I ought to be more like her. But the sense of competition discouraged her rather than inspiring her, and Mary drew back a little from Lydia’s side. I cannot, though. I will never be as elegant and beautiful as Miss Poppit. Indeed, if it meant having so many people trying to talk to her at once, she did not even want to be in Miss Poppit’s place.
From the corner of her eye, Mary spotted Mr Wickham sipping a cup of punch with a weary patience as he watched Lydia from afar. At least Mr Wickham is making an effort. He dares not reproach Lydia too much, or she will rebel, and yet he dare not leave it all alone either. A surge of energy passed through her, and she pushed herself a little in front of her sister, catching the end of her speech.
“But, of course, I have no inclination to read some dull good book to Mrs Holt, however ill she may be. I sent Mary to do it instead, although they had not been introduced. I do not think she liked it, but you would never hear her complain. Not these days, any way.” Lydia smiled at her sister with an affection that seemed almost maternal.
“I believe I have heard her complain,” Mr Cole said, his lips twitching with amusement.
“No, you must be mistaken. I tow her about here and there and make her do all manner of unpleasant things—well, unpleasant for her, anybody else would love them—and all she says is, ‘Yes, Lydia.’” She laughed and tapped Mary with her fan. “Patient as an angel!”
“She sounds like my brother, Thomas.” Mr Cole’s eyes unfocused, as if he were seeing something the others could not. “He was angelically good like that. The staff our father could lean on, our mother’s comfort. I always said not even a demon could hate him, because Thomas always did the right thing, and yet he never made anyone feel bad for doing less. With all my mischief, he could have snubbed me, but he did not.”
“Were you that mischievous?” Mary asked, willing herself to speak up normally rather than in her usual soft tone.
“Oh, yes. I can remember one day when we were boys—I was seven, I think, and he only a few years older. I was pitching rocks at a dog.”
“That is horrible!” Lydia said.
“Thomas thought so too, but he did not say that. I had been interested in the physics of the matter: how the arc of the stone differed with different speeds as the target moved, that sort of thing. I was not really thinking of the dog. Thomas simply reminded me, in a quiet, stern voice, that the dog was a living creature. He did not try to make me feel like I was awful. He said it was natural that I was curious, but that I should throw rocks at targets that were not alive.” He shook his head. “Of course, being a little boy scientist at heart, I said I could not find out what I wanted to know without moving targets. So Thomas tied some old pamphlets and fans to a tree so they would swing in the wind, and we threw rocks at them. He made it a sort of brotherly project.” Mr Cole sighed. “He made me feel like a good person who had got turned the wrong way round for a moment, not someone evil or rotten inside.”
“That is a fine thing.” Mary smiled at him, and when he returned it, warmth flooded her.
“So where is this angel now?” Lydia asked. “Helping your father on the estate, I suppose.”
“No.” Mr Cole’s expression went blank. “He died of an illness last year. There is no one helping my father now.” He turned from them, casting his gaze over the room. “Perhaps some of the other guests have questions about my lecture.” The energy entering his voice sounded forced, as if he expected failure. “I should move about the room. Mrs Wickham, your husband looks as though he must be wishing for your company.” The remark was clearly a dismissal, but Lydia took it with a social ease that Mary envied.
“Oh, poor Wickham. I shall liven him up a bit, do not worry, Mr Cole.” Lydia strolled off to join Mr Wickham. Mary dogged Mr Cole’s steps as he walked about the room. She feared no one had any particular questions about geology—at least, not the sort Mr Cole would approve of—and she hoped to remain near him when he discovered that. They made a circuit of the room, and although several guests expressed a polite satisfaction with the lecture, and a few offered irrelevant questions about gemstones, none appeared to appreciate Mr Cole’s ideas with any depth.
“You have been my silent shadow all afternoon.” Mr Cole finally addressed Mary as she hung back behind him.
She flushed. “I am sorry. Have I bothered you?” She remembered too late she was supposed to be flirtatious and witty, and bit her lip.
