A Learned Romance

by Elizabeth Rasche

  Lydia clapped her hands. “A fine joke! I could rescue him. But I do not think he will ever need that, and how could I keep money in my pocket so long without spending it?” Lydia shook her head.

  “Perhaps if you had a trustworthy friend you could give it to—or a reliable maid—” Mary floundered, trying to find a solution, but in the end she shrugged. “I do not know.” Though she disliked giving up, she did not see how she could help Lydia. Or Lady Lucy. They will be so far away, and each devoted to a husband who will not guide her very wisely.

  “Oh! Look at that fellow in the street.” Lydia peered out the carriage window. “I do believe it’s Mr Covington. I will have to get him to dance with me now that Mr Cole is gone to Longbourn.” She saw the disapproval flicker across Mary’s face. “Oh, I shall be respectable enough, Mary; don’t look at me so.” She giggled. “Wickham does not expect me a saint, you know.”

  “I suppose not.” Mr Wickham’s jealousy had seemed only to flare when Mr Cole’s name had been paired with his wife’s for a perilously long time, and it had affected his respectability enough to mar his financial concerns. Now that Lydia’s husband could be sure Mr Cole was no longer a threat, it was likely he would return to an amused appreciation of her lesser frolics.

  “Life is the most lovely thing, is it not, Mary? You shall marry Mr Cole—and Lieutenant Babbingford shall marry Miss Poppit. What a coup! She will be ground into the dust, socially speaking, and all for love.”

  “I do not think it will be as bad as all that.”

  “No, indeed, she is probably already crowing about the Crestwood family’s influence in military circles. No doubt she intends Lord Crestwood to prop him up into something better than a lieutenant. That is probably why she is not coming to the opera tonight; she is off writing to somebody influential. But even if she does not, Lieutenant Babbingford shall be very well off. The husband of Emily Poppit will always be important. She will make him so, if he is not impressive enough himself.” Lydia arranged the rubies at her throat with a delicate touch, which the jolting of the carriage soon made useless. “Horrid carriage! Horrid roads! Will we ever arrive at the opera? All the characters will be corpses by the time we arrive, and I like to hear them sing before they get to their death scenes. It is much more cheerful than walking in to a lot of greasy men bewailing their fates on the floor.”

  Her wish was granted; the carriage pulled up to the front of the opera house, allowing Mary and Lydia to emerge into the musty spring air. Mr Wickham, who had come in a hack from the City, met them on the steps with an unusually affectionate smile for Lydia that made Mary wish Mr Cole could greet her in the same fashion. But he is miles and miles away. Indeed, perhaps it was better as it was—Lady Crestwood’s estimation of him seemed to vacillate, and they were to join her in her box this evening, along with Lord Crestwood and Lady Lucy.

  Lady Lucy’s pallor grew red roses when she saw Mary, but she greeted Mary with politeness enough to show she intended to make things up with everyone before she sailed to the Continent with Captain Roarke. The fact that she was appearing in her parents’ box was a surprise to those who had heard of the captain’s sudden need to leave the country. Mary was glad to see her, though. I am sure she would regret not reconciling with them if she moved to the Continent without doing so.

  The opera’s music swelled with a surge of violins and harp, and a ruddy young man with a solid build burst into a song of love. Lydia sighed with relief as she settled into her seat, tucking her emerald silk safely away from the legs of the other chairs. “No one dead yet,” she whispered to Mary. The clinging scent of bodies distracted Mary from answering, and she sat down next to Lady Lucy in silence. Though Lady Crestwood chatted with her husband over the music, Lady Lucy said nothing, and Mary was reminded of the first day they met, long ago at Lady Crestwood’s ball.

  Have I destroyed our friendship forever? It seemed likely. Mary was not intending to go to the Continent anytime soon, nor would Captain Roarke be free to return to England until he could somehow pay his debts. Mary still did not know if she had done right to threaten Lady Lucy with breaking her confidence. Lady Lucy was convinced it was a blackguardly act, while Lady Crestwood thought it the heights of pure-mindedness. Perhaps, for once, the point was not to do the saintly thing, but rather to do what I felt I needed for myself. Whether right or wrong from a moral point of view, Mary felt sure it had done her good as a person.

