Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  And Marianne found herself laughing more when they clambered out of the carriage at the next stop—moving not at all like elegant ladies, but more like long-legged puppies in high spirits, veering awkwardly and good-naturedly into one another. She laughed some more when they sidled through the displays of china and glassware, each of them hushed into gasping giggles and slow, ponderous movements in consideration of the delicate merchandise.

  And she laughed even harder when she and Martha sat at their own table at Gunter’s. Aunt Harriet had espied some acquaintance of her own and settled at a far table to enjoy the recreation of sensible, womanly conversation and a plum tart, while Marianne and Martha huddled together over jubilant gossip and powdered pastries and cakes.

  There was a moment when Marianne’s gaze rested on an elegant elderly woman and a beau who regarded them with a pinched look of disapproval, causing Marianne to waver between the acclaim of decorum and the open-hearted, reckless enjoyment she experienced with Martha. But it was only a moment, and the minute after, when another spontaneous bubble of giggles burst from her as she and Martha shared a joke, Marianne revelled in her disregard for what the other patrons of Gunter’s were thinking. She felt free.

  The carriage continued home after a brief stop to drop Martha off. Marianne idly listened to Aunt Harriet’s commentary on the afternoon, giving an occasional nod, but despite a passing remembrance of the frowns of disapproval in the pastry shop, a warm bubble of laughter washed over her. She felt only happiness—delicious, woe-forgetting happiness.

  Hyde Park was quite a different thing in late March. Marianne had been walking there a few times in February, when the trees still stuck poky, stark branches into the sky and the wind had chipped away at her bonnet like a boy throwing handfuls of cold, sharp gravel. Then, she had been walking with her aunt, which was also another matter. Aunt Harriet did not care much for Hyde Park, but she was willing enough to bring Marianne there today to accompany the Stokes sisters, Martha, and Sir William. Her idea of a walk in the park was a brisk, businesslike one, spent counting laps around the trees and moving at too athletic a pace to allow time to see and be seen. And since seeing and being seen was rather the point of a stroll there, Marianne’s previous experiences had not encouraged her to repeat them often.

  But ambling under the heavy, green-lipped buds of trees and gazing at the clusters of flowers springing up like firecrackers from the ground, leisurely taking the arm of Miss Emily and scanning the passers-by for acquaintances—these activities were sparkling new to Marianne, and she enjoyed them beyond anything. The breeze wafted heady scents with the stamp of nature rather than the thick clouds of perfume one waded through at a ball. Its warm caress tickled the hair at the nape of Marianne’s neck under her bonnet, and she felt her whole being stir with the hazy afternoon sunlight, moist earth, youth, and freedom. Miss Emily had proposed the afternoon walk, and Marianne felt the full force of reward in her invitation: Miss Emily was pleased that Marianne had occupied Martha during the trip with Lady Sweetser, and now was all smiles and eager confidences. Marianne felt that their friendship must have been like a February seed, all cautious and slow beneath the chilled soil, now bursting into full flower in the radiance of spring. But if it was a pretty flower to be displayed at a distance, it was one that seeped poison if crushed too greedily to one’s bosom. Marianne had accepted their friendship as a superficial thing, unfit for assuaging any real emotional needs.

  In her satisfaction, Miss Emily had not even chastised Marianne for wearing the dress with the man-of-war pleats, meaning that Belinda’s efforts at the concert last week had indeed succeeded at making the dress acceptable, if not exactly in first fashion. The envy of a beautiful woman did wonders for the gown, even if the envy was fake and a bit over-heralded. But the work was done; the dress was now allowable in places like Hyde Park, at least with a lace tucker to amend the neckline into proper afternoon attire.

  Marianne wondered if Mr Hearn would get to see it. Now that no one regarded it as ridiculous, she was almost proud of it. And she still wanted to check on the gentleman to make sure whatever troubles he had were not overwhelming him. Did he think much about that night on the bridge? Or did he try to press it out of his memory? For Marianne, it was too poignant a memory to wish to discard. She supposed she felt what one of the heroines in a novel must have felt at a highway robbery that ended with rescue—the memory had of course ghastly elements and horror, but also excitement, relief, and heroism. Not that heroism had been needed for Mr Hearn’s adventure, but the idea of them walking side by side down the dark streets certainly felt breathlessly heroic to Marianne.

