Author's Note: Apologies for the wait on this one. It's one of those things that I start to work on, and then the world goes crazy and I have to do other things for awhile. But enjoy, and thank you for all the marvelous feedback on the first chapter! Also, hey, I have a tumblr about my dumb cat Archie who is bad at things. Check it out if you want: archietrying . tumblr . com. Enjoy the chapter!
Mary's habit at Longbourn was to rise early, and practice upon her pianoforte or perform some other useful task until her parents joined her in the breakfast-room. She woke at her usual hour upon her first morning at Breezewood House; but rather than hasten out of bed, she allowed herself the rare luxury of pulling her blankets more tightly about her, and resting for a few minutes more.
The house was quiet, and Mary guessed sleepily that the rest of the household must still be abed—for it was, after all, a fashionable London household. The room was pleasantly warm, the fire clearly having been refreshed at some point earlier in the morning, for it danced cheerfully in the hearth. Mary dozed comfortably in the soft dimness of the bedroom.
When she woke for the second time, it was to a slant of gray morning light across her eyelids as a chambermaid quietly opened the curtains. There was a paleness to the light which suggested snow upon the ground, and Mary sat up slowly, blinking. The carved mahogany clock upon the mantelpiece informed her that it was nearly half-past nine. It was rare indeed that she slept so late, and she felt more than a little ashamed of her self-indulgence.
"Breakfast is upon the sideboard, miss," the chambermaid reported, "though Lady Adlam assures you that you may rest as long as you like. May I help you dress?"
Her charge refused politely, and the chambermaid curtsied, leaving with an instruction to ring if anything further was required.
There was a brief moment in which Mary considered sinking back against the soft pillows; indeed her eyes felt quite ready to close again; but she had already slept far too long, and she flushed guiltily as she threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. One night at Breezewood House, and she was becoming an indolent London miss!
The sky outside was gray, but not threateningly so, and Mary paused before the window to admire the sight of fresh snow upon the ground and the roofs of the surrounding houses. The snow made everything appear clean and bright despite the clouds, and for a moment London seemed less disgreeable—indeed, it even seemed rather pretty.
Mary dressed quickly in a green checked day-dress and wool shawl, twisting her hair behind her head and then, after a moment of hesitation, tying it with a dark green ribbon that she had brought along in case of a ball. It was London, after all, she thought; she ought to make at least one nod to fashion.
The hallway was quiet as Mary slipped out the bedroom door; but as she descended the broad front staircase into the entry-hall, she could hear voices in the dining room, and the gentle clink of cutlery. She hesitated for an instant, remembering that today she was to be introduced to Lord Adlam's sisters; but when she entered the room, it was only the viscount and viscountess at the long table. Rosamond was laughing at something her husband had said.
"Good morning, Mary!" she exclaimed, her hands around a mug of tea. "Did you sleep well?"
"Rather too well," Mary admitted wryly, crossing to the sideboard. She had not realized how hungry she was, until she caught sight of the slices of ham and toast piled high upon their serving-dishes. "I am not accustomed to staying abed so late."
"I am sure you are not," Rosamond agreed, teasingly. "Our Mary is a young woman of unusual industry," she added, turning to Lord Adlam with sparkling eyes, "and endeavors to spend all of her time in the most useful fashion possible. Sleeping late is quite beyond her ken."
"I can only wish my sisters might follow your example, Miss Bennet," Lord Adlam said, smiling at his guest. "In twenty-seven years upon this earth, I declare I have never caught sight of any of them before eleven o'clock."
"Juliet, too, is become quite a slugabed," Rose added. "She shall be in for a rude shock indeed when she returns to our father's house; he has always thought it best for young people to rise early, much to all of our chagrin.—But I am glad your rest was comfortable, Mary. Did you see the snow?"
"It is quite lovely."
"Julian has been out already, and says it is not so very cold. If you like, we might take a turn through the park this afternoon."
Mary agreed with pleasure, and set about her breakfast with an appetite borne of a long journey and a long sleep.
Juliet joined them in another half-hour, pretty and fair in a white muslin day-dress, and greeted them all breezily as she helped herself to a heaping plate from the sideboard. "Has the mail come, Rose?" she asked. Her sister shook her head.
"It is still rather early, I think. Are you awaiting anything particular?"