“No, you are no trouble.” His gaze wandered over the assembly room, and his tone sounded absent.
“I know I ought to speak up more,” Mary said, hoping the confession would draw him to her, but he still studied the guests. “I do try. It is just hard to think of something to say.”
“You are saying something now.”
“It is easier when there are only two people.” She dug her toe into the floor. “I am sorry about your brother.”
Now his eyes met hers, but his lips drew down with annoyance. “It was no one’s fault. There is nothing to be sorry about.” He must have realised his irritation was misplaced, for he continued in a gentler tone. “He was a great man. All the servants adored him. My parents relied on him. Everyone was looking forward to the day he would be the active squire of the estate. He would have been the perfect master, the perfect landholder, the perfect country gentleman.” He hesitated. “The perfect son.”
“And now it falls to you to be all that?”
Mr Cole coughed, looking away. “I could never match my brother’s skill. Or character.” His words became rapid. “Besides, I have a life here in London. I wish to become a great orator for science, and my theories will not only advance geology, but will also inspire the gentry with a passion for knowledge. I cannot leave all that to play country gentleman.”
“I see.” Mary did not know what else to say, and she drifted behind him as he began another circuit around the room. Miss Poppit still reigned over several young men, her thin smile approving them, while her heart appeared untouched. Lady Crestwood chatted with the Wickhams in a surprising degree of harmony. She must be glad to see Lydia staying by her husband for once. And Lydia must be on her best behaviour, hoping to win some patronage for Mr Wickham.
Mary’s stomach gurgled with an embarrassing insistence and volume, and her cheeks heated when Mr Cole turned around.
“Are you hungry?” he said, leading her toward the plates of biscuits and pastries.
It was useless to deny it. “I did not eat much this morning. We have been very busy.” He filled a plate for her, and Mary nibbled while trying to look ladylike and unconcerned with the needs of the flesh.
“That is a very pretty gown,” Mr Cole said, examining her. Mary became all too conscious of her body, a sudden heat passing through her, along with the usual urge to be suddenly invisible. How she wished she had more of Lydia’s plump curves! But Lydia is not afraid to ask a footman to bring round the food she likes, nor too timid to ask for another helping if she is still hungry. Mary could not break herself of the habit of careful restraint at meals. She had spent too many years declining dishes so she could look abstemious and pious, or watching her mother’s face as she decried Lizzy’s more robust appetite compared to Jane’s. But somehow, Mr Cole’s attention made those self-denials seem silly and unnecessary. She took a bigger bite of biscuit and quietly finished it.
“Thank you,” she said with a stateliness that made her feel calm, despite the warmth rushing through her.
They stood in silence for a few minutes. Mr Cole’s feet shifted and he pushed a stack of plates on the refreshment table back farther from the edge. Then he plucked at his waistcoat until exasperation overcame him. “Well? Have you anything more to say, Miss Bennet?”
“I am sorry. I was trying to think of something.” Oddly enough, his irritation made her feel even calmer.
“And what is the difficulty?” His brows furrowed. “Anyone could think of twenty things to say in that amount of time.”
“I am sorry.” She placed her empt
y plate on the table. “It is just that I do not assume what I think of to say is interesting, so it takes a while.”
“That is tweaking my nose, is it not? You are going back to our earlier debate—you mean that I assume what I say in my lectures will interest people.”
“I did not say that.”
“Well…” He threw back his shoulders, as if determining something. “Perhaps it is true, whether you said it today or not. I cannot deny people do not seem as fascinated as I hoped. If you are still willing to help me, Miss Bennet, I am willing to hear your ideas.”
“Truly?” Her eyes shone.
“It is clear I need help from someone, and you seem sure you can aid me. I must admit your labels were a success. People spent twice the amount of time looking at my samples, and the ladies talked about them almost as much as their gowns this time.” He gave her a rueful smile.
“And what about—the bargain?” At his blank look, she added, “About my sister?”
