Author's note: Well, here it is! This is the third part in my Pride & Prejudice inspired series (?). This story follows The Miss Bennets Set Forth, and unlike its predecessor, may require some prior reading to make total sense (although I think you should be able to get away with it if you haven't read anything else of mine). I wrote the first story in this series, Miss de Bourgh in Bath, half on a whim and half as an exercise to battle my writer's block, and I never expected it to go anywhere. Thank you to everyone who has read Miss de Bourgh and The Miss Bennets, and I hope this third piece makes all of you happy!
I always feel like I need to post some kind of "my life is crazy" disclaimer on these things, so here goes: I'm graduating from grad school next May and am in the process of job/apartment hunting, plus trying to balance a social life with schoolwork, student org involvement and two jobs, so it's very probable that a couple updates might be long in coming. I always feel SO super guilty about those, so please just know that even if I'm silent for weeks (or months?!), I am still working on it! I really love writing these stories—it's just that everything else seems to get in the way. I do plot out my stories beforehand so I'll try my best to avoid leaving you hanging. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
12 October 1801
Willow Cottage
Gossenbury
My dear Mary,
I know you have spent nearly twenty-three years in the countryside, and have therefore seen your share of fields being harvested, and leaves turning colors, and so on. But this is the first autumn I have ever spent out of a city, and so you must forgive me my wonder at the beauty of the season. This is the busiest I have ever seen little Gossenbury, as the farmers hurry to finish their harvest—I have treated three broken bones among the farming families this week alone.
I wonder if that will be the only sort of injury which plagues this fine autumn; Sir Edmond, up at the Hall, has already had two large parties down to shoot. It seems as though that is the only subject upon the minds of our local gentry. Having never partaken of the sport, I can only smile and shrug when they ask me whether I prefer pheasant or grouse, and indeed press me with far more detailed questions full of terms which I do not understand in the slightest. I imagine it does not do my standing here any good, to appear as an untutored city-dweller, but fortunately everyone seems more amused than offended by my blank looks.
Sporting ignorance aside, I cannot believe it is only four months since I came to Gossenbury. Every house, every path, every face is as familiar to me as any in Bath. I am greeted wherever I go, and have now learned enough names of places and people to appear tolerably local; and what's more, Mary, I do feel as if this is where I ought to be. I am kept busier than I ever was in Bath (in fact I should rather like to have an assistant)—not only with broken bones and Sir Edmond's gout, but with the sorts of illnesses and injuries which might, if not for medical intervention, prove terrible. I am glad to be here; and I think, or at least I hope, that the people of Gossenbury are glad to have me here. But that may be all politeness on their part.
I hope your sisters and their children are well; it seems to me that Mrs. Bingley in particular must have her hands full just now. My good wishes of course to your mother and father, and everyone else who is dear to you in Meryton. I am sure your autumn is as lovely as ours, and so I wish you plenty of time to walk and sit outdoors and enjoy it. I eagerly await your next letter, and even more eagerly await the time, whenever that may be, when we can sit and speak together as we used to in Bath. Give my regards to your family, and I shall give yours to mine.
Yours,
Robert ("Doctor," as everyone calls me here)
As could only be expected, the marriage of a handsome young viscount, of venerable family and excellent fortune, who had been for some time regarded as one of Society's more eligible bachelors, to the daughter of a physician, was cause for a certain amount of censure.
The matter was only made worse by the fact that the new viscountess was exceedingly pretty. For, as it happens, the sort of people who naturally regard such marriages with scorn and suspicion are often also the sort of people who cannot see a beautiful woman without despising her for daring to be prettier than themselves, or their daughters, or their sisters, or any other young ladies toward whom they are more kindly disposed.
Indeed, upon the arrival of Lord Adlam and his young bride in Town for their first Season together, there were uncharitable whispers that Lady Adlam had somehow entrapped the viscount, or otherwise used the unfair advantages of her face and figure to secure her new position (advantages which, in a lady of greater birth and fortune, would not have been considered "unfair" at all). Several families prepared not to receive her, while others pointedly avoided making the usual welcoming calls to Breezewood House, the Adlams' London residence. That these families each boasted young ladies who had, themselves, once dreamed of being the new viscountess, need not be remarked upon.
Yet, to the shock of these Societal stalwarts, and probably to the lady herself, Lady Adlam was before long welcomed into a great many of the less conservative drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the city. That she had the audacity to be not only lovely, but also extremely well-married (particularly for one of her rank, which was no rank at all) and now very rich, was overlooked by the fact of her also being exceedingly amiable.
The lady's manners lacked London sophistication, but nonetheless bespoke a certain grace; and after a few missteps and misjudgments, she began to learn the art of managing a household much larger and more fashionable than the one from which she had come. Had the viscountess been less agreeable, her mistakes would have been less forgivable, and Lord Adlam's devotion to her—so plain to see—would have been nothing short of pathetic; but, to the surprise and satisfaction of almost everybody, her Ladyship appeared to love her husband far more than she loved his wealth or title.
The viscount's three sisters had, as was only natural, regarded her Ladyship's entrance into the family circle with a certain degree of trepidation, for the sudden acquirement of wealth and title often has a most unfortunate effect. Upon closer inspection, however, the Honorable Miss Adlams were pleased to find that the young viscountess possessed neither the vulgarity which, in their minds, was too often the defect of the untitled classes, nor the petty avarice which was too often the defect of the newly wealthy.
Lady Adlam was not, as the Miss Adlams had feared, a rival for the fortune and position which they had so long enjoyed. She evinced no desire to abuse her precedence over them as lady of the house, nor to banish them to the country to die as old maids. They were delighted to find in their new sister-in-law a kind friend, whom they all agreed they could very well grow to love as a sister, unthinkable as it would have been to them not long ago.
And so, with the blessings of her husband's family and an ever-growing assemblage of friends and connections (though she was not without her detractors, who still resented her presence at Almacks and the Palace and all of the other fashionable places), Lady Adlam, the former Miss Rosamond Hart of Hart House, Bath, was soon quite nicely established in Society, despite all odds to the contrary.
But this is not her story.
A little more than three years after Miss Hart's marriage and subsequent debut as Lady Adlam; a little less time after the marriage of Miss Katherine Bennet to Mr. Oliver Finch of Larkhall; just a few months after the graduation of Mr. Robert Hart, now Dr. Robert Hart, from his studies at St. Thomas's in London, and his relocation to a village in Oxfordshire; the passage of time found Miss Mary Bennet much the same as she had always been, though a little older and perhaps a very little wiser, comfortably ensconced at home in Hertfordshire.
