A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “I am not so spiritless after all, am I?” she said, more to herself than Mr Cole. She had not expected her soft voice to carry enough to bring the words to him, but from the perplexed look on his face, he had caught her remark. She hurried to broach the necessary subject before her courage ran out. “I wished to speak with you, Mr Cole.”

  “I gathered that, as you do not seem to be overfond of dancing.” His wink disturbed her; it was not altogether a genteel thing to do, and yet she liked it.

  “It is about my sister.” She struggled to find the words, but he soon assisted her.

  “Let me guess. You are about to ask me to banish her from my side, thrust her out into the world friendless and alone—”

  “Oh, you know very well she has friends.” She smoothed her cross expression into blankness as she passed a stranger in the figure. When her hands clasped Mr Cole’s again, the crossness returned. “You are making mischief to no purpose.”

  “I disagree. It is not mischief; it is simple friendship. And I find purpose in it. I find it highly amusing.”

  “It is hurting her reputation.”

  “The only people who fuss about it are old crows. They peck at us because they have nothing better to peck at.” He shook his head. “You know your sister well. Would you say her affections are in any real danger from me?”

  Mary bit her lip, reluctant to acknowledge his point. “It is true that she is in no danger in that sense. She is simply playing.” Before Mr Cole’s satisfied smile could spread further, she hastened to quell it. “But that does not mean there is no danger altogether. How people perceive your friendship matters.”

  “Anyone can see we simply like to flirt. There is nothing in it, nothing serious.”

  “If that is so, then it should be all the easier to dispense with it.” Mary thought her argument compelling, but Mr Cole simply lifted and dropped his shoulders.

  “I cannot think it is all so serious as you say. I certainly pay little attention to the private friendships of others. Why think others are so interested in me?”

  Mary bit her lip, thinking. Probably Mr Cole truly did not concern himself much with gossip of others; he was immersed in scientific works, examining samples, debating theories. It made him a master of his subject, but a bit befuddled by the social realm. “I do not think you realise how much such gossip matters to most people in the ton. It may not matter to you, but others weigh it more heavily.”

  “It is very foolish of them, if they do.” He shook his head. “Perhaps a few ladies with little to do sometimes stir up a dramatic-sounding story, but you will find it all settles down as soon as they get busy with something.” Though he probably did not intend it, she sensed condescension in his voice.

  “It will not simply settle down, if you and Lydia continue behaving this way.” She snapped the words out. “You are disturbing the peace of all of us.”

  “I am not doing anything of the kind.” His arm pushed her into a turn with more force than she expected, and she lurched to keep from stumbling. “I beg your pardon. I am not a good partner when the lady of my choice is vexed.”

  “But I was not the lady of your choice.” Mary’s eyes sought his. She hoped he could not see the plea in them, the desire for reassurance. Why should I care anything about his feelings? I scarcely know him, and he is trouble. “I chose you, remember? I hinted until you had to dance.”

  “Of course I remember. I was entirely shocked. It was quite unladylike.” His easy grin showed her it was all teasing, but she found her shoulders straightening and her chin lifting nonetheless.

  “It may have been unladylike; I do not know. But you cannot call it spiritless.”

  His brow furrowed. “That is the second time you have used that word. Is there some meaning to it—beyond the usual?” Before she could answer, he suddenly gave a sharp nod. “Ah. I remember. I used that word once. Perhaps you overheard it.”

  The ire in her belly finally spat out of her mouth. “Indeed I did! You told me I had sharp teeth, and then you turned around and told Sir Reginald that I was spiritless. You shift like a weathercock; no one could know your true opinions.”

  “I wonder that you care about them, whatever they are.” His good humour was unruffled, and he had no difficulty giving a polite greeting to a friend as they passed through another figure of the dance. When his eyes met Mary’s again, he added, “If you truly care to hear my opinion of you, I could explain it.” The lilt in his voice suggested the mischief of a trap.

  “I do not care a thing about it,” Mary said.

