Two days later, the rain had ceased, leaving the spring air uncommonly fresh and luring Mary into strolling outside the Roarkes’ lodging house for a moment. Fewer coal-fires belched smoke into the air now that the sun’s heat was simmering the city, and a wild breeze tangled the ropes of dray-carts and flapped the laundry slung out of windows. Though the Roarkes’ neighbourhood was rough and seedy, the clarity of the air tempted many to dawdle, and Mary felt a flash of rebellion at bidding the Wickhams’ carriage to go, then leave it lingering in the mash of passersby.
Besides, it is not as if I know what to say to Lady Lucy. The noblewoman’s confession had put their friendship out of kilter. Mary still thought Lady Lucy ought to tell her parents, but she felt constrained by her promise not to tell anyone herself. Which means I either harp upon the subject with Lady Lucy and pressure her or let the matter drop. Neither alternative felt right, and Mary stepped around a pile of refuse and wandered a few more feet away from the lodging house. It felt like ages since she had been alone—well, unaccompanied. She could hardly call herself alone with a meat-pie seller hollering in her ear and workers in close-fitting caps shouldering by her to run errands or carry goods. Lydia was still vegetating within the Wickhams’ home; instead of going out to her usual flutter of social commitments, the belle now pined and pouted and remained indoors. Mr Wickham looked unhappy with the change. Probably he wished he could take back his strictness, but with Lieutenant Stubbs’s certainty that the scandal with Mr Cole had really grown too much, he continued pressuring Lydia to play the quiet wife. The constant company of her sister had eventually wearied Mary, and she was pleased no one seemed to mind her visiting Lady Lucy unchaperoned.
Mary’s steps roamed farther, and her ear caught the sound of a child chattering. That was not surprising in a busy neighbourhood, but the voice was recognisable, and Mary walked far enough to see Betsy, hand in hand with a woman in a soiled black dress. The woman in black nodded absently at the little girl’s words and glanced back and forth with a furtive air.
That is not Mrs Burton. It must be some sort of nursemaid hired to watch the errant child. Betsy looked confident enough with the woman, trotting at her side and smoothing the pristine apron Lady Lucy had given her. The ruffles of lace on it matched those on the little girl’s dress, and her new shoes danced over the leftover puddles of rain and sprayed drops everywhere.
“Stop that!” The woman in black jerked Betsy’s arm, and the girl looked up at her in wonderment, as if too unaccustomed to such harshness to take offence.
Mary chewed on her lip as she watched. The cuffs of the black dress were frayed, and the woman’s gown had a torn spot on one side. Mary was surprised Mrs Burton would allow even a nursemaid to look so untidy when Mrs Burton could patch things up in a trice. Perhaps the nurse does not care to mend it herself and would not accept help. People often did have a strange pride about such things.
The woman hurried Betsy along, angling her farther and farther from the lodging house. Mary supposed they must be on a walk. It would be good for Betsy to stretch her legs and tire herself out; she had sat inside too often for far too long. Yes, it is a good thing. Still, something tugged at Mary’s thoughts, and she found herself following the pair. It will not hurt anything to watch a little longer. Not that anything is wrong.
The mere idea that something might be amiss made Mary’s heart palpitate and her stomach drop. Nothing is wrong. Just a new nurse taking Betsy for a walk. Mary could not bear trying to speak up to the woman, insinuating she was some sort of child-snatcher or thief. What would she think? It would be beyond rude, and Mary had no proof of anything. Mrs Burton had a right to hire anyone. There was no reason for Mary to be informed. This is probably all as it seems to be, just an ordinary walk.
The thought soothed her, and the reassurance that there was no need to confront a stranger in public made Mary’s knees almost weak with relief. I would have made a fool of myself to no purpose, and probably that woman would have scolded me into tears. Mary paused, ready to turn back towards the lodging house, but Betsy had spied a toy in a shop window and pulled the woman to it so Betsy could press her face against the pane.
“A toy pony!” Betsy’s shout of delight rang even over the clatter of hooves in the street and the squeal of the cart’s wheels. “I want to go in and see!”