  The love song soared into a finale, and the act ended with a dramatic fall of curtain, giving the audience a moment to stir from their seats if they chose. Several gentlemen and ladies shifted in their seats, lifting lorgnettes to survey the crowd for acquaintances. Lady Crestwood’s enamelled lorgnette showed her something that made her start with surprise.

  “What is it, Mama?” Lady Lucy asked, her curiosity prompting her to peer over the wall of the box to the woman her mother was watching. Mary leaned forward as well. The woman was a stranger, a blowsy brunette wearing a green gown that looked like a cheaper homage to Lydia’s. A glitter of gold and emerald hung about her neck.

  “Impossible!” Lady Crestwood rose from her seat, snapping down her lorgnette on her husband’s arm to get his attention. “My lord! My emeralds—the Crestwood emeralds—are on the neck of that trollop!”

  “You must be mistaken.” Lord Crestwood took a look, and his brow furrowed. “It cannot be…”

  “What woman?” Lady Lucy’s voice escaped in a gasp, breathy and weak. “That awful woman? That common strumpet?” Her tone held some emotion unidentifiable by Mary, as if she were moved in some way.

  “I shall have her dragged out for the Bow Street Runners!” Lady Crestwood’s air of authority dashed any hope of restraint. She swam out of the box, her skirts rustling as if they bristled with her rage, and Lord Crestwood hurried after her, whether to second her or merely to watch, Mary did not know.

  “That is Captain Roarke next to her!” Lydia said, glancing at Lady Lucy. “I believe she is Mrs White—the, um…” She did not finish, but Lady Lucy supplied a term.

  “The harlot.” The young noblewoman’s face was suffused with red, as if blood were trying to pour out of her. The resentment that tormented her unbridled her tongue. “Apparently that is the sort of woman my husband favours these days.” Her hands clenched on her lap. “That is no lady. That is no gem of nobility like Lady Sarah.”

  “But I do not understand. Does she really have Lady Crestwood’s emeralds? And why?” Lydia tilted her head.

  Mary felt dread roiling in her belly. From the light of fear and rage in Lady Lucy’s eyes, Mary suspected her friend was pushed to a new state of distress. Lady Crestwood’s voice thundered from below the opera box, condemning Mrs White as a thief for all to hear. The captain’s tenor defended the woman, but half-heartedly. He kept throwing glances up at the Crestwood box, where Lady Lucy sat tight-lipped and, to his view, impassive.

  “He is no thief, is he, Lady Lucy? At least, not the way your mother thinks.” Mary stretched out to touch her hand, but Lady Lucy jerked it away.

  “I took them that day we went to my parents’ house,” she said, curtness slicing the words, as if she could not bear to give a full explanation. The drama of her parents confronting the paramour of her husband unfolded beneath them, attracting more and more of the audience’s attention.

  “When you visited your father in his study,” Mary said.

  “Yes. He had the safe open for some papers he was organising, and he barely knew I was there. They all barely know I am there.” Her resentment stung Mary even though it was not directed at her.

  “But I thought you gave everything you stole back!”

  “I did not steal them! They are mine. Mama always said they would be mine.” Lady Lucy swallowed hard, fear overwhelming her anger for a moment. The rage soon reasserted pre-eminence, however. “What does it matter when I use them, if they are to be mine in the end? I need them now. I intended to sell them, to pay some of our debts before we go and leave a
little besides for Betsy.”

  Lydia hung over Lady Lucy’s shoulder while Mr Wickham coughed and drew back, uncertain what the proper response would be. “But then how did Mrs White get them?” Lydia asked.

  “Is it not obvious?” The bitterness in Lady Lucy’s tone shamed them all. “My husband took them from my jewellery box and gave them to his sweetheart.”

  Mary could hear the captain’s voice carrying over the increasing murmur of the crowd. “I cannot explain how these emeralds came to be here, but Mrs White is not at fault. She is innocent of any theft,” he said. Casting another glance at Lady Lucy, his resolve seemed to strengthen. “I am not at liberty to explain, but I assure you that it is all a misunderstanding.”

