She hesitated, wondering how much would be proper to say. “I wondered if you could think of some way to help them. I thought of giving Lady Lucy my allowance,” her words began rushing out as her sister’s incredulous expression turned to indignation, “but that did not seem quite the thing, even if she would accept it.”
“I should say not.” Lizzy shook her head, giving a quick glance at her husband.
Mr Darcy’s cool composure mastered the occasion. “I believe the Crestwoods gave her a substantial settlement, paid to Lady Lucy every quarter. And Captain Roarke receives pay from his regiment, of course.” His brow furrowed. “If they are living here, it is not due to restricted income, but to excessive outlay. What does Lady Lucy say becomes of the money?” Though he probably did not intend to sound imposing, Mary shrunk back. She felt a sudden desire to protect her friend.
“She has not said anything, but I know she struggles. She may not even know where it all goes. Certainly she does not spend it.”
“She does not know where it goes?” Lizzy sounded incredulous, and Mary flushed.
“Well, why should she? It is gentlemen’s business to make sure she is comfortable. Her father and husband should take care of it all.” Mary’s defence took stride as she became more personal. “Why, Lydia has no idea how Mr Wickham obtained his wealth. She guesses cards, or investments, or buying and selling commissions, but it is clear she knows nothing about it.”
“She does not—” Mr Darcy bit his lip, clearly holding himself back from some cutting remark. “Mr Wickham informed me of an inheritance he received, before he came to London. I doubt that is the full explanation, but he would not give me another.” The long look he shared with Lizzy suggested it was a topic often discussed between them.
“I think we are straying from the matter at hand,” Lizzy said, her tone sensible. “We cannot sit in the carriage outside these lodgings all day. The question is, are we going to call on Lady Lucy?”
“Of course we are!” Mary’s back stiffened, and she laid a hand on the carriage door as if to leap out if they tried to drive away. “Judge not, that ye not be judged—” Mary had not even realised she had slipped back into sententious quoting until Lizzy’s eyebrow lifted. She swallowed. It is so hard, declaring my own opinion. It made her feel weak and vulnerable, but Mary tried. “She is my friend, Lizzy, my only friend. I do not care if she is poor.”
Lizzy exchanged another look with Mr Darcy, then she patted Mary’s hand, which clutched her doll as if someone were going to try to snatch that away as well. “Then we shall call. But I do not advise giving her any of your pin money, Mary, until Lady Lucy is ready to confront her husband with a little more steadiness.”
Mary thought of Lady Lucy’s helpless adoration of the captain, and finally she felt a twinge of guilt on her friend’s behalf. “Very well.”
“And if her parents have not removed her from these lodgings, there must be a reason. The Crestwoods are not heartless people. They have probably offered to help her in some way, and for some reason, she refused.” Lizzy’s good sense made the issue seem clear and settled, but Mary’s heart swarmed with chaos.
Gripping her doll, she clambered out of the carriage, and when the Darcys followed, Mary saw the lodgings with their eyes—the dilapidation, the grime, the ineffective attempts at gentility. It is truly awful that a woman of the aristocracy lives in such a place. But Lord and Lady Crestwood had not rescued their daughter from it. Perhaps they knew where the money went, when others did not.
Lizzy made no further remarks as they trudged up the stairway, but her glance paused on each smear of mud on the floor and every gap in the balusters. No doubt the odours of unwashed clothing and spilled gin were equally noticeable. At least this time, the maid answering the Roarkes’ door looked in better humour, and they entered a room better tidied than Mary had last seen it. Both the captain and Lady Lucy were there, as well, and their welcome was warm enough to soothe Lizzy’s tight-lipped expression into one of ease.
“We are so pleased to see you,” Lady Lucy said. “Mama says having guests is the best part of having one’s own home.”
“Not that we have had many.” The captain shook his head. “Such a hole as this is! You are a brave vanguard, Mrs Darcy, Mr Darcy.”
