A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “N-no.”

  “It was very kind of you to come our way. Very obliging. You do not know how lonely an old soldier gets some afternoons!” His smile showed he knew no one would count him old. “You would not like me to be lonely, would you?”

  Mary struggled to think of something to say. Not only was she unfamiliar with flirting, but she did not want to encourage the captain’s familiarity. At length, she gave up, and supplied him with her usual conversational move: “I do not know.”

  The captain blinked, as if disconcerted by her inanity. “Well, I am sure I could not be lonely if you will come and see us. You will alter our way of life like—like a djinn from an Arabian tale.” When again she did not answer, he pressed her. “Won’t you? I am sure you have a great deal of magic at your disposal.”

  “I do not know,” Mary murmured. Knowing the answer was inadequate, she averted her gaze from him to stare into her teacup.

  “Shall I refill it, Miss Bennet?” Lady Lucy asked, and Mary passed her the cup, regretting the loss of her focal point. She kept her eyes on her lap instead.

  “Well.” Captain Roarke heaved a sigh and pushed back from the table. “I think you have found a companion that suits you, Lady Lucy.” The irony in his voice stung Mary, thinking of Lydia decrying the woman as insipid. “Perhaps I will look in on Wickham. I will tell him what an angel his sister-in-law is before we go off to drill. Good day to you, Miss Bennet. Good-bye, my dear.”

  “Good-bye, my love.” Lady Lucy’s gaze followed the captain out, as if longing to bind him to her. The open neediness of her affections unsettled Mary.

  She loves him, but there is something—unhealthy—in it. Mary did not understand it. All the couples she knew were either happily attached to one another or grown peacefully indifferent. She did not see how Lady Lucy could preserve such affection for someone who appeared entirely indifferent to her. At least he is gone now. I suppose a lack of spirit has its advantages.

  Now that her husband was no longer of the party, Lady Lucy seemed to regain some of her aplomb. “Let me show you some of the embroidery I was speaking of,” she said, pulling out a workbasket and displaying its contents. She and Mary discussed their merits, and then Mary took out the handkerchief she had been decorating and they both began to sew. The companionable silence of sewing side by side seemed to soothe them both. Lady Lucy occasionally broke it with a comment—“Oh, my thread has broken”—“This red is too bright, I think”—of a sort that Mary recognised as bearing the ‘insipid’ character Lydia warned her of.

  But for Mary, who usually strained to find anything to say at all unless she repeated a sermon, the bland remarks supplied a conversation that required no wit or struggle. It was relaxing rather than tiresome. Lady Lucy seemed glad for the extra time with her visitor, and Mary found herself liking the woman more and more. I am glad Lydia did not come. She would have tossed back and forth in her chair and looked impatient or else chattered so much I might not have known anything of Lady Lucy’s thoughts. It still embarrassed Mary to be thrown on Lady Lucy’s hospitality for so long, especially as Lydia’s appointed hour came and passed without her arrival, but, on the whole, she was pleased with how things had turned out.

  “This is very pleasant, is it not, Miss Bennet? I wish you could come and sew every day.” Lady Lucy knotted her thread and bent over her work.

  “I think it nice to be quiet.”

  “Then you are just my sort of person. When I lived with my parents, I was very quiet indeed. Often I would come to visit my father a moment in his study, and he would get immersed in his Parliamentary papers and forget I was there entirely.”

  “It is lucky you had no desire for state secrets. What a spy you would have made!” They both laughed. After a hesitation, Mary said, “My family would often forget I was observing them, as well. I always knew where my sister Kitty hid the sweets she stole, and when Lizzy had a book she ought not, and that sort of thing.”

  “And did you tell?”

  “Of course not!” Mary’s head jerked up from her sewing. “I kept all secrets—almost all—” She pushed down the thought of Harry Lucas. “I find things are much more peaceful if you leave people to themselves.”

  “Mama would say that is just what one ought not to do.” Lady Lucy added another row of stitches.

  Before Mary could reply, a brisk knock at the door startled them both. Lady Lucy recovered quickly, and when the maid opened the door, she had her smile prepared.