"Not for me," Juliet answered teasingly, "but I am sure Miss Bennet would not mind a letter from Robert."
Mary flushed lightly.
"Let us allow Miss Bennet to worry over her correspondence," Rosamond said to her sister, with a faintly scolding tone, "the better to mind our own affairs."
Juliet looked down at her plate, but could not suppress a grin. Mary reflected that perhaps the youngest Hart child was more akin to her lively eldest brother and sister in spirit, than to the more sedate twins.
"At any rate, Miss Bennet only arrived yesterday," Lord Adlam pointed out. "I daresay it will be a few days yet before she begins to receive her letters here."
"But Robert does know you are here, does he not?" Juliet pressed, turning to Mary.
"Indeed he does; I wrote to tell him as soon as everything was arranged."
"That is good," the young lady said with satisfaction, settling back into her chair. "Then we shall certainly have a better chance of seeing him in the spring—for I am sure he could not be induced from Gossenbury only to see his sisters."
"Mary's company is an inducement to any sensible person," Rosamond agreed serenely. "Now do stop pestering our guest, Julie, and eat your breakfast; I am sure your toast is quite cold by now."
Juliet laughed, and dug into her food with gusto.
After breakfast, the viscount retreated to his study with his steward to look over some papers, and Rosamond excused herself to write a few letters. Juliet led Mary to the music room, where Mary was only too happy to sit down at the elegant mahogany pianoforte, though she hesitated for a moment before laying her fingers upon the keys—the instrument was so much finer than any to which she was accustomed.
"I should like to hear you play," Juliet said, settling upon the long couch with her little writing-desk. "It reminds me of when we were all in Bath together, and you would come over and practice on Rose's instrument in the mornings. I always found your music so very inspiring."
"Even though it was only practice?" Mary asked, with a smile. "I have never thought misstruck keys particularly inspiring."
"Indeed they are, for I often think it is the act of learning that is most inspiring thing. Perfection is all very well, you know, but I like to hear somebody make a mistake here or there."
"Then I shall try something new today," Mary decided, rifling through Rosamond's impressive collection of sheet-music, "and provide you with plenty of mistakes. Here is one of Mr. Edelmann's, which I have never tried before."
Miss Hart was most encouraging, and Mary ventured into the first notes of the piece.
They passed nearly three-quarters of an hour in a companionable silence broken only by the music, which Mary hoped was very inspiring indeed, as the piece was a rather difficult one. Juliet's head was bent over her writing-desk—she had a fondness for writing poetry, and for reading it, as well—and she seemed very much pleased with the accompaniment provided for her words by Mary's music. With a fire blazing in the hearth, and a few snowflakes beginning to fall gently outside the window, it was remarkably pleasant and peaceful. If she could spend every morning in such a fashion, Mary thought, rather dreamily, she would be perfectly satisfied with London, even if it meant dancing in a ballroom every few nights.
Her inattention took its toll, however, as she suddenly struck two wrong keys in succession, and she winced at the ugly sound. Just then the door opened.
"There!" exclaimed a voice; "I did not think that could be Rose playing."
It was a very rich voice, good breeding and expensive education in all its accents, and the young woman accompanying it was no less impressive as she strode into the room, followed by two younger ladies. Mary took her fingers from the keys, vexed that the Miss Adlams—for these creatures of fashion could be no others—should have chosen to make their appearance at such a moment (why could they not have waited until she had moved on to a piece with which she was more experienced?), and stood hastily, nearly stumbling over the piano-bench as she did so.
"Good morning, Juliet," said the lady who had spoken. "And you are Miss Bennet, I believe." She made a low, graceful curtsy, as the other two did the same behind her.
"You must be Miss Adlam," Mary answered, with a curtsy of her own.
"I am Regina Adlam," the lady confirmed. "These are my sisters, Philippa and Cassandra. It is a great pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Bennet; Rosamond has told us ever so much about you." She afforded Mary a perfunctory smile.
Mary had seen Lord Adlam's sisters once before, at Rosamond's wedding, but had had no opportunity (nor, if she were honest with herself, desire) to converse with any of them, and that had been nearly four years ago besides. Thus she took a moment, now, to acquaint herself with these heretofore unseen members of the Breezewood household.
