her equanimity. Her breathing eased further.
“There you are!” Lydia strode into the lecture room, her deft feet carrying her through the mass of chairs as if she were performing a high-stepping dance. “The carriage is waiting.”
“I am sorry, Lydia.” Calm had reasserted itself, and Mary clambered her way out of the chairs to join her sister. “I found your fan.”
“Oh, I had forgotten. Thank you.” Lydia accepted the fan and tucked it into her reticule, and Mary followed her out.
Lydia’s movement towards the door summoned Mr Cole to her side, his chestnut hair stirred by the frosty gusts from the street. Mary walked to the head of the carriage, unwilling to look Mr Cole in the face. One of the horses stamped a foot, and Mary felt a twinge of satisfaction, as if the horse were expressing an indignant contempt for the scientist. But I must forgive him. I have forgiven him, I mean. Mary was able to ignore Mr Cole’s good-bye in the bustle of accepting a footman’s assistance into the carriage. When the footman turned to Lydia, Mr Cole insisted on helping her himself. Then he shut the carriage door with a masterful thunk, and only when it was well on its way did he turn to join his guests.
“Such a satisfactory evening!” Lydia said as the carriage jolted along. “You had a wonderful time, did you not?”
Mary turned her sour face to the window and stared at the ice-crested windowsills lining the buildings. “Yes, Lydia.”
Lady Crestwood, that powerful monarch of fashion, threw wide open the doors of her London home for a ball, and the Wickham household was invited. Lady Crestwood sometimes held the Wickhams at a distance, her long standing in the ton making her more cautious with newcomers whose source of wealth was unverified. Her daughter’s elopement with a captain in Wickham’s regiment made her doubly careful; though Lady Lucy had received the Crestwood dowry due her, Lady Crestwood still gnashed her teeth at her daughter’s selection of a mere Captain Roarke when she ought to have had a viscount at least. Still worse, Mr Wickham and Captain Roarke had become fast friends, further tainting the Wickham name to Lady Crestwood. Nevertheless, she sent the proper invitation to the Wickhams to her first ball of the Season. “Not exactly out of kindliness,” Lydia had said, scanning the cream-coloured paper, “more to crush me with her splendour.”
Left to herself, Mary would likely have wished to stay home from the event—dancing was surely not her favourite activity—but Lizzy’s charge to turn Mr Cole’s eye towards herself was yet in her mind. Would he even be invited? He might have been.
“I have got Addleby taking in your gowns right now,” Lydia had said, “so there is no excuse, Mouse. Even a mouse has got to go somewhere to find a nice fat rat to marry.”
Mary’s mouth twisted in disgust at the metaphor, but she had obeyed. Now she stood in the pillared ballroom of the Crestwood home, squashed between feathered ladies and well-heeled gentlemen, with mounted bouquets fluttering ribbons down the pillars to swipe at her coiffure. The January cold was pushed back by the heat of bodies and two fireplaces, and the scent of woodsmoke tainted the perfumes liberally dousing the dancers. Conversation hummed in every direction, almost drowning out the brass and strings marking a minuet. As strange as the setting was to Mary, the strangeness of the people was more disturbing. She really knew only Lydia and Mr Wickham; though she had seen Lady Crestwood and Sir Reginald Colton at the geology lecture, she had never spoken to them. The mass of figures hungrily shoving into the supper room or banishing the night chill with a vigorous dance were all unknown to her. Lydia introduced gentlemen to her, but the interaction was invariably the same.
“This is my sister, Miss Mary Bennet.”
A curtsey from Mary, a bow from the gentleman.
“It is a fine ball, is it not?” the gentleman asked—or perhaps he mentioned the number of couples, or the bite to the winter air outside. Whatever the remark or question, Mary nodded mutely. Then the gentleman tried again on another subject and received another nod, while Mary prayed that he would go away soon. Then Lydia, taking pity on the potential suitor, swept in to include him in her conversation, and Mary sighed i
n relief.
So this is what a London ball is like, Mary thought, picking at a loose ribbon on her gown. Not so very different from the assembly rooms at Meryton. I cannot say I like it. There was only herself to blame, of course. Anyone else would have found a hundred things to chat about, or relished dancing and supping on dainties. Mary’s dances had been silent proceedings, making use of Lydia’s tutelage in the new figures, but satisfying only in that the gentleman did not expect her to talk much. It was no wonder that Lydia threw her looks in which mortification mingled with amusement, and Mr Wickham retreated to the card room to escape making fruitless introductions.
“Mind my gown, my dear.” Lady Crestwood’s voice was not a booming bass like Mr Cole’s, but it had the same inflexion of power, and her height and solidity suggested she could join Mr Cole in an impersonation of a blacksmith, albeit a less muscular one. Her plum silk gown suited her, curving along her voluptuous figure but remaining stately enough for a woman approaching fifty. Her creamy, smooth skin belied her years, though Mary could not tell if that was the result of art or good fortune.
Mary stepped back in obedience, though she did not think she had trodden on the plum silk. Lady Crestwood rewarded her with a smile and then turned her attention on Lydia and the gentleman with whom she was conversing.
“Disputing about ices, no less? How very foolish. You must both acknowledge lemon ices are the best. We have very fine ones in the supper room.” The commanding note Lady Crestwood used even in ordinary conversation made Mary’s eyes widen, and the gentleman bowed and scuttled off, as if to partake of a lemon ice at once. Lydia looked disappointed at his abandonment of her, but she smoothed her features into a smile for Lady Crestwood nevertheless.
“Why, here is my daughter,” Lady Crestwood said, beckoning Lady Lucy to join them, and Lydia introduced Mary to them both, prompting the usual round of curtseys. “Lucy, dear, I never see you these days. You must get out more.” She turned back to Lydia. “I believe you go everywhere, Mrs Wickham. Almost everywhere, at least.”
A Learned Romance Page 4