Mary, the last of her sisters living at home, was possessed of the sort of temperament which can readily find useful employment for idle hands. Her days at Longbourn were taken up with the same chores which had been hers since she was a child; when she had completed them, she practiced for hours upon the family pianoforte, which was old and battered but still serviceable; when her parents insisted upon quiet, she set out to walk along the nearby paths and roads, often carrying a book along with her in case she should find a pleasant place to sit; and when it was too intemperate to walk or sit out of doors, she read her books, and wrote letters. It was a quiet life, and a plain one, but Mary prized it.
Of late, however, many of these solitary pleasures had been supplanted by long visits at nearby Netherfield Park. There she found plenty to occupy her, for as we join Mary Bennet on a crisp day in October, her sister Jane Bingley is the doting mother of two twin boys, and is expecting a third child, with the time of her confinement less than a month away. Mary, being a devoted sister, had made a habit of spending a great deal of time amusing the young Bingleys in order to allow their mother time to rest, and their father time to oversee the preparations and alterations to the home which heralded the coming event.
It was not only sisterly duty which drove Mary to take charge of her young nephews. She was fond of the boys themselves, of course, for though she was not naturally disposed to like children, she was their aunt; but of late there had been something else underlying her natural affection for them. There was some warmth that she felt, which she could not quite explain, as she took them for walks about the gardens, or watched little Charles chasing birds across the lawn, or sat with little Edward in her lap as she recited the nursery rhymes she could remember from her own infancy.
It pleased her, to see her nephews—now just over three years old—growing into sturdy young boys. It was true that they often exhausted her, or frustrated her, or irritated her; but just as often she found them inexplicably charming, and there was sometimes a strange tug in her breast when she watched her brother-in-law scoop a child up under each arm, and carry them laughing up to the playroom where their nurse waited, scolding them all the while for bedeviling their Aunt Mary.
"You really are excessively good with them," Charles Bingley (the elder) remarked cheerfully, on more than one occasion; and Jane, if she was nearby, always smiled.
"You are so patient, Mary," she would say, pressing Mary's hand gratefully, "and it is a blessing to have you here. They so enjoy your company."
This was high praise to Mary's ears, for she had never considered her disposition particularly agreeable to the company of young children.
And so this was the situation of Mary Bennet, nearly four years after her first journey to Bath: she was twenty-two years old, and unmarried, but with at least one good prospect; a dutiful daughter and sister; an affectionate aunt; a faithful correspondent; a reader of books; a student of music; a lover of autumn in the countryside. These facts satisfied her a great deal.
Unfortunately, her mother was not so satisfied.
As the mother of five daughters, Mrs. Bennet could not but congratulate herself for, as she imagined it, having successfully married off four of them. (That most of these marriages had had nothing to do with her, and that indeed a great deal of trouble might have been avoided if she had not been involved at all, never occured to her.) Yet the good lady was determined to see all of her daughters married, and so Mary's lack of suitors, especially as she grew older, was a thorn in her side. It did not help that Mary was the least handsome, and the least amiable, of all the Bennet sisters; certainly, if one of them must end up as an old maid, she would be the likeliest choice—but Mrs. Bennet refused to allow such a thing to happen.
She had had some hopes of young Dr. Robert Hart when they were in Bath—he had been Mr. Robert Hart then—for he and Mary had swiftly established a remarkably intimate friendship, and had seemed much in each others' confidence, which was a great comfort to her as Mary had never before seemed at all interested in any gentleman. Indeed, there was even a time when she had believed them actually engaged, and had (imprudently, she saw now) boasted of the fact to her friends and acquaintances; but in the end it had come to nothing. Mary had insisted that there was no engagement, and Mr. Hart had never made any further advance, and they had left Bath defeated; not even the reunion of Mary and Mr. Hart at the wedding of his twin sister had been enough to fan the flames.
(Mrs. Bennet was not to know, of course, that Mary and Robert had in fact come to an understanding in Bath: that they preferred each other to anybody else, and planned to marry someday, but were, at that time, both unready for marriage, and so were best as friends until they both felt otherwise. It was not an engagement, or even a formal attachment—though there had been talk of love, and even an unexpected kiss exchanged, which still made Mary blush to think of—but it suited both of them exceedingly well. This was the good prospect which was earlier referred to, and in which Mary had full confidence of an eventual result.)
And so Mrs. Bennet, who had been so disappointed with Mary's failure to secure Mr. Hart, had sighed heavily and taken up again the work of husband-hunting.
"One cannot conduct a courtship through the post," she snapped, to Mary's protests that she was perfectly happy writing to Robert (via his sister, Rosamond Adlam) and could not imagine liking anyone better than she liked him. "We cannot expect anything of Robert Hart, my dear, and you must stop pining for him."
This was not exactly what Mary was doing, but Mrs. Bennet had no head for subtleties.
The past few years, therefore, had been spent shuttling an unwilling Mary to the local balls and assemblies and gatherings, and insisting that the Longbourn household call immediately upon every new family in the neighborhood, and picking through the acquaintance of all her friends in hopes of finding someone suitable. And when it could be arranged, Mary was sent to stay with her sister Elizabeth Darcy, in hopes that the Pemberley neighborhood might produce some further prospects (though Mrs. Bennet suspected that Lizzie was less zealous than herself in her efforts to find Mary a husband).
Yet it was to no avail. Mary refused to be pleased with any of Mrs. Bennet's choices, for she had already made her own. At any rate, the gentlemen Mrs. Bennet found suitable were, as a rule, more to Mrs. Bennet's taste than Mary's: they were all more handsome than clever, and had little interest in books or music, and were anyway usually more engrossed by the neighborhood's prettier faces and figures, of which there were plenty, than by plain, prickly Mary Bennet. With each new posting of the banns, Mrs. Bennet fumed.
Fortunately for Mary, Meryton was not a particularly populous town, and there were fewer eligible gentlemen there than Mrs. Bennet would have liked. Even more fortunately, Mrs. Bennet's matrimonial designs were disturbed in November of the year 1800, when Jane's time came upon her and all other concerns immediately fell by the wayside.
To the delight of everybody concerned, Jane Bingley gave birth to a healthy and charming little girl, who was named Emma, and who immediately won the hearts of everyone who saw her. Even Mr. Bingley's sisters, who did not often find that it suited them to spend time at their brother's country house, came from Town to see her. And though Miss Bingley shrieked when baby Emma, squirming in her arms, knocked the brooch from her gown, and though Mrs. Hurst delivered young Edward a very scathing rebuke when he accidentally trod upon her silk hem and tore it—in spite of these small misfortunes, the elegant aunts declared themselves quite in love with the little creature, and could not believe how strongly she resembled the Bingley side of the family.