  “No, you only rope me into a dance and upbraid me about it, when I thought you were going to plead for your sister’s propriety.” He laughed as Mary’s face took fire. “Well, how is this for a suitable peace-making? I acknowledge to you that I will continue to see Mrs Wickham, just as I please, but,” he held up an admonishing finger, “I will soothe your pride by admitting that I only called you spiritless to Sir Reginald to keep his hooks out of you.”

  His smile became rueful. “He is a very great scientist, but very foolish about women. He particularly loves a good debate, whether with me at a lecture or with an elegant female in her drawing room. I thought if he decided you were too meek for pursuit, it would keep you out of trouble.”

  “Keep me out of trouble!”

  “I cannot prevent you from hounding gentlemen onto the dance floor, of course. That requires your own restraint.”

  Mary’s indignation warred with the laughter bubbling up within her. She had never felt so at sixes and sevens with a person, and yet some feeling of freedom and glee threaded through it all. I can almost see myself a woman of spirit when I am with him, she thought. The idea made her giddy.

  “There, shall we have peace, then?”

  “I…suppose.” But what about Lydia? He has promised nothing about Lydia. “For the moment.”

  “A truce, then.”

  “For tonight, a truce.” Mary wondered how she had been so easily turned from her purpose. Though the exhilaration of the dance buoyed her up as Mr Cole escorted her back to her friends, a wave of guilt lapped at her when she saw Lydia’s ready smile at their approach. A mouse is no good at arranging people’s lives or interfering in their struggles. Speaking up usually only makes things worse, and yet—

  Yet I do not see how I can safely stand aside. Mr Cole’s charm had turned out to be far more formidable than she had guessed, and not just for Lydia. She had tried to persuade both Lydia and Mr Cole to abandon their flirtation with rational argument, and that had failed. If she could not reason them into a better situation, then she would have to influence them another way. They both seem to want a distraction. Lydia might respond to sisterly advances for activities together, but that would not be enough if Mr Cole was still eager to seek her out. I must distract him, as well. The thought heated her whole body with a strange confusion. I must occupy his mind with…geology, or…Sir Reginald…or some woman besides Lydia. She could ask Miss Poppit to try to dangle after Mr Cole, but Lydia would never tolerate losing him to her rival. Lizzy’s logic seems inescapable. Mr Cole must be coaxed away, and there is no one to do it but me. The idea was enough to shock any mouse. But if there was any better option available, Mary could not see it. She still could not see herself the way Lizzy seemed to, as a hidden beauty with secret charms waiting to be poured out. And she had no experience of flirting; her friendship with Harry Lucas had been solemn and platonic, and no other gentlemen had paid any attention to her when there was Jane’s beauty, Lizzy’s wit, and the pranks and gambols of Kitty and Lydia. But however ill-equipped she was to perform this task, Mary knew she must do it all the same.

  I shall just have to learn to flirt.

  Distracting Lydia turned out to be more difficult than Mary had hoped. Her first thought was to create an outing for them to visit Lady Lucy, whom Mary was eager to see again. But the next day, when Mary suggested it, Lydia objected with surprising pertinacity. “It is not that I care about my carriage b
eing seen stopping at such a place. You know I have no pride about that.”

  Lydia dabbed rouge on her cheeks with a delicacy that made the glow look natural. Mary would not have guessed her sister used such things if she had not been privy to Lydia’s dressing room. “But heavens! It would be agony to sit with Lady Lucy in her dingy little hole. She is the most insipid creature! Why, she never had anything interesting to say before she was married, and back then she was permitted to go to all the best places in Lady Crestwood’s train. And now—where does she go? Whom does she see? You will find her mind completely vacant.”

  Lydia lifted her hands, as if to mollify Mary. “Oh, I will go, I will go. You have never asked to go anywhere yet. I could always drop you off at Lady Lucy’s and see if Mr Cole—that is, see who is strolling about on Bond Street.”

  It was time to try a new approach. “Lydia, you say my gowns are a fright.”

  “Yes?” Lydia’s violet eyes narrowed in puzzlement at the change of subject.

  “If you will promise to set aside Mr Cole, I will let you buy me whatever gowns you like, and I shall wear them whenever you say. You can dress me like a doll.”

  “What—give him up forever? Certainly not. He is too much fun. Lord, Mouse! You must make a better bargain than that.”

