A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “I only did what was right.” Sure of her ground, Miss Poppit lifted her chin.

  “Well, you have committed me to telling Lieutenant Stubbs, lest his friend tell him before me. And my brother-in-law is so prickly! You do not know what you have done.”

  “Truth is best, Miss Bennet.”

  Though Mary generally agreed with the sentiment, and even with the self-righteous air Miss Poppit gave it, she found it only vexing now. “I hope that comforts you, if Lieutenant Stubbs decides to call out Mr Cole.” Perhaps it would not be as bad as all that—really, Mary had averted the worst of the trouble by preventing Lydia’s meeting Mr Cole. But Kitty and her husband might focus on the scandal risked rather than the actual consequences.

  “Duelling is a part of a soldier’s life.”

  “It is not supposed to be.” Mary’s voice sounded sour. “They are supposed to save their bloodlust for the battlefield.”

  “Miss Bennet!” Miss Poppit’s wide eyes showed Mary she had gone too far.

  Further proof anger cannot be contained, Mary thought, regretting her outburst, but she still felt nothing kindly for Lady Crestwood’s protégée. “I fear I am out of temper. You may inform Lieutenant Babbingford that I will make my brother-in-law aware of what happened, and that I trust both he and you will not mention it again.” It was awkward enough discussing it at all in the middle of a rout. Mary wished Miss Poppit had been more circumspect in where she introduced the topic.

  “Of course we will not!” The heat in Miss Poppit’s voice surprised Mary, but the young woman soon got hold of her feelings and smoothed them down the same way she smoothed the front of her gown. “I only wanted to make sure justice was served. As your sister’s husband, Lieutenant Stubbs has a right to defend his family.” The colour began seeping from her cheeks, leaving them their usual light pink. “Your secret is safe with my friend and me.”

  Mary believed her, not because she thought Miss Poppit had truly repented, but rather because she trusted Miss Poppit’s enjoyment of sharing secretive conversations with her beau. Miss Poppit would not give that up lightly.

  “Thank you.” Mary forced the words out. She turned to face the crowd, where the riverlike current of Mr Covington, bearing aloft a glass of ratafia, battled the eddies of guests. His lips, tensed with the concentration of navigating the masses of guests, relaxed into a smile when he saw Miss Poppit, and even as he presented the glass to Mary, he spoke with animation to her friend.

  “How pleasant to come upon you again, Miss Poppit! Might we have another dance?”

  “We have had two already, Mr Covington.” Miss Poppit’s tone was firm, and the man relented and submerged them in chat instead. Mary listened with half an ear.

  Kitty and her husband will be so angry at Lydia. Not that Mary was well-pleased with the dashing Mrs Wickham herself, but she hated to spur on the arguments with more information. Her muscles tingled with exhaustion, as if she could feel the sensations of terror and angst rattling her already. Mr Cole must be right that some people enjoy wrangling with one another. What else can explain all the foolery this Season? She felt tired of rescuing Lydia, tired of preventing quarrels and mending fences for other people. She wished she had a ruthless side like Miss Poppit, who could hear war stories with a gleam in her eye and was proud of her beau’s penchant for duelling. But I am not like that. The memory of her rage spilling out when Lieutenant Stubbs and Mr Cole had argued rose up unbidden.

  Am I?

  Now that Miss Poppit was with them, conversation with Mr Covington proceeded with more ease. Miss Poppit supplied any deficiencies in Mary’s answers and offered new subjects, shaping the talk with an adroitness that made Mary envy her polish. Mr Covington relaxed into the exchange, and his smiles and nods signalled a greater comfort. Although he paid compliments to Mary, his eyes remained on Miss Poppit as he did so.

  I suppose he only singled me out to make her jealous. Try to, any way. Miss Poppit did not look perturbed in the least, not even when Mr Covington compared Mary’s beauty to an orchid. He has not touched her heart. But somehow Lieutenant Babbingford has. It was unfortunate for everyone. As a suitor, Lieutenant Babbingford did not have the éclat fitting for the protégée of Lady Crestwood and the belle of the Season.