After Emma's birth, Mary continued to spend as much time at Netherfield as she could. Jane was glad of it, for Emma, though certainly less demanding than the twins had been in their infancy, nonetheless required a great deal of care and attention, and she did not want to indulge in that habit which many wealthy young mothers have, of relying too much upon nurses and governesses. Mary's visits, therefore, provided a welcome respite from the strains of mothering three small children; and even the nurse who tended to the twins was glad to have time to herself. For her part, Mary was pleased to entertain her nephews when she could, for it made her feel useful.
Thus passed November, cold and frosty. December brought with it sprinklings of snow which delighted the boys, and sent them racing noisily into the garden, bundled in scarves and hats and mittens and coats and cloaks and any other clothing which Mary and the nurse managed to force upon them before they dashed out of reach.
Christmastide at Longbourn, with a Christmas Eve dinner at Netherfield, was comfortable, though there was some unspoken disappointment that they did not go to Pemberley as usual. (Jane was not yet recovered enough for much travel). But it was the first Christmas which the twins were old enough to enjoy, and the family spent long hours gathered about the Yule log, telling stories and singing songs—Mary, to her delight, was asked to accompany them upon the Netherfield pianoforte—and of course feasting upon the holiday bounty. As a young girl, Mary had never much liked the constant noise produced by her four sisters; but of late she had, increasingly, begun to find Longbourn rather quiet, and was glad to have the children by to shout and laugh.
And soon the year turned to 1801; and though it was a new year and still quite a new decade and still near the beginning of a new century, when Mary awoke the next morning, she did not feel much different at all.
"Mary!" Mrs. Bennet trilled, bustling into the sitting-room, "Mary, the post has come, and you have a letter. 'Viscountess Adlam, Breezewood House, London'—how well that sounds! And what a fine seal!"
Mary, who was not particularly interested in Lady Adlam's seal, took the letter from her mother's hand without comment; she greatly looked forward to these communications from her friend, not only due to her affection for the viscountess but because Rosamond's letters also usually contained a letter from Robert, which of course he could not send directly to Mary, as both were young and unmarried. Rosamond, to her credit, did not appear to mind her role as conduit.
Mrs. Bennet took the chair by the fireside, admiring aloud the elegance of her Ladyship's handwriting. Though she had liked Rosamond perfectly well as the daughter of a respected physician, the young lady's elevation to the rank of viscountess had inspired Mrs. Bennet to new heights of fondness and admiration, as well as an eagerness to mention the connection to everyone; for how many of Lady Lucas's daughters, or indeed any of the other girls in Meryton, could count a lady of the peerage among their most particular friends?
There was a little silence, on Mary's part, as she read the letter. Mrs. Bennet continued to remark upon Lady Adlam's fine handwriting, and the clearness of the direction, and the fineness of the seal, and everything else she could think of. At length, however, she too fell silent. Mary was still reading, or at least staring at the letter.
"Well, my love," Mrs. Bennet said at last, impatient, "what does she say?"
Mary looked up. "She wishes for me to join her in London, for the Season."
Mrs. Bennet was struck dumb, her eyes wide and shining. Her speechlessness lasted only a moment, however, for in the next she gave a loud squeal, and clasped her hands.
"How generous!" she cried. "How kind! It is good to know that some people may gain wealth and title, and yet not forget their humbler friends; how good she is! You must be sure to thank her very kindly, my love—very kindly indeed, for she does you a great favor here. A Season in London! None of your sisters were ever so fortunate, not until after they were married, and then it is not the same. How you will enjoy yourself! Think only of the balls and the parties, and visiting all the best shops, and meeting so many new people!"
"Mamma, it is not sure that Papa will let me go," Mary protested. In truth, she was not certain that she even wished to go. She was very comfortable at Longbourn, and London…London, she knew, was different. It was large, and crowded, and busy, and noisy, and fashionable—even more so than Bath had been. She would not fit in there. Despite all the pleasure which Rosamond's company would bring her, she would not enjoy herself.
Rosamond, to her credit, was not unaware of her friend's distaste for city life. I know you can have no wish to join us here in Town, my dear Mary, she had written, for you should find much to despise in the customs of the Season, as must any sensible person. Yet it has been too long since I have seen you, and as the Darcys are said to arrive here in March, I thought perhaps you might be persuaded to humor me, and leave Longbourn at least for a little while in hopes of delighting your friends and family. We need not spend every night in a ballroom: there are a great many excellent concerts to attend, and fine bookshops upon every corner, and wonderful plays in all the best theatres. Breezewood is equipped with a beautiful pianoforte, upon which you are welcome to play as much as you like, so that you should not fall out of practice.
And though I am not hinting that it is any particular inducement—I know you too well for that—nonetheless I should like to tell you that Robert has said he may come to stay for a little while, sometime in March or April, if his work will allow him. I have missed you a great deal, my dear Mary, and so has my brother (though he would not like me to tell you so). It seems an age since we were all together. …
There was no letter from Robert himself.
"Of course your father will let you go," Mrs. Bennet insisted, narrowing her eyes. "He could not deny his own daughter a Season in London, when it is so generously offered! To do so, I imagine, would be a grave insult to the viscount and the viscountess, and we cannot afford to have enemies in the peerage!"
Mary rolled her eyes. She was certain that, however disappointed Rosamond might be at a refusal, it would not result in their acquiring enemies in the peerage.
"And not only a Season in London," Mrs. Bennet pressed on, "but a Season as the guest of the Adlams, staying at Breezewood House—that is something which nobody in Meryton could boast! It is so much better than staying in Cheapside with my brother and his family! Think only of the people you shall meet! Everybody will be so fashionable—and rich—you might marry better than Lizzie or Jane, if it comes to it!"
"I have no interest in marrying for wealth or position," Mary said tightly.
"No, indeed, my dear, I know that; but nonetheless think of your prospects as they are now, and as they shall be when you are at Breezewood House and everybody knows you as the particular friend and guest of Lord and Lady Adlam; is that not some temptation?"
Mary bit her lip, and glanced down at the letter again. Robert has said he may come to stay for a little while…
"It has been too long since I have seen Rosamond," she said at last. "And if Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are to go to Town as well, then I should like to see them. I am sure a few months would be agreeable, even if it is London."
"There you are, my love," Mrs. Bennet replied, pleased. "You will enjoy yourself very much, I am sure of it. A Season in London! How delightful! How good of Her Ladyship! That is the sort of friend upon whom one can rely, my dear, take note of it. Oh! How I wish I were twenty-two again!"
Mr. Bennet, despite a hard-learned habit of keeping his daughters at home whenever possible, did not in fact offer much objection to the London scheme. The journey to Bath had been undertaken without any grave disasters; his children, upon their return to Longbourn, had indeed seemed rather more reasonable and composed than they had been when they left, which was a benefit he had not foreseen. That expedition had taken place under the eye of Mrs. Bennet, and yet no ill-conceived marriages had been made, as he had feared. (Indeed, had Mary asked to go to London with Mrs. Bennet to watch over her, Mr. Bennet would have hesitated, for he had seen the way in which Mrs. Bennet's eyes raked hungrily over every assembly, seeking whichever potential son-in-law might most impress her friends.)
