A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “Betsy is a sweet child,” Mary said, feeling her way. “You must like her very much. It seems as though you give her many gifts.”

  Lady Lucy sat down next to Mary and picked up her embroidery. “Noblesse oblige, Miss Bennet. And little girls like presents, pretty things and treats their mothers cannot buy them.”

  “You gave her that brooch, did you not?”

  “Yes.” Lady Lucy’s lower lip trembled a moment, but she soon pressed on. “Betsy’s mother almost refused to accept it, but I made her see sense.”

  I doubt it. She had sense on her side. Betsy’s mother had probably seen the foolishness of giving a small child such a gift in such a neighbourhood, but had backed down when threatened with losing Lady Lucy’s favour. Mary phrased her next words with care.

  “My sister had a brooch very like it, but now she cannot find it. Did you happen to see it, the day you visited me? We went to Lydia’s room to find the bracelet for my doll. You remember.” When Lady Lucy did not answer, Mary pressed her, though a pang of sympathy went through her at the necessity of it. “And the day we went shopping together—there was a card of lace you seemed quite interested in.” Mary paused as her friend lowered her head into her hands. “Will you not confide in me, Lady Lucy?”

  “I—I took them. Both. And other things.” The words began to flood out. “You do not know what it is like. We have so little compared to what I am accustomed to. I used to be able to buy any little pretty things I liked. Papa and Mama did not care. But now—” She suddenly shifted topics, as if her mind struggled to convey it all at once. “It gets so lonely here, with the captain away so much. No one visits but you. But Betsy is so lively and pleasing. She would not want to come very often, perhaps, if I did not give her nice things. And I owe it to her—she is far below my rank, and I must do something for those beneath me.”

  “Keeping an eye on Betsy while her mother is working is generous enough.”

  Lady Lucy shook her head with impatience. “That is the sort of thing a commoner would do. A friend of Mrs Burton’s rank could offer that alone, but the daughter of Lord Crestwood has a distinction to maintain.” Her eyes watered. “The captain says our finances are quite straitened and he cannot give me much money for the household. So sometimes I—take things—just to ensure I have something special for Betsy, or something I can sell.” Her cheeks reddened as tears began to slip down them. “I know other ladies bear their decline in position with resignation, but I refused to let it all go. I turned into…a thief.”

  Mary stretched out to take the noblewoman’s hand. “It is not entirely your fault, Lady Lucy. The captain is partly to blame as well.”

  “He courts other ladies, and gambles a great deal, and speculates, and spends our money on himself. I know it. I tried to pretend I did not know it, but I did. Oh, Miss Bennet! If you had known him while he was courting me, you would have seen how devoted he was, how kind. They were the happiest days of my life. He has gone a little astray, but I love him still.” Her shoulders straightened in defiance. “Now that I have stolen, I am no better than he is.” She rose and walked to the table, shifting the plate with the remains of Betsy’s tart. “We are quite a pair. I can never reproach him now.” There was an odd note of triumph in her voice, as if some small part of her was relieved.

  “It is not much of a solution, to stoop to his level.” The words sounded cruel to Mary, but she uttered them nonetheless.

  Lady Lucy fished out a handkerchief and wiped at her tears. “Maybe we are fit for each other. Maybe all this is as it is meant to be.” She drew a deep breath. “I can bear his fondness for Lady Sarah, but what are we to do for money? I said nothing when he took the pearls from my jewellery box and gambled them away. I did not reproach him when he wanted to exchange my wedding ring for a less expensive one—to pay our debts, he said. But we must have something to live on and some sort of comforts, and he gives me so little to spend.” Her chest hitched. “Perhaps I am not supposed to have a baby because I would be even more tempted to—take things—if I had one.”

  “Do not say that.” The sight of Lady Lucy’s despondency drove Mary’s thoughts into a mire of regret. All this time, I told myself I was protecting her peace of mind by keeping silent. And now it seems she was suffering all the while. If I had pressed her to confide sooner, perhaps she would not have taken the brooch. Perhaps we could have done something to mend matters sooner. She rose and stroked Lady Lucy’s shoulder. “Things can yet turn out right. If you stand up to your husband and insist on keeping more of the money your parents settled on you in your hands—”

  “I could never do that. He would be so disappointed and angry!”

