A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “I mean you are not open…in a feeling way.” Mary struggled to explain. “You do not show your true feelings—at least, when they are soft or make you vulnerable—you usually do not seem real—”

  “Real? But I am real every which way!”

  “Oh, I cannot make myself clear. You talk in a breezy way about things, and it makes people believe whatever you think and feel is on the surface. Why, most people assume you are a dunce, and I know that is not true. You simply talk as though you do not care about most things, and you pretend to be sillier than you are.”

  Lydia’s shoulders shrugged under her lace wrapper. “I truly do not care about a lot of things.”

  “But not everything.” Mary pressed her point. “You have a cleverness of your own—why have you not shown it to Mr Wickham? Find something in common with him, or have a child—”

  “Oh, everyone thinks that is a solution. I do not know if I ever want a child, Mary, and I know I do not want one now. Not now, when I am supposed to be a queen of fashion in all of London!” She blew out her breath. “Though it has not added up to as much as I thought. Lord, Mary, I get so dull sometimes! All I have is shopping and flirting, and it is not enough.” Her dark hair had become too stringy to bounce as she shook her head. “Somehow I thought it would be much more fun to be a rich wife.”

  Mary patted her hand and listened.

  “Mr Cole is such good fun. He took my mind off my tedious life, and I took his off his failures as a lecturer. It was such a pleasant bargain! I do not see why people did not leave us alone.”

  “Because it had gone too far—at least, in people’s minds.”

  “It is not fair. If those gossipmongers had half a brain, they would see I flirted with him so much because I could tell his heart was never at risk. And he scarcely ever knew what any of it was about! For such a smart man, he mostly seemed rather insensible to my teasing. It was safe for both of us.” The brown of her eyes had softened into black with her tears, making her gaze feel even more poignant to Mary when she said, “It is different with you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, when he is with you, Mary—he is different. His heart is in it, whether he likes it or not.” Seeing Mary’s poleaxed expression, a bit of the old Lydia resurrected. “La, Mouse! Why do you think I left you alone together so often, or flirted with him so hard? It was just fun at first, but when I saw you liked him and he liked you…Well, I knew you would never have the spunk to speak up to him without some sort of prodding, and as I liked poking ill-natured gossips in the eye any way—”

  “Lydia, you are not saying that you flirted so much with him because of me.” Mary’s breath caught.

  “No, not completely. As I say, it was good fun. And good revenge.” A mischievous smile hinted at the corners of her lips. “But I did like to play matchmaker, a little.” She leaned forward, the lace of her wrapper dangling as she moved, making Mary think of a spider’s web draping closer. “Did it work?”

  “Lydia!”

  “Only say that it worked, and that you love him and he loves you, and I will feel as though not everything is vanity and vexation. There, that is Mr Collins’s sermonising coming through. I must be more sorrowful than I thought.” Despite her words, Lydia sounded more cheerful than before, and Mary felt a tension in her chest begin to ease.

  “Well, speak to Mr Wickham before you feel too much better. Be honest with him, Lydia, and insist he be honest with you.” Mary still wondered what sort of enterprises Mr Wickham was mixed up in. Perhaps Lydia’s vulnerability would encourage his own.

  “I still do not know what you mean.” Lydia tugged at her wrapper, seeming intent on rectifying its position—too intent. Mary had to hope that meant her sister did understand, at least a little, and was embarrassed by the idea.

  “Just try. If you speak to him with your whole heart, he will not care a fig what nonsense Lieutenant Stubbs spews.”

  Lydia’s eyelids were carefully lowered. “Of course, it would help if I could tell him that Mr Cole was soon to be married…”

  Mary’s cheeks heated, and she pushed up from the chair by her sister’s bedside. “Do not talk nonsense. I must be going.”

  “It is as bad as all that, Mouse?”

  Mary paused at the door. “I do not think I am a mouse anymore, Lydia. I am sure I will always be on the quiet side, but—” She fumbled with the door handle as her thoughts churned. “I want to be able to speak up for myself and to fight for what I need.” Mr Cole’s smile warmed in her memory and she added, “And for what I want.”

  “La! A change, indeed. What shall I call you, then?”