Mr Darcy gave a polite bow, stiff enough to show he was not conciliated by the man’s address, however smooth. Captain Roarke endeavoured to put Lizzy at her ease, and Mary finally saw him at his best: witty, deferential, and downright kind in seating her sister at the fireside to warm her hands. Lady Lucy had fluttered uneasily at Mr Darcy’s sternness, but now she sat peaceably like a hen smoothing down her feathers after a startle. Listening to Lizzy and the captain make pleasant conversation, Mary mused on their comfortable banter. Captain Roarke had always been a favourite with ladies, despite his profligate ways—or perhaps even because of them. After all, a man could repair any insufficiency of income with exertion and wits, while women in such circumstances were generally condemned to sink in the mire of poverty. And in the meantime, a man could be praised for generosity or a fashionable recklessness. Mary doubted that Lizzy had lost sight of the Roarkes’ inconsistencies, but clearly Lizzy could make the most of a moment and enjoy their company despite her reservations.
No amount of charm could make Mary forget her friend’s troubles, however. The captain’s flair for conversation entertained Lizzy until he had to take his leave to attend to his military duties, but Mary watched him with increasing dissatisfaction. Lady Lucy’s eyes glowed with approval of his wit and seemed to find nothing amiss, but the moment he departed, her mouth drooped with disappointment. That made Mary uneasier still, but she resisted the sensation. You are too judgmental, she scolded herself. The captain was quite kind to Lizzy, and Lady Lucy is very well pleased with him too. The fact that she idolises him is a good thing, not a bad one, especially in a marriage with so few other comforts. It makes her happy. Wrangling with him would serve no purpose; it would only disturb her peace. I daresay that is why Mr Darcy does not tax him on the subject of their money.
“Lady Lucy, have you been enjoying this turn in the weather?” Lizzy’s inquiry was merely polite, but Lady Lucy looked delighted.
“Why, it has been almost warm. We have been quite snug in our little home. Mama says the daffodils may be fooled into blooming early; it is so warm.”
“And have you taken walks to any of the shops nearby? My uncle Gardiner has a warehouse not far from here.”
“Oh, no.” Lady Lucy’s vacant smile conveyed nothing, and her conversation little more. “We have been quite busy. Mama always says it is important to stay busy.”
Lizzy shifted in her chair. “Well…how is your embroidery coming along? I see it there.”
“It is coming along quite nicely. Mama says I have a neat hand.”
Seeing her sister’s increasing amusement, Mary roused herself. “We often sit and sew together, Lizzy. Lady Lucy has taught me a new way to make roses. It makes them look more like buds, half open.”
Lady Lucy nodded. “Mama says roses are the sweetest flower—”
“Your mother seems a veritable fount of knowledge,” Lizzy said, with a gentle smile, “but I believe I have been seeking your opinions, not hers.” She might have gone on, but Mr Darcy, who had been staring out the window for much of the visit, broke in.
“Forgive me, I must hasten downstairs. There is a little girl in the street, nearly under the horses—” He was already making for the door, and Lizzy hurried to follow him, pausing only long enough to explain.
“A strange man accosting the child might frighten her, and others.” Perhaps it was a motherly impulse, or perhaps Lizzy was grateful for a moment to escape the Roarkes’.
“It is probably Betsy,” Mary called after her. “You can bring her here, Lizzy.” She only heard Lizzy’s steps thumping down the stairs, but hopefully her sister heard.
“I am glad Mr Darcy spotted her. Naughty Betsy!” Lady Lucy spoke with an absent a
ir, as if she were thinking of something else. Mary supposed she was used to Betsy’s antics. As Mary passed to the window, her gaze was arrested by a card of lace half-hidden in the workbasket. It was a full card, not the lengths one might have severed at a milliner’s, and it was the same French pattern they had seen while shopping.
Perhaps Lady Lucy went back and bought it later, Mary thought, but a sinking feeling dragged her down nonetheless. I should just ask her about it; that would clear everything up. There must be a good reason for her having it. But her throat felt thick and tight, and she could not bring herself to speak the words. No, I will not mention it. It is probably nothing.
She looked out the window, shifting the curtain to get a better view of Mr Darcy sweeping Betsy up into his arms, the little girl’s pudgy hands still stretching to try to pet a horse’s muzzle. “It is Betsy,” she said, but when she turned to Lady Lucy, she spied a tear trickling down her face. Lady Lucy quickly wiped it away, and Mary turned back to the window. They both pretended Mary had not seen.
