“It is what you did the other time, is it not? I am sure you can have no objection.” He strode out of the room before Mary could form one, in any case. So much for her attempts to ensorcell a man.
Sighing, she sat down and tucked her legs away from Hercules, who curled up on the floor. There was a stack of parchment alongside the boxes, and although the writing was garbled and the content leapt from one topic to another, she gathered that they were notes on the collection of rocks, describing when and where he obtained each sample, with a few comments or speculations thrown here and there. At least I can make his labels more effective. She took up a pen and dabbed it in an inkwell, and ‘Schist, Germany’ became ‘Schist from the base of a mountain in Germany, collected after a landslide.’ ‘Gneiss slate misc.’ became ‘A mix of gneiss, slate, and other stones, collected by a friend in the East Indies, probably pressed together in the pressures related to the earthquake in 1797.’ Her adaptations made the labels much longer and in tinier print, but that would only slow the ladies as they passed from box to box and give them more to discuss. Without glue, she could not affix the labels with any solidity, but she folded them over the edges of the boxes and let the rocks weigh down the inner portion.
The calm perusal of Mr Cole’s notes and the methodical work of labelling soothed Mary, and by the time Mr Cole returned to see her work, she felt cheerful and energised. She had even forgotten Hercules’s presence, though the pup snored at her feet. “Come see what I have done, Mr Cole.”
He read some of the labels and frowned. “They are very lengthy. I believe I only asked you to arrange the boxes, not change the labels.”
“True.” Her smile faltered. “But I only wanted to—”
“I am sure it will not do any harm.” No doubt he meant his words to console her, but she bristled instead.
“Of course they will not harm anything. The other ladies will find the rocks much more interesting now, I assure you.” She could see his feet shifting, preparing to leave again, and she grew desperate. “Do not go. I find you—you are very…”
She struggled to find some compliment to bind him to her, or some flirtatious self-deprecation that Lydia would use, but nothing came to mind. Mr Cole’s brows drew together in impatience, and she said in a rush, “I can help! I can make your lectures more interesting. I know that is what you want, to…to ensorcell…”
“Ensorcell?” He barked an incredulous laugh. “How ridiculous! My lectures are excellent as they are. I need not employ any such arts to make the subject more palatable to idle ladies of society.” The blacksmith shoulders straightened with pride, but despite the man’s impressive figure, Mary sensed a quailing weakness in his uneven breathing.
“You never dream of any other reaction from your audience?” Mary asked. “Would you not like sincere enthusiasm for a subject you clearly love?”
He cleared his throat, evidently disarmed by her statement. “Of course I have the odd daydream of enthusiastic applause for the brilliance of my theories. Or of ordinary men and women diving into scientific exploration as a result of my influence.” He made a wry smile, but something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. “But the important thing is the science. So long as I get that right, nothing else matters.”
“The science is important, but if the reaction of the audience matters to you, there is no reason we cannot modify the presentation of the science.”
He took a chair next to her, and Mary felt encouraged. He is rather like Maria Lucas, yearning for the wild approval of others, but too embarrassed to admit it. Relating him to someone she knew increased her confidence. “We can make it intriguing to people new to geology.”
“I am not sure about that. I do not want to be like Sir Reginald, diluting lectures with silly comments to pander to the audience.” His anger took on momentum. “That man is infuriating! Oh, he is brilliant, of course—that is part of the problem. Do you know, when I first met Lady Crestwood, she praised me to the skies, saying she had heard my lectures were gloriously entertaining and instructive? But it turned out she had mixed us up: Sir Reginald Colton and Richard Cole. The names are too similar, and she thought I was him.”
Mary tried to say something, but Mr Cole’s frustration was in full force.
“And the wife of my friend—the fellow who had Hercules before—she set up a ladies’ luncheon with a speaker, and even she chose Sir Reginald to lecture rather than me! She was supposed to be my friend, but these lectures do not seem to be about friendship, or science, or anything good.” His shoulders slumped. “You know the Informed Ladies of London Association?”
“You mean the group here?”
