“That looks very well, Mary.” Lizzy nodded with approval at the arrangement of hothouse flowers Mary had constructed. It felt strange to bend stalks and position flowers while snow churned outside the windows of Pemberley, but apparently the Pemberley gardener was very proud of his floral accomplishments, and Lizzy liked to use them when company was expected for dinner. “Perhaps you had better get ready now.”
Mary removed the apron from over her gown with reluctance; the fire in the grate did something to banish the winter cold, but her arms still prickled with goosebumps from the chilly air. She wondered if it had snowed harder on the Cole estate than it had in Derbyshire. Mr Cole will be able to tell me today. The thought sent more goosebumps along her skin, this time in delight. His family had invited Mary to visit in June, shortly after Mr Cole’s triumphant lecture for the Informed Ladies of London Association. The visit had broken forth a flood of emotion, like ice breaking up in a spring river. Mary’s emotions had been part delight at the comfortable house and spreading fields and part shy reassurance from Mr Cole’s parents, who welcomed her with an affection she strove to deserve. Mr Cole’s emotions had been more mixed. He was proud of Mary and happy to be with her, but at first, he had cringed at every mention of his brother’s name. Mary had to admit that some of the comments levelled at his replacing Thomas Cole as heir were cutting and insensitive. But each time, Mr Cole cringed a little less, and by the end of Mary’s visit, he endured the discussion of his brother’s virtues and death with equanimity rather than pain.
Mary had come back to London at the end of June, expecting to stay with the Wickhams, but apparently Mr Wickham had realised business matters required his attention abroad sooner than he thought, and he and Lydia had decamped without notice to Mary—or their creditors. Luckily, Mr Darcy had been willing enough to come to the rescue, and the Darcys had invited Mary to stay with them for a few months. Now that was a solace for the loss of Lydia’s company, indeed! Though Mary loved their scamp of a sister, it was much easier to feel at home with Lizzy’s kindness and Mr Darcy’s quiet courtesy. Lizzy had been delighted with the success of her scheme; though the reputation of the Wickhams had descended again after their flight to the Continent, at least Lydia had not been too great a scandal while they were there, and better yet, Mary had blossomed into the woman Lizzy had guessed she might become. Lizzy was all too happy to invite Mr Cole to make frequent trips to Pemberley, and Mr Cole divided his time between learning the ways of managing an estate from his father and taking his recreation in Derbyshire examining geological samples with Mary. Once, the Darcys even took Mary to a site in between the two places, remarkable for its rock formations, and Mr Cole had met them there. The pleasure of indulging in their hobbies while solidifying their attachment was not one Mary was likely to forget. And soon he will be back again, to take me home for good. A new home, with new parents, new duties, and a new husband. November weddings might not sound as poetic as some, but Mary felt sure neither snowdrifts nor icicles would detract from her enjoyment of the event.
In the meantime, she studied geology, read letters from Jane of her new-born Lizzy Bingley, and wrote to Lady Lucy. The peace of Pemberley was a welcome shift from her London adventures.
As Mary returned from arranging her hair and changing her gown, Lizzy looked up and smiled. “You always had a prettiness of your own, Mary. I am glad to see more of it now, though.”
Mary flushed. Her sister must have recognised her discomfort, for she changed topics. “You have had a letter from Lady Lucy, have you not? Does she still sprinkle all her statements with ‘Mama says,’ the way she used to?” The wry twist of Lizzy’s lips showed she still savoured the frailties of humankind.
“She is getting much better now. Most of the time she simply states her own opinion.” Mary gazed out at the thin layer of snow silvering the Pemberley lawn. She hoped it would not deter Mr Cole.
“I would think living with her parents, she would be more inclined to mimic Lady Crestwood than ever.” Lizzy adjusted a curtain, taking a moment to watch snowflakes pirouette.