Was she crying about Betsy? Mary doubted it. Is she sad about her husband? Or did she steal the lace that day? Questions pressed at her from every direction, but all Mary could do was clench her fists and insist that it was not her business. Even if Lady Lucy felt distress sometimes, her life was peaceful. Nosing out her troubles would only stir things up and make things worse, surely.
Mr Darcy threw open the door, still towing Betsy, his wife on his heels. “Apparently this child’s mother has run off without her.” The declaration did not produce the results he expected; Mary tilted her head, and Lady Lucy rose and gave Betsy a smile.
“She did not run off, Mr Darcy. Her mother probably had to bring the gown she was sewing somewhere. Betsy, did not your mother say to stay inside?” Lady Lucy spoke in an admonishing tone, but Betsy jerked her arm free of Mr Darcy and rushed into her arms.
“Lady Lucy, I was so good, almost the whole time, but then the man stopped his pony right in front! I couldn’t stay inside, then, could I?” Betsy’s rosy lips parted as she waited for the answer.
“You could, and you should have. It is dangerous to wander outside. You must promise not to do it anymore.” Lady Lucy drew out a handkerchief. The edges bore two thick layers of French lace, the very kind Lady Lucy had admired at the millinery—the very kind she now had a card of in her basket.
“I promise!” Betsy said, her gaze glued to the handkerchief. “Is that for me?”
“Yes, since you promised. I finished it early.” Lady Lucy surrendered the gift, and Betsy held it up to the lamp to admire it.
“Two rows of lace on a child’s hanky!” Lizzy seemed at a loss for wit.
“Noblesse oblige, Mrs Darcy.” Lady Lucy lifted her chin and folded her hands, making herself the picture of prim nobility. “I am this child’s benefactor. The Crestwoods have always tended to the those of the lower classes in need.”
“The Crestwoods may have,” Mr Darcy began, and though he did not finish his thought, Mary could almost hear it. But the Roarkes cannot afford it.
Mary was not sure Lady Lucy understood, but the threat of conflict rose up in Mary’s gut, crushing her chest. No arguing, please! She ought to have guessed that Mr Darcy would not spar with a poor noblewoman, but even the possibility of it unsettled her. She flailed for a distraction. “Betsy, I have brought the doll I told you about. Would you like to see her?”
“Oh, yes!”
Mary made a fuss about demonstrating the doll’s possible positions, the gowns she had made for her at Longbourn, and the superior silk scraps she had obtained at the Wickhams’. “Now her attire is practically Parisian,” she said, glancing at Lady Lucy and Mr Darcy to check for tears or frowns. They seemed to have recovered their aplomb, and Mary’s chest relaxed. “You may hold her, if you like, Betsy.”
Betsy took the doll gingerly, showing just the amount of respect and care Mary would have hoped. “She is so pretty!”
“I am glad you think so.” Mary could feel lines of tension easing around her eyelids.
“What is wrong with her shoulder?” Betsy poked her finger into the open seam and peered into it.
Mary’s muscles tightened and her lips thinned. “That is the way my mother made her; that is all.” She took the doll back, despite Betsy’s squeal of protest. “You should not ask impertinent questions.”
“I am sure Betsy is just becoming tired,” Lady Lucy said, her soft voice reassuring them both. She rose and pulled Betsy into a hug. “I will have her lie down for a nap.”
“We must be leaving, any way,” Lizzy said. Their good-byes were crisp, as if everyone had had enough of each other. But when Mary stumbled down the steps and into the broad sunlight glazing the street, she could not get the vision of Lady Lucy’s teardrop out of her mind. Her marriage is peaceful, yet—she is unhappy. Did I do right? Should I have said something? Surely it could not be right to tarnish Lady Lucy’s idea of her husband, nor to make silly remarks about lace.
But somehow Mr Darcy’s half-criticism seemed to have more heart than all Mary’s cautious kindness.
“And though red sandstone may differ in colour from the other prominent sandstones, it is essentially the same, as you will no doubt see when you examine the striations in the samples.”