But it was not Mrs. Bennet who would supervise this excursion; it was Rosamond Adlam, and while Mr. Bennet had never met her Ladyship, he nonetheless, from all he had heard, understood her to be a generally sensible sort of person. Furthermore, it was unlikely that Lady Adlam would press gentlemen of all shapes and sizes upon his daughter's company, nor encourage her to any imprudent match. That the Darcys were to be in London within a few months was an added benefit, for surely his Lizzie would not allow her sister to come to any harm. And Mary herself appeared, these days, to have a decent head upon her shoulders.
And so Mr. Bennet's agreement was secured, to the elation of Mrs. Bennet, who had visions of grand titles dancing through her head. "I only wish I could go with you, to help you find a husband," she said to Mary, "though I suppose Lady Adlam will be a great help to you in that. Indeed I daresay you could have no better guidance, for look only how well she has done for herself! Imagine if she were to find you a viscount, my love, or better yet an earl or a marquess—or even a baron would be agreeable! How pleased I would be, to have one of my own daughters styled as Lady So-and-So—can you imagine anything more agreeable?"
"I certainly can," Mary replied stiffly, "and I am quite certain that Rosamond has other objects in asking me to stay, besides an expansion of my matrimonial prospects."
Mrs. Bennet waved this away and hurried off happily to examine Mary's wardrobe, which she was certain would require a great deal of work.
It was now early January. Upon Mary's acceptance of the invitation, a flurry of correspondence arose between the two houses, as the young women, in the tradition of affectionate friends, each tried to arrange things to best suit the convenience of the other, and bickered politely over the best modes of travel (Rosamond offered to send a carriage all the way to Hertfordshire, while Mary insisted she could travel perfectly easily by the mail), and the most fitting date of arrival, and other such matters.
At last, it was decided that Mary should depart Longbourn in a fortnight by post-chaise, and so arrive in London by early February. Sir William Lucas, who had business in the City at that time, would travel with her as far as the Strand, and Lord Adlam would meet her there and escort her to Berkeley Square and Breezewood House.
With these matters settled, Mary soon found her days much taken up with preparations for the journey. There were her gowns and day-dresses to be hemmed and altered to suit the latest fashions, at Mrs. Bennet's insistence, for she would not have her daughter looking like an uncultivated country-lass for her first Season in Town; there were trunks to be found and dragged from storage and cleaned; there were gloves to be bought and shoes to be repaired. The frenzy in the Longbourn household, led by Mrs. Bennet, might have given a bystander the impression that Mary was to depart in two days, rather than two weeks, and as the days slid by Mary found herself hurrying more and more often to Netherfield to escape the chaos.
"You will enjoy London," Jane assured her kindly, bouncing baby Emma on her knee. "It is so diverting. I know you have never cared much for Society, but there are many other things to see and do. And of course you will be staying with such dear friends, and you will have the opportunity of seeing Lizzie and the children. The prospect of such company alone must elevate your spirits."
In fact, Mary's anticipation of the journey had been steadily growing. Though she had initially been hesitant, the more she reflected upon the idea, the more it appealed to her; it had indeed been too long since she had seen Rosamond, who was one of a very few people, beyond her own relatives, whom Mary readily termed "friend." Robert was another, and the thought of seeing him again after so long a correspondence filled her with a pleasant lightness. Rosamond had said that he may only stay for a little while, but who could say what might happen when they were thrown together, even if it was only briefly?
But Mary stopped herself here. It would not do to grow romantic, she told herself sternly. She was not Lydia, or even Kitty, and she could not begin to indulge in quixotic hypotheticals. She would properly re-evaluate her feelings when she saw Robert again, and take whatever action appeared most appropriate as a result.
Kitty herself, of course, took her own characteristic view of the situation. The only one of the family who was fully aware of Mary's understanding with Robert, she learned of the London scheme from Mrs. Bennet and immediately penned a letter to her sister, filled with excited conjectures over the proposal that was sure to take place once Robert caught sight of Mary again, and how he might go about it, and whether they should be wed immediately from Breezewood House (surely Mr. Darcy would not mind giving Mary away, so Lord Adlam might stand up with Robert), or whether they ought to wait and be married from Longbourn.
Mary read her sister's note with a smile, but also with a raised eyebrow, though she noted with pleasure that Kitty seemed far more enthusiastic about the prospect of Mary's happiness with Robert, than envious of all the entertainments which would fill Mary's time while in Town. Truly her sister was no longer the same shallow silly girl she had been when they were younger—though of course Kitty did devote one or two teasing lines to her disappointment that such a thrill as dancing at Almack's should be wasted upon a bluestocking like Mary.
You must dance at least two dances for me, Kitty wrote fondly, though I know it will give you little pleasure; but these are the nuisances which must be borne for the sake of sisterly harmony. Dance with an earl or a marquess if you can manage it, although a viscount would serve equally well and you shall already have one convenient to you if Rose does not mind sparing him for a few minutes. I am sure your Robert could not begrudge you two dances with another gentleman, especially his own brother-in-law (who shall someday be your brother-in-law as well, after all!).
If Kitty had been present, Mary would have reminded her sternly that Robert did not belong to anybody but himself; but as she was alone and unobserved, she allowed herself a moment of tenderness at the look of the words on the page—"your Robert"—before informing herself that she was being very silly indeed.
The fortnight before her departure passed quickly. Before she knew it, Mary was bidding fond farewells to her mother and father, her sister and brother-in-law, her little nephews and niece, all of whom had come to Longbourn to see her off, and taking Sir William's hand to climb into the post-chaise. A lump rose unexpectedly in her throat as she turned to say her final farewells, and she blinked back the swelling tears to smile at her family.
"Remember the great favor which Lady Adlam does you by her invitation," Mrs. Bennet ordered, "and do not pass up any chance of meeting new people, for I am sure the family at Breezewood is possessed of many useful connections!"
"Do take every opportunity of enjoying yourself," Jane advised more kindly.
"Yes, do, for there is so much to see in London," Charles Bingley urged.
"Remain sensible, my dear," Mr. Bennet said, "as I know you will."
"Good-bye, auntie," the twins chorused at Jane's sides; even Emma, in her father's arms, waved a chubby fist, and though she was far too young for the gesture to have any real intention, the sight warmed Mary's heart. She raised a hand to wave at them all. The driver flicked his crop at the horses and they started down the lane, gaining speed as they trotted away from Longbourn. The Bennet and Bingley families still stood before the house, waving and calling goodbyes, and then the carriage went around a curve and Mary lost sight of them all. She sat back in her seat, brushing hurriedly at her eyes.