“No, this is the London Ladies Information Society. The group meeting today is insignificant,” he said, waving a hand, “but the Informed Ladies—why, that is run by Lady Crestwood, and it is the most prestigious ladies’ group of the sort. Only the best scientists are invited to their annual celebration lecture. For three years running, she has chosen Sir Reginald as her geology speaker.” He cringed. “Of course it is not really important. It is only a ladies’ group, not a genuine scientific gathering. But they do have influence—”
“And you wish to be chosen this year.”
Mr Cole averted his gaze, and Mary watched with interest as a flush crept up his neck. “I would not refuse the offer.” He began shuffling the notes Mary had carefully organised. “But I will not reduce my lectures to frivolous demonstrations and examples, as Sir Reginald does. I refuse to become an object of ridicule.”
“No doubt he is only trying to interest his audience.” Mary gently took the notes from his hands and set them aside. “And there is a great deal that you can do without behaving ridiculously. Most of the ladies who come do not think much about geology. If you began your lecture by explaining why they should care—”
“If they do not care about the subject, why on earth do they come?”
Mary’s stomach fluttered. She disliked the sense of confrontation, but she had to admit she was holding Mr Cole’s attention. “Some appear for fashion’s sake, or to see their friends, or show off a new gown, or because they are dull sitting at home—”
His magnificent shoulders sagged. “How flattering. Here because there is nothing better to do.”
His dry tone stung her, but she persevered nevertheless. “The demonstrations you speak of are no doubt entertaining to watch. They keep the ladies lively and make things more memorable.” At his snort of disgust, she said, “What is the point of teaching them if your manner of instruction does not help them learn? You are only opening a showroom for their gowns, otherwise.”
“Yes, that is all.” He shoved back his chair, and Hercules leapt up in eagerness at the supposed invitation. “I am much obliged to you, Miss Bennet, for pointing out all my faults.” The sarcasm in his voice made Hercules flick his ears uncertainly. “But I do not think I want your help. I will gain success on my own, in my own way.”
“But if your way is not working?” He frowned, but despite the thrill of fear that went through her, she forced herself to continue. “I truly can help you, Mr Cole. An intelligent, remarkable scientist like yourself—”
“Your flattery is unnecessary.”
She flushed. How does Lydia do this? The man is impossible. “I can get you that invitation to the Informed Ladies—um, whatever it is. And I will do so, if you will promise to leave my sister alone.”
He stared at her, and then suddenly his bass voice broke into a booming laugh that carried down the hallway, and he slouched back into the chair next to Mary and sprawled his limbs. The laughter seemed to billow up from his belly and slide through every arm and leg, making them tremble, and his handsome face relaxed and leaked tears.
Why is he laughing? I do not see anything funny. Mary’s muscles tensed as she waited for a clearer response.
“You are not serious, Miss Bennet.” The grin on his face was insufferable.
“I am perfectly serious. You have drawn opprobrium onto my s
ister’s name, and I find neither you nor she respond to reason. So, I will make a bargain with you instead. Will you promise, Mr Cole?”
The crinkles at the sides of his eyes deepened in amusement. “What man can make promises regarding Mrs Lydia Wickham?”
Mary’s lips pressed together. Before she could reply, Mary caught sight of Miss Poppit in the doorway, who strolled in with a smooth, elegant gait and flashed a smile at Mr Cole. “Am I interrupting something?” The innocence in her voice did not fool Mary. “You must not overtire yourselves. You have been closeted together so long, working.”
More gossip to spread, but at least it will not involve Lydia. Mary rose and smoothed her skirts, but she could feel her confidence drain away as she saw herself through Miss Poppit’s eyes. Thin, short, her hair simply dressed and wearing a gown best described as serviceable—she was a far cry from Miss Poppit’s dark curls and sparkling eyes.
How did Mary ever think she could hold a man’s attention? She had none of Miss Poppit’s grace or beauty. She had only irritated Mr Cole, or made him laugh at something that was serious for her.
“Not at all.” Mr Cole nodded at Miss Poppit’s entry. If he felt any discomfiture at her insinuations, he did not show it. “I wonder if you could find us some glue, Miss Poppit? The workmen or the manager may know where there is some nearby. Miss Bennet has been so good as to design some new labels for my samples.”