“Not now.” The woman’s black dress gusted in the wind, and her grip tightened on the little girl’s arm. “Come along.”
“No, no! I want to see!” Betsy struggled against her, the desire for the toy gluing her to the spot. “I want the pony!”
“Come along.” The woman yanked hard on Betsy, making her stumble, but the woman in the black dress did not even glance down at her. Her gaze searched the crowd with anxiety, her face draining of colour. “Hurry up.”
Mary moved towards them with reluctance, still uncertain of herself, but sensing a growing dread within her. As she approached the two, the woman began dragging Betsy along.
“Wait a moment,” Mary said. The throbbing in her chest warned she was making something out of nothing. The trembling in her hands told her she was about to cause a needless scene.
“Ain’t got a moment,” the woman said, walking faster, despite Betsy’s pull.
“Miss Bennet, I want to see the pony!” Betsy’s eyes lit up at the prospect of another adult to further her wishes, and she struggled harder.
“Who are you? A new nurse?” Mary’s voice ought to have sounded stern and authoritative, but instead it came out as a squeak.
The woman in black glared. “That’s right. I haven’t time for you, miss.”
“What is your name?”
The eyelids of the woman flickered. “Mrs Thomas, miss. Ain’t got time. Must go.” A hard set to her mouth showed what she thought of Mary’s interference.
“Betsy, who is this? Is this your new nurse?”
Betsy stared at Mary in confusion, either because she did not understand the question or did not know the answer. A barrette Lady Lucy had given her had gone awry in her black hair, poking some of her curly locks straight up. “Can I see the toy pony?” she asked, her expression clearing and becoming suffused with hope.
“I just said I was her nurse,” the woman said, but instead of sounding irritated, she sounded scared. “Come along, Betsy.”
“What is Betsy’s mother’s name?” Mary asked, taking hold of Betsy’s other arm. What am I doing? I am making a scene for nothing. I should just go back to the lodging house and ask. Lady Lucy will tell me all about the new nurse and I will avoid this stranger’s anger. But too much seemed wrong, and she repeated the question. “What is her name?”
“Why, don’t you know?”
“I know. If you are truly her nurse, you will know as well.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you or anybody.” The woman threw her shoulders back, and her voice rose in a shrill castigation worthy of the greatest shrew in London. “Imagine! Stopping honest folk and arguing with ‘em, as if I haven’t better things to do for my mistress. Go and bother her with your questions, not me. Learn to mind your own business. Witch!”
The pounding in her chest felt as though it would shake Mary apart. “If you do not tell me at once, I am going to scream for help.” Passersby were already slowing as they passed, glancing at the scene with increasing interest, and though Mary did not spy any watchmen, she had no doubt her screams would attract assistance. The woman in black must have thought so, too, for she suddenly released Betsy and darted into the crowd.
Mary’s legs wobbled, and she fell to her knees, hugging Betsy. “Betsy, does anyone know you are out?”
“N-no.” Betsy’s black eyes were mystified at Mary’s emotion.
That woman was going to take her—probably to sell her clothes. They are too nice for this neighbourhood. And what would have become of Betsy when she had them? Mary shuddered. If Betsy was lucky, she might have been released in an alley and found her way home. If not…And I almost let
it happen. I would have, if Betsy had not been so set on that toy. Mary staggered to her feet, keeping her hand clenched around Betsy’s arm. “Let me take you home.”
“And the toy pony?” The desire was apparently irrepressible, despite Betsy’s near adventure, and Mary shook her head in resignation.
“I will buy it for you later.” She supposed it was fitting; without the presence of that toy, Betsy and the woman would have continued on their way, and Mary would have returned to the Roarkes’, only eventually to learn there was no new nurse and Betsy had disappeared on the streets of London.
I almost let it happen, all because of fear. All because I did not want to speak up. Sickened, Mary shaded her eyes, trying to focus on getting the little girl back to the lodgings. She did not want to look at anyone. Shame was engulfing her, tearing at her inside and out. Her desire to keep things smooth and peaceful had nearly meant the loss of a child.