  He is shielding Lady Lucy. Mary was almost disappointed at his valiant effort; she wanted to believe the man was entirely a villain, entirely wrong. No doubt it would have been shameful to him to admit in public that he had given what he thought were his wife’s jewels to his mistress, but Mary did not think that was his sole motivation. Even though he knew his wife must have taken the emeralds, he would not defame her in public. I rather think he would confess to taking the emeralds himself rather than expose her. There is more of a gentleman in him than I thought.

  Mrs White’s strident voice joined the fray, appealing to the crowds thickening around them in a way that showed she did not dislike all the attention, however much she might dislike being taken up for theft. “I am innocent! These emeralds were given me by a—friend,” she simpered.

  “The setting is quite distinct! It is the Crestwood family emeralds, which has been passed from parent to child for decades and now is wrapped about the neck of a”—Lady Crestwood drew a deep breath—“whatever you are, madam.”

  In the opera box, Mary and Lady Lucy stared at the scene. “The Bow Street Runners will be here soon, Lady Lucy. You must speak up,” Mary said. Though Lady Lucy moved her hand again, Mary succeeded in grasping it. “They will arrest that woman or your husband if you do not. Tell your parents what has happened. Or simply tell them you borrowed the jewels and then loaned them to Mrs White. You can end this.”

  “Why should I?” Lady Lucy breathed hard. For once, her shoulders were straight, her chest full with inhalation, the muscles of her arms contracted, her chin lifted with authority. For once, she was the image of her mother, power incarnate. “Let them put him in prison. Let them put her there. What do I care?”

  “Oh, Lady Lucy!” Lydia was scandalised.

  “I would have stood for anything, so long as he remembered his place. But a woman like that! She is not even a lady.” The scorn suffocating her words reddened her face further, and Lady Lucy folded her arms over her chest. “I will have nothing to do with it.”

  “Then I must.” Mary stood, her motions slow as she walked to the door, wishing for some better alternative to arise. But I was part of this from the beginning. If I had spoken to Lady Lucy the moment I saw the lace, perhaps none of this would have happened. As she passed out of the box and down the hallways, seeking the entry to the lower part of the opera house, her pace quickened. Lady Crestwood knows that I already know about her daughter’s…problem. She will listen to me. Much as she did not like the look of Mrs White and much as she despised the captain, they did not deserve to be arrested for Lady Lucy’s fault. She sighed. I suppose ‘Family Fracas at the Opera’ is a more bearable headline than ‘Family Fracas Puts Son-in-Law and Mistress in Jail.’ That is the best we can hope for, now.

  Approaching Lady Crestwood through the crowd of jeering, yet entertained, opera-goers took more courage than Mary had expected, but she elbowed her way to the matron and seized her arm to get her attention. “Lady Crestwood, I must speak to you in private.”

  “I am busy, as you see.” Lady Crestwood shook off Mary’s hand.

  “It is about Lady Lucy. It is about Lady Lucy’s problem. You see, she thought you would let her borrow the emeralds for a time.” Mary spoke with earnestness, feeling it was necessary to emphasise her words in order to convince Lady Crestwood, but from the mother’s frightened glance Mary saw that the idea had already occurred to her.

  “This has nothing to do with her,” the noblewoman said, her tone insistent, but new wrinkles sagging at her eyes.

  “It does.” Mary’s voice was small, still timid under the weight of shouts and laughter rolling all around her, but she knew the firmness in it would affect the mother. “Let them save face and walk away with the emeralds now. The captain will get them back and return them to you later. Will you, Captain?”

  He nodded, his eyes darting back to Lady Crestwood.

  “No. I will have them off her neck this instant.” Lady Crestwood insisted on uncoiling the necklace from Mrs White’s throat, and from the disappointment flashing across the mistress’s face, Mary had to agree that perhaps Lady Crestwood’s demand was wise. When she had secured the necklace, the noblewoman turned to the group of onlookers with a queenly air. “There is nothing more to see here. I am sure a better drama will unfold onstage.”

  Few women could have induced such a crowd to return to their seats and wait for the curtain to rise, but Lady Crestwood’s demeanour showed she had every expectation of obedience, and she received it. Her bold stride led Mary back up to the opera box to retrieve their belongings, and then the entire party sailed out, Lady Lucy stalking with as firm a step as her mother as she approached the Crestwood carriage. Apparently the young lady had no intention of going home to her lodgings, and her mother accepted her company without a word.