  Suddenly Mary spied a chestnut-haired head above the grouped gentlemen and ladies, and thick, wide shoulders pushing them apart. Mr Cole moved as directly as he could towards her, jostling and being jostled as he went. Mary’s stomach fluttered, and she could feel ratafia slosh within. Though pressed against her elbow, Miss Poppit felt very far away from Mary now, and Mr Covington even farther.

  “Miss Bennet.” Mr Cole only had room for a tiny bow, but he performed it with dexterity.

  Mary knew it was wiser to make excuses and avoid him, but her heart sang too wild a song when he smiled. She curtseyed, unable to speak.

  “I had thought I might see you at the biology lecture on Wednesday.”

  Did he really mean to pretend he and Lieutenant Stubbs had not argued? Did he not see it with the severity she did? “My sister took me to Almack’s that night. I fear it took so long to prepare, we did not go anywhere in the afternoon.”

  “Ah, I suppose that is de rigueur for a young lady’s Season.”

  Somehow Mary could not leave him with a false impression. “It may be, but it was very dull. I had much rather have been at the lecture. I know so little of biology. Will you tell me about it?”

  Pleased, he entered into a recapitulation of the subject matter. Mary discovered that when he was not trying to impress anyone, Mr Cole could deliver a scientific explanation with clarity and succinctness. “That is the gist of it,” he said, finishing.

  “You have explained it well. I wish you made all your lectures so clear and simple.” A wry smile played upon her lips.

  “Well, I am working on it. No doubt your suggestions will help with next week’s. You will not desert me for dressing all day for Almack’s then, I hope?”

  “I do wish to be there, but I do not know…” Mary hesitated, thinking Miss Poppit might overhear, but when she turned slightly, she realised Miss Poppit and Mr Covington had wandered off. In Mary’s focus on the geologist, she had never noticed their going. “It is awkward, with Lieutenant Stubbs and Lydia and all.”

  “Oh. Of course.” His nose wrinkled with irritation.

  “Do you know, Miss Poppit thinks I should tell Lieutenant Stubbs about that day in the gallery, the day I met you to persuade you not to meet Lydia.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “She says his friend in the army will tell him, otherwise.” Though the topic still pained her, she found humour in it now that Mr Cole was near. “Perhaps he is feeling excluded.”

  Mr Cole broke into a loud laugh, slapping his thigh. “Excluded? What do you say, Miss Bennet—shall we bring him to our next clandestine meeting?”

  “There are not going to be any more such meetings,” Mary said, but she was amused and flattered nonetheless by the idea.

  “Poor fellow! By all means, tell him, if it will bring him any comfort.” Mr Cole’s laughter had ended, but his whole being was suffused with a cheerful jocularity that made Mary feel safe.

  I suppose it is rather droll. Her chest felt lighter, and she ventured to take Mr Cole’s arm. “Apparently Lieutenant Stubbs hates secrets almost as much as scandal.”

  “Well, if I cannot appease him about the scandal, the least I can do is reveal some secrets.” Mr Cole’s fingers tucked around Mary’s, securing her grasp on his arm. “Your brother-in-law is proving nearly as great a distraction as you are, Miss Bennet.”

  “But not as great as my sister?” It was an awkward question, but clinging to his arm as she was, Mary felt brave enough to ask it.

  He studied her face, the humour draining out of his own. When he spoke, his tone was wooden. “Of course, Mrs Wickham is very distracting.” He averted his gaze, and Mary cursed herself for bringing up the subject of Lydia.

  Why does
he sound so strange? He was always flippant about her before. Could it be that his feelings have become something deeper for her? The idea swept through her like cold water dousing her entire body.

  “Are you trembling, Miss Bennet? Are you unwell?” Mr Cole had paused their stroll, and his gaze was again fixed on her.

  “I am well.” She forced herself to take a deep breath. Luckily, Sir Reginald passed by at that moment, and his hearty greeting distracted Mr Cole. The two indulged in a cheerful review of the rout, the biology lecture, and Lady Sarah’s new tiara. The camaraderie between the two puzzled Mary.

  They seemed to spit venom at each other earlier, and here they are, chatting like friends. The thought reminded her of the Wickhams and their playful squabbles as they passed through Lady Crestwood’s rout. The smaller Lucas brothers had been like that, too: bitter one moment, chums the next. Mary had never understood it. How could they let go of hurtful words so easily? How could they forget the past without effort? Or was it that they enjoyed the sparring?