  “Give him up for a year.” Mary watched her face. “A month, then.”

  “A week,” Lydia said, “and I get to dress you just as I choose—bonnets, gloves, jewellery—”

  “A week, full dress, but you must take Lady Lucy with us when we go shopping.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “Lady Lucy again! Horrors.”

  “She hardly ever goes out, and I am sure she would like it.” Mary tried to make her tone firm. “Have I your word?”

  And though they agreed on the terms, a second obstacle arose in the matter of choosing a day. Lydia’s schedule was full, and by the time the two found an appropriate day, January had slid into February, and a clinging fog hung over the piles of snow scraped back from the sidewalks. The lamps outside the address Lady Lucy had given were ill-lit, leaving the street half-shrouded, and there seemed to be more refuse scattered between the buildings than in the Wickhams’ neighbourhood. Mary climbed out of the carriage and hopped onto a drier portion of the stones. Lydia stared up at the grey mists choking the sky.

  “I am sure it will snow more today,” she said, fidgeting with her reticule. “And there is so much to be done while we can still get about!”

  Mary could sense the indecision. “Lydia—”

  “I will leave a card, and you can make my apologies to Lady Lucy. She knows how busy I am. She will be happy to entertain you for an hour while I—”

  “An hour! It is not proper to make a first visit so long.”

  “But no one visits her, so she will not mind it. Indeed, she will be pleased. I am already bound to spend our shopping day with her, and I find I cannot bear to witness the vacancy of her mind when I have so many other things to do.” She beckoned at a footman to leave a card, and Mary shook her head, sighing.

  I suppose we cannot all have the same friends. She did not think Lady Lucy was insipid, exactly, only mild. “You will be gone only an hour? And no Mr Cole, of course.”

  “Of course. And when I come back, you can tell me all about your visit—the interesting parts, any way. If there are any.” She giggled, and Mary could tell she was relieved at avoiding the tiresome task. Mary stayed long enough to watch the fog swallow up the carriage as it rolled away, and then she patted her bonnet to check its angle. Even only a few moments in the fog had moistened the merino covering it. I had better get inside. The skin laid bare between her gloves and her sleeves was already growing clammy.

  Mary rapped at the light wooden door of the lodging house, her chilled fingers forming a fist that looked weak to her, but which shook the frame of the door until it rattled. The stout woman who opened it nearly tore the door off its hinges as she did so, and after Mary passed through, the woman twisted and pulled at the door to set it into its proper angle as if she were accustomed to the procedure. Upon inquiry, the woman wiped at the greasy hair poking out of a hole in her cap and muttered, “the Roarkes—third floor, right.”

  The stairs shifted under Mary’s light weight, saluting her arrival with an eldritch music of squeaks and creaks. The grime coating the banister discouraged Mary from touching it, but she soon found she had to; the strange way the stairs settled under her feet made her clutch at the rail hard enough to smear her gloves with dirt. A faint odour of unemptied chamber pots filtered from some of the doors by the landings, and the sour smells of stewing meat emanated from others. This cannot be right. Perhaps I have the wrong building. But the stout woman at the door had said the Roarkes lived here.

  A plump maid answered the door on the third floor and ushered Mary in. Lady Lucy rose with embarrassment when she saw it was Mary, but bid her welcome. Mary had expected to see a difference in quality in the Roarkes’ rooms; surely Lady Lucy and her husband would have it in better repair, or furnish it in such a way as to hide the nails poking out of walls, the uneven floors, and the draughts whistling in the ill-fit windows.

  But the lodgings were not much different from the rest of the building. Lady Lucy had a few rickety tables covered with soft cloths, and muslin curtains too thin to bar the February wind, but embroidered with taste. Beyond those efforts to lighten the gloom and Lady Lucy’s plain gown, there was nothing genteel.

  It is like a fairy story. The bad part, the part before the heroine escapes with a prince. Only this part of the story happened after Lady Lucy met her prince. Mary tried to keep her gaze from scouring the room. She was familiar with poverty in Meryton, where she had visited the sick. Country poverty had looked so different—sparse, bare, but clean. Visiting the sick here would be dreadful. I would feel sure every sufferer was going to die.