“Oddly enough, I think she has become more independent, living with them. She chooses where she goes a bit more now.” Mary’s wistful smile acknowledged the change. It had been difficult rebuilding her friendship with the young lady, despite Captain Roarke’s removal to the Continent and Lady Lucy’s remaining with her parents. Though Lady Lucy no longer wanted any part of her husband, she still resented the forced revelation Mary had pressed upon her.
Lizzy could not resist the humour of it. “Perhaps Lady Lucy found filching her mother’s jewels a bolstering experience.”
Though Mary winced, she had to chuckle as well. “In a way, you may be right. It was an act of defiance, and Lady Lucy is part ashamed of it but part proud, too. I do not think Lady Crestwood ever thought her daughter would do something as daring as stealing the family emeralds. She probably feels she never knew her and should have. At any rate, Lady Crestwood is a little less…dictatorial over her, and Lady Lucy is a little more self-assertive.” Mary smiled. “Lydia gave her their dog Prince, you know, before they made their mad rush to the Continent. He was a little bored at the Wickhams’, I think, and was tearing up things. Now he lives with Lady Lucy, and she dotes upon him.”
“It cannot be the same as having her husband.”
“No.” Mary remembered the clinging need Lady Lucy had had for Captain Roarke, the affection hopeless of a genuine response but eager to receive any pretence of love. Though the separation was doubtless painful, she thought it probably meant something good for Lady Lucy. She is learning to care for herself, as I did. And though having Prince is not the same as having a baby, I am sure it does her good.
They turned to other matters: Jane’s new baby, Mr Bingley acquiring enough treats and dainties to make a host of new mothers ill, Mr Darcy’s plan for the northern fields of the estate. But the whole time Mary chattered with her sister, her gaze drifted again and again to the doorway, waiting for the butler to bring forth the visitor she longed for.
At last he appeared. Mr Cole’s hat had protected most of his head from the snow, but flakes had moistened the chestnut hair at his temples and neck. The glow of warmth in his smile belied the frigid air outside and the ice rimming the tops of his boots. Mary rose. Her feet passed along the carpet as if she had no control over them, and she had only the vaguest sense of Lizzy discreetly withdrawing from the room. Her gloved hands were captured by Mr Cole’s, and she found herself smiling up at him as if a summer sun had suddenly emerged into November.
“A few days more,” Mr Cole murmured, lifting one of her hands to kiss. “A few days more, and you shall be home.”
But as she gazed into the welcoming depths of his dark eyes, Mary knew she was already there.
Mary glanced at her pale blue silk gown in the mirror, checking to ensure it was as gleaming and flawless as it had been when she first descended from her rooms. Though it was hardly her first time as hostess for the neighbouring gentry, she wanted everything to go perfectly.
“Mama!” Thomas ran up to Mary, crushing her skirts in a hug as far as his ten-year-old arms would allow. “Tell Jane she must not dress up Hercules in her cap and ribbons. He is an old dog, and deserves some respect.”
Jane pattered to them, her little shoes scraping the well-polished floor. “He likes it,” she said, a hint of insistence in her tone that would have ill befitted her aunt and namesake. Her hair was too dark to be much like Jane Bingley, but the beauty blossoming on the little girl’s face promised other similarities. Their cousin, William Darcy, hung back behind her, and though he was the same age as Thomas and the two were fast friends, his reserve made him appear much older. He was spending his holidays with the Coles, and Mary prized the trust Lizzy placed in her.
“Hercules was probably just being patient with you, Jane,” Mary said, caressing Thomas’s head and reaching out to pull Jane into the hug. Though William looked askance at the procedure, she pulled him
into the hug as well.
“I only was dressing him because you have not made me a patchwork doll yet.” Jane tilted her head back to look up into her mother’s face as William politely disengaged from the hug, wearing a half-pleased, half-disgruntled expression. “You promised you would make me one just like the one you had as a little girl.”
“I did not promise that,” Mary said, hiding a smile.