  The woman standing in the doorway in cheap muslin might have been a maid, but Lady Lucy’s greeting was too effusive for that. “Mrs Burton! I had hoped we would see you today. Is Betsy—”

  A little girl, no more than five years old, peeked past her mother’s skirts. “Lady Lucy, Mama won’t let me pet the ponies!” Her face bore the red streaks that showed she had been scrubbed clean for company, and although the little girl’s dress was faded, it fit her better than Mary expected from a child of poverty. Her black, curly hair had been cropped short, and its tendrils looped in every direction.

  Lady Lucy’s smile became angelic, as if in spotting the little cherub, she had turned divine herself. “Why, Betsy, you know it is not safe to run about under the horses’ hooves. Your mother is quite right.”

  Mrs Burton shifted her feet when she caught a glimpse of Mary. “I did not know you had visitors, ma’am. Forgive me for disturbing you. It’s only that I’ve got a full gown to sew, with hardly any time for it, and as you said you’d be only too happy to look after Betsy—”

  “Of course!” Lady Lucy’s arms opened, and Betsy rushed into them, rubbing her washed face against Lady Lucy’s skirts as if to prove it was clean. Lady Lucy’s delight soon evaporated, however, as she glanced back at Mary, clearly unsure whether it was proper to introduce a seamstress. Mary rose from her embroidery.

  “Will you not introduce us, Lady Lucy?” Mary watched the seamstress’s face; it was too lined to appear young anymore, but she could not have been more than thirty. A hard life must have bent those shoulders, drawn down those brows, and thinned that figure, but Mrs Burton showed no sign of it in her gown. The cloth was of low quality, true, but its seams were tidy and the shape superb. Whatever her troubles, Mrs Burton certainly possessed a skill to boast of. As soon as the proper things were said, however, the seamstress drew back into the hallway, and her expression showed her unwillingness to put herself forward among Lady Lucy’s friends.

  Betsy had no such qualms. “Do you like ponies?” she asked Mary.

  “She means horses, really.” Lady Lucy cuddled the child to her as the maid shut the door on the mother. “She has never even seen a pony. But she and her mother live in this building, and she likes to look at the old mares drawing pie carts outside.” Betsy nodded, keeping her eyes on Mary.

  “Horses are so beautiful, are they not?” Mary said, hedging the question. They were beautiful—and frightening. Mary had never even wished to learn to ride.

  “Yes!” Betsy danced about the room as Lady Lucy went into the kitchen a moment. “Bee-yutiful!” She paused to gaze out the window. “Why are there so many people out there and so few ponies?” She did not wait for an answer but returned to her dance. “Lady Lucy is wrong—I did see a pony once. In a book. They are baby horses.”

  “Not exactly.” Amusement curved Mary’s lips, but she hardly knew what to say.

  “There should be more ponies. It should be all ponies in the street.” Betsy’s dance devolved into vigorous stamping. “Don’t you agree? No people, only ponies—”

  “But then you could not go and pet them.”

  “Only ponies and me, then. And Mama. And Lady Lucy.” Betsy stopped her stamping to stare at Mary, and Mary was sure she was revolving the question whether Mary should be allowed there as well. She must have decided caution suited the day, for she merely returned to her stomping.

  Lady Lucy returned bearing a plate of jam tarts, scalloped in perfect symmetry and carefully dusted with sugar. “I ha
ve something nice for you, Betsy.” Betsy eagerly climbed onto a chair and accepted a tart. Lady Lucy hesitated before asking Mary, “Would you care for one, as well?”

  “No, thank you.” Mary watched the child gobble the confection and accept another under Lady Lucy’s beatific gaze. No ordinary tarts, those. Expensive. It puzzled Mary. Clearly Lady Lucy struggled to make ends meet, and yet she provided exquisite treats for a neighbour’s child. Something of her wonder must have passed through her expression, for Lady Lucy hastened to explain.