"It is always difficult to part from our loved ones," Sir William said gently. "But think only of all the adventures you shall have in London. I daresay there are a great many young ladies in Meryton who envy you—my own daughters not least among them!" He chuckled.
It was the work of only a few hours to carry them beyond the boundaries of Mary's mental map, and into country that was unfamiliar to her. They passed through villages that looked very like Meryton, through empty countryside and the outskirts of bustling towns, past horsemen, pedestrians and other carriages of all shapes and sizes, past frozen lakes and ponds and rivers, every so often catching sight of people ice-skating on the glassy surfaces. A dusting of snow lay upon everything, and the sky was gray and heavy with promise.
Sir William was no stranger to the journey, for his business took him into Town at least once or twice a year, and he kept up a running commentary of the towns and estates they passed, and who lived there and how long they had done so, and how far they were now from London, and so on. Under ordinary circumstances, Mary—whose disposition was ill-suited to chatter—would have been irritated indeed, but just now she found Sir William's presence more comforting than anything else. It was the first time she had ever made any journey without one or both of her parents and at least one of her sisters alongside her, and she was glad of the familiarity.
Her entire self was in a quiet uproar: the strain of eagerness within her was overpowered by the trepidation and uncertainty which must accompany any new venture. For a young lady who has spent most of her life in a very small village and never wished to be anyplace else, and cannot understand the desire expressed by other young ladies to visit London or Bath or Brighton or any other fashionable place—for such a young lady, a Season in Town is a daunting prospect indeed.
On top of the usual fears that plague a nervous traveler (what if their carriage was robbed by highwaymen or overturned on some icy patch of road? What if she could not find Lord Adlam at the Strand and was obliged to seek her own way to Breezewood House?) was overlaid Mary's greatest fear of all, familiar and unspoken and much-loathed: that she would not fit in, that nobody in the entire city would like her, that even dear Rosamond would find her company something to be endured rather than enjoyed, and that Robert, arriving at Breezewood House in March or April, would take one look at her and turn away, disappointed that the reality did not live up to his remembrance.
It was Mary's usual practice, when preparing for a ball or some other dreaded social event, to respond to such thoughts with an assertion of her own superiority: she was an excellent reader, a practiced musician, and an intellectual, who had better things to do than attempt to impress everybody else. She did not mind that she was not pretty, or that others thought her dull, for the depth of her own mind far surpassed that of her detractors. Certainly she had never received much attention of any sort, particularly in comparison with her prettier, more amiable sisters, and so she had always insisted that she did not want attention. Such things she would tell herself, convincing herself that they were the truth. This tactic had served her for twenty-three years.
Yet now she was vulnerable, set on her back foot: what an ordeal to be alone, in a strange environment, surrounded by people who were not family and therefore were not obligated to love her, and might very well find her too plain and tedious to be tolerated! Furthermore, these were people for whom she already had a great respect, and by whom she wished to be liked.
It was one thing, she thought grimly, to exchange affectionate letters with Rosamond; letters were written expressly by people who had news to share and interesting things to say; it was quite another to sit stupidly in a fashionable drawing-room, as she certainly would, with nothing to contribute to the general conversation. Certainly it might lead Rosamond to re-evaluate their friendship, and find that the Mary Bennet to whom she had inexplicably taken a liking three years ago was hardly so agreeable as she had remembered.
Mary could not even bring herself to think of Robert just now.
She was a little distracted from these gloomy reflections by Sir William's cheerful talk, but a wave of nervousness washed over her as they began to draw into the city proper. Barnet and Finchley still had the qualities of villages; even Camden Town, with its inns and small public houses, did not feel much bigger than Meryton. But then London rose before them, only a few miles south. A few more streets, turning now from dust and dirt into cobblestone; the clip-clopping of many hooves growing ever louder; and suddenly a multitude of people, all around the post-chaise, walking and running and riding and promenading and all talking at once, calling to one another, ducking in between carriages to cross the road, leading children by the hand and animals by the halter, carrying everything from covered baskets to stacks of books and papers to live squawking hens. Mary stared out the window, appalled and fascinated by the host of humanity surrounding her. Never in her life—even in the ballrooms of Bath—had she seen so many people in one place.
In fact Mary had been to London once before, when she was ten or eleven and the Bennets had come to visit the Gardiners in Cheapside. But she had, at the time, noticed little about the city they were entering, too concerned was she with the injustice of her sisters being given window-seats, when she was forced to sit between Lizzie and Jane and could not see anything. Even during their stay (only a fortnight—Mr. Bennet could not endure Town any longer than that), little Mary had paid little attention to London itself except to complain about the crowds and noise and the necessity of always holding somebody's hand when walking places and not having any time to herself. Already she began to feel the old discomfort creeping back.
"We are passing through Marylebone just now," Sir William explained. "This is Great Portland Street, which shall lead us to the Strand along the Haymarket, eventually. Hyde Park is to our east, and there I wager you shall spend many a pleasant morning when the weather is fine—unless of course Lady Adlam prefers to take her leisure in St. James's instead."
Mary nodded, though she did not know what he was talking about. There was no park visible from her side of the carriage.
It seemed incomprehensible that, in this warren of streets and squares and alleyways and footpaths, the driver should know where he was going. Indeed, they made so many turns and took so many curves that Mary would scarce have been able to keep her bearings even if she had had some inkling of London geography. As it was, she began to feel rather overwhelmed, and pressed a hand to her head.
"There, there, Miss Mary," Sir William said, noticing her discomfort. "I confess I do not particularly enjoy these long journeys myself; but we are not so far from our destination now, and I imagine Lord Adlam's carriage is a fine sight more comfortable than these post-chaises!" He winked at her. Mary gave him a weak smile.
"It is only so much larger than Meryton," she said, "and even Bath."
Sir William chuckled. "Indeed it is, my dear," he replied, "indeed it is!"
In truth they were not so far from the Strand, and in less than twenty minutes Mary felt the carriage drawing to a slow halt upon a very grand street, lined with buildings that might each have fit three Longbourns inside of them. "Do you see that one, Miss Mary?" Sir William said, pointing at one. "That is Exeter 'Change; you might ask your friends to take you there, for inside is a marvelous menagerie, where one might see lions and monkeys and other such curiosities."
"What—inside the building?" Mary stared up at the impassive façade.
"Of course, Miss Mary, within the upper rooms. Is it not a capital city?" He laughed at his own pun, and at her astonishment.
Mary had not quite made up her mind yet on that score, but Sir William did not seem to be expecting a reply, as he climbed out of the carriage and offered a hand to her.