Miss Poppit hesitated—clearly she had not entered anticipating being given a task—but at length she nodded and turned away, leaving the couple alone again. Mary’s eyebrows drew up in surprise. “Have you something more to say to me?” She braced herself for more laughter, still feeling the uncertainty and shyness Miss Poppit’s presence had inspired. But should I not feel shy around Mr Cole, any way? How is it that I did not feel that more before?
“I will not promise anything about your sister, Miss Bennet. Trying to achieve fame as a lecturer is gruelling, and she moves in circles that I aspire to.” He was sitting up straight now, his blacksmith arms spread wide on the table. “And I do enjoy her conversation. She keeps me from thinking too much.”
“I can well believe that.” Mary bit off her words, wondering where the flash of jealousy had come from. “You say you want to inspire ladies with an interest in science, but you cannot believe that Lydia is the least bit inspired that way. She—” Mary was tempted to report that Lydia had not even known what science he had devoted his life to, but perhaps that was a revelation too harsh.
“You think she lacks intelligence?”
“Not at all. She has some native intelligence, but she has never been much interested in education. She has never been pressed to learn anything she did not like. My mother would never push her, nor did my father.”
“And your governess?”
“We never had one,” Mary said, wondering at the ease with which these family revelations dropped from her lips. “Perhaps we should have, although I do not know if it would have helped. No one can make Lydia do what she does not wish. She is not stupid—”
“Only a little spoiled, it sounds like.” The good humour in his eyes palliated the remark.
Mary’s gaze dropped to her lap.
“Well, talking to a pretty woman without too much sense is quite relaxing. I cannot say I have found your conversation relaxing, Miss Bennet. Stimulating, perhaps, but certainly not the sort to put a man at his ease.” He rose from his chair. “Good afternoon. I will permit you to affix the labels when Miss Poppit returns with the glue.” Hercules nosed Mary in the knee as a good-bye, smearing her dress with moisture, then trotted after his master down the hall.
Permit me to affix the labels? Well I daresay that is as much thanks as he is capable of. Mary’s hands tightened into fists. It is as I thought; he wants Lydia as a distraction from his troubles. She gritted her teeth, surprising herself with the intensity of her pique—and was it jealousy? ‘I cannot say I have found your conversation relaxing’…Relaxing or not, I shall just have to make myself more distracting than she is.
Lydia’s favourite shop on Bond Street boasted wide plate windows full of millinery, a squeaking sign that swung in the February wind, and shop assistants with wide, attentive eyes and gushing praises for every customer. The fog had blown off for once, leaving the sky a milky white, and although the mottled remains of a snow gathered in some of the alleyways, most of the streets were dry. The red, raw chapping of skin in the cold was enough to make the ladies hurry inside the millinery shop, though—Lady Lucy’s translucent pallor was rouged by the wind, Mary’s cheeks were roughened into a darker red, and even Lydia’s beauty was crimsoned into something awkward and glaring in hue.
“My fingers are frozen through!” Lydia lifted her gloved hands with a theatrical gesture, but her voice was cheerful enough. “Come, Lady Lucy, we must nestle ourselves in all this finery until we are safe and warm again.” She giggled and led Lady Lucy to a display of scarves, muffs, and gloves, amusing her with the plot of a melodrama she had seen. Mary could not dispute Lydia’s willingness to see a bargain through. Not only had her sister invited Lady Lucy to join them, as Mary had wished, but she had also made a special effort to make Mary’s friend feel welcome. No doubt Lydia was alive to the possibility of pleasing Lady Crestwood through attentions to her daughter; the Wickhams’ quest for a patron in the ton meant Lydia was often willing to smile on those she found dull. Lady Lucy lacked the wit to respond with the flattery or jokes Lydia would have appreciated, but the noblewoman supplied her with all the insipid, polite commentary she could muster.
