by Jaima Fixsen
“No crueler than my losing Mr. Yates to pneumonia,” Mrs. Yates said, affronted.
“Naturally. I never meant—”
“Bereavement is a hard thing, Mr. Murray.” Mrs. Yates plucked at her skirts. “My brother and I have had to comfort each other.”
Neil begged forgiveness and earned a nod, if not absolution. Mrs. Yates sealed her lips and leaned back in the chair, leaving him and Mary to walk in silence. Without any accompanying words, their footfalls echoed along the street.
“It was good of you to try,” Mary said in a low whisper. He answered with a press on her hand.
She was thoughtful and more quiet than was her wont the next morning, until they arrived at the post office where she had another letter from Samuel. Neil was counting these: never more than one a week, but they always made her sparkle. Today it was even worse. “I think—I think he truly misses me,” she said.
“Of course he does,” Neil said and instantly regretted it. She’d looked so humble, like a timid pup creeping to your side when you sat at table. He didn’t want her abasing herself, but now she was dreaming about Samuel again, and he felt even worse about that. Sick even.
Stop. You aren’t to interfere.
But he was tempted. All afternoon he argued with himself, and when he arrived to escort her and Mrs. Yates to the evening concert he was worried more than ever by her abstraction. She took longer getting ready, hunting up her bonnet and reticule with a scattered air, making Neil wonder just what it was Samuel had written her.
“Is it your head?” her aunt asked, severely.
“No. Nothing’s the matter.” Mary tied the ribbons of her bonnet and followed them outside. At the assembly rooms Neil found them places, and soon Mrs. Yates and Mrs. Shaw were chattering.
“Upset about your mother?” he asked Mary, half hoping.
She shook her head. “It’s probably unnatural of me, but I’d quite forgotten. No, Samuel’s letter gave me an idea for a drawing just as we were leaving.”
Neil relaxed a degree or two. Samuel was in it, but not the cause at least. “Will the idea keep until you get back?”
“If I can hold it till then,” she said. “They never turn out as good as I think they will when I let them get stale.” She straightened her back, trying to find a comfortable place on her hired cushion. The evening’s programme promised to be a long one.
“Tell me your idea,” Neil said. She had no sketchbook or pencil, but talking might serve.
“A set of scales holding the Lords,” she whispered. “And on the other side—” She broke off, looking past him. “Why is that lady staring? Do you know her?”
Neil turned to look. The pews were full and he couldn’t tell which lady she meant.
“In the burgundy gown. With a silk scarf round her hair,” Mary said. “She turned away just as I spoke.”
She didn’t look familiar. “I don’t think I know her,” Neil said.
“She was staring most particularly.” Mary turned her gaze to him, searching. “Perhaps an admirer you’ve kept secret?”
Neil snorted. “If she is it’s a secret to me.”
Mary went back to the details of her drawing, describing how she’d draw the population of the entire kingdom outweighed by a mere four hundred Lords. “It just shows how unjust and irrational it is.”
Neil nodded agreement, uncomfortably aware the lady in burgundy had looked back at them twice. Even after the music began she denied it her full attention, frequently glancing over her shoulder. Mary, forced to be silent, clasped her hands in her lap like she was telling them to be patient. If she’d had a bit of pencil, it wouldn’t have surprised him if she’d drawn on his cuffs. Gradually though, the music caught her. Her gaze moved between the livelier violins and the more stately cello.
“Do you like music?” Mrs. Yates leaned into his ear.
“This music, certainly,” Neil said. The answer pleased her. She gave a smirk and Neil recollected guiltily that he hadn’t meant to stay in Bath this long. Already his presence had driven away Mr. Daviess.
That was another problem. He ought to be troubled by their assumptions. Mary didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her.