The Honorable Miss Adlams were tall, like their elder brother, with slender, graceful frames and a very imperious sort of beauty about their features; they were all elegant lines in their smart lustring day-dresses. Regina, who looked to be a year or two Mary's senior, had hair so dark that it was nearly black, high sharp cheekbones, and bright blue eyes with a rather catlike look to them. She appeared wholly unimpressed by the Miss Bennet of whom Rosamond had told her ever so much, and settled upon one of the couches without another word to Mary, arranging her skirts so they fell becomingly to the expensive carpet. Her younger sisters were no less striking; they settled on either side of Miss Regina, and the three of them together looked quite like a fashion-plate. Mary was suddenly very conscious of her plain checked frock and worn woolen shawl, and even more so of the sad little ribbon in her hair—her foolish attempt at fashion! Her own self-consciousness annoyed her, and she glanced away from the charming scene.
"We did not mean to interrupt your playing, Miss Bennet," one of them said (Mary thought it was Miss Philippa, but she could not be certain). "Please, continue."
"Indeed, for you were playing so beautifully," said the other, who might have been Miss Cassandra. Mary flushed involuntarily. There was no mocking smile, no hint of sarcasm, in the young lady's tone, and yet there was something very plainly insincere about the way the words were spoken—as though Miss Cassandra simply did not care to hide the fact that she was speaking out of mere politeness.
"That is quite all right," Mary said, taking the seat next to Juliet. "I have finished my practice for the day." She hoped the Miss Adlams would hear the emphasis she put upon the word practice, but no recognition crossed their impassive features.
"It is much nicer to talk, when one has a room full of people," Juliet agreed, setting her writing-desk aside.
"How right you are," Miss Regina said, giving Juliet a smile. "Shall we ring for some tea and cakes?"
"Yes, do," Juliet said, "and we shall eat them all before Rose gets here, so she will be very sorry indeed to have missed such a merry morning."
"I do not think I shall take any," Mary interjected. "I ate quite an excellent breakfast this morning."
"I am glad to hear it, Miss Bennet," said Miss Regina. "But you see, my sisters and I are not so fastidious as we ought to be, and slept right through breakfast, so that there was nothing but toast when we came to table. I think some tea and cakes would suit us very well." She lifted the little silver bell from its table beside the couch, and rang it imperiously.
"How was your evening?" Juliet asked, eagerness plain in her tone. Miss Regina laughed.
"I thought it was very dull," she said, with a jaunty toss of her head, "but I suppose such things are to be always dull for me, now that I am engaged and no longer allowed to flirt with any of the gentlemen."
"Though your engagement does not stop that silly Malcolm Pierce from trailing after you all the time," said the young lady who might be Miss Philippa.
"That is hardly my fault," Miss Regina answered. "I've been as cruel to him as I can, and he never seems to notice. He asked me to dance with him twice at the Rutledges' on Saturday. It was very shocking."
But she hardly sounded shocked.
"Don't be too cruel to him, Regina," Miss Cassandra said, "for I shouldn't like the family to give us up. I've been thinking Lewis Pierce might do very well for Juliet." She winked at her young sister-in-law, who blushed and smiled.
"We have decided that it is our duty to find Juliet a London beau, so that she can be a true London miss," Miss Philippa said to Mary.
"But you mustn't tell Rose," Juliet said, grinning, "for I am sure she will be very disapproving."
"Perhaps rightly so," Mary replied stiffly. "It is never kind to toy with the feelings of another simply for one's own amusement."
"You must forgive Mary for speaking so seriously," Juliet told the others. "She has a beau already, so she is quite above such nonsense as flirtations and intrigues."
"Have you a beau?" said Miss Regina, in a tone which suggested that she could not quite believe it. Mary's cheeks flamed, and she wished heartily that Juliet would not say anything more. But her hope was in vain, for the younger lady continued cheerfully,
"Oh, yes! She is in love with my brother Robert, and he with her, and they are to be married very soon—perhaps when he comes to see us in the spring."
"That has not been arranged, or even discussed," Mary said hastily, "and we are not even formally engaged," but the Miss Adlams were looking at her with the first vague hints of interest. At least, the two younger were; Miss Regina was playing with one of her bracelets.
"I am so fond of young Dr. Hart," Miss Philippa said. "We saw him quite often here in London while he was at St. Thomas's, and once or twice in Bath, and of course we were all at Locksby together just over Christmas. He is so very clever, is he not? And very amusing, in a quiet sort of way. I like him very much—I have spent hours talking with him, and never once grown bored."