Even when Betsy was back in her mother’s arms, chatting with energy about the toy she had seen, even when Lady Lucy and Mrs Burton exclaimed over Mary’s rescue and praised her, even when she rode back alone to the Wickhams’ and should have had a moment to forget, shame bore down on her. I cannot stay like this. Before, she had considered speaking up more as an idle pursuit, a possibility she might play with. Now her cowardice bit at her, and made her character feel intolerable. However often she reassured herself that Betsy was okay, Mary could not erase the horror she had felt when she realised her fear had somehow become more important than the life of a child.
I talked myself into believing everything was fine—because I wanted to believe it. It was the same as convincing herself Lady Lucy had not stolen the lace, clinging to a pretence in order to avoid a scene. But I cannot live like that anymore. Better chaos and conflict, than peace that costs so much. She drew her breath in sharply. The mouse must die. I must be something else now.
The resolution felt, oddly enough, like relief.
Facing her own cowardice pushed Mary into action, and though she second-guessed her own decisions, she resolved to deal with Lady Lucy and Lydia more directly. She had assumed for so long that if only everyone around her would be in harmony, Mary would feel safe and cared for. But now, it seemed that even if she succeeded in producing peace, Mary might wind up paying a price too high—either sacrificing too many of her own needs, or suppressing some more important value to convince herself everything was okay.
I have to remember what almost happened to Betsy. And now that her figure had filled out more, and Mary experienced the surprising satisfaction of being well-fed, well-rested, and well-dressed, she realised how much she had lost in her martyrdom. The image of Mr Cole’s smiling face and broad shoulders made her heart beat hard in her chest, and day by day she felt less and less inclined to let go of his friendship. If Lydia ever does leave him alone, everyone will expect me to stop seeing him. No one in our family wants him as a friend after that…except me. But unlike times before, the fact that she desired something felt meaningful—vital, even. I will remain his friend, no matter what. It felt like a daring choice, and her confidence in it made other, lesser choices easier.
The next day, Mary had intended to broach the topic of Lady Lucy’s thefts the moment she arrived at the Roarkes’, but Lady Lucy gushed forth before Mary could even sit down. “We are all still so indebted to you, Miss Bennet, for your brave rescue of Betsy. Mrs Burton talks of nothing else.”
“Oh.” Mary wished they could drop the topic; even a passing mention made her sick with regret.
“We have agreed, she and I, that Betsy need not have so many fripperies, at least not while she is too young to look after herself.” Lady Lucy sat down on a thin-cushioned chair and beckoned Mary to do the same. Though the noblewoman’s shoulders were weak and bony, she straightened them as if she were a soldier like her husband. “Instead, I intend to sponsor Betsy’s education.”
Mary could see the change pained Lady Lucy. “That is very good of you. Without the treats, Betsy may be less enthusiastic towards you in the short term, but I believe she will acknowledge a greater debt of gratitude in the long term.”
Lady Lucy’s brow wrinkled, but she nodded.
Mary’s hands balled into fists in her lap. “Now I am afraid I must embark on a more difficult topic. About your—taking things.”
“Oh?” Lady Lucy’s hauteur appeared, erasing the friendly rapport they had established.
“If you will not tell the captain and your parents about taking things, I will,” Mary said in a rush. The idea of deliberately revealing Lady Lucy’s secret to her parents scared Mary, because it was so like what she had done to Harry Lucas. And that ruined everything. But she no longer had the patience to watch her friend suffer in silence. Mary had to grit her teeth to bolster her resolve, but she succeeded in looking authoritative.
“But you promised!” Lady Lucy’s translucent face grew even paler as she took in Mary’s meaning.
“I will break my promise.” The firmness in her voice sounded unnatural to Mary, but she pressed on. “Nothing is getting better, Lady Lucy. I know you have tried to make amends to the milliner, and you returned the brooch, but you cannot remain sequestered here, unhappy, lonely, impoverished, longing—”
“That is my business, not yours.” The fire of pride lit the woman’s eyes, giving a bright contrast to the pallor of her face.