At least, he didn’t use to. It was more and more difficult to deny his growing susceptibility. He shied from the word love, but he felt something, as proved by his preoccupation with Samuel and his letters. Even without them, Mary appropriated more and more of his thoughts. When he wasn’t sitting by her, like now, he found himself thinking of their next meeting or reliving their last—what she had said and how they had laughed together. Here in the hall, when he ought to be in silent rapture at the work of Vivaldi, Neil was more overcome by the shadows of her face in the muted candlelight and the thick coils of her hair, the colour of summer wheat. He wanted to know how it felt, what it smelled like. Instead of investigating, Neil folded his arms and tried to find a comfortable place on his cushion.
It was foolish to indulge such fancies. All he could say on her side was that she didn’t dislike him. Better surely than before, but as she sat at his side, intent on the flood of music, Neil admitted it wasn’t nearly enough. She was in love with Samuel, or thought she was. He thought it was infatuation, but she hadn’t recovered yet, and today’s letter from Samuel made it a matter of increasing urgency. Surely when the merest brush of her skirt against his thigh submerged his senses, he ought to do something more to further his cause than debate with her the merits of passion and respectful regard. Otherwise he would lose her for certain.
A silence buried in swift applause pulled him from his thoughts, then the musicians set to with renewed force. The flurry of sound could have borne him away were he less conflicted. Detaching Mary from Samuel wasn’t the same as courting her himself. He’d tried the former again and again, but never the latter.
If he’d known he’d lapse into love with her, he’d never have begun their acquaintance so badly. All the scowls and scolds he’d administered rushed to the forefront of his mind. He’d been insufferable, actually trying to explain to her why she was unloveable. If he said now he’d fallen victim to Cupid’s dart, why would she ever believe him?
Too soon the allegro ceased. Mary turned to him, still applauding. “Aren’t they wonderful?”
It must have been the glow in her eyes. Neil mumbled something and, cursing inwardly, took her arm so they could stroll away the interval. A light mist kept them inside, making it impossible to talk. He could scarcely hear her, shoulder to shoulder with the other concert-goers. Conversation rose in a deafening hum.
Served him right if he’d ruined his chances. “There she is again.” Neil nodded in the direction of the lady in burgundy, unsuccessfully trying to make her way through the crowd.
“Do you think she’s looking for you?” Mary asked.
“No.” But she was aiming in their direction until Mrs. Yates intercepted her, catching her by the arm.
“She must be an acquaintance of Aunt’s.” Mary’s face fell and she looked away. “It explains the staring. I expect they went to the same Academy or writing club.”
“Or fencing school,” Neil suggested. The jest was at odds with the turmoil he felt, but how could he let her see?
Mary laughed and shook her head. “No, it was the boxing saloon.”
“Gambling Hell,” Neil said, wishing they could push this topic forever.
“It must be that,” Mary agreed. “Who knew Aunt was so savvy with cards?”
“Let’s go this way,” Neil said. Even if they couldn’t go outside, they could get a few swallows of fresh air standing under the arches by the doors. Perhaps that would resettle him.
“Do you think it will rain?” Mary peered into the white haze. “I’d like to go walking tomorrow.”
Before he could say he would walk, rain or no rain, a hand touched his arm. It was Mrs. Yates.
“I’m not feeling at all well.” She had a handkerchief clutched in her hand. The lace trembled.
“Let me
get your salts,” Mary said.
“They won’t help. I must lie down. I hate to spoil everyone’s evening, but—”
“Nothing’s spoiled,” Neil said. Not by her, at any rate. “I’ll send for the cloaks.”
“I already have.”
This was unusual. Mrs. Yates liked nothing better than having an obedient man to do the organizing. When an attendant arrived burdened down with his coat and the ladies’ wraps, she hurried into hers and into the sedan chair, not even waiting for Neil to offer his arm and help her inside. He and Mary followed in puzzled silence.
A block from the hotel, Mary halted. “I forgot my reticule.”
Aunt Yates stuck her head out the chair window. “Now what are we to do?” The chairmen stopped.
“I’ll go back.” Mary turned around and started retracing her steps.
“Not alone!”
“I’ll go with her,” Neil said.
