A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  She had expected an apology, or some other show of humility, but instead Mr Cole began to laugh. Hercules scampered about, sensing the mood of his master had shifted, but Mary nearly stamped her foot in frustration.

  “What on earth is the matter with you now, Mr Cole?”

  “Why, I—”

  Whatever explanation he could have given, Mary was sure it was inadequate, but she never found out what it was. Lieutenant Stubbs’s appearance in the doorway was too far from the window to cast a shadow, but it felt as though the drawing room was suddenly immersed in an eclipse. Her brother-in-law’s uniform lacked the gentility and polish of Mr Cole’s attire, but the stern solemnity of Lieutenant Stubbs’s countenance made him look almost kingly. How did he get back so quickly? Mary wondered if the butler had sent someone to fetch him once he admitted Mr Cole or if it was simply bad luck—a forgotten glove, a dropped purse. The fact that Kitty did not appear suggested it was only ill timing; she would not miss such a contretemps waiting in the carriage even if her husband bade her to.

  “Mr Richard Cole,” Lieutenant Stubbs said, each word a pronouncement and a declaration of war, “I know not what you are, gentleman or otherwise, but you have been harassing my sister-in-law.” He placed his hands on his hips, his gloved fingers tensing on his belt.

  Mr Cole blinked in surprise. “Nonsense, it is merely a rational disagreement.”

  “Not that sister-in-law.” The testiness in Lieutenant Stubbs’s voice sounded petulant for a moment, but he soon reined it in to controlled ire. “Mrs Lydia Wickham.”

  “Oh, her.” Mr Cole seemed surprised the subject had been reintroduced, as if he still did not fully gauge its importance. Mary found herself repressing a sigh at his inability to appreciate the degree of scandal involved.

  Lieutenant Stubbs gave him no quarter. “Do not pretend or play games, Mr Cole. Your presence here is an insult to our family. I must insist you leave at once and have nothing to do with any of us in the future.”

  “I have no difficulty dispensing with your company,” Mr Cole said, his lips twisting in a wry smile, “but I fear my happiness might be impinged by the loss of the company of others in your family.”

  “I have no concern for your happiness.” Lieutenant Stubbs’s tone heated further.

  “Mr Cole made a simple error in judgment,” Mary said, throwing a worried glance at one and then the other. “He was just leaving. There is no reason to make a scene, Lieutenant Stubbs.” She raised her hands in a placating gesture. “None of us wants to make gossip for the servants, right? Let us put this behind us.”

  “Certainly. Once he gives his word as a gentleman to leave Mrs Wickham alone.” Lieutenant Stubbs’s hands were tensed hard enough for iron. Mary’s heart began to pound, and her stomach soured with fear. Hercules paced back and forth, nosing at his master from time to time, as if trying to sense the shift in the situation.

  “I am not harassing Mrs Wickham. So far as I can tell, she is free to make friendships where she chooses,” Mr Cole said. His brows had drawn together in a troubled expression, but there was a hint of impatience to it, as if Lieutenant Stubbs’s rage were sparking an ire of his own. “What right do you have, sir, to interfere in another’s business? If Mrs Wickham finds my friendship problematic, she is free to discontinue it at any time.”

  “I have the right of a brother, who protects a foolish sister from herself.”

  “Stop, both of you.” The words came out as whisper, the air barely able to push through Mary’s constricted throat. She could feel tears leaking at the corners of her eyes, as if they, too, were being squeezed out of her. “Stop fighting.” She could hear distant shouting, the breaking of Lucas Lodge furniture, Harry’s curses, his father’s accusations. She could smell the sweat of her own fear from that day long ago, the day she had broken a family. It is all my fault. “We can all be friends, I know.”

  “Friends? With him?” Lieutenant Stubbs’s disdain was clear, but Mr Cole leaned towards Mary with a face full of concern.

  “Miss Bennet?” His eyes searched her own, but she squeezed them shut.

  “Do not fight.” Her voice held an unnatural strain, a wild lilt, and she took a step back.