  “I am the child’s benefactor,” she said, her chin lifting. “Her mother is a good worker, but earns very little.” She did not mention a father, and Mary did not ask. “Mama says that we should always regard the duties of rank. I am quite pleased to help my little object of charity.” Lady Lucy caressed the child, and her tone became more natural. “I do so love children. I had hoped—” She flushed. “But Captain Roarke says we cannot afford any at present.”

  “I am sorry.” Mary did not know what else to say. She had not expected such a confession on such short acquaintance, but she could not blame her new friend. Held aloft from her neighbours by her rank, separated from her old circle by her straightened circumstances, Lady Lucy probably had no one to confide in at all. The captain certainly seems to deprive her of her due. Perhaps I should say something—assure her she deserves better, condole with her—But no, that would be too officious. What if Lady Lucy was offended by such an intrusion? Mary did not want to lose the first friend she had made. “How long have you known Mrs Burton?” she asked, dismissing the desire to ask Lady Lucy to confide in her.

  “Ever since we came here. Of course she is only a seamstress, nothing like you and me.” Lady Lucy smiled, but Mary shifted in her seat. “Betsy, would you care for another tart?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Lady Lucy busied herself with the little girl, and Betsy’s chatter soon revealed that her bright new shoes were the gift of Lady Lucy, and that Lady Lucy had promised her the material for a new dress as well. Mary mused on this but remained unwilling to speak up. It is not my business. Her relationship with her husband, the way she spends her money—none of it is my business. The thoughts bolstered her, and the unease that had been stirring in her belly relaxed. She was able to respond to Betsy’s animated questions better, revealing to the little girl that she did not have a pony but did have a doll, agreeing that ponies should become more numerous on the streets of London than people (so long as they were very gentle ponies, a reservation which Mary did not expect to be satisfied), and promising to bring her doll one day to show Betsy. The good cheer that Betsy’s presence inspired livened up both Lady Lucy and Mary, and when Lydia finally sent a footman up to fetch her sister, Mary found herself bidding good-bye to her new friends with an optimism that kept her shoulders relaxed and her heartbeat steady. The physical ease matched her sense of internal peace.

  It is better to stay out of things, if one can. I am sure Lady Lucy will manage very well with time. If only I could say the same for Lydia!

  Lydia’s promised week of avoiding Mr Cole ended much too soon for Mary. Although she had determined on fixing Mr Cole’s attention on herself, Mary had no idea how to begin. When Lydia winked and said, “The fourth of February already! And just in time, for the London Ladies Information Society is helping Mr Cole prepare for a lecture this afternoon.”

  “He is giving another lecture today?” Mary had heard nothing of it.

  “No, merely preparing one. Really it is an excuse for ladies to mill about the assembly rooms while pretending to label boxes or count chairs. You need not fear we will do anything useful.” Lydia giggled. “Stay here and answer Lizzy’s letter, if you like. Or play with Prince. He is looking dreadfully dull lately.”

  The fact that Lydia was encouraging her to stay home alerted Mary to trouble. “What if I went in your stead?”

  Lydia’s mouth dropped open. “Without me?” The consternation quickly shaped into a frown. “Let me guess—you simply want me out of Mr Cole’s way again. How can you pay so much attention to meaningless tattle?”

  Before Lydia could get far in her indignation, Mary hurried to give her another reason. “Not at all! Perhaps I am merely curious to know him myself,” she said, unsure whether she was lying or not. “At any rate, will it not pique him to expect you and be disappointed?”

  Lydia tilted her head in consideration. “I do not really need such tricks, but I daresay there is something in what you say. It will be fun to poke his pride a little. Very well, go with my good wishes. I will get Mrs Appleton to chaperon you.” Her smile bore something feral in it. “But I do not bend to scandal, mind you. I shall remain good friends with Mr Cole, and I do not give two straws what anyone thinks of it.”

  “Of course.”