  “Let him be angry.” Mary could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth. “It will make your life better, Lady Lucy.” The image of Captain Roarke’s self-assured, handsome face passed through her mind, and she found herself sharing Lady Lucy’s doubts. I do not know that I could stand up to him, either. And I am not in love with him. “If you have not the courage, let us ask your parents for help. They will take measures to secure your comfort if you tell them what has been happening.”

  “Oh, no.” Lady Lucy shook her head again, this time with an emphasis that showed determination within her distress. “I will get the brooch from Betsy and return it to you, and I will find some way to pay for the lace if I must, but I will not tell Mama what I have done. Nor Papa. They would be so ashamed, and my husband would feel so insulted at my relying on them!” She grasped Mary’s hands. “Promise me you will not tell anyone, Miss Bennet. It would kill me to have my…bad behaviour…known.”

  Mary drew back. “I think nothing will change until you do something, and the best way is to let your parents know—”

  “I cannot! Please, are my troubles not grievous enough already? Do not let me fear the betrayal of a confidence on top of everything.” Lady Lucy’s grip on her hands squeezed tighter. “I did think we were friends, Miss Bennet.”

  Mary avoided her gaze, but that meant glancing over the stained tablecloth, the thin curtains, the grimy floors, and the last-Season gown her friend had been trying to embroider into a semblance of newness. She remembered, too, the pang of Miss Poppit’s betrayal of a confidence. The strength in her drowsed and then fell deep asleep. “I promise, then.”

  Lady Lucy forgot her pride enough to throw her arms around Mary and give her a fervent hug. “Thank you! I will get the brooch back the next time I see Betsy, and I will give it to you on your next visit. And I will put right the other things I took, somehow.” She gave Mary a little push, as if eager to put distance between them before Mary could ask any more awkward questions. “Come and visit again in a few days, and you will see, things will be better.”

  What will be better? Annoyance stabbed through Mary, but she packed up her embroidery and retrieved her reticule. The underlying problem yet remains. She allowed Lady Lucy to usher her out the door, however, and tread downstairs with a thoughtful air. What I thought was Lady Lucy’s peace appears to have been—stagnation, or resignation, or something. She has sacrificed so much to keep a show of peace, but it did not secure her happiness. I feel sure nothing will change for the better until she speaks up. But Mary could not deny her friend a promise of silence, even when she knew speaking up for Lady Lucy was vital. It was understandable that Lady Lucy would fear standing up to her husband and revealing a painful secret to her parents. But what excuse did Mary have?

  Who is the real coward here?

  “It would be exactly the sort of particular attention that I would expect from a gracious wife,” Mr Wickham was saying to Lydia as Mary entered the breakfast parlour. Several days had passed since her visit to Lady Lucy, and Mary had spent them mostly at home, trying to entertain a sister full of ennui. Lydia had stayed away from her usual haunts of society meetings and shops, and the change paled her face and gave a petulant pout to her mouth.

  “And I would do it with all my heart if I but had it, Mr Wickham!” Lydia tos
sed her head, and Lieutenant Stubbs watched her with a solemn disdain.

  “Do what? Had what?” Mary asked, lingering in the doorway. She was not sure she wanted to sit down to breakfast if there was going to be a row.

  Lydia turned to her, her expression full of consternation and misery. “The Forsters are in London and are coming to dine tonight. Wickham says they have been very kind to us, given the unusual way we married. General Forster was quite put out when I left them in Brighton, but he got over that.” Lydia never seemed to feel shame about their elopement; the most she would do was describe it as ‘unusual,’ however many lectures she was given. “They welcomed us back into their circle—after we became rich, any way. Wickham wants me to wear the brooch Mrs Forster gave me, but I cannot find it anywhere.”

  Mary’s heart stilled. “The gold wreath? The one you told me about at Lady Crestwood’s rout?”

  “Yes, that one.” Lydia turned back to her husband. “Surely Mrs Forster will understand that it is lost.”