  “You know nothing about such matters, Miss Mary,” Lieutenant Stubbs said. “If we must settle this the way gentlemen do—”

  “Do not speak to her that way.” Mr Cole’s voice held more heat than she had ever heard in it, and Mary backed away again, opening her eyes only to have her sight blurred with tears. The thundering in her chest felt explosive. She knew she should stay and try to make peace between them. She should try to smooth things over, for Lydia’s sake, for Lieutenant Stubbs’s sake, for Mr Cole’s sake, for the good of the family. Mary forced her feet to still, but her voice tore out of her, like some chained imp finally shrieking its way up from the depths.

  “Just stop it! STOP IT!”

  The moment was a release, but it horrified her to hear her own anger joining the fray, abandoning her to the chaos. She turned on her heel and dashed out of the room, running all the way to her bedroom. I am as bad as they. I have lost all control. That was what anger did; it made a kindly father disown his son, it made a loving son spit curses at his father, it made a dutiful sister scream in hate. Mary grabbed her doll and threw herself into her bed, dragging the silk coverlet over her as if she were a child hiding from a monster. I failed. They will argue more now, and then they will have a duel. One of them will die, and it will be all my fault. The chain of reasoning was not logical, but she suffered while thinking such thoughts any way. Her tears turned into ragged sobs, an ache that raked across her chest.

  Why did Mr Cole talk nonsense about peace being control? Peace was safety, pure and simple. Peace meant everyone survived and stayed together. Maybe my need for peace is unusually strong, compared to most. But what is the alternative? Let everyone feud and separate, or worse? That is no alternative at all. That was what Mr Cole did not seem to understand.

  But in the darkness under the coverlet, her reasoning sounded empty, like a mindless recitation supposed to exorcise a ghost but lacking the power to dispel it. And as Mary reassured herself that peace was the obvious solution, and disputes were the evil to avoid, all the while a word haunted her thoughts, hovering beyond each one like a persistent spirit howling with misery.

  Coward.

  Mary spent the rest of the day in bed, sending down the excuse of a headache to avoid dinner with the Wickhams. At first, remaining in her room soothed her, and she sewed a new garment for her doll with a growing calm. “It is all too much for me,” she told the button eyes, feeling almost proud of her distance above the chaos until she remembered the phrase was one her mother used again and again. Mama would take a pile of mending upstairs and leave her children to fend for themselves, insisting she could not handle their squabbles, their pleadings, and their needs. And I was overlooked by everyone, and Kitty and Lydia grew wild, and—why, all of it could have been mitigated, if Mama had deigned to come downstairs and help. The flash of anger jolting through her made her drop her doll. She could not remember ever feeling such rage at her mother before.

  This is what anger does. It is poisonous. If you let yourself feel it a little, it taints everything. Mary swallowed hard and picked up her doll again, smoothing the puffed sleeve of the dress where it layered over the gaping shoulder. Poor Mama! Anyone would get tired with five girls and a house to take care of. I ought not judge her. She shoved the anger back down again, but the rest of her time in her room was spoiled by it any way.

  Though it did not lift her spirits much, her time upstairs did seem to magically erase much of the chaos of Mr Cole’s visit. When Mary came downstairs the next day, the bouquet was gone—whether taken away by Mr Cole or disposed of by Lieutenant Stubbs, she dared not ask—and Lieutenant Stubbs’s mood showed a reassuring irritation. She was sure if Lieutenant Stubbs and Mr Cole had agreed to a duel, Lieutenant Stubbs would be solemn and polite to everyone to fit the g
randeur of his commitment. The fact that he scolded Mary for not sending Mr Cole away at once and glowered at Lydia across the breakfast table sent a wave of relief through her.

  They spent a full week in a state of civil tension. Lydia took Mary to Almack’s rather than to a biology lecture with the Informed Ladies of London Association. After hearing so much of how ladies of higher society greedily sparred for vouchers, Mary expected Almack’s to resemble a palace, but in truth it was simply another set of elegant supper rooms, card rooms, and a ballroom. Gilt curled over the edges of looking glasses and covered parts of the pilasters, and the sofas weathered their visitors with good stuffing and smooth fabric, but beyond those things, Mary did not discover any notable attraction. No doubt the lure was supposed to be the company, but Mary found that wanting as well. Every young lady was on her best behaviour, prim and correct, and every gentleman prattled the dull talk of weather. Mary and Lydia milled at one side of the room and endured the tedium. Lydia refrained from dancing to better attract men to her sister, and Mary’s lack of conversation discouraged most gentlemen from asking her to dance, so the two stood and sipped ratafia while Miss Poppit fended off suitors and Lady Crestwood preened at her protégée’s success.