  “Oh, nothing, I suppose. I do not need a nickname.” Mary hurried from the room, feeling inadequate and questioning just how much she had left her mouselike qualities behind. Lydia understands gentlemen. Lydia knows Mr Cole well. If she thinks he is in love with me…Perhaps his attempt to kiss Mary had not been mere flirtation. Perhaps he really did have feelings for her of an honourable nature. If I had had the courage to kiss him, I might know by now what it all meant. Her heart squeezed and turned in a giddy flip-flop. At the very least, I would have a pleasant memory and proof I am no mouse. Settling into her room and ruminating on her talks with Lady Lucy and Lydia, however, reassured her.

  Perhaps I did wrong with Lady Lucy. And perhaps I did not do much with Lydia. But they are steps—small steps. She found herself picking up her doll and stroking the puff of stuffing at her side. In a few minutes she had needle and thread prepared, and she poked her fingers into the shoulder, smoothing out the stuffing underneath. Her long, expert stitches bound up the shoulder, completing the work begun long ago. I cannot wait for you to finish her anymore, Mama. She posed the doll before her, admiring the new symmetry of the two shoulders. I can do it myself.

  “I am so pleased to have some time with you, Miss Bennet.” Miss Poppit’s white muslin gown was lit by a ray of hot May sunlight slanting into the phaeton and grazing over the folds of material, as if the sun were gesturing at the perfect, ladylike attire and recommending it to Mary. The chip straw bonnet that cupped Miss Poppit’s face fluttered with silk ribbons, their crimson stretching under her chin and around the back of the bonnet. Here in the countryside outside London, the air smelled musty with shoots of grass, floating pollen, and the moist soil after another bout of thunderstorms. Mary hoped Moseley Gorge was not too muddy; she might have advised putting off the expedition again, but too many of the arrangements for food and travelling were fixed. Even now, a long line of carriages trundled behind them, a caravan of amateur geologists eager to experience something novel.

  Mr Cole’s phaeton led the way. The scientist drove the horses himself, sitting alone on the wooden front bench heated by the sun, while Mary and Miss Poppit gossiped in the seat behind, Hercules curled at their feet. The open air breathed new life into Mary. Playful breezes swished the hair at the back of her neck, despite the pins supposed to hold her tresses. The yellow glaze of sunlight saturated the farms and fields they passed, making everything appear angelic. The bounce and sway of the phaeton kept the ladies shifting into new positions, turning their heads to catch new sights, bumping one another’s elbows with a patient friendliness.

  And Miss Poppit did seem friendlier than ever. Though Lydia complained of the woman’s pride and stiffness, Miss Poppit showed little of it to Mary, and none today. Mary supposed she did not rank as requiring the rivalry and set-downs that a belle like Lydia would, but there seemed to be more to it today. From the way Miss Poppit kept glancing behind them at a curricle bearing Lieutenant Babbingford with another gentleman driving, Mary could guess at the sudden elation of spirits.

  Though Mary had not answered, Miss Poppit took her assent as given and continued. “Though I cannot bear the countryside in general, I believe we will have a very fine outing. Lieutenant Babbingford tells me we may expect great samples of pumice at the site.”

  Mary was annoyed enough to respond. “Lieutenant Babbingford
knows nothing about it. There will be no pumice, Miss Poppit. I am afraid your friend is no expert in geology.” Despite his disinterest, she was not surprised he had insisted on joining them. Whole crowds of people who had showed little interest in the shiftings of the earth beforehand now clamoured for the right to be of the party to Moseley Gorge. It was not surprising that the Stubbses were rolling in the caravan, making use of the Wickham carriage, since business had confined Mr Wickham to London and Lydia remained with him. Lady Crestwood, Mrs Appleton, and the other steadfast members of the Informed Ladies of course came, but more surprising were the league of brothers, sisters, friends, and acquaintances that rallied to the expedition when it became clear it would make a lovely holiday. Even the Darcys, who had finally completed their travels and were on their way back to Pemberley, joined them. Lieutenant Babbingford was an unimportant addition compared to the Darcys of Derbyshire, especially since Lizzy and Mr Darcy showed genuine interest in the knowledge to be gained, while Miss Poppit’s beau mainly shot smiles from the curricle behind them like Cupid’s arrows.