  The way I enjoy sparring with Mr Cole. It was not the first time she had acknowledged that banter with Mr Cole was strangely satisfying, but now she saw it in a new perspective. Perhaps the world was not full of angry people, as she had always imagined. Perhaps most of them were just relishing a competition of words and postures. The notion drove a sour, sickly feeling into her belly, one that hinted Mary might have been dangerously, painfully wrong for more of her life than she had ever realised.

  As Sir Reginald moved off, Mr Cole returned his attention to Mary. “How is your…um…friend?”

  She could tell he meant Hannah. “I have not found a solution for her. But her situation is not obvious yet, so Mr Wickham agreed she could stay a few weeks longer. It was generous on his part.”

  “He seems a patient man.” Mr Cole looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin with his hand.

  “He is.” And you have reason to know it. Mary did not want to bring up Lydia again, though. “Have you heard anything more about your father?”

  Mr Cole winced. “He is still ill, if that is what you mean. He is not likely to get any better.”

  “If you delay going back to the estate, he may not have a chance to teach you how to run it,” Mary said, her words inching out in caution, feeling her way.

  “Believe me, I have thought of that.”

  “It would make you feel like an even less worthy squire than—”

  “I know.” His abrupt tone held no animosity, only hurt. “It must seem foolish to you. I cannot stand to be counted as the second-best brother and the second-best squire, so I hold off and stay away and will no doubt make an even worse squire than I might have been.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “You do not know what it is like, having a hundred tenants and servants stare at you and mutter that you will never be the man Thomas was. You do not know what it is like to have your father and mother sigh at your arrival, wishing a different son had lived.” His arm tensed under Mary’s fingertips. “No one should have to bear that.” His dark eyes bore into hers. “And anything that draws me towards that, anything that pushes me to settle down on a country estate and suffer ignominy—anyone who cajoles me into doing that, is my enemy.”

  She was too surprised to take offence. “Is that a threat?”

  He shook his head, his intense expression dissolving into a glum one. “I did not think you would understand. You are too much like Thomas. You angelic types cannot understand how hard it is for we mere mortals to perform a duty. You may be able to sacrifice yourself to make your sister’s life easier, but I cannot sacrifice myself for Thomas. Or for my father.”

  “I did not think you really believed me to be angelic. I have certainly given enough evidence of my faults.” Mary gave him a tentative smile, but he turned away.

  “Yes, you have faults enough.” His voice was listless as they moved through the thinning crowd. Lady Crestwood’s rout would continue for hours yet, but the more fashionable guests were moving on to other gatherings, unwilling to stay in any one place too long. Mary’s feet had room to step farther, and she kept pace with Mr Cole’s slow walk easily.

  “You mentioned my need for peace. You said it was a form of control,” she said. “Did you really believe that?”

  “Of course.”

  Her brows drew together. “I do not understand that. I only want peace because that is what is best for everyone.” But already she had begun to doubt that, noticing the little quarrels that bothered her did not seem to bother others. “At least, that is what I thought.”

  “And now?”

  She could not hide the discomfort she was feeling. “Now I am not so sure.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. Spying Lieutenant Stubbs across the room, she dropped Mr Cole’s arm and took a step away.

  Mr Cole did not protest her motion. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” She risked looking into his eyes, and the warm tenderness in them made her catch her breath.

  “For showing a little vulnerability. I always wondered what sorts of things Thomas thought about, what worried him. He never said. But when I talk with you, I feel as though I understand him better.” He had a wistful tilt to his head, as if he were remembering something long ago.

  “I am glad. Good-bye, Mr Cole.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She ambled across the room, stepping between couples without thought and meandering to the doorway. Lieutenant Stubbs and Kitty were too engrossed in talk to notice Mary at first, but she took Kitty’s arm and herded them to the carriage.

  “Must we go, already?” Lieutenant Stubbs’s voice was not sullen for once. “What about the Wickhams?”

  “We will send the carriage back for them,” Mary said. “Let us go alone, for now. I wish to speak with you.” It would not be easy to tell the Stubbses about going to the gallery, but Miss Poppit had not given her much choice. I hope they will take it better than I fear. She did not feel saintly or angelic, only tired and resigned. She wondered if Thomas Cole had felt like that as well.