  By the end of March, the strong winds whipping at bonnets had softened into playful breezes, and the steady warmth of the spring sun made gentlemen shed their greatcoats and loosen their cravats. The nights still breathed a chill outdoors, but when Lady Crestwood gave a rout at her home on the first of April, the indoors were stifling enough to inspire hundreds of ladies to wave their fans and complain of the swelter.

  The frenzy of Lady Crestwood’s rout put Almack’s to shame, as far as the enjoyment of the guests went. The mad crush pummelled Mary’s ears with the hum of conversation, shouts attempting to carry to an ear a few feet away, and raucous laughter from gentlemen who had partaken of Lord Crestwood’s vintages with too great a liberality. The tangy scent of freshly opened wine bottles melded with the puffs of perfumed air emanating from well-coiffed ladies. The repeated shoves of guests around her drove Mary into a corner, and it was not until she spied an opening at a whist table and secured it that she felt safe from stomping feet and friendly buffeting. The noise in the card room was less obtrusive, though still great—the hiss of distant ocean, rather than the emphatic crash of waves upon rocks. The others at the table nodded a greeting at her, saying little as they divided the cards and studied their hands.

  Clutching her cards in one hand, Mary dabbed at her neck with a handkerchief, hoping to remove the sheen of sweat on her skin and keeping her gaze uplifted. Every time she glanced down, the expanse of bosom displayed by her gown shocked her. Lydia’s tastes had shifted from those of a country maiden, and she had ensured Mary’s gowns would be à la mode.

  More than that, Mary’s curves had filled out since she had grown daring enough to ask for more of the foods she liked, and Addleby had spent two days letting out all her gowns. The idea of having curves where she was accustomed to bones and skin disconcerted Mary, but she had to admit her figure had improved. Perhaps she still had a long way to go, but now she was recognisable as Lydia’s sister, despite the difference in hair colour.

  Mary nodded in appreciation to something her whist partner said. The clatter of dishes in the supper room and the hum of talk here made it hard to make out her partner’s words, but as Mary was more accustomed to nodding than adding any substantial remark to the conversation, she found little hardship in the noise. She simply played her cards, smiled at the players, and tried to keep her gaze from seeking out Mr Cole.

  Even if he were here, I ought not speak to him. She immersed herself in the game again, but all too soon, her head popped up to check the crowd another time. She did not find Mr Cole, only Lydia, who chattered at the other players as she drew Mary away.

  “So sorry! If I had not seen you had just finished a rubber, I would not dare to claim her,” Lydia said, flashing her pearly teeth in way that could be taken as a smile or a warning, just as her audience chose. “A gentleman is very pressing, and he will not be satisfied until he has seen my Mary.”

  At that, Mary’s heartbeat became palpable, thrumming with an unsteady pace in her chest. “Who is it?” she asked in a casual tone, as Lydia led her from the card room.

  “Do not faint when I tell you.” Mischief lit Lydia’s blue eyes, and she squeezed Mary’s arm. “Mr Covington! He usually escorts Miss Poppit all around the room while everybody stares, but tonight, he desires to walk with you. What a coup!”

  The image did not appeal. “Must I, Lydia?”

  “Of course you must. Now say, ‘Yes, Lydia,’ and I will make all your dreams come true.” She did not wait for Mary’s answer, though, and tugged her sister to Mr Covington’s side. Admittedly, the tugging was appropriate in such a pushing crowd; there seemed little other method for proceeding. Mary wondered how anyone could stroll about the rout in such a mash. At least it will be impossible for everyone to stare at us.

  Lydia kept up a stream of chatter as they went. “La, you look ten times better these days, Mary. Why, you actually have a figure! And your gown suits your colouring quite nicely. But it needs a little something. I meant to lend you a brooch—a little wreath of gold, whose red stones match the colour of your sash exactly—only I could not find it. I shall have to scold Addleby for losing it, for it would have completed your ensemble to a nicety.”