"As have I," Mary managed, and Philippa and Cassandra gave silvery laughs; but inwardly, Mary was seized by an unexpected and unwelcome surge of jealousy. She had not seen Robert since Rosamond's wedding nearly four years ago—and to think of Philippa Adlam sitting by Robert's side in this very music-room, or in the drawing room at the Adlams' Royal Crescent address in Bath, or beside some grand stone hearth at Locksby Hall! Suddenly she could not see anything but Philippa's glossy curls spilling over her pale shoulder, her pearly little teeth, her large blue eyes fanned by long full lashes. How dare this creature claim to be 'so fond' of Robert Hart! Mary swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very hot, and was glad that the tea-tray was brought in just then.
Of course there were other young ladies amongst Robert's acquaintance, she told herself sternly, while the others busied themselves with their tea, and plenty of those young ladies were probably very pretty; and of course it was only natural that Robert should spend time in the household of his twin sister, particularly when they were living in the same city. Her jealousy was unforgivable, and she ought to be ashamed of it. The Mary with whom Robert had fallen in love had never been so unfairly covetous of his attention, nor resentful when he gave it to others.
Yet she found she still could not bring herself to look at Miss Philippa with her accustomed composure.
Rosamond came in as they were drinking their tea, and apologized for having been so long about her correspondence; "I'm afraid I haven't been as scrupulous as I ought," she remarked good-naturedly, "and quite a pile of envelopes had amassed upon my desk." She lamented further that she had not been present to make the introductions between Mary and the Miss Adlams, as was her duty as lady of the house, but Miss Regina was quick to wave away her apologies.
"We have all been getting along very pleasantly," she assured the viscountess, "for we have found Miss Bennet quite as amiable as you promised us. I daresay we shall all be like sisters in no time at all, so there is no need to stand upon ceremony."
Mary rather doubted this, but Rosamond looked relieved.
Now that Lady Adlam had joined them, the Miss Adlams seemed to feel no further obligation to pretend interest in Miss Bennet. Mary was surprised to see that Lord Adlam's sisters clearly valued Rosamond's company, and seemed to bear her no ill will for being lower-born than themselves—for while Mary certainly treasured her friendship with the viscountess, she had quite expected these cultivated young pearls to turn up their noses at such a connection.
But if anything, they seemed eager to amuse and please their sister-in-law, and sought her opinion on a great many subjects. Juliet, too, was treated fondly; but the Miss Adlams seemed to have little desire to speak further with Mary, and every so often she caught one or another of them regarding her with something that was far too polite to be called distaste, but was certainly not fondness, nor interest.
Well, Mary thought crossly, such fashionable creatures as these can have little intellectual depth to them, and so I need not concern myself with their good opinion.
Yet she was a little stymied when Miss Regina, in conversation with Juliet, made an allusion to a poem from the new edition of Lyrical Ballads, and again a few minutes later, when Miss Cassandra was heard to be humming a strain of Scarlatti.
Mary was relieved, therefore, when Rosamond at length asked Mary whether she should like to go for their promised walk in the park. She was further relieved when the Miss Adlams immediately disclaimed any desire to join them.
"You will catch cold, Rose," Miss Cassandra exclaimed, looking concerned.
"Nonsense," Rosamond laughed. "I have always been remarkably healthy; and besides, I have two physicians in my family, who might advise me in the event of any illness. You need have no fear for me, Cassandra."
"I cannot understand why so many people insist on taking their exercise out of doors even in such a miserable season," Philippa said, with an elegant shake of her head. "It is horrid enough being obliged to tread through snow and muck on one's way between places—I cannot imagine walking simply to walk."
"Then you are fortunate indeed that you have a carriage, which might save your shoes and skirt-hems," Rosamond replied brightly, "but for my part, I should like some exercise. It suits me ill, sitting indoors all day, no matter how miserable the weather."
"I think it most healthy for a lady to enjoy a good deal of activity," Mary agreed. "Not only does it nourish the body, but the spirit as well; there is a great deal to be said for the moral usefulness of regular communion with nature."
"I fear your walk through Hyde Park is to be less spiritually nourishing than you might expect," Regina said drily. "But I bid you joy of it, Miss Bennet."