  Whatever he was like, he is nothing to Richard Cole. However moral and full of integrity, he could not have had Mr Cole’s boisterous laugh, nor his muddled disregard of foolish propriety, nor his sharp intellect and instinct for science, nor his provoking smile. The more she knew of him, the more Mary liked him. Others might have idolised Thomas, but had I met him, I am sure I would still have preferred my Mr Cole. She blushed at her own thoughts. Well, he is not mine, of course. I mean only that he is the one I know. He had a charm and a value no other possessed, not even his doughty brother.

  But Mary did not know how to make him see that.

  Mary climbed the stairs of the Roarkes’ lodging house, avoiding the weak boards in the stairs with a dancing adroitness as she ascended. The maid-of-all-work gave a familiar nod at Mary as she let her inside, and soon Mary was beaming at her friend as they nestled by the window and embroidered. The April breeze looped through the window and tugged at their embroidery silks, but it was a welcome relief to the stifling warmth of the lodgings. London had not grown that hot yet, but somehow the lodging house soaked up all the stale air and made the rooms feel hotter than they ought.

  “I feel as though I have just braved two dragons,” Mary said, giggling. “Lydia wanted me to stay home to receive callers, and Kitty wanted me to go with her to Lady Crestwood’s, but I denied them both.” The memory of their disappointed faces still stung, but Mary could feel something underneath the guilt, a feeling of strength that had slept too long and was now beginning to stir. “Captain Roarke said you were too ill to come to the rout last night, and I was determined to see if you were all right.”

  Lady Lucy dropped her gaze to the neat arabesques she was sewing around the edges of a neckline. “I was not very ill.” She pushed her needle through the fabric with a slow, hesitating motion. “Did you enjoy the rout?”

  “It was hot and crowded, but I was able to play cards for a long while, and people do not expect you to
talk much when you are playing, you know.” Mary smiled in remembrance. “And Mr Cole was rather kind. He told me more about his brother.”

  “Was Lady Sarah Randall there?” Lady Lucy kept her eyes fixed on her stitches.

  “Y-yes.”

  “And my husband—he spent a great deal of time by her side?”

  Mary’s lips drew down. Part of her suggested smoothing things over, lying or making light of the captain’s behaviour, but the sleeping strength stirred again, as if it were turning over in bed. “He did. Lady Lucy, I do not mean to make trouble, but he seems overfond of Lady Sarah.”

  Lady Lucy’s hands stilled. “I know he is. You are not revealing anything I did not know, really.” She sighed. “It is understandable. She is so lovely and witty. Her father was an earl, you know.”

  Before Mary could reply, the front door was thrown open and Betsy came prancing in, stomping her feet and making whimpering noises that Mary suspected were intended to be whinnies.

  “Betsy, you must knock first.” Mrs Burton hurried in after her child, clutching a half-sewn gown to her chest and looking anxiously at Lady Lucy. “I am so sorry, Lady Lucy. Betsy ran out again, and some days the only way I can keep her indoors is to tell her she may visit you. She will be a good girl, if you but let her stay a few minutes.”

  Lady Lucy’s tired face broke into a broad smile. “Why, of course she may visit, any time she likes. Betsy, would you like a tart? I bought one especially for you.”

  “Ponies don’t eat tarts!” Betsy said, swinging about as if she had a long horse body rather than that of a tiny girl.

  “We will call it an oatcake, then, my dear. Ponies like oats, do they not?”

  Betsy nodded, and Mrs Burton threw a grateful look at her benefactor before returning to her own rooms to work. As Lady Lucy set the table and displayed the tart, Mary noticed a gleaming brooch on Betsy’s dress. It was small, but of good quality: a gold wreath with red stones studding it. Just like the one Lydia lost. Mary’s stomach soured. Or did she lose it? She could not help but review the trip to the shops with Lady Lucy, and the furtive gesture Lady Lucy seemed to make with the lace. As Betsy ate, Lady Lucy prepared tea for herself and Mary. Mary watched her friend’s deft, ladylike movements and bit her lip. I must be mistaken. She is the daughter of Lord Crestwood, not a thief. But she could feel a slow resolve begin to build as Betsy finished her treat and pranced out the door, led by the maid to ensure she did not make a detour outside. I will ask her, any way.