  Sir William had been at Marianne’s side until Martha’s high spirits compelled her to hunt for butterflies, and she had pulled the older man into her quest. He was now bending over awkwardly, his body strapped into a waistcoat that did not permit enough movement for examining flowers up close. His silvered temples gleamed in the rays thrown across the fields by the late afternoon sun. He was explaining something to Martha—no doubt details of the flora of Kent—while Martha knelt and studied each flower in turn, as if butterflies might be small enough to escape an ordinary inspection.

  “Sir William is very good-natured to put up with Martha’s rambles,” Miss Emily said. “I wish he would marry her and carry her off! What sweet peace we would have then.”

  They had both been silent for a full lap in the park, and Marianne had thought her friend enveloped in the same wistful, happy reveries as Marianne herself had been. The clipped tones and bitterness put Marianne briefly on edge, but she soon relaxed again. Of course Miss Emily would worry that Martha would be on hand to embarrass her, and wished her the happiness of a good marriage.

  Miss Emily continued, “Mama thinks he is looking for a wife, but I daresay we will have no such luck as his choosing one from our home.”

  Marianne smiled as she scanned the passers-by for Mr Hearn. “Then I suppose Sir William has not paid gallant attentions to you or Miss Stokes, either.”

  “Oh! As if either of us would have him. Augusta has already made her choice, anyway, and I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of tongs.”

  Marianne almost missed a step. “Miss Stokes is engaged?” She had not meant to speak so loudly, but now she saw that Miss Stokes, who walked behind them with her mother, had indeed heard her. Marianne was forced to stop Miss Emily with a tug of her arm, and the two waited for Miss Stokes and Mrs Stokes to reach them. “You are engaged, Miss Stokes?”

  “I am.”

  Marianne hardly knew what to say. “I didn’t even know you had—grown fond of anyone. Who is he?”

  “Mr Wilkes-Sutton, of Derbyshire.” Miss Stokes’s cheeks were rosy, but they were the unflinching, hard colour of rouge that never varied with pleasure or embarrassment.

  “I do not know the gentleman.”

  “Why should you?” Miss Stokes asked coolly, her dark eyes resting on Marianne’s. It was strange that such a direct look should create such a feeling of distance, but that was how it felt to Marianne.

  Miss Emily said, “Mr Wilkes-Sutton moves in a very genteel circle. Everyone at court knows him, or so I am told. We saw him frequently at Almack’s, but of course you were not there.”

  Miss Stokes gave a little bow to Marianne and then passed with her mother as they continued their stroll. The bow had been neither sulky nor challenging. It was utterly indifferent, as if Miss Stokes had suddenly decided that Marianne did not matter anymore. Miss Emily’s hauteur and sharp temper seemed like a relief in comparison.

  “Mr Wilkes-Sutton has dined with us a few times, and he and Augusta danced together several times at Almack’s,” Miss Emily said. She did not seem upset by her sister’s coolness.

  “It does not sound as though she can know him well,” Marianne said.

  Miss Emily laughed. “They are getting married, not spending all eternity with each other.”

  “But my father preaches that in actuality, in marriage two souls become—
ˮ

  Miss Emily lifted her hand. “Oh, do not throw a clergyman’s rants at me. Augusta will be perfectly content. I think you read too many romantic novels, Miss Mowbrey.”

  Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “I rather think your sister reads too few.”

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. Marianne turned the matter over in her head. Of course, if Miss Stokes were truly happy, it was a good thing. It was just disappointing to realise that Marianne did not hold the same place in Miss Stokes’s thoughts that Miss Stokes held in hers. It was a reminder that so many of the relationships Marianne had fixated on were puffs of superficiality. Aunt Harriet was right; the Stokeses had liked her when she was new, but now the novelty was wearing off. Londoners seemed to have strong emotional reactions, then set the object of them adrift as those reactions cooled. It may have worked in Mr Hearn’s favour—he had been laughed at for his Irish lilt at first, apparently, but now no one gave it much thought. For the Stokeses, Marianne had been amusing as a dressing project, but boring upon longer acquaintance.