“Oh, that. Miss Bennet, you need not fear my attentions to your sister. I merely find her diverting.” His head tilted, and Mary had the feeling he was looking her through and through. “By the by, I find you amusing too.”
Mary did not know what to say to that. Her period of indecision prevented her from saying anything, for Lydia abandoned her post by Mr Wickham and swept up to them. “Heavens! I simply must have a drink. Alleviate your disciple’s suffering, Mr Cole, and draw me a cup of punch.” Her carefully tousled curls slid back from her temples as she accepted a cup and drank.
“If you are my disciple, Mrs Wickham, you are a very poor one,” Mr Cole said, his smile broadening. “Do you remember anything from my lecture?”
“Of course! It was all about rocks. But I will tell you what I find more educational, my friend, and that is that you had my sister trailing you ever since you finished it. I have never seen her behave so! If she is a disciple, she is a very faithful one.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “You had better be a good master to her, for she has not had any such since Sir William Lucas’s sons grew up.”
“They taught you geology, did they?” Mr Cole turned to Mary, who flushed with irritation at Lydia’s vulgar wit.
Lydia answered for her. “No, but Harry Lucas taught her religious things. Pamphlets and sermons, that sort of thing. They are good friends.”
Mary’s back stiffened as memories creeped in, as if a slow poison was paralysing each muscle, one by one. “My sister is mistaken.” Her throat threatened to close on her, but she forced her words through. “Perhaps we used to be friends, but he has not spoken to me in above a year.”
“My, how dramatic you sound, Mouse! He has not spoken to anybody in that long—anybody we know, I mean.” She leant in to Mr Cole and whispered, “He turned Methodist, and now his family will have nothing to do with him.”
Mary averted her face, willing the tears standing in her eyes not to fall. Mr Cole must have seen it, for he took Lydia’s arm and guided Lydia a few steps away to chat with her, giving Mary space to recover. Poor Harry. It is all my fault. I should never have tried to interfere. She turned to see Lydia hanging on Mr Cole and joking with him, and her feelings mixed further. Am I doing the right thing? Perhaps I should let Lydia and Mr Wickham sort things out for themselves. A few deep breaths restored some of her calm, and she stepped unseen towards the couple, only to pause at the sudden undertone Lydia used.
“You will meet me at the gallery on Thursday, then? It will be such fun!”
“I think you want to meet me just to tweak the noses of your friends.” Mr Cole’s voice was full of good humour.
“Oh, does that matter?” Only a true coquette could have given such an airy seductiveness to her tone. Lydia’s long lashes fluttered. “You did not think you had won my heart, did you? Hearts are not so easily stolen, even by handsome young men.” Her tone grew determined. “Besides, I am tired of everyone telling me what to do. Even the little mouse is always watching me.”
“I am not sure the world really pays so much attention as you seem to think.” Mr Cole’s tone was bemused, as if he thought Lydia were exaggerating the importance of their friendship. “But of course I will see the portraits with you, if you wish.”
Mary’s stomach lurched. An assignation? How can Lydia be so foolish? Surely it was only a prank, with no serious intent of wrongdoing, but it would pollute the Wickhams’ reputation further if Lydia was caught making a rendezvous. Any other two people in the world could run into each other in a gallery and plead it was happenstance, Mary thought. But no one will believe it in this case, even if Lydia and Mr Cole call it coincidence. Everyone will know they were trying to spend time together, and nearly everyone will decide the reason why is illicit love. Oh, Lydia, how can you?
Clearly Mary’s efforts at gentle reproaches were counterproductive. She could reveal what she had overheard to Mr Wickham, but she did not see what more he could do without spurring Lydia into greater rebellion. She could try to persuade Lydia not to go, but that, too, seemed likely to prick her pride into revolt. Mary sank back into the background, struggling to find a solution. No one had noticed her movements forward or backward. A mouse is made privy to everybody’s secrets, she thought sourly, but at least no one realises it. What to do?