“You did! Tell her, Thomas—you were there—”
“I promised that we would make a patchwork doll.” Mary gently stepped back and stooped to Jane’s level. “We will do it together, tomorrow. Now you must both go back upstairs. You know your father and I have an important dinner to give this evening.”
“I know that.” Thomas grinned at his little sister in triumph. “I told Jane not to bother you, but then she bothered Hercules instead, and I could not let that stand, you know, so I came down here…” He peered past his mother to scout the dining room. “Are they really all coming to honour Papa for his rocks?”
“Some of them are geologists, Thomas, but most are just our neighbours.” Mary felt a swell of pride at the reminder of her husband’s success. In the first few years of marriage, when the older Mr Cole had passed away and Richard had been still learning the ways of managing an estate, he had not had much time for dilettante geology. But once he was more familiar and Thomas and Jane were a little older, Mary had pressed him to return to his old pursuits of crawling over hillsides and comparing samples in his study. She had had enough time to help him then and although Richard could not add her name to the paper he presented at the Geological Society of London, he had openly admitted his wife’s contributions to his work to all who would listen. Now some of the members of the society were staying with them for a visit, and Mary had planned an elegant dinner for them and the neighbouring gentry to enjoy on the last day of their stay. She had hopes they would announce that Richard would receive a special commendation from the Geological Society.
Not that he needs awards and accolades the same way now. Her husband had grown happy with his life on the estate and proud of his children, dogs, and most of all, his lovely wife, now returned to geology with a sincere love for it, rather than one tainted by needs of praise or reassurance.
A nod from the butler suggested the guests who were coming by carriage were arriving, and Mary gave her children and William a last hug. “Run along upstairs. I must greet our guests.”
Thomas and William dashed up the stairs, vying for who would get there first, while Jane trailed and sang a nonsense song to herself. Mary smoothed her skirts as best she could. In the past, the slight crumples from a child’s hug might have disturbed her need for tidiness and made her worry about how she would appear, but now she simply gave a rueful smile and let the matter drop from her mind. Two children made adjustments in one’s need for perfect order, and Mary had learnt that she had other talents and enticements that made a slightly crumpled gown slip by others’ notice.
Richard joined her to greet the guests. His blacksmith’s shoulders still filled out his coat admirably, and though his skin was a bit rougher from days of scrambling into gullies under the hot sun, the warm smile he gave Mary was just the same as it had always been. He took her hand and squeezed it between arrivals, and his bow and her curtsey dipped in perfect time, as well matched as the rest of them.
When the guests had all arrived and marched into the dining room, Mary seated herself and began conversing with the gentleman next to her, one of the geological members staying with them. The dinner proceeded with all conviviality and decorum, and Mary found herself gazing at the talkative ladies interrogating the experts and the cut glass dishes arranged in delicate refinement before her with an appreciation that almost felt dreamlike. I really did it. A dinner this large—and this important for Richard!—and it is all harmony.
Almost all, at least. Sir Reginald Colton, his white hair thinner than it had been when she first knew him, still managed to rile up his competing scientists, and a quarrel in the servants’ hall grew venomous enough to require a moment’s setdown from Mary, but she accepted the former and smoothed out the latter with a fluidity that would have shocked her younger self. It helped that their new housekeeper was Hannah Cupp, who had remained loyal to Mary and kept in touch with her through the trials of motherhood and a country lifestyle. Hannah said she had married a young man there and been widowed shortly thereafter, and Mary permitted the story without too much investigation. Though she had had to bend when Mr Wickham insisted Hannah’s pregnancy made her unfit for service, now she had command of her own household, and Hannah—or Dawkins, as Mary called her now—had proven herself hardworking and sensible, both as housekeeper and mother to her John. Dawkins and Mary restored harmony to the dispute among the servants, and Mary found herself brimming with confidence as she returned to the table, despite the lady guests expecting fluster and embarrassment. That is something I could not have done so serenely before. And when Mary found the braised trout more delectable than she had expected, she bid the footman come round and bring her a second helping with perfect nonchalance.
