by Jayne Bamber
Mary read over the lines of dialogue in the scene in question, and could not resist smiling to herself. It did indeed bear some resemblance to her own observations on the theatrical, and she wanted but a little bit more convincing from her companions before she was made to agree.
“I am rather surprised that you should engage in such an endeavor at all,” she said to Mr. Tilney. “You are a parson! Can you think it is quite right?”
“It is not wrong,” said he. “You must have seen by now, for you have been with us three days – the three finest days I can recall since my coming to Kent – have you really observed anything that could cause you alarm?” Mary had to admit that she had not. “And have you any particular reason to mistrust the supervision of Lady Catherine and Sir Gerald, or the other married couples here who must serve as chaperones to us mischievous younger folks?”
“That is hardly fair,” she said. “Most of the married chaperones you speak of are of an age with ourselves.”
Mr. Tilney replied with a shrug and a smirk. “I do not make the rules, Miss Bennet; I am merely obliged to follow them.”
“Well,” said she, really wishing to play act after all, if only to please Mr. Tilney, “if the parson of the parish cannot object to it, I cannot see how I can protest any longer, and thirteen speeches is not so very much to learn in four days.”
“Oh indeed,” Mr. Crawford replied. “I am sure you must have already memorized all the lines from the scene you have been practicing with us this past hour, for often you are reminding us of our cues without even looking down at the script in your hands!”
“That Miss Bennet is clever enough for the part, I have no doubt,” Mr. Tilney agreed. “Even had she been here when first we decided our cast, I would have declared her to have been ideal for no other part than Hippolyta, my Amazon queen. Not that you are so very tall as an Amazon, but in every other facet of your demeanor, I am sure you and she are of one spirit. Do say this means you intend to oblige me, for if you refuse now, after such arguments have been made in favor of the scheme, I fear I may be too downcast to give any performance of my own.”
“I believe you are giving a very fine one even now,” Mary replied as Mr. Tilney pretended to sulk, “but I believe I must be convinced. I should hate to disappoint everyone.”
“Think not of us, but yourself,” Mr. Tilney rejoined. “To take on such a role must be a fine thing, not only for the enrichment of your mind through the appreciation of such fine literature as Shakespeare, but what happy memories you shall make!”
“Very well,” she laughed, “I am convinced!” Indeed she was, yet she resolved to remain guarded around Mr. Tilney, whose disposition so closely resembled all that she had perceived in Mr. Elton’s semblance of affability; that he had the power to persuade her, to flatter her into acquiescence, must give her some pause.
She had not been dishonest with Rebecca, when they had spoken – Mr. Elton had not broken her heart, but she had felt some little disappointment when his true character had been revealed. Mr. Elton had disobliged her – he had misled her, and she who had been so trusting was now determined to be more cautious, lest she make the same mistake again. Thus she was determined that her participation in the theatrical not be misconstrued as any other sort of feeling – in short, she would give Mr. Tilney no encouragement of that kind. Three weeks hence, were she still to be residing in Kent, she should not be nearly so attached to the man as she had been to Mr. Elton, and would no doubt be the happier for it.
***
Despite Mary’s admonitions, Georgiana continued to find herself very well pleased with Mr. Willoughby and all of his attentions, which were marked indeed, but appropriate at all times. There was nothing unseemly, nothing untoward, nothing that anybody might actually reproach her for, and she was entirely confident that everything was as it should be.
At first, when he had begun to make his preference for her clear, Georgiana had wondered how she could possibly deserve to be the recipient of such delightful overtures. And yet, she must believe that she rather deserved them, that fate had smiled upon her at last, after all that she had suffered. Her unfortunate dalliance with Mr. Wickham was well and truly in the past, and even her preference for Mr. Sidney Parker must be gotten over. That gentleman had seemed a cut above any other she had met before, being not only as charming and handsome as any woman might wish, but so very interesting a person, and yet in the end he had only disappointed her by seeming to have forgotten her so quickly, leaving her only to feel ashamed of what her own feelings had been. She had instantly regretted eavesdropping on Mr. Parker’s visit with Rebecca, for had she not learned of his indifference toward herself, she might very well have continued to hold him in the highest possible esteem, and even hope that they might meet again someday – perhaps in Sanditon.
But perhaps she should be grateful that she had learned the truth; he could have no affection for her, if he had not even spared thought for her in his visit with Rebecca, and thus Georgiana felt herself free to be thoroughly fallen in love with by Mr. Willoughby, who was showing every sign of harboring the deepest sort of regard for her.
Her own feelings were not quite certain – their acquaintance was not of long enough duration that she could be thinking so very seriously quite yet, but she was determined to enjoy every proper sentiment that the early stages of their relationship could engender. Rehearsing her scenes with him was in every way a delight, equal parts romantic and hysterical. Though they were to play the principal lovers of the theatrical, a great many of their scenes together were ones in which he was to make love to another lady, and he was always so full of apology at every turn, so eager to assure her of his own difficulty in reciting such scornful lines as he would never dream of saying to her in any normal circumstance, that Georgiana was quite secure in his esteem, even as his script led him to make such eloquent overtures to Lydia’s character.