She hated to interfere, but she could not think of any other course of action. She knew where and when they were planning to meet—and that made it possible to disrupt the rendezvous, one way or another. It might require a bold move, but as Mary watched Mr Cole respond with spellbound devotion to her sister’s frolics, she felt resentment well up. She had been making progress with intriguing Mr Cole, and Lydia had undone it all within minutes. He seemed to relish her company as much as ever. The sight of his adoration sent a strange pang through Mary, and the resentment grew. For his sake and hers, she thought, perhaps I can risk a little boldness.
The weather at the beginning of March had promised sweet, soft spring, but bitter winds and a snowy sky broke the vow the following week, dropping layer after layer of ice and snow on the rooftops and streets. The keening of the wind in the chimneys and between buildings was shrill enough to make Mary shiver with fear as well as cold; it sounded too much like some ghostly figure trying to tear down the walls and rend the people within. Though she had planned to visit the ailing Mrs Holt that day, the ice lining the window panes made Mary decide to remain at home beside the Wickhams’ fireplace instead.
It is not as though I am fit for a visit any way. Her eyes blinked with weariness from lack of sleep; she had spent too much of the night trying (and failing) to devise a way to stop Lydia’s rendezvous with Mr Cole. Feigning illness, breaking a carriage wheel, sending false news of a visitor—all her solutions seemed both dramatic and ineffectual. She wrapped herself in a shawl and pulled a chair close to the fire, determined to ruminate and doze.
“That is just right,” Mr Wickham said, settling a screen near her. His trim figure bore a waistcoat in mint green—a favourite colour of Lydia’s. Probably Lydia had had as much fun dressing her husband as she had Mary. “Stay here and tend your health.”
“I am not ill, only a little tired.” She could not help but brighten a little under his care. She still did not trust him in matters of money, but he did know how to make a lady feel important.
“Mrs Wickham will run you ragged if you let her,” he said. The fire in the grate lit his classic features, and he lifted his hands and turned them back and forth in front of it to banish the chill from them. “She does keep things lively, though.” The thought made him smile in appreciation.
“Yes…” Mary wondered if she ought to say something about Mr Cole. Mr Wickham might have poor morals, but he seemed to have good sense. Perhaps he could think of a way to stop the rendezvous without causing scandal. Would telling be betraying Lydia? She watched Mr Wickham hunch closer to the fire. His eyes were half-closed with the satisfaction of warming, and the lazy, pleased expression reminded her of a cat sunning peacefully. She hated the thought of dis
turbing him. Probably everything will turn out all right. There is no need to trouble him. A twist in her gut warned her she was only trying to convince herself, but the aversion to bringing up a distasteful subject was strong. She could remember Harry’s sunny smile, his head tilting as he made his plea.
“You will not tell anyone where I have gone, will you?”
“No, of course not.” She had been only too glad to promise. Harry had always been gentle with her, understanding her quietness and ensuring she got what she needed despite it.
“My father would never understand these meetings. He sees religion only one way.”
“I know. I will not tell.”
But she had told. The memory drove a shudder through her, and her brother-in-law adjusted the screen, thinking she was shaking with cold. “Allow me, Miss Bennet. We are very pleased you are here, you know,” Mr Wickham said. “Your sister Kitty and her husband are to come for a visit, too. Did my wife tell you?”
“She said Lieutenant Stubbs received a minor wound and was due for leave any way.” Mary tugged the shawl tighter around her. She could see the attraction of Mr Wickham, despite his faults, but she could never see it in Lieutenant Stubbs. Kitty’s soldier had a prickly nature, eager to suspect an affront, and in the army, he had earned a reputation for duelling. Mary could not understand anyone wanting to be in the army at all; it seemed the antithesis of the peace she craved.
“Well, it shall be livelier still with them here.” Mr Wickham’s eyes closed all the way as he basked in the fire’s warmth for a moment longer. He looked so relaxed and vulnerable that Mary felt glad—if a little guilty—that she had not dredged up problems to him. He spent a few more minutes warming himself in companionable silence, and then shuffled back to his study.
A Learned Romance Page 11