  The arrows certainly did not go astray of Miss Poppit. “Well, Lieutenant Babbingford has other talents,” she said, giving a demure nod back at him. “I so admire a strong gentleman, one of courage and honour. Soldiers are so often unruly and degenerate, but this one has preserved all his dignity in the profession.”

  “Um, yes.” Mary turned her head towards a tumbled-down fence to hide her smile. The phaeton wheels scratched up dried mud, flicking it in several directions, but even that looked festive this morning. A sense of celebration throbbed within Mary. It was not just that she was confident she and Mr Cole would persuade Lady Crestwood to give the annual Informed Ladies’ lecture to him. It was not just that Miss Poppit seemed uncommonly amiable and happy.

  It was her placement, riding in Mr Cole’s own phaeton. I got what I wanted. The recognition still buzzed within her, a dawning awareness of possibilities she had hitherto dismissed. Lieutenant Stubbs had looked scandalised at the mere suggestion of Mary riding there, however well accompanied by Miss Poppit, and Mr Wickham had shaken his head with discomfort when he heard Mary’s intention. But Mary had insisted, and the two men had dropped their objections surprisingly quickly. I always thought Lydia got her own way so often because she was beautiful. Mary examined her fingers, curling them into a fist. But perhaps a great deal of it was simple firmness. Whatever the exact reason, Mary found her resolutions carried more weight than she thought possible. The idea delighted her.

  Miss Poppit regaled Mary with elegant conversation—emphasising books, music, and art—but whether the young lady thought such matters would please Mary or whether she was more interested in proving her degree of culture, Mary could not tell. She found herself wishing for Lady Lucy’s inane, yet peaceful, chatter or a solid discussion of science with Mr Cole. Still, she could not help but appreciate Miss Poppit’s efforts, and she divided her attention between nodding at her companion, enjoying the pastoral scenes around them, and straightening her pale blue muslin when the wind tugged at her gown.

  The caravan proceeded through the little village of Evans, which bordered Moseley Gorge and from which some of their supplies had been acquired. As the phaeton creaked its way down the main street, Mary caught sight of an itinerant preacher waving his arms in front of a crowd, his drab, battered coat blown half-open by the breeze, his words carrying on the wind. Her heart stilled.

  It is Harry Lucas. No one knew exactly where Harry had wound up; his rambles from one Methodist community to another seemed almost designed to elude pursuit, though Sir William certainly had no interest in finding him. But there he was and only a few minutes’ walk from the site of the expedition. The raucous exhortation emanating from the man made Mary think more of rooks cawing than a sermon, but from the way the bodies pressed around him shifted and leaned, the lower class of Evans found it intriguing. What shall I do?

  She could pretend she had not seen him and let the matter drop. Mary doubted Harry had paid any attention to the caravan passing by in the middle of his sermon, and even if he had, it was doubtful he recognised Mary in such a brief glimpse. If she had not known his voice so well, she might have doubted it was her old friend in the crowd. But though she pondered the idea of avoiding him, deep down, Mary knew she had already chosen. She owed him an apology, and this might be her only chance to deliver it.

  The phaeton rolled on to Moseley Gorge, which proved to be more of a shallow trench than the stately alpine vista Mary had envisioned. When they came to a stop, Mary clambered down, barely aware of Mr Cole’s offer of assistance and Hercules’s exploratory barks as he roamed the trench. She kept glancing in the direction of Evans, wondering how to slip away unnoticed. If Kitty knew Harry was there, she would forbid Mary to have anything to do with him, worried that it might offend Sir William. And I need to see him.

  “I have a surprise for you later, Miss Bennet.” Mr Cole’s solidity threw a shadow over Mary, blocking out the spring sun, and Mary could not read his face. In his expedition gear, he looked more like a blacksmith than ever. Instead of his usual superfine coat and fawn breeches, he wore a loose, shabby coat with pockets for tools and plain trousers. His boots were not his usual shining black ones, but a pair of dirty topboots. Though he did not look elegant, he moved with a casual strength that showed his comfort with scrabbling in the rocks. “You are fond of surprises, I hope.”

  “Of course.” She realised her tone was absent as she mulled over how to see Harry, and she struggled to refocus. Mr Cole still needed her help. “Here is Lady Crestwood’s carriage. Shall we give her a proper welcome?” She led the way, Mr Cole hanging back, Hercules darting around her legs. The hound jostled into Lady Crestwood’s two pugs as they descended from the carriage, and the three dogs began an introduction of sniffing and spinning.