“It is a very pleasing shop,” Lady Lucy said, smiling and nodding at everyone as she trailed in Lydia’s wake. Excitement ruddied her cheeks almost as much as the wind had, and Mary felt a surge of satisfaction at her friend’s pleasure. “I have not been to Bond Street in so long! I used to go with Mama, you know”—her gaze drifted off—“but she does not spend much time with me, now that I am married.”
“I am sure she is very busy,” Mary said, eager to smooth over any unpleasantness. “No doubt she imagines you are as well.”
“She has that Miss Poppit to sponsor now,” Lydia announced blithely as she examined a bolt of fabric. It was impossible to tell if Lydia was aware she was persisting in a delicate subject or not. “She is determined to bring her out with all éclat, and snag every eligible bachelor for miles around London. As if Lady Crestwood and Miss Poppit have half the taste I do! You shall reign over them all when I am finished with you, Mouse—um, Mary.”
Lydia’s plan required Mary to be as little mouselike as possible, and in the interests of consistency, Lydia had determined to drop the old nickname. Mary rather missed it. Or perhaps I miss being free of the responsibilities of being ‘Mary.’ ‘Mouse’ was not expected to attract suitors, but Miss Mary Bennet is.
Mary poked at a selection of gloves, wondering if so many shades of kid were really necessary. “You ought to be grateful to Lady Crestwood,” Mary said to Lydia. Perhaps the reminder would help her avoid saying anything awkward in front of Lady Lucy. “She invited us to her ball and gave us tickets for that concert.”
Lydia rooted through the display with a self-assured negligence. “Oh, of course I am full of gratitude and loving kindness and all that sort of thing for Lady Crestwood, for she has done me many a good turn. And I hope I can please her well enough for her to do something nice for Wickham.” She turned from the gloves with a grin. “All the same, I shall cut her to shreds—and humiliate her—and make her gnash her teeth with envy when she sees how you conquer!”
Mary flushed and avoided Lady Lucy’s gaze. “That does not make any sense.”
“Oh, yes, it does. When you understand people a little better, you will see it makes perfect sense.” Lydia winked at Mary.
Mary turned to Lady Lucy. “I am sure my sister does not really mean any harm,” she said in an apologetic tone, but Lady Lucy merely looked blankly back at her.
“People are always trying to overcom
e my mother.” Lady Lucy’s grey eyes shone, but it was the gleam of an empty mirror. “Mama says not to pay them any mind. She says while they are talking, she is doing.”
“Touché!” Lydia laughed. “I ought to be doing, especially here, Lady Lucy. You are quite right.” She beckoned to a shop woman, who hurried to her with a look expectant of good things. “We need several pairs of long gloves for evening, morning gloves both trimmed and plain, indigo ribbons, pink ribbons, red ribbons—crimson red, not darker—aigrettes, some clips, combs, fans, bonnets—what sort do you have?—stockings, slippers, if you have them…” Lydia’s head tilted in thought. “And something for me, as well. A new bonnet, perhaps, but I will choose that last. I shall wish to inspect everything there is a choice of.”
The shop woman’s face beamed with gratification, and she led Lydia from table to table. Mary’s hands fidgeted, but she forced them to still. You made it through the warehouses for the silk and muslin, and the dressmaker’s. This is just a little more of the same. She still could not believe all the things Lydia thought needful to prepare Mary for one Season, though. What does all this cost? Will Mr Wickham be angry with her? Mary was supposed to be smoothing the waters between them. If it keeps Lydia’s mind off Mr Cole for a while, it will be worth it, she assured herself.
Lady Lucy was examining a pair of yellow kid gloves. Unlike her own pair, this one had no stains or tears. “How pretty!”
They looked rather plain to Mary, but she instantly agreed. “Oh, yes.” Mary repositioned them to get a better look, then glanced up into Lady Lucy’s vacant face. “I hope you were not upset at what my sister said, Lady Lucy. About your mother.”
“No, not at all. Mrs Wickham has always said just what she thought about my mother—and around her. I rather think Mama admires her for it.” She suppressed a sigh. “I never could do it, myself. Mama does not tolerate disagreement very well in the short term, however much she may admire it later.”
A Learned Romance Page 8