  “Oh.” Mary could not peel her mind away from the upcoming ‘coup’ enough to make more of an answer, but Lydia was used to that. She pranced to a throng of gentlemen, tossing a few flirtatious smiles here and there as if she were throwing flowers.

  “Here she is, Mr Covington! Do take care of her.” Lydia patted Mary’s arm before wriggling into the mass of people, leaving Mary to turn wistful eyes on Mr Covington. I hope he will not expect me to say much.

  The dark blue of Mr Covington’s coat drew taut across the man’s shoulders and rippled slightly over his chest, making Mary think of a fast-running stream. The loose curls of his dark hair were slicked with sweat, adding to the illusion. “Miss Bennet, how pleasant to see you. Shall we walk?”

  Mary nodded, grateful she did not have to say anything, and wondering how Lydia had finagled the gentleman into singling her out. For better or for worse, their progress through the guests was erratic and halting, requiring them to pull up short again and again, or even study their feet to avoid stepping on those of other guests. The concentration needed for simple movement prevented much conversation.

  “Let us pause there for a moment,” Mr Covington said, tilting his head towards a series of pillars at one end of the room. It was an out-of-the-way enough place to catch one’s breath, but a few other couples had already discovered that—most notably Captain Roarke and Lady Sarah Randall.

  Lady Sarah’s gloved hand rested on the captain’s arm in an innocent way, but she leaned over it to whisper in his ear with an intensity that disturbed Mary. Lady Sarah’s lowered lids barely hid the sultriness of her gaze.

  “Good evening, Captain,” Mary said, able to find her voice at last. “Where is Lady Lucy?” Her glance at Lady Sarah was sharp, but the noblewoman paid her no heed.

  “She is ill. Nothing serious, but she could not come.” The captain bobbed a bow and began leading Lady Sarah away.

  “I will come and visit her tomorrow, then,” Mary called to him as he disappeared into the mass of bodies.

  “Lady Lucy is Lord Crestwood’s daughter, is she not?” Mr Covington’s voice held no interest, only politeness.

  “She is.” Mary could not think of anything to add to that, so she pretended to be intrigued with a nearby wall hanging.

  “Would you like a glass of ratafia, Miss Bennet?”

  “Oh, yes.” Fetching a glass and pressing through the guests would take a great deal of time, and Mary sighed with relief as Mr Covington waded in on his errand. For a moment, she watched the London elite in peace. Captain Roarke still flirted with Lady Sarah,
but at a more discreet distance. Lydia and Mr Wickham passed by, squabbling with an air of contentment that made Mary wonder if her efforts at smoothing vexations between them had deprived them of a comfortable closeness. I think they almost like teasing one another. Mary averted her gaze, unwilling to consider the idea further, and spotted Miss Poppit stepping through the milling groups with a practised grace.

  “What a delightful evening!” Miss Poppit’s cheeks were bright with colour, something more than rouge. “Lieutenant Babbingford and I have been quizzing the guests. He has such wit.” Miss Poppit leaned in towards her, though no one was likely to hear her over the hum of the rout any way. “Though I fear Lady Crestwood does not care for him.”

  “I think she is looking higher for you, Miss Poppit.”

  Miss Poppit acknowledged the comment with a frown. “I am much indebted to her ladyship, of course, but…” Shaking her head, she dove into an altered line of thought. “Lieutenant Babbingford knows your brother-in-law very well. I told him all about that day at the gallery with Mr Cole, and the favour I did you, and he thinks Lieutenant Stubbs ought to be told.”

  “You told him all that!” Mary flushed in indignation. She had never even met this gentleman, and Miss Poppit’s tendre for him had apparently drawn him into their secrets.

  “It was on my mind, Miss Bennet.” The sententious air Miss Poppit gave her declaration reminded Mary of herself, in an earlier, pious mood. “Lieutenant Babbingford is the height of discretion, however. So you have no need to worry he will bandy it about.”

  “I hope he has better discretion than you have had.” Mary could not help but show her irritation, though she knew she needed to conciliate Miss Poppit to prevent further divulging of her secret meeting with Mr Cole.