  “I cannot say your dog has any breeding, Mr Cole, but I like a man who is not afraid to bring one to a suitable occasion.” Lady Crestwood beamed at him, though Mary suppressed a giggle at her ‘suitable occasion’. From what she could tell, every occasion was suitable for canine accompaniment, according to Lady Crestwood.

  “Hercules is the rejected member of a pack. I fear he has no earthly notion how to hunt, nor guard, nor do anything, really. But I love him just the same for all that.” Mr Cole’s cheerful rejoinder was offered at the same time as his arm, and he helped Lady Crestwood manoeuvre her thick, voluptuous form down from the carriage.

  “Not all dogs are gifted.” Lady Crestwood’s proud smile showered appreciation on her own dogs as they waddled in Hercules’s wake.

  Mr Cole peered into the carriage. “Are not the Roarkes here? I thought they were coming.”

  The smile vanished. “My daughter and her husband are preparing to relocate to the Continent.” Lady Crestwood’s lips drew tight, almost as if she were bracing herself, and Mary cringed.

  “What a pity! I hope they will be able to visit often.” Mr Cole noticed the lady’s discomfort, but as he could assign no reason for it, he stumbled on. “I know you will miss them.”

  “Not as much as you might believe.” The harshness in her voice seemed intended to forbid the subject, and Mr Cole gave a quick bow and left them, moving to a table set up near the shallow gorge and fumbling with the tools on it. Other carriages were arriving, dispensing their passengers in a flurry of twisted gowns and excited voices, but for the moment, Mary and Lady Crestwood were alone.

  “I hope you will try to make things up with Lady Lucy, Lady Crestwood,” Mary said. She could not look the noblewoman in the face, but she pushed herself to speak plainly. “It was my fault things came to a head as they did. I pressed her to tell you about her—difficulties—and though she hated me for it, she did so. I have tried to make things up with her myself, before she goes, and although she is still angry, she forgave me.” Mary smoothed down the front of her gown. “She loves you dearly. It would hurt her a great deal, to leave without—”

  “She need not leave
at all.” Lady Crestwood’s tone was cold, but wrinkles gathering at the corners of her eyes suggested suppressed tears. “I do not see why she clings to such an abominable gentleman.”

  “I do not understand it myself.” Mary sighed. “It is hard to let a daughter do as she pleases, I am sure, especially when it seems she is doing something…unwise.” She ducked her head. “I should probably never have pushed her to speak.”

  “Why, no, Miss Bennet! That was quite proper. As her parents, we had a right to know.” Lady Crestwood gave the comment the full weight of her authority, which had always been considerable. “As it happens, my Lucy is choosing to make a fool of herself. And now—” Lady Crestwood’s gaze swept over Miss Poppit, who was selecting a trowel and a digging knife with Lieutenant Babbingford.

  “Lieutenant Babbingford has his faults, Lady Crestwood, but he is not like the captain,” Mary said. “He will never ignore or mistreat Miss Poppit. And if I may say so, Miss Poppit is not like Lady Lucy. She will always have a vigorous sense of her rights, and will defend them.” Mary could not help a crooked smile at the thought. “It is not the same.”

  Lady Crestwood only sighed instead of answering, but that more than anything signalled hope for Lieutenant Babbingford’s marriage. Mary began ambling toward the table, leading Lady Crestwood and recommending particular tools with an officious sweetness well-designed to soothe an offended lady. And when Lady Crestwood recovered her spirits and launched into an extremely decisive—and extremely incorrect—recitation of what events formed Moseley Gorge and its striations, Mary listened and nodded with her best mouselike air. In less time than she would have expected, Lady Crestwood was immersed in activity and lauding Mr Cole’s genius in organising such an event.

  I suppose my time being a mouse served more purpose than I thought. Mary could not deny some of the skills she had acquired in a life of self-denial were useful. So long as she applied them wisely, they might do her a great deal of good still. But I must never slip altogether into that old role. Even as she flattered Lady Crestwood and disarmed a dispute between two other ladies by offering one of them her own trowel, Mary kept in mind her own goal for the day.