  Forcing a smile, Mary seated herself. “My sister could not stay, but she left a card, Lady Lucy.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Lady Lucy’s motions were hurried as she brought out teacups and busied herself scooping tea while the maid disappeared to get hot water. Lady Lucy did not look at Mary, but Mary could sense relief in her tone. “It will be quite pleasant, just the three of us.”

  “Three?”

  “The captain has gone out for some biscuits. He will be back shortly.”

  A sudden thumping began, and angry voices, sounding hollow through the walls, made Mary jump in her seat. Neighbours. The poor in Meryton did not live so squashed together. Mary began to feel sick. It is too sad. How can the captain and his wife bear to live here? How can Lord Crestwood allow his daughter to stay in such a place?

  The door swung open, and Captain Roarke tossed a packet onto the table. “There. There are your biscuits.” The gruffness in his voice melted away when he saw Mary. “Miss Bennet! How pleasant to see you. I am not usually in at this hour, but when I heard you and your sister might be making us a visit, I made sure to be on hand.”

  “My sister could not come,” Mary said.

  A flash of disappointment crossed the captain’s face, but he hid it well. “We shall have you to ourselves, then. Is the tea ready, my dear?” He turned to Lady Lucy, who threw him a joyful look at the appellation.

  “It is ready, my love,” she said, her voice almost cooing as she arranged the biscuits on a plate. Captain Roarke sat down with them, but angled his chair as if to create a tête-à-tête with Mary while he accepted his cup. The tea was watery, but hot, and Mary sipped it gratefully, relishing the heat of the porcelain seeping through her gloves. As if awakened by the tea, Mary’s stomach grumbled. She had missed half of breakfast again, due to Lydia’s hasty desire to dress, and at last night’s dinner out, she had been too intimidated by the stiff footmen to ask for the foods she liked. But after a surreptitious glance at the Roarkes’ sordid rooms, she only took one biscuit from the plate. Perhaps the rest of them will be their dinner.

  Or just Lady Lucy’s dinner. It was not s
urprising that the captain kept his regimentals clean and his boots well-polished, but other signs suggested his manner of living boasted better care than his wife’s. Consulting his watch, he displayed an elaborate watch chain, glittering with seals, fastened to the hefty gold timepiece. His waist was still trim and soldierly, but by his vigour, Mary doubted he missed meals or dined on biscuits alone. He has his income in the regiment. And Lady Lucy no doubt has a settlement from her parents. It cannot all be spent on clothes and dining out. Given that he was Mr Wickham’s associate, she wondered if he had the same pursuits: gaming, and investments one might better term speculation. If he did, he did not have Wickham’s luck. Perhaps it is only that she has yet to come into her money, Mary thought hopefully.

  “It is not often we get such charming visitors in this wretched place,” Captain Roarke said, selecting a biscuit. “Miss Bennet, you have come to bless the place with your beauty. Heaven knows it could use some beautifying. It is ghastly enough to make one long for the barracks!” He laughed, and his merriment partly crumbled the biscuit, scattering fragments that Lady Lucy’s gaze followed to the bare floor.

  “Could you not find a place you liked better?” Mary asked. Her tentative appeal increased the captain’s amusement.

  “In half a moment, if we had the ready. Lord Crestwood is a stingy fellow.”

  Mary expected some reaction from Lady Lucy at such direct criticism of her father, but she did not look alarmed. She simply refilled her husband’s cup and smiled faintly at his liveliness.

  “Now, Miss Bennet, pretty ladies like you and my wife ought never to have to think of money. I would think Lord Crestwood would understand that, and see that we were taken care of properly. A captain does not earn much, you know, though England pays him with praises enough.” He chuckled. “Of course, tradesmen do not accept praises in exchange for goods. And if a man is as unlucky as I am in—well, never mind all that. How can any gentleman think of troubles with such solace nearby?” He threw a smile at Lady Lucy, but the way it deepened when he turned back to Mary suggested he intended her as the true subject of his gallantry. When Mary did not respond, he shifted in his seat and tried again. “What a lovely bonnet, Miss Bennet. I hope the wind and cold did not hurt it.”