  “You have not said a word about my new bonnet, Marianne,” Miss Emily said, adjusting the ribbons under her chin. Apparently it was her way of changing the subject. “Is it not a peach of a thing?” At Marianne’s suitably complimentary response, Miss Emily chattered on. “Captain Pulteney says it must have been a divine inspiration, for I look quite angelic in it.”

  “I never pictured an angel wearing a chip straw bonnet,” Marianne said.

  “Well, now you have already seen it, according to the captain.” Miss Emily giggled. “What did you buy when you went shopping with Martha?”

  “Nothing really. Just a few pastries and buns at Gunter’s.” Aunt Harriet was quite pleased with her restraint, and Marianne did not have the heart to tell her aunt that her worries about Belinda’s debts had quashed much of her enthusiasm for shopping. She had wondered if she ought to tell Aunt Harriet about Belinda’s money troubles, but giving money to relatives was a sore spot for her aunt, and Marianne did not see what right she had to betray her sister’s confidence when it was unlikely to produce any solution. Family squabbles might even spoil the ball Marianne was determined to make a veritable fount of happiness. That was a selfish thought, however, and her ruminations derailed into bitter self-accusation. Was Marianne becoming a truly terrible person? If I—no, when I get married well and live in London, I will be nicer to everyone. I will rescue Belinda from her debts, I will be honest, I will…

  “Only some buns!” Miss Emily dragged her back into the present conversation. “And Martha came home with only a bit of ribbon. You must have had a dreadfully dull time shopping.”

  “No, indeed.” The memory of being snuggled together at a table loaded with cakes, nearly crowing with amusement as onlookers threw aghast and puzzled frowns at them, warmed Marianne. “I laughed ’til I cried.”

  Miss Emily threw back her head—albeit in a way that displayed her snowy neck to elegant effect—and laughed herself. “She is a perfect fright, is she not?”

  That was not what Marianne meant at all, but before she could disclaim it, her gaze finally rested on the one she had been seeking. Mr Hearn was walking up to them. His brisk stride seemed better suited to one of Aunt Harriet’s treks, but once he made his bows to the two ladies, he adjusted to a pace better adapted to the stylish rambles of Hyde Park.

  Miss Emily greeted him with a warmth that reflected her interest in him: neither as friendly as the ones she gave Captain Pulteney, nor as frosty as those she gave Mr Cox. Her social acumen hesitated when she realised Mr Lowes—who had dogged Mr Hearn’s steps in a way that showed he knew himself unwelcome and did not care—was also joining them. It took only a moment for her assessment to balance great wealth and good looks against an occasionally rude manner, and greet him appropriately.

  Marianne curtseyed to both, but she could not refrain from frowning a bit at Mr Lowes. His hair had been painstakingly curled into stiff waves, and the beaver hat topping his head barely dented the coiffure. His pale skin was mostly hidden by a trim dark blue coat, kid gloves, and fawn breeches, but in his face one could still catch a glimpse of the half-resentful, half-ingratiating little boy who pretended to care nothing about the ridicule of others.

  Mr Hearn’s swarthier complexion and more athletic figure made him look like a manly heathen standing next to an overdressed schoolboy. Marianne was disappointed to see them together. She did not think Mr Hearn would easily give up his pursuit of Hearn Hall, but she had hoped he was doing his best to shake free of Mr Lowes.

  “Is your sister here, Miss Mowbrey?” Mr Lowes’s eager gaze was already steering over the park—even searching the trees, as if Belinda could be perched in one during the afternoon stroll.

  “I have not seen her.” Marianne endeavoured to keep the testiness out of her voice. There was no reason to provoke Mr Lowes unnecessarily.

  “I wonder if she received my flowers. I took your advice, you know, Miss Mowbrey. I sent her the most expensive hothouse flowers to be had in London. I tried to call on her yesterday, but the footman said she was out.” His brown eyes sought hers in appeal. “Was she really out, or did she choose not to see me? There is no one else, is there?”