Even Juliet could not be tempted from the warm fireside, and so it was only Mary and Rosamond that set out from Breezewood a few minutes later, Rosamond in a fine fur-trimmed pelisse of white wool with gold buttons down the bodice, and Mary in a pale gray wool cloak with a large hood, which had once belonged to Jane.
The day was, as Lord Adlam had promised, not so terribly cold; and indeed, Mary—country-lass that she was—enjoyed the fresh breath of the wind upon her face. The clouds had lifted a little, and the sun ducked carefully between them, casting glittering streaks of pale gold upon the fresh snow, which faded as the sun found a new cloud behind which to hide. Rosamond tucked Mary's arm companionably through her own, and smiled at her, and Mary began to feel as if perhaps she had been too unkind to the Miss Adlams; perhaps they were not so snobbish and artful as they seemed.
But, alone with her friend, her first words betrayed her. "Miss Philippa mentioned that Robert had spent a great deal of time here at Breezewood while he was in London."
"Indeed he did," Rosamond answered cheerfully, "though I am sure it was chiefly because he knew I could give him a better dinner than he could get for himself."
"And you were all at Locksby together for Christmastide?"
"Yes—all of the family. It was very pleasant. I believe Philippa quite fell in love with my little nieces and nephews; she is fond of children."
"How agreeable," Mary remarked, though she rather wanted to ask if it was only the nieces and nephews who had engendered such affection from Miss Philippa. But her pride and her better judgment thankfully prevented her from doing so, and they walked on for a moment in comfortable silence.
"I hope you shall not mind dining out tonight," Rosamond said at length. "We have been invited to the home of my friend Lady Chalcroft, and I promise you shall like her; her evenings are always very quiet and agreeable, and usually include a bit of music. She will probably invite you to perform."
Mary, thinking of her misstruck keys on the Edelmann, frowned self-consciously. "I doubt my skills are enough to impress the ears of London; but I shall not mind dining with her. You need have no fear, Rosamond," she added, speaking for the first time what had been in her mind since her arrival, "of upsetting me by accepting invitations. I admit that I am not of a particularly sociable temperament, but I am perfectly able to enjoy myself in dining rooms and drawing rooms."
"And ballrooms?" Rosamond said teasingly.
"Even ballrooms," Mary replied, with a smile, "as long as my presence there is of limited duration; but truly, Rosamond, I should not like you to feel as though you are imposing upon me. I know very well what it is to spend a Season in London—it is not as though I have come with the expectation of spending every evening by the fireside. Indeed I feel rather as if I am imposing upon you. I know perfectly well that I am hardly the sort of young lady whom you can be delighted to introduce your friends here."
Rosamond stopped walking so suddenly that Mary, her arm still entwined with her friend's, was jerked to a halt. "Whatever do you mean?" the viscountess demanded, fixing her with something almost approaching a glare, which looked very strange indeed on her usually placid visage.
"Why," Mary answered, startled by Rosamond's sudden intensity, "only that I know myself to be reserved, and generally disagreeable, and not particularly interesting in society; and that is all very well in Meryton, where everybody knows me to be so, but here it is another matter altogether. I do not mind so much for myself, as I have no intention of heeding my mother's advice and mining London for connections and beaux. But I should be saddened to embarrass you."
Rosamond was still staring at her, and it was a long moment before she spoke. "Mary," she said at last, "I have an elder sister who ran away with a gentleman at the age of twenty-three, and an elder brother whose wit is very often outmatched by his volubility, and a younger sister who seems determined to find herself in some sort of entanglement by the Season's end—and being myself a woman of no family rank or fortune, who has found myself in a position far above that to which I have any right, and even after years of marriage is accustomed to hearing whispers behind my back—do you not think it may take more than a reticent friend to embarrass me?"
"I only meant—" Mary bit her lip.
"I did not invite you to London to improve my social standing, nor yours, I am sorry to say," Rosamond went on, as though Mary had not spoken. "Nor did I ask you here so that I may show you off in every house and gallery, like some sort of—of exoticism. I wanted you here because I missed you, and because I enjoy your company, and always have, even when you did not enjoy mine." She gave Mary a little grin, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. "I hope that I have not been unclear on that point."
Mary shook her head wordlessly.