It seemed unfair that such a melodious bass voice could ever drone, but somehow Mr Cole managed it in his next lecture for the London Ladies Information Society. The lecture was opened to the general public, and the assembly hall was filled with ladies and gentlemen who loved the sciences—or at least were prepared to feign an interest. Both the lovers and the pretenders struggled to show appreciation for the tedium they had been exposed to. A fresh March breeze had swept away London’s haze, and the afternoon sunlight filtering in the windows warmed the assembly rooms enough for ladies to loosen pelisses and spencers. Mary’s shoulder ached from Lydia’s head resting against it, and her stomach growled in protest at missing most of breakfast due to Lydia’s hurry to dress for the occasion.
This time, Mr Wickham had joined them. Whether he felt it a husbandly duty to discourage needless gossip or he had genuine concern for Lydia’s affections, he had insisted on attending them, and Lydia took it in stride. She probably considered her flirting harmless enough that her husband’s presence need not deter it. Certainly she had flashed enough knowing looks and simpers at Mr Cole during the early part of the lecture, before her eyes grew heavy and her head slumped on her sister’s shoulder. Mr Wickham sat bolt upright beside Lydia, but he shuffled his feet and sighed periodically, and though Mary knew he was an intelligent man, Mr Cole’s long-winded explanations in technical language did not appear to enlighten him much.
Mr Cole stood with an expectant expression at the podium, and Mary realised he had meant his last remark as a conclusion for the lecture. What was it? Something about sandstone being red… She did not like to draw attention to herself, but on seeing Mr Cole’s polished smile begin to droop, she began clapping. Others soon joined, and in a moment the whole roomful of people expanded into stretches, yawns, stamping numb feet, and light chatter laced with relief that they could move about and enjoy themselves again.
Lydia, stirred into wakefulness with Mary’s clapping, went directly to congratulate Mr Cole as he stepped down from the makeshift stage. Her hips shifted, gently stirring her flounces and giving her a coquettish air, and she listened to Mr Cole with a wide-eyed concentration that had been missing during his lecture. Mary glanced at Mr Wickham, who watched the proceedings with surprising indifference. I do not think he really believes her heart is in any danger. The revelation flooded Mary with relief. He is just here for appearance’s sake. He knows flirtation is just part of Lydia’s nature.
The reassurance did not satisfy her long, however. Mary could overhear the murmurs of the ladies around her, and most had something to say about “Mrs Wickham’s scandalous behaviour” or “Mr Cole’s shameless adoration.” Miss Poppit even said in an aside to Lady Crestwood, “She was
always like that, was she not? No man is safe with her.” She threw a glance back at Mr Wickham’s expression of indifference, “except perhaps her husband.”
Mary forced herself to rise, and walked slowly towards Lydia and Mr Cole. Though Lizzy had pressed her to make more of an effort, now that the Darcys had departed London for their travels, Mary felt the loss of their backing with pain. Her resolutions to distract Mr Cole seemed weak and silly now. When they were alone, she had somehow been able to speak up, even if only out of irritation at the man’s clumsy intellectualism. But now, with Lydia twitching her skirts and beaming at him, she felt far in the background, even when she stood at Lydia’s side.
“And I told her that Mrs Holt was probably shamming—she is a great one for shamming—but she said that was not the case at all.” Lydia’s cheerful chatter bounced from topic to topic, but all of them were light and amusing, and the darkened expression of Mr Cole’s face gradually cleared into a satisfied smile. Mary could not find the right moment to intervene; somehow her sister’s talk was so fast, and Mary’s reluctance to speak up so strong, that she never felt a break in the conversation wide enough to insert her own comment.
Perhaps he will notice my gown. She was wearing one of Lydia’s choosing, and although her figure was too thin to do it justice, the pale yellow India muslin draped with a fashionable air and made Mary’s cheeks look more pink and her hair less like a mouse and more like golden-hued wheat. The amber cross dangling below her throat and the yellow nankeen half-boots peeking below her gown showed similar elegance. But if Mr Cole noticed, he said nothing about it.
Mary fidgeted and cast her gaze helplessly around the room, hoping for inspiration to compel her to speak. At the tables of punch, Miss Poppit received compliments from gentlemen and acknowledged their homage with a self-possession Mary envied. Miss Poppit looked cool and in control, swayed neither by praise nor criticism, serenely holding her own in the midst of competing belles and eager suitors. It looked like Lady Crestwood’s protégée was the clear choice for the belle of the Season.
A Learned Romance Page 10