Drawing her coat closer about her, she climbed down and stood upon London ground for the first time (at least, the first time worthy of memory). The noise, which had been a little muted inside the carriage, surrounded her, and for a moment she feared that she would be swept up in the tide of people passing along the footpath. Servants and clerks and secretaries were rushing about their business, winding their hurried way through the crowd, while ladies and gentlemen proceeded at a leisurely pace, talking and laughing amongst themselves or looking down their noses at everybody else. One elderly lady, in a gown of fine cashmere and a fur-lined cloak, fixed Mary with a haughty stare which made her frown, and turn away to watch the coachman unloading her luggage. She need not care for the good opinion of these people, after all.
She had been a little worried that Sir William would proceed immediately to his business appointment, leaving her to fend for herself in the wild street until her rescue by Lord Adlam. But the kindly knight remained by her side, pointing out the other immense houses along the Strand. Very little of what he said penetrated the fog which presently surrounded her, but she appreciated his presence, and began to dread a little the moment when this jovial, fatherly figure would at last take his leave.
Yet the moment must come; and when it did, it was not so unpleasant as Mary had feared. Their post-chaise, paid and unloaded, departed (and with it, any thought Mary might have entertained of throwing herself upon the mercy of the coachman to take her back to Longbourn), but they remained standing in the same place before the 'Change, Sir William talking genially and Mary staring about herself in general bewilderment. It was not very long before a carriage, much finer than the post-chaise and painted with an impressive coat of arms, drew up, its horses coming to a smart halt, and the footman in his livery leapt to open the door.
"Miss Bennet," Lord Adlam said, stepping down and giving her a low bow, "welcome to London."
Mary was so relieved to see him that she gave a very uncharacteristic gasp, which she quickly smothered. She mustered a curtsy and an introduction between the two gentlemen. They bowed to one another, and exchanged a few pleasantries while the footmen took care of Mary's luggage, and then they were bowing again and Sir William was turning to her.
"Well, my dear Miss Bennet," he remarked, "I daresay you will return to Longbourn with a great many stories to tell, which shall make my daughters and all of the other young ladies of the neighborhood very jealous indeed!"
Mary nodded weakly.
"Do enjoy your stay here," he went on. "Goodbye!"
"Goodbye," Mary said, "and I wish you a safe journey back into Hertfordshire," and he bowed and she curtsied, and then Sir William was gone—her last little bit of home was gone. She would have watched him go, but Lord Adlam, smiling at her, was offering her a hand up into the carriage.
"I am aware it cannot be very pleasant for you," he said, "to finish one journey, only to begin another right away; but I promise that it is only a short ride to Breezewood."
Mary managed a faint smile as she stepped up, though her head was beginning to ache in earnest. He climbed in beside her, and with a word to the driver, they were off at a brisk trot, somehow navigating through all of the other traffic that crowded the road.
They were soon in a quieter area of London, where the houses were larger. People here did not appear to be in a hurry about any particular business, but walked down the street in groups of twos and threes: gentlemen and ladies arm-in-arm and looking proudly around at everyone else, occasionally offering polite greetings to those of their acquaintance. Fashionable walking-dresses of all colors and fabrics were in abundance, embellished with ribbons and embroidery and other such finery, though only the skirts could be seen beneath the expensive cloaks and shawls and coats drawn about them, and exotic hats and bonnets on top. For the first time, Mary felt rather self-conscious of her plain wool traveling clothes; but she reminded herself that it took a shallow mind indeed to devote itself to such trivial adornments, and felt a little better.
"Is this Mayfair?" she asked, for it was one of the few London names she knew.
"Yes, it is. I am afraid we must go back the direction you came, at least for a little while, which must seem rather foolish to you. But I have instructed my driver to go along the parks; it is a much pleasanter route. We are passing Hyde Park now."
"It is much pleasanter," Mary agreed, turning to look out the window. A vast lawn, dusted white with snow and dotted with trees, stretched out beside them. Paths snaked here and there across the grass, lined with barren flowerbeds. That did not seem so bad—certainly a respite from the chaos of Marlyebone and the Strand and whatever other crowded places they had driven through. "I have always preferred greenery to buildings; I find that it allows for deeper reflection. Do you live close to here?"
"Very close," he said, smiling. "In just a moment we shall turn onto Mount Street, and from there it is only the blink of an eye till we are home."
This was a little reassuring.
Breezewood House was situated on the western side of fashionable Berkeley Square, facing Hyde Park and looking out onto the square itself, which offered a generous walking-path and a few places to sit amongst the snowy trees. It was a large, handsome house of several stories with tall square windows, built of a pale limestone which, Mary mused, Rosamond must find rather familiar, coming as she did from the white buildings of Bath. The gray winter day had begun to darken into dusk; the lights inside the house gleamed cheerfully out onto the street, and the chimneys puffed curling smoke into the air. Despite these signs of warmth and comfort, however, Mary could not entirely escape the feeling that this house was much too grand for her.
"We are very glad to have you here for the Season," the young viscount said.
"I am very grateful to have been invited," Mary replied, her mother's words ringing in her ears as she stared at the house. "It is always agreeable to enjoy the society of good friends, with whom one may be most truly oneself."
"Indeed," Lord Adlam agreed. "Should you like to get out of the carriage now, Miss Bennet?"
His tone was teasing, and Mary colored.
The inside of Breezewood House was as impressive as the outside; the ceilings were very high, the staircase wide and sweeping, the chandelier bright and sparkling. Mary's eyes widened as she looked about her. She had expected grandeur, of course, for this was the home of a viscount and viscountess, but she had not expected it to be this grand; it rather reminded her of Pemberley, though necessarily compressed. The furnishings were very elegant and clearly expensive, in a classical style that matched the house's exterior. Peering through the tall arched doorways, Mary glimpsed rooms equally well-appointed stretching away to either side.
A liveried servant appeared soundlessly to divest Mary of her things, while another tended to the viscount. The city noises had faded somewhat as they drove onto the square, and inside the house it was quite still, with only the occasional noise of distant footsteps upon the dark gleaming floors. Mary swallowed. Longbourn—even Netherfield seemed dwarfed by the city-elegance of Breezewood. Certainly she did not belong here. It was nothing like her uncle's house in Cheapside.
"My wife is likely in the music room," Lord Adlam told her. "I know she is most eager to see you again." He held out his arm.
"Of course," Mary said faintly, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. They climbed the grand staircase together and passed along a wide brightly-lit hallway hung with what must be family portraits. The last one they passed was of the present Lord and Lady Adlam in wedding-clothes, the viscountess with her long hair arranged intricately atop her head and secured with a jeweled comb. Mary turned to inspect it more closely; but at that moment they turned and went through a tall doorway, and were faced with the portrait's original.