  “Heavens!” Lydia gasped as she settled into her own carriage, Mr Wickham ensconced beside her while Mary sat on the opposite side. “That was the most exciting night at the opera I have ever had! Did you see Lady Lucy’s face? She will not return to the captain after that, I vow.”

  “She might have lied to save Lady Sarah, but she refused to lift a finger for Mrs White.” Mary shook her head.

  “Well, I would not have lied to save either. Mind that, Mr Wickham. Any ladies you bestow jewels upon must take their chances.” Lydia’s smiled showed no real concern for such an eventuality.

  “I have only one lady at whose feet I desire to lay treasures.” Mr Wickham’s charm had not suffered from his pecuniary difficulties, apparently. Lydia beamed back at him, and they began to banter in friendliness.

  Mary sagged against the side of the carriage, exhaustion draining the last flickers of anger and fear from her body. I was brave again. Well, it was a problem I helped create, so perhaps there is not so much virtue in it as all that. But at least I spoke up. The memory of the jeering crowd made her arms and neck tingle. Of course, they had not been jeering at her, but the sensation still felt raw. Will I ever be able to endure such things in an unflappable way, the way Lady Crestwood does? She doubted it, but the small changes she had undergone still satisfied her.

  “How courageous you were, wading into that contretemps!” Lydia said, as if echoing Mary’s thoughts. “Not even I could have done it, and I have the audacity of ten woman, have I not, Mr Wickham?”

  “Twenty, my dear.”

  “And so it is rather odd to think of your doing it, Mary. I suppose I really must not call you ‘Mouse’ anymore after that. Cannot you be some other little creature?”

  Mary thought of an owl, silent in its flight, hidden in the night, but able to strike with force when necessary. She would always be on the quiet side, but she hoped she could now be bold enough to capture what she wanted or hoot in warning. “How about Owl?”

  “Because of your interest in science, you mean? I suppose it will do.” Lydia lost interest as she spied a woman in the carriage stopped alongside theirs. “La! Mrs Reddings always has the choicest gowns. Look at that lace! Two layers thick, at least. Oh, when will this carriage move? We shall be stuck in front of the opera house for all eternity, and I shall perish of envy staring at Mrs Reddings’s lace.”

  “There is quite a crush on the road, to be sure,” Mr Wickham said, “but it will
clear up. Besides, if you perish, you will not be here for all eternity.”

  “That shows all you know about it!” Lydia tossed her curls, but no one could fully appreciate their glistening in the murkiness of the carriage. “If I die, I shall become a ghost and haunt this very spot, unless I decide to haunt that ghastly drawing room instead—”

  The squabbling continued, but somehow it did not ring the same way in Mary’s ears. Where before it sounded grating and threatening, now it sounded almost…merry. Did they change? Do they have a new rapport after all these months of jealousy and rebellion? Or was their bantering always cheerful, and it is I that have changed, able to hear closeness in what sounded like danger before? Mary did not know, but she let the banter wash over her, feeling undisturbed. Do I even have reason to feel peaceful? Mr Wickham seems to be stirring up trouble of some kind, bad enough he may have to leave England. The Crestwoods are in chaos. And yet…Her shoulders relaxed against the padded seat. I feel a kind of peace any way. I cannot make everyone live the sort of life I would have, quiet and orderly. I have done what I could, and they must make their own lives now. I have my own future to look after.

  Mr Wickham proved right about the crowds thinning eventually, and the carriage wheels squealed into motion. The thrum of wheels vibrating against stone went through the vehicle and up through Mary’s body, contrasting with the smooth sheen of silk brushing against her hand as she moved her reticule on her lap. At first, she simply leaned against the velvet-lined side of the carriage, her mind drifting in a void. But as her energy renewed, the sensations of the world outside caught her attention: the acrid scent of smoke from half-blocked chimneys, the creaks of nearby dray-carts, the sharp shadows falling through the window and then being sliced by lantern light in turn. Mary drew closer to the open air and breathed it in, gazing upward at the dark smudge of sky. No owls here. But I imagine there are some on the Cole estate.

  She would fit right in.