Sharing a great many speeches with Lydia was far more diverting than Georgiana had expected, and she really began to think that such scenes as they were obliged to depict rather helped to dispel what tension had remained between them. Having recited such lines led them to hurl a great many aspersions at one another, at times, and at other times express tender sentiments of affection, Georgiana might even say they were now friends. They had certainly laughed together, amused themselves together, and passed enough hours in perfect contentment that they could be said to be friends, and before long Georgiana was so thoroughly convinced of Lydia’s not being a bad sort of girl after all, that she could scarcely remember a time when she had been so bothered by her sister by marriage.
It must have been all her own fancy – her own sense of unease at going from a secluded sort of life to having acquired, through Elizabeth, such a boisterous extended family. Certainly here at Rosings she found the constant clamor a pleasant sort of a novelty, for even with all of the Bennets and Fitzwilliams descended upon Pemberley over the winter, there had never been such a cheerful commotion.
By the time the play was nearly upon them, Georgiana felt herself rather disappointed that soon it should all be over, and their lives returned to normal. Even Mary had been caught up in it all, and had conveniently forgotten her every argument against the scheme.
Kate supposed it had all to do with Mr. Tilney, who made no secret of his enjoyment in Mary playing his bride. The night before the play, both Mary and Georgiana stayed up much later than was their custom, gossiping in Kate’s bedchamber, for Kate’s present condition had made it rather difficult for her to attain a restful slumber.
Despite her discomfort, Kate was in high spirits, and she teased that she hoped Mary and Georgiana might soon join her in a state of wedded bliss, since they both had apparently acquired such promising suitors.
Of her own prospects, Georgiana would rather understate the possibilities than express too much enthusiasm for what may yet come to nothing. “I shall not decide anything until long after the theatrical, I am sure,” said she. “Mr.
Willoughby is everything a gentleman ought to be, and I like him a great deal, but he is not the first gentleman I have formed such a favorable opinion of, and I know if Lizzy were here she would urge me to be careful.”
Mary let out a little gasp, as if struck by some sudden realization. “Perhaps you really ought to ask Lizzy about him. I know you have no wish to tell Lizzy and Mr. Darcy about the theatrical, and I know I have made my sentiments more than clear on that score, but as regards Mr. Willoughby, I do think you should ask her. I have been trying to think of just why it is that I have felt so skeptical about him on your behalf, and I believe it does have something to do with Lizzy.”
“Whatever do you mean? He was not in London when the rest of us were there – he may be the only one of our party here in Kent that is unknown to her,” Georgiana replied in some confusion.
“No, there was something else. It was before Lizzy left Longbourn, last summer. When she first befriended Marianne, and your aunt Mrs. Jennings said something about Marianne having some dealings with a man called Willoughby….”
“I think you are right, Mary,” Kate agreed. “It may not be the same Mr. Willoughby, but if it is, I think that must give you pause. Certainly it is worth discovering.”
Georgiana frowned. “My Aunt Jennings has never mentioned any Mr. Willoughby to me, nor has Marianne, nor Lizzy.”
“No, I begin to remember more clearly now – Marianne is certainly acquainted with him,” Mary insisted. “You may hesitate to ask her directly – certainly I understand, for if he is the same Mr. Willoughby she has spoken of, I do not think she should wish to recount the details of the matter. But surely your Aunt Jennings must tell you, for I know she loves to share whatever information she knows. Perhaps you might write to her?”
“I suppose there would be no harm in asking Mrs. Jennings – I will own it is preferable to mentioning my acquaintance with him to Marianne or Lizzy, at present. Perhaps I will take you up on your advice, but only,” Georgiana teased Mary, “if you admit that you have a preference for Mr. Tilney!”
“No indeed!”
Kate laughed at them. “And I had thought you very attentive to Mr. Rushworth, helping him learn his seven-and-fifty speeches!”
“Well,” Georgiana exclaimed. “Now it seems you have two very eligible suitors – you have the advantage of me there.”
Mary shook her head. “I think they both prefer Harriet, and it is only natural that they should.”
“And why is that? How can that be?” It occurred to Georgiana that Kate rather sounded like her mother as she made such a shrill fuss over Mary being perfectly capable of attracting any gentleman’s notice, and she laughed heartily.
“Do tell us,” Georgiana urged her, “which do you prefer?”
“I have been in Kent but a week – do not ask me that question!”
Georgiana grew rather serious, for she had understood from Kate that Mary had experienced something of a romantic disappointment during her time in Surrey. Certainly three weeks was a short space of time to experience very great heartbreak, but Rebecca had written to indicate that a disappointment there had been – Mary’s feelings engaged just enough to cause her the acutest sort of regret when the gentleman in question was revealed to be very wanting in character. This must explain her reluctance towards the gentlemen here in Kent.