  “Have some dignity, Lowes,” Mr Hearn said grumpily. Apparently he had been treated to several monologues of Lowes’s romantic endeavours already.

  “I do. Is it a lack of respect to want to make the prettiest creature in London your wife? She is all charm, all beauty, all heart.”

  “I have never found her all heart myself,” Marianne said dryly. “But then, I am not a gentleman suitor. Perhaps she will become a little more sentimental with the proper address.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Mr Lowes’s eagerness was slightly off-putting. He seemed to really believe Marianne had some secret insight. “I do not have the faintest idea. I was merely speculating.”

  Miss Emily had listened to the conversation with admirable patience, considering it had nothing to do with her and involved praise of the only woman she seemed to admit as a rival. But now she broke in with a pat on Mr Lowes’s arm and a confidential air. “You know Mr Wilkes-Sutton, I am sure, Mr Lowes,” she said. Mr Lowes gave her a blank look as she moved to his side and manoeuvred them into a pair to stroll together. “I have some news which may interest you.”

  As the two walked off, Miss Emily informing the man of her sister’s engagement and genially accepting his congratulations—partly for her sister’s sake, and no doubt partly for her own elevation as future sister-in-law to a man of fashion—Marianne and Mr Hearn formed their own pair. Marianne nearly sighed with relief. At last she had a chance to question Mr Hearn. From his looks, he appeared in better spirits than before. Before she could ask about Hearn Hall, though, Mr Hearn introduced a different subject.

  “You know, I could not picture you as the sturdy, useful rectory girl you made yourself out to be for the longest time. Then I saw you with Sir William, and with your sister.” He smiled a little, but it was a pitying smile. “I saw it then.”

  “What do you mean?” Marianne was so surprised she forgot her original intentions for conversation.

  “When you are with them, you are always…looking after them, I suppose you could say. You become dutiful—and sad, perhaps.” He shook his head. “All the other times I’ve seen you, you were rather more the wild and impetuous type.”

  She did not feel she could digest this in a moment, or even hours. Mr Hearn had thought her wild? She was surprised he thought much about her at all, except as the interfering woman who disturbed his meditations on the bridge. “I suppose now you know the other me,” she said, still struggling to understand. “You say you were watching me with Sir William?”

  “Oh, here and there.”

  “But I was—ˮ looking for you, she almost said, but that would have suggested an unladylike interest. “I did not see you,” she said at last, lamely aware that she was not disguising her interest well.

>   He shrugged.

  Marianne did not even know if he meant today in the park, or last week at the concert, or someplace else entirely. To ask would have betrayed too much curiosity. “Any luck with Mr Lowes?”

  “Did you expect some?” His voice was hard and bitter, but Marianne was growing used to his crossness.

  “Have you tried apologising to him?”

  Mr Hearn’s dark eyes slammed into hers. An incredulous smile crept over his face. “Apologise? Whatever for? Seeking my ancestral home? Trying to restore my family honour?”

  “For treating him so ill when you were boys.”

  “All boys are cruel.”

  Marianne did not admit the evasion. “I think you admitted you were more than ordinarily cruel to him. You missed your mother, you did not like England, and you took it out on him. That is why he delights in his power over you now. What can he care for Hearn Hall? He is rich enough. It is only good for tormenting you.”

  “That does not mean he would accept an apology twenty years too late.” He turned to the matted grass alongside the path, his voice growing calmer and more reasonable. “I suppose I might as well. I do not think it will make any difference, though.”

  “Perhaps not, if all you do is speak a few words. But if you explain why you mistreated him, and try to make friends with him now—ˮ

  “Impossible.” Grim certainty snapped the words from his lips.

  Marianne sighed. “It was only a suggestion. Indeed, I cannot yet comprehend what you will do with the estate when you have it. You are a—ˮ She struggled to put her thoughts into words. “You are a little boy pining for Shakespeare when you have not yet learnt to read.”

  Mr Hearn gave a rueful shake of his head. “That is the worst metaphor I have ever heard. What boy pines for Shakespeare?” They both laughed.

  “It was not well done, I admit,” Marianne said. “What I meant was, you should actually try out country living again before you commit to it. Do you even know much about agriculture?”