  “Is it lost?” Mr Wickham question was pointed, and Mary winced.

  But Lydia merely blinked uncertainly. “Do you mean one of the servants might have taken it? I am sure Addleby did not. She is quite loyal, and the brooch really very paltry compared to my other things.”

  “Paltry!” Mr Wickham compressed his lips and shoved back from his seat at the table. He paced back and forth one full length before he spoke. “You never will understand the value of things.” He paced again. “Their means are not as great as ours, Mrs Wickham. I assure you, coming from the Forsters, that was a significant gift.”

  “You must not be rude, Lydia,” Kitty said, her brow furrowing.

  “Oh, I did not mean that. La!” Lydia pulled her hands to her lap, abandoning her toast. For once she looked chagrined. “Addleby will look again. Perhaps it dropped behind something. We will search the whole house, if you like. If any of the servants took it, I daresay we shall find it again.”

  “If the person who took it carried it off to sell or pawn, you will not find it.” Mr Wickham’s eyes narrowed, and though Lydia seemed unable to understand his suggestion, Mary caught it. A sinking feeling went through her core.

  “Well, perhaps they have not taken it there yet,” Lydia said. “They would not get much for it, any way.”

  The careless remark stung Mr Wickham, making his handsome face redden and his tongue loosen. “It would not pay for your trinkets and gowns, certainly. If you took it to the captain to sell for some bills you ran up—”

  “Why, what an idea!” Lydia’s eyes widened.

  “You did it before.”

  “She did what?” Lieutenant Stubbs leapt up from the table, knocking over his cup. “Which captain?”

  “Captain Roarke.” Mr Wickham folded his arms over his chest.

  “Yes, I did that, but it was long ago—ages ago. And you accuse me of this, Mr Wickham, after I told you about it and everything!” Lydia rose from the table as well, but her ordinary grace had turned into a wobble.

  “Who would believe you, Lydia?” Lieutenant Stubbs asked, shaking his head. “You do everything you can to create scandal and secrets.”

  “Addleby and I will search everywhere, and we will find it, and you will be sorry for what you have said!” She rushed from the room, but Lieutenant Stubbs followed her with a grim set to his jaw.

  Mr Wickham turned to go, but Mary stepped forward. “Mr Wickham, I can explain about the brooch.”

  “Can you?” His grimace did not encourage her.

  “A person took it.” She flushed, realising how ineffective her explanation sounded. “I cannot say who, or why, but I can get it back again if you let me have the carriage.”

  “You cannot say who? How convenient.” Mr Wickham was normally the soul of politeness to Mary, and she blanched at his mocking tone. He said, “No doubt your loyalty to your sister prompts you—”

  “No! No, Mr Wickham, it was not Lydia. Truly. It was someone else who took it, but she wants to return it. I will just go and fetch it from her.” Mary had to hope he would not ask the carriage driver where Mary went; if he learned she had gone to the Roarkes, it would either reveal Lady Lucy’s secret, or convince him Lydia had sold it to Captain Roarke.

  “I need the carriage myself, but you can go in a hack.” His expression still held suspicion. “Take Addleby with you, if you like.”

  “I will bring Hannah instead.” She was sure Hannah would not reveal where they went.

  “The maid with child?” Mr Wickham’s frown was monstrous, as if the fires of jealousy and distrust had finally lit within him, only to explode into a bonfire. “She goes, this very day. I will not allow my reputation to be jeopardised by her presence any longer. At this stage, I need respectability to keep hold of that which others invest—” He broke off in confusion, and suddenly smoothed his face. “Not that I hold much, of course. I really care for respectability because it is the moral thing, is it not, Mary?”

  Mary tried to ground herself, but she found his shifts in the conversation perplexing. “It is very moral, of course. But so is compassion. I had hoped for more time to help Hannah—”

  “You have had weeks upon weeks. I cannot help it if you are not competent in dealing with such matters. No lady would be.” He passed by, and Mary watched him go with a building distress. Hannah would be devastated; she had been counting on Mary to find a solution. And now the best I can do is the London charity the vicar mentioned. The maid would be humiliated, but at least she would not be out on the street.