“You can’t—it’s—”
“The hotel is just around the corner, but if you’d like us to walk you there first and then go—”
“That’s not—”
“But I really think it’s best if we returned promptly,” Neil finished.
“I suppose you must. Hurry!” She looked like she’d eaten a lemon.
“I wonder what that was about,” Mary said when Neil caught up with her. She frowned, no doubt worried about her missing reticule, so Neil judged it not the time for improbable guesses. They hurried through the mist and found after inquiring with the cloakroom attendant that the reticule had been discovered and set aside by Mrs. Shaw.
“Thank goodness.” Mary sighed with relief as the attendant handed the fringed bag to her.
“All accounted for?” Neil asked.
Mary nodded. “I wouldn’t mind staying for the rest of the concert, but I suppose Aunt needs me.” She cast a wistful glance behind her as they made for the door. “What are they playing now? I forget.” She drew her hood over her curls, her arm brushing his shoulder.
“I don’t remember,” Neil said. The mist was thicker now, weakening the glow of the lamps.
A hundred paces out Mary glanced back. “Look.” The Assembly Rooms were gone, vanished behind a wall of white. “One could get lost.”
He might be the world’s biggest slow-top, but he wouldn’t let that chance pass. Neil took her arm. “Are you frightened?”
“This is Bath,” Mary reminded him with a roll of her eyes. “Did you like the Vivaldi?”
Neil tried, but couldn’t remember which piece that was. It had all been background to his circling thoughts. “It was a fine evening. I’m sorry it’s over.”
“It’s not yet.” She squeezed his arm. “We do get a few moments more of each other’s company.”
It was another opening, even if only a small one. In the mist, they seemed entirely alone. Before he could persuade himself it was safer to keep some things unsaid, Neil asked, “Do you suppose you could ever love someone else?” If this went badly, perhaps he could blame the Vivaldi.
Mary stopped walking.
“Someone who felt more for you than good regard?” Neil asked.
“What are you saying?”
“Theoretically—”
Her forehead wrinkled. He tried again.
“I’ve been thinking of what you said about contenting yourself with a man’s good regard. I know you have that from Samuel. He admires and respects you.”
“Yes,” she said, a little glumly.
“Well,” Neil hesitated. “I only bring this up because of your circumstances. Obviously, when it comes to a choice between that Daviess fellow and Samuel—” Neil felt his ears grow hot. “What I mean to say is, have you tried loving anyone else? You can’t pick a favourite if you’ve only eaten one kind of pudding.”
She laughed, but broke off when she saw his face.
“You shouldn’t decide what will content you without being fully informed,” Neil said. “Otherwise you’re cheating yourself. You might require some passion in a marriage.”
She reacted like he’d suggested she needed a disease. “I don’t—I’m not comfortable—at any rate, Samuel is passionate. I’ve never seen a man so driven.”
“He’s passionate about politics.”
“So am I!”
“It’s not the same thing.” Couldn’t she see?
“Nonsense.” She stuffed her hands deeper inside her cloak and started walking.
“You might want more than decorum and affectionate courtesy over the dinner table,” Neil called after her.
She stopped. Sniffed. “You forget I’ve never had such a thing. It sounds quite wonderful.”
Neil stepped closer to the barricade of her stiffened shoulders. “You should at least try the other.”
“Perhaps I would, but I haven’t yet met a man—”
“I’ll oblige.” He turned her around.
“Am I to be flattered?” Her earrings, bits of blue on gold wire, swung wildly. “Are you trying to frighten me?”
“No. Just to show you the difference.”
“I don’t—”
“Mary.” Her breath stopped as his whisper fell on her.
They came together like the pages of a well-read book, softly closing, quite complete. He couldn’t say who began it, but their lips joined and moved and Neil wondered if she was as amazed as he. Her hands took succour from his shoulders; his stole low around her waist. She leaned, and Neil felt himself engulfed in the heat of an annihilating kiss that left them only the air they could draw from each other.