Kate felt no such compunction to approach the situation with delicacy, and addressed her sister as candidly as she had the right to. “Come now, there is no need to be coy here among sisters. You may have been in Kent only a week, and yet you have been in company enough with all the gentlemen here that you must have formed some opinion of at least one or two in particular. Do not forget, you were acquainted with nearly all of them in London, as well.”
“Well,” Mary admitted, “Mr. Tilney was very agreeable when we met in London, though it was just the once.”
“He is not so very handsome, upon first sight,” Georgiana mused, “but I believe he rather grows in one’s estimation as one comes to know him better – have you found it thus?”
“I think him as handsome as any clergyman has a right to be,” Mary said with a little laugh.
“There now,” Kate cried. “At last some honesty!”
“I have merely observed that he is handsome,” Mary replied with a blush.
“And eager to make you his queen,” Georgiana said. “But I rather wonder if Mr. Rushworth does not wish you were to be queen of the faeries instead. He seems to prefer practicing his speeches with you above anybody.”
“No – I am sure he is only embarrassed that he is to make love to Mrs. Sutton, who is a married lady, even as her husband’s relations look on. It must be an uncomfortable thing, and Mr. Rushworth is so awkward already,” Mary replied.
“Perhaps you are just the sort of lady who might draw him out,” Georgiana argued. “It is plain to see that you put him at ease, and that he is well aware of the fact. There is no shame in admitting that your company pleases him, Mary.”
“Ha,” Kate cried. “Georgiana only favors Mr. Rushworth’s suit because she harbors some sympathy for those that are as shy as she is – not that she has been so very shy lately, where some people are concerned, I am sure! But I think Mr. Tilney is really a fine man, too, and should you not like a parson in particular? I am sure it is just the sort of man I had always imagined for you.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “I am to wed to him on stage only! You imagine too much, and far too soon.”
“No indeed,” Kate replied. “I am sure I imagine no less than he, nothing could be more certain. You have had your heart disturbed once in Surrey, and now it is time for you to have a proper romance! Let Mr. Tilney be the man – he is a pleasant fellow, and shall do the job credibly.”
“Oh, but will no one think of poor Mr. Rushworth? If I can be so fond of him, even after his slight to me at Harriet’s come-out, certainly you must take some mercy on him, too, Mary,” Georgiana said, dissolving in giggles.
Mary blushed a deeper shade of red as she laughed with them, and shook her head. “I promise to consider them both for your sake, Georgiana, if you likewise shall keep your promise to write Mrs. Jennings. I shall be very civil to Mr. Tilney and Mr. Rushworth, but beyond that I beg you not imagine.”
Georgiana and Kate both gave Mary very droll looks. “I shall do as you say,” Georgiana replied, “but really, I think you do protest far too much to be so indifferent!”
Mary shook her head once more, and declared that she would retire. Georgiana could only hope that Mary’s head, like her own, would be full of thoughts for a certain gentleman as she drifted off to sleep, for tomorrow was the day they had all long been awaiting.
20
Surrey, April
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles’. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day, and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendor of popularity. Yet perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common, and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Sidney Parker. It was hardly right, but it had been so strong an idea that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she had told was a compliment to her discernment, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax, and there she had no doubt. She unequivocally regretted the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She recognized all the idleness of her childhood, and sat down to practice vigorously for an hour and a half, while Rebecca was occupied in answering more letters from the various ladies of her family.
Once the duty of her correspondence had been fulfilled, Rebecca sought Emma out, and if Rebecca’s praise could have satisfied her, Emma would soon have been comforted. “You play splendidly, my dear. Would th
at I had your patience for it. I shall never really play as well as you and Jane Fairfax, though I suppose I cannot lament it – I do have other talents.”
“Do not class us together, Rebecca,” Emma said. “Surely you must have made the distinction yourself. Anyone who saw us both perform last night must have felt the difference. The truth is, my playing might be good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”
“Well, I may be somewhat biased, but I would say you play just as well as she, and if there is any difference, nobody could ever notice it. Frank Churchill even talked a great deal about your taste, and said that he values taste much more than execution.”
“Ah, but Jane Fairfax has them both!”
“Even if she does play so very well, Emma, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she shall have to teach. Not today, apparently – I suppose she must be in the village with her aunt again today?”
“Yes, as is to be her routine,” Emma sighed. “I know I ought to be grateful she is helping with the children at all, but brother John has already grown so dependent on her assistance with Izzy and the boys that he is quite out of sorts whenever she is not here. He was very cross with me this morning, almost as cross as he would have been if he had been obliged to go to the Coles’ himself!”
“If that is the case, I believe we had better not encounter him. Poor man, being forced to spend a whole two days with his own children,” Rebecca laughed. “I am surprised Mrs. Weston and her two charming houseguests have not made an appearance at Hartfield yet today, though if John is really so out of sorts as you say, perhaps it is best if they do not come and find us all in such a state. Let us walk to the village instead – if they do come, better for them to miss us, than the reverse.”