  After breaking the news to Hannah, taking Addleby to Lady Lucy’s, retrieving the brooch, and restoring it to Mr Wickham, Mary felt herself drained and hopeless. Mr Wickham seemed somewhat mollified by the reappearance of the jewellery, though he still held his body taut, as if on guard. Let us hope Addleby keeps her mouth shut. If he discovers I went to the Roarkes’ to get it, I do not know what would happen. I should have insisted on getting the brooch from Betsy at once. I should have confronted Lady Lucy about the lace long ago. Perhaps none of this would have happened. Passing by Lydia’s room did nothing to cheer her; she could hear Lydia crying through the shut door. Mary had seen her sister cry before, of course. Often it happened when a gentleman was near and Lydia had not gotten her way, and her tears made her brown eyes round and lustrous. From the way sobs hitched beyond the door, Lydia’s eyes were not likely round and lustrous now. Probably squished and red, like mine are when I cry. She felt sympathy for Lydia, but her sister refused her admittance, and Mary had to go to her own room in dejection.

  Her doll waited on the vanity, posed for a cheerful outing. Mary picked her up and hugged her. “I just need to make things peaceful again,” she told the doll, but doubts slid around the perimeter of her mind. She had feared having a conflict with her best friend, and the result was refusing to ask Lady Lucy about problems and then keeping a promise of silence that caused the Wickhams unrest. Her attempts at keeping peace had only made things worse.

  “Perhaps it is not working quite the way I wanted,” she said, propping the doll back up again. The tufts of stuffing were hanging further out of the gap in the shoulder, and Mary pushed them back in. “But I must keep trying. What else is there to do?”

  The doll had no answers for her.

  A grumble of thunder shook the windows of Lydia’s drawing room, but Mary ignored it. Normally April thunderstorms would make her shake with fear, but no feat of wind or torrent seemed formidable next to Lieutenant Stubbs. He was grumbling into his teacup, his long, uniformed legs stretched out as if he were resting on a rampart rather than in a drawing room. He only looked up long enough to throw glares at Mary.

  It is a disagreeable plan, but it is the best plan we have. While the Wickhams were out, Mary had been explaining Lizzy’s idea that Mary should capture Mr Cole’s attention to the Stubbses. Kitty took the idea in with wide eyes and giggles, while the lieutenant’s brows drew lower and lower. “Pressing Lydia does not help anything. It only makes her u
pset, and then she acts more foolishly,” Mary said, hoping the reminder would serve to deter Lieutenant Stubbs from making her upset as well.

  “Fighting scandal with scandal? It cannot work any better than putting a fire out with fresh tinder.” Kitty’s husband moved his legs in restless agitation. It was clear he wished the solution could be something active on his part—an embankment to dash up, an enemy to skewer with a bayonet.

  Mary stirred in her seat, catching a little of his restlessness. “Lizzy thinks this will work. She has more cleverness than all of us.”

  “You ought to let me do it,” Kitty said, fielding her husband’s annoyed look with a swift turn. “I would be more interesting for him. It is not as though you are accustomed to charming men, Mary.”

  Mary felt a stab of jealousy at Kitty’s suggestion. It was unreasonable, given how much she had dreaded trying to flirt with Mr Cole. It is just that once I have begun a task, I intend to finish it. That is all. “No, Kitty. You do not know him, and Lydia has been competing with you all her life. If she saw you take an interest in him, she would pursue him all the more. She finds my efforts to attract him—amusing. Not threatening.” Mary realised she was using Lizzy’s arguments, posed against her all those months ago. Kitty was only phrasing the doubts and suggestions Mary herself had had.

  “It seems a fool idea.” Lieutenant Stubbs was far from convinced, but he agreed that Mary might as well try. Though he did not have the distaste for a duel that Mary had, he had no desire to take life needlessly, either. “I suppose Kitty had better chaperon you to Maddox’s, and then disappear at a convenient moment.” His brows furrowed further. “If you are sure you are safe with him.” The iron in his voice warned he would not stay his hand if Mary were harmed.