"Mary!" Rosamond exclaimed, coming forward to embrace her. "My dear Mary, how good it is to see you again!"
Mary wrapped her arms gladly about her friend. Too long had passed since their last meeting, and Rosamond, now twenty-four, was lovelier than ever: slender and fair, with long, loose gold curls wound into a careless chignon and large gray eyes that shone as she smiled (just like her brother's, Mary noted unconsciously). But now, of course, Rosamond's simple dress was of much finer cloth and make than the things she had been used to wear in Bath, and she wore a few tasteful, expensive trinkets that glittered faintly in the light, including a wedding-band set with delicate sapphires.
"I hope your journey was not too uncomfortable," the viscountess said, leading Mary to a chair. "I was afraid that Julian would not be able to find you right away, and that you would be obliged to wait in the cold; but you are home rather sooner than I had anticipated. I shall send for tea and cakes." She nodded at a footman who was posted near the door, and he disappeared.
"We were quite fortunate," Lord Adlam said, taking the seat beside his wife and smiling at her. "I caught sight of Miss Bennet directly we turned onto the Strand, and Harris was able to find a stopping-place just before her."
"Small serendipities," Rosamond replied, with a smile. "Has it begun to snow?"
"Not yet, my love, though I am sure we shall see a few flakes before morning."
"I love the snow in London," Rosamond confided in Mary. "I love the way it looks upon the rooftops, and the grass in the parks. Has it been a cold winter in Hertfordshire?"
"Not so different from here, I imagine," Mary replied. "The river and ponds are frozen solid, and the village children greatly amuse themselves trying to walk upon the ice."
"I am sure your nephews are not least among their number," Rosamond said.
"No indeed—though their nurse and I have confined them to the pond in the Netherfield garden. They are too prone to slips and falls to be released upon the general public."
Rosamond laughed. "And how fares your little niece? Robert tells me that you were all very pleased to have a baby girl in the family."
"Emma is very dear," Mary said, blushing a little in spite of herself at the mention of Robert, "and I think Jane and Mr. Bingley are rather relieved that they need not trouble with twins this time; I mean no offense, of course," she added, for Rosamond and Robert were twins. The viscountess waved a dismissive hand.
"It is all too true that twins are more trouble; Robert and I took great delight in proving it all throughout our infancy."
"And beyond," Lord Adlam chimed in, laughing. "I still grow wary of my surroundings when the two of them are in a house together. One never knows what mischief may be lurking."
Rosamond smiled at him. "You may have no fear, my love; you are quite safe. It is really only our brother and sisters who ought to be concerned, for with them we are merciless."
"I hope that Charles and Edward are so discerning with their mischief," Mary commented wryly.
"As long as they are provided with siblings to bedevil," Rosamond assured her, "they certainly will be."
The tea and cakes arrived at that moment, and with them Miss Juliet Hart, the youngest of the Hart siblings. Though there were but a few years between them, Juliet had been little more than a gangly child when last she and Mary had met. Now a young woman of eighteen, she was quite grown-up; her features had lost much of their childish aspect, and she shared no small part of her sister's beauty, though her temperament was somewhat less peaceful.
"Why, Mary!" Juliet cried. "I had not thought that you would arrive until supper-time; what a fine surprise to find you here already! You must have traveled very fast."
"Juliet has come to stay the Season," Rosamond explained, taking her sister's hand affectionately, "and left our poor father all alone at Hart House."
Young Miss Hart laughed. "I think 'poor father' enjoys his solitude; and anyway he has Theo and Anne and Helena and Gabriel and all of the little ones close by now, and they will not allow him much time to be lonely. Do you enjoy being an aunt, Mary? I do; I think it the most wonderful thing in the world."
Mary agreed, taking a bite of cake.
The conversation continued for some time in this desultory manner; Mary, a little soothed by the warm cake and the warm tea and the warm fire, felt her nerves begin to ease. Talking with Rosamond was as pleasant as it had ever been; Juliet and Lord Adlam were solicitous and amiable. Why on earth had she worried so? she scolded herself silently. Rosamond was a kind, affectionate friend, who would not have issued an invitation to someone whose company she did not honestly enjoy.
But then every so often, during a lull in the conversation, Mary would glance about the bright music-room, with its long couches and high-backed chairs and, as promised, beautiful mahogany pianoforte. Next to the instrument stood a tall harp painted a gleaming gold, and there were a great many fine paintings upon the walls. The general grandeur gave Mary the feeling she had always had at Pemberley, and even sometimes at Netherfield (particularly when Mr. Bingley's sisters were there): that she was dirtying the silk cushions, or tracking dirt onto the fine carpet, or otherwise making a nuisance of herself.
It was an exceedingly comfortable room, but it was expensively comfortable, and seemed leagues away from the plain breakfast-room at Longbourn that contained the Bennets' own pianoforte. Mary wondered a little that Rosamond, whose upbringing had been as modest as her own, was so much at ease in her surroundings; but of course three years as the mistress of such a house (and indeed two more like it, in Bath and Gloucestershire respectively) must have wrought some changes in her friend. She took another sip of tea.
They dined casually that evening. Lord Adlam's three sisters, who were also staying at Breezewood for the Season, were dining at the house of a friend; it was an event to which the others had also been invited, but they had elected to remain at home for Mary's sake.
"I did not think you would appreciate being thrust into Society so soon after your arrival," Rosamond explained gently.
"That is kind of you," Mary answered, relieved. "Yet I am sorry that you should be obliged to miss an evening with your friends."
Rosamond shrugged lightly. "I shall have many more evenings to spend with them; the Season is longer than it strictly ought to be, in my opinion, and before long everybody in Town will be quite sick of everybody else. An evening at home is no hardship."
"Is there anything particular you wish to do while you are in Town, Miss Bennet?" Lord Adlam asked.
"I am afraid I know very little of London and its entertainments," Mary replied.
"Then we shall be most happy to advise you," Rosamond said, smiling.
"I have only been here a week, Mary," Juliet put in happily, "so I am almost as new as you are. We shall have to explore and make friends together. I cannot return to Hart House without plenty of fine stories to share!"
"As long as your stories do not all revolve around ballrooms," Rosamond said. "There are many other things to see and do in London."
Juliet laughed. "I know that; I thought tomorrow we might go to the British Museum. And there is an excellent exhibition at the Royal Academy just now. And there are so many fine booksellers, Mary, that you shall not have a dull moment. You see, Rose?" she said to her sister. "I know Miss Bennet's tastes better than you think; I do not estimate that she will be obliged to dance more than eight or nine times in Almack's or any other ballroom.—And tomorrow you shall also meet the Miss Adlams," she added, returning to Mary, who was internally quailing a little at Juliet's statement regarding the ballrooms. "They are exceedingly amiable, and know a great deal about music and literature and art and poetry and so on. I think we shall be a merry party indeed for this Season!"