“Perhaps it is. I do not know if what I do is wise or not. I only know that I have information that can make a difference, and I cannot stand to watch you suffer any more. Besides, how long will it be before you are tempted to take things again? A sturdy intention to do right will only last so long, and your circumstances look as though they will last much longer than that, if I do not intervene.”
“Interfere, you mean.” Lady Lucy glared at her. “Friends do not betray one another.”
The comment stung. “It is a betrayal, I admit. But it is what I intend to do. I suggest you tell them yourself, for it will come better from you.” Mary’s hands felt clammy with sweat as she took her leave, Lady Lucy’s icy nod her only acknowledgement of the visit’s end. Her legs wobbled as she descended the battered staircase, and this time, the cause was not mere weak wood and flimsy banisters. I may have lost a friend just now. My first real female friend. But she climbed into the carriage without a tear. She still did not know if she was doing the right thing. Very likely, in her desire to free herself from the need for external peace, she would make a great many mistakes on the wrong side, diving into conflict too often or too cruelly in her haste to correct her imbalance. She hoped this was not one of those mistakes.
Lady Lucy soon sent a letter, venom sarcastically shrouded in polite language, affirming that she had indeed informed her husband and her parents of her ‘slight difficulties,’ and describing the contretemps that had resulted. As one might expect, the Crestwoods blamed the captain, and the captain blamed the Crestwoods. As the Crestwoods had the pecuniary upper hand, they pressured the captain to go abroad—or else they would reveal the extent of his debts and likely he would be jailed for them. Though the Crestwoods expected Lady Lucy to return to their fold, she clung to her husband instead, bewailing their cruelty to him and insisting she would stay by his side wherever he went.
Can she not see how indifferent he is to her? Is she willing to endure so much for the pleasure of being presented as his wife? Or is it some moral strength in her, determining her to be with him for better or for worse? Or is it that she will do anything in the hopes of having a child? Mary could not sift the woman’s motives. Lady Lucy’s relationship with her husband had always puzzled her, and she felt as though she understood it now less than ever. She could only turn her mind to the next conflict: facing Lydia.
After weeks of remaining mostly at home, Lydia had wilted like a surly, disgruntled flower. At first, Mary had thought it simple ennui that had thinned her sister’s cheeks and paled her face, but now she realised it was something more. Once Mr Wickham had spoken outright of
suspecting his wife, Lydia had crumpled inside. The face she turned to Mary as she entered Lydia’s elegant boudoir was positively haggard. “Oh, Mary,” she gusted a sigh.
“You must talk to him, Lydia.”
“I did that. It only made things worse.” The tears spilling down Lydia’s face were different from her usual ones. Her general method of weeping produced silky droplets that swept down her face like rolling pearls, barely tinging her eyes with pink. These tears flooded and poured, and Lydia’s eyes were squeezed half-shut with redness. “I never thought he would really suspect me, but he did after that. Why does he not understand? Flirting—I flirt all the time. I always have. It is only for sport.” She blew her nose. “What sort of person does he think I am? I love him! And even if I did not, I made a bargain. Does he think I would go back on it and disgrace him? I keep my word!” She mopped at her face with her handkerchief, the linen billowing at another sigh.
“Can you not tell him all this?”
“I have. At least, mostly. He is hard to talk to about serious things.”
“He must talk to you all the same, Lydia.” Mary paused, watching her sister’s eyebrows lift in confusion. “I think you are afraid to be open with him.”
“What have I hidden?” Lydia’s forehead creased with indignation, and the impulse to cave in and reassure her jolted Mary. The idea of displeasing anyone still made her heart pound, but Mary had realised the discomfort in her body did not mean deaths or feuds were imminent. They were mere sensations, however uncomfortable, to be felt and then let go. I thought the alarm in my body meant something terrible was going to happen, and I should back away. But when Betsy was taken, trying to soothe away those sensations made me foolish and passive. She clenched her fists. I cannot be that way any more. Her sister deserved her truth.
A Learned Romance Page 22