Good regard! Neil wanted to laugh. “Love a man who’ll love you back,” he said.
Talking was a mistake. She pulled away from him and they were back in a Bath street, stranded a yard apart, and the night was cold. Her eyes, when he found them weren’t what he expected. Neil felt a prickling chill, but before he could ask what was wrong, she shut them and turned away.
“I know he doesn’t love me. You needn’t supply the proof.” She wiped her fingers across her mouth. “I’d only hoped he’d care.”
“Mary—”
Three breaths—he counted them—before she spoke. “How am I to be happy now?” Her face crumpled, but when he laid a hand on her arm she flinched. “You always make what I want impossible. Why? I don’t expect much.”
He wanted to tell her that was half the problem. The rest was that she didn’t see. But she wouldn’t, not when she was waiting for Samuel.
“Forgive me. I—”
A muscle clenched in her cheek. “No. That was a cruel way to prove your point.”
He knew better than to argue with her. She was stubborn as flint. Neil bit back words, uncomfortably aware his face was burning scarlet.
The walk back to the hotel cooled them. They didn’t look at each other once.
“Good night.” Mary left him in the lobby and vanished up the stairs.
Thirty-One
“I feel sick,” Mary said next morning when Aunt Yates asked why she was still lying in bed.
“Sick?” Aunt drew back to the door. “But what about Mr. Murray? He’s escorting us to the Pump Room and taking you for a drive.”
“I’m not going.” Mary rolled over.
“No need to sulk,” her aunt said. She offered to fix Mary one of her headache powders. Mary agreed, hoping this would speed her aunt’s departure and prevent her from summoning a doctor. Heaven knew she was always glad of an excuse.
“I suppose you do look tired. Too many late evenings.” Aunt Yates set down the glass on Mary’s bedside table and went out. Mary lay still and watched the water swirl in the glass, the little motes vanishing one by one. Try as she might, she could think of no way to disappear, and she didn’t know how to face Mr. Murray. She didn’t even want to face herself.
She was quite sure when a man kissed you to teach you something, you weren’t supposed to throw yourself at him. What had she been thinking, clinging to him like that? Better not to hunt for reasons. None did her any credit,
least of all the feeling it’d been like nothing on earth. That kiss had proved better—much better—than she could have imagined.
Impossible to look in the mirror; Mary couldn’t even bear to touch her face. She didn’t feel like she belonged to herself anymore, and the only solution she could find was weeping. No wonder her head hurt.
Now in her mind, the man standing over her in Samuel’s hallway wore Neil’s face, and the smell of rain carried the scent of the spice that clung to Neil’s skin and clothes. Even when she’d (mostly) talked herself out of her romantic dreams of Samuel, that memory had remained, a seed she’d secretly cherished. It was corrupt now and better gone, but discarding it was hopeless. Now she knew what came after the focused look, the silent moment of anticipation, and would never forget. Neil shouldn’t have kissed her. Most of the time he didn’t even like her.
They’d had more than their share of bitter partings, but this last was the worst. Their budding friendship was ruined, and that too was cause for crying, except she’d already done all her pride and her eyes could stand. Aunt and Neil were gone, both of them, and it did no good to set her mind again and again over the same worn tracks.
Mary got out of bed, combed out her hair and scrubbed her teeth, adding the glass of headache powders to the dirty water in the washstand. She dressed in her nicest frock, arranged her braids in a way that was fetching, then did them again in a plainer style. If he saw her with her hair different, he might think she was trying to lure him back for more, a thought that was unbearable.
Mary tried to steep herself in a library book without success. She didn’t feel up to drawing. She wrote a letter to Samuel full of everything but the most important truth, and then felt guilty after she posted it. In all likelihood he wouldn’t care, but she still felt like she’d done ill by kissing Mr. Murray.
She returned from the post office and found her aunt.
“Feeling better, are you?”
“A little. Thought I’d get some air.”
“Mr. Murray said you’d quarrelled.”