"Very merry," Rosamond agreed, with a laugh and a glance at her husband, "but overwhelmingly female; I hope Robert is able to tear himself away from his work, or my poor Julian shall pass a lonely Season indeed."
"Never, my dear, so long as you are with me," Lord Adlam said, resting his hand over her own. "I shall not mind forgoing discussions of shooting and hunting for a few months; you forget I was raised among sisters, and have only fairly recently been spoiled by the companionship of your excellent brothers."
"And Robert does not shoot, anyway," Mary put in, without thinking. The others turned to her, and she reddened. "That is—he said so in a letter, some months ago."
The rest of the party regarded her with some curiosity, and the viscountess raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I understand that the principal inhabitant of his village is a great devotee of the sport," Mary continued awkwardly, looking down at her plate. "Robert was telling me of his own helplessness when confronted with questions about his sporting preferences. It was truly rather amusing."
"I did not know you wrote to Robert," Juliet said, wide-eyed and grinning.
"Of course she does," Rosamond said. "They are friends, are they not?"
"I suppose Robert has nothing else to do, stuck away in that little village," Juliet agreed. "You must receive a great many letters from him, Mary. If ever he begins to annoy you, make sure to tell him straightaway."
"In fact I believe he is kept quite busy by his medical practice," Mary said, rather amused, though her embarrassment had not wholly faded. "He mentioned that he would be glad of an assistant."
"Oh! I am sure it does keep him busy. But there are hospitals and practices a-plenty in Bath, including our own papa's, and even more here in London. It is not as though he would be idle, were he to go anyplace but Gossenbury. Indeed you must admit it would be more agreeable for everybody if he were to come to Town and work at one of the hospitals here, if he is determined not to go back to Bath."
"More agreeable for everybody except his patients in Gossenbury, who rely upon him," Rosamond interjected gently. "You must remember, Juliet, that our brother's plans are not made to suit our own convenience."
Juliet did not look entirely satisfied with this, but Lady Adlam turned the subject to other matters, and the meal proceeded pleasantly.
After supper, the ladies withdrew to an elegant drawing-room. Juliet, who had been a rather quiet girl when last Mary saw her, seemed to have no trouble making conversation now; she was most eager to tell Mary of the week she had spent in Town, and the fascinating things and people she had seen, though she prefaced her statements with laughing declarations that Mary should surely find no interest in any of it.
"Yet I must speak to someone," she added, grinning, "for it is all old hat to Rosamond now, and of course the Miss Adlams spend every Season in Town, and always have done, so they find my wonder to be exceedingly provincial."
"Once they have made my acquaintance," Mary assured her, "they shall think you the height of sophistication."
Juliet laughed.
"But of course," Rosamond said, lifting her gaze from her embroidery with a smile, "there is a difference between sophistication and sense; and whatever you think you may lack in the one, Mary, you more than make up for in the other."
Mary was rather touched by this.
Lord Adlam joined them after half an hour or so, and there was another agreeable hour spent talking and laughing. Mary, who had never spoken much with the viscount before he had married Rosamond, was pleased to find him a sensible man, amiable and intelligent, with a casual good humor that belied his aristocratic upbringing. He was worthy of her friend, she decided with satisfaction, and she did not resent his company.
At length, however, Mary began to yawn, regretfully yet irrepressibly. Lady Adlam, seeing this, immediately apologized for having kept her awake so late; "Of course you must be tired from your journey," she said. "I shall be happy to show you to your room."
"You must become accustomed to London hours, Mary," Juliet teased, shaking her head; "it is rare indeed that anybody in Town goes to bed before midnight, or rises before noon."
"You speak with a great deal of expertise, for somebody who has only been here a week," Rosamond chided, laughing, "and who has not once managed to keep her eyes open past eleven o' clock since her arrival. Come, Mary." She looped her arm through Mary's, and gently steered her unresisting friend from the room.
The house was quiet, and their footsteps echoed on the polished wooden floors. Rosamond hummed a soft tune as they walked.
"You seem happy, Rose," Mary ventured, after a long moment. Her friend beamed at her.
"I am," she affirmed. "I am very happy. I could not be otherwise, with so dear a friend come to stay with me for the Season."
Mary had in fact meant more generally that Rosamond seemed happy in her new life; but she did not press this point. "I cannot imagine that my presence here could have any great effect upon your enjoyment of the Season," she said instead, drily. "I am not so merry a guest as my sisters."
"I know that," Rose agreed, with a little laugh, as they climbed a curved staircase. "But I love you in spite of it."
In another moment they had reached the room that was to be Mary's, and stepped inside together. It was an elegant, airy chamber, a great deal larger than Mary's room at Longbourn, with three windows looking out to the east and a fire crackling in a carved marble hearth. Already, Mary's things had been unpacked and put away; her nightclothes lay invitingly upon the bedspread.
"I hope you shall be comfortable here," Rosamond said, gazing anxiously at her. "Juliet is two doors down, if you should grow lonely."
"I shall be very comfortable," Mary assured her.
Rosamond smiled, and squeezed her hand affectionately. "I am glad to have you here, Mary; I am glad you wished to come, in spite of the journey, and your distaste for Town. I hope you enjoy yourself."
"I am sure I shall," Mary answered, and for the first time, with Rosamond's warm hand clasping her own, and her friend's fond gaze upon her, she meant it. "I am very appreciative of your invitation—truly."
"It was no trouble," Rosamond said. "Sleep well, Mary."
With that, she was gone.
Mary, finding herself completely alone for the first time in more than twelve hours—quite a contrast to her usual habits—dressed silently in her nightclothes, taking some comfort in the familiar feel of the worn homespun upon her skin. She may be in a fashionable house, in a fashionable city, she thought, but she had not left the countryside entirely behind.
Once dressed for bed, she crossed to the window. The lights of the nearby houses gleamed warm and bright in the night, and she could see the city spread out beyond, full of life and light even at this late hour. She gave a great yawn, not bothering to cover her mouth. Snowflakes had begun drifting down, invisible until they passed before the lighted windows, where they danced and spun. Already the ground was dusted faintly white, and she wondered what it would look like tomorrow.
Watching the snow made Mary's eyelids grow ever heavier, and at last she turned from the window, climbing into the great soft bed and blowing out the candle. The room filled with the shifting glow of the fire, dying now, and she pressed her feet gratefully against the covered bed-warmer that some thoughtful chambermaid had placed between the sheets. Despite the strangeness of her surroundings, the long day of travel and worry caught up with Mary at last, and she fell fast asleep.