“To Mr Richard Cole,” Sir Reginald said, lifting his glass, “and his exemplary contributions to science. And to Mrs Cole, without which neither his work nor this lovely dinner would have been accomplished.” As the others toasted, Mary saw a smile exchanged amongst the members of the Geological Society, as if other announcements were to come.
I will have good news to write to Pemberley tonight. Mary wished her sisters could have been here for the moment, even Lydia, who still roamed the Continent with Mr Wickham in a marginally respectable lifestyle. Most of the Wickham fortune had been lost in whatever suspicious manoeuvres Mr Wickham had been agitating in London, but the couple had enough to keep them afloat in watering places abroad, and the occasional gambling windfall made a welcome addition to Mr Wickham’s pocket. No doubt he stirred up schemes for greater patronage and wealth in foreign places, but the Wickhams dared not return to England without a fortune large enough to quash any accusations of wrongdoing. Mary doubted she would see Lydia in person again anytime soon, but in the meantime, she wrote to her whenever she knew an address for them. At the moment, the old address had fallen through, and Mary would have to wait until Lydia had leisure enough—or felt desperate enough—to write to her with a new one before she could tell her news.
Mary would have to settle for long letters to her other sisters and perhaps one to Lady Lucy as well, who now patronised an orphanage of her own design and was aided by a saucy but grateful sixteen-year-old Betsy. Captain Roarke still flitted over the Continent, but Lady Lucy seemed satisfied at their estrangement now, and Mary had the feeling the captain would have to lower himself indeed and greatly change his behaviour to ever win his way back into her good graces. Thank heaven I have had better luck with my husband.
Richard’s debate with a colleague was too avid for him to spare many glances down the table, but he did throw one meaningful look at Mary in between courses, and she felt the same giddy rush of love she had felt all those years ago. Such happiness! Though I am sure he is wrong about where that granite came from, and I shall have to tell him so when I get a chance. The dispute would prove interesting.
Peace and disputation, harmony and conflict. Though she still preferred quiet days and calm, Mary had grown equanimity enough to weather the other times—and sometimes, enjoyment in them enough to seek them out. She could foresee a long line of days of both kinds ahead of them.
The thought made her smile.
THE END
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Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Jan Ashton, Amy D’
Orazio, Debra Watson, Carpe Librum Book Design, and the whole Quills & Quartos team.
About the Author
After acquiring a doctorate in philosophy from the University of Arkansas, Elizabeth taught philosophy in the United States and co-taught English in Japan. Now she and her husband live in northwest Arkansas, the ‘garden of America’. (At least, she has only ever heard Arkansas called so.)
She dreams of visiting Surrey (if only to look for Mrs Elton’s Maple Grove), Bath, and of course, London. When she has a Jane Austen novel in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and a cat on her lap, her day is pretty much perfect.
Elizabeth Rasche is the author of The Birthday Parties of Dragons and her poetry has appeared in Scifaikuest. Flirtation & Folly, published in 2020, was her first regency romance and A Learned Romance is her debut Austenesque romance.
Also by Elizabeth Rasche
Flirtation & Folly
Marianne Mowbrey is a responsible country rector’s daughter who longs for the novelty and excitement she reads about in novels. When her crusty Aunt Harriet agrees to give her a Season in London, Marianne vows to dazzle the world, win a husband, and never go home again. But the Londoners who determine social success are inclined to pass over plain Marianne in favor of her beautiful, reckless younger sister.
In a world of ambition, fashion, flattery, and deceit, how can Marianne stay true to her real self—when she is not even sure what that real self is?
The Birthday Parties of Dragons (as Lisa Rasche)
In the strict society of dragons, becoming an adult means everything. For only adult dragons are fearsome enough to dazzle human minds into forgetfulness, thereby keeping dragons safely within the realms of myth and mystery.
A Learned Romance Page 27