  Being a woman quite submissive to Lydia’s will, Mrs Appleton took Mary in her carriage without protest. When they arrived, several ladies stood in the main hall, staring over a sea of chairs and benches, and discussing their arrangement with a calm abstraction that suggested no one actually expected anything to be moved in this century. Miss Poppit and Lady Crestwood had settled themselves in another room, scrutinising orders for refreshments. Lady Crestwood glanced up from the parchment. “Miss Bennet, how kind of you to add your assistance to ours. Is your sister—”

  “She did not come.” It was hard to bear Lady Crestwood’s commanding gaze, but knowing that what Mary said would please her ladyship made it easier.

  “I believe Mr Cole was expecting her.” Lady Crestwood’s tone started out bland, but a hint of satisfaction crept into it. “He is in the little room across the corridor.”

  “Then I shall go and convey my sister’s regrets,” Mary replied, feeling bold. Mary walked where Lady Crestwood had directed, her steps slow and uncertain. The beat of her heart became uncomfortably palpable. The door was ajar, revealing Mr Cole sitting at a table, petting a scrawny hound that wriggled with excitement.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Cole.” Mary eyed the hound and drew her skirts closer.

  “Miss Bennet! Would you like to meet Hercules?” Mr Cole tousled the dog’s ears.

  Mary’s inclinations went very much the other way, but she could not expect to charm the man by rejecting his dog. At least the creature looked nothing like a Hercules—his height was remarkably short, his energy appeared more frenetic than powerful, and his limbs were thin and gangly. “Good afternoon, Hercules.”

  The hound bounded to Mary, shouldering her legs in an attempt to gain her affections, and Mary instinctively shied away.

  “He will not harm you,” Mr Cole said. “I fear he is rather ill-behaved for a hunting dog—that is why he is here—but he has no malice in him.”

  Mary made an effort to touch the dog lightly. Instead of the grasping jaws she envisioned, the hound smothered her hand with licks. “Ill-behaved?”

  “Oh, you know. He bayed far too early, and at the wrong things, or he got lost from the group. That sort of thing. He belonged to a friend of mine, and his keeper had given up on the poor creature and was going to drown him, but I persuaded him to let me have him instead.”

  Mary’s heart softened at this example of kindness. “I am glad you did.” She braced herself to pat the dog more firmly. Prince would have objected to any such touch from her, but Hercules merely burrowed closer in her skirts. She hesitated. “Is he—allowed to be in the building?”

  Mr Cole smiled. “I cannot say the man in charge of the assembly room is pleased I brought him today, but Lady Crestwood is both indulgent to dogs, and exceedingly persuasive to managers.” For the first time, his gaze swept around Mary. “I talked so much about him, Mrs Wickham made me promise to bring him. Where is she?”

  At least Lydia had better sense than to go to a gentleman’s home to meet his dog. Even Lydia knew such a visit would be too great an impropriety. “She did not come today.”

  Annoyance crossed his face, and Mr Cole stood up. “I see. Well, I had better check on the ot
her ladies.”

  “Wait!” Mary knew the other ladies might gossip if he spent too much time alone with her, but she was sure he would not have cut short the tête-a-tête if it had been Lydia who had come. Now is the time to start charming him away from her. “I have had so little conversation with you.” When he merely stared at her instead of responding, she said, “I enjoyed your lecture a few weeks ago.”

  His tone mingled puzzlement with resentment. “No, you did not. You made that quite clear.”

  “Well, not the subject matter…not entirely… Not that I dislike geology, I think, only that the theory was very…”

  Mary realised she was not flattering to any effect. “When the speaker is so”—So what?—“so cunning and handsome”—Oh, dear. That is just how Lydia describes Prince—“one cannot help but enjoy any talk a little.” Her efforts at flirting left much to be desired, but at least he was smiling now. Mary sensed it was not because he was flattered by her, but because he found her clumsy attempts to pay homage amusing.

  “I am glad you enjoyed yourself.” The dry politeness in his tone shamed her. “Now, I must go.”

  “Wait!” She resisted the impulse to grab his coat. “I am here to help. You have not given me a task.”

  He gestured at the table, where the little white boxes she had seen before were scattered. “Perhaps you could arrange these geological samples for me.”

  “You want me to line up your rocks.” Her tone was flat, despite all her desire to please him.