"Then let us walk on; this is a conversation better had indoors, at any rate." Rosamond squeezed Mary's gloved hand with her own, then took her arm again, and they went forward along Curzon Street. Mary felt more than a little affected, and thought—not for the first time in her life—how unkindly she had underestimated her friend.
She was also rather selfishly glad to note that Rosamond, in naming the separate faults of herself and her siblings, had neglected to mention any mortifications of which Robert was the author. She was uncertain whether this was due to some twin loyalty or because Robert had not done anything unseemly in recent memory, but Mary knew she would not have liked to hear criticism of him just then.
It was another quarter of an hour before they reached Hyde Park, but Mary, being accustomed to walking almost every day between Netherfield and Longbourn, found the exercise refreshing. So, too, did Rosamond, who as they walked chatted easily, and pointed out a few places of interest along the route. The park was quiet, the day being still not quite fair enough to call the masses from their comfortable homes, though a few people traipsed the winding paths between the snow-dusted shrubberies and, in the distance, some figures skated with varying levels of expertise upon the frozen Serpentine. Rosamond was greeted with many a nod and smile as they walked, and returned them all, though Mary remembered what she had said about whispers behind her back, and wondered if any of these were the whisperers.
"This is rather as close as we come to Nature in London, save Hampstead Heath," Rosamond said, "but you are welcome to try and commune with it, if you like."
"I think it quite fine," Mary said, and she did. The glimpse which she had caught yesterday, riding past with Lord Adlam, had looked promising enough to her, and she was not disappointed. The park was certainly large, much larger than the village green in Meryton, with plenty of tall trees and shrubberies and flower-beds. In springtime, she imagined, it would be a very pretty, cheerful place indeed.
"I have spent many fine afternoons reading here in the late Season," Rosamond remarked, "or have tried to, anyway; the fine afternoons are the worst for reading, as everybody comes to the park to look at one another, and talk to each other, and it is impossible to have any privacy."
"I should imagine that is a fault of London generally," Mary said, then regretted it, for it sounded rather ungrateful. But Rosamond only gave a little shrug.
"It is indeed, but one grows accustomed to it. We only spend part of the year here, after all, and it is always the part during which one wants most to be sociable—winter and early spring, when the weather is disagreeable and you feel ever so gloomy, and want only to be surrounded by pleasant people. London is well enough for that. And then in the spring we go to Bath, where we spend as much time with my family as with our friends; and then the rest of the year is at Locksby, where it is perfectly tranquil, and the only guests are the ones you have invited yourself, for nobody can simply 'drop in on' Gloucestershire."
"I should like to visit Locksby," Mary said.
"I shall see to it that you do; if you are not sick to death of us all by summer, then you must come and stay with us. It is exactly the sort of place you would like—green, and quiet, and lovely. The grounds are the prettiest I have ever seen (though I may admit to some bias, for they are my own grounds), and I have taken particular charge of the gardens, since they have been rather neglected since Julian's mother died. They are not quite yet where I should like them, but they are not so far."
"Does it suit you, then," Mary asked, "being a viscountess?"
Rosamond bit her lip as she considered the question.
"What suits me," she replied, after a moment, "is being Julian's wife; that is what I could not do without. I daresay I should be happy to be Lady Adlam even if it meant living in a hovel—though that is a flippant thing to say, I warrant, for I have never been obliged to live in a hovel and it seems unlikely that I ever should, and it is very callous and naïve, for a viscountess with an estate to talk of happiness in hovels."
"But you are happy," Mary said, smiling, "and that is what matters."
"Yes—very happy."
"I should never suspect you of having made a mercenary marriage," Mary said. "Nor of the sort of greed which draws pleasure from money and titles."
"Do you call it greed? I suppose it is—but every desire is a sort of greed. My greed is only for love. Besides, I have never been in the sort of circumstances which would oblige me to marry for money. Some young ladies have not that good fortune, and I would not chasten them for doing what they must."
"I suppose your good fortune makes you charitable," said Mary, "as it ought."
"I hope it does. If not, what is its use?"
It seemed as if she would have said more, but at that moment she paused, and gave a bright smile of greeting to a young gentleman walking toward them. He seemed glad to have caught her notice, and hurried over.
"Your Lordship, what ever do you do out here in such gray weather?" Rosamond asked him, laughing.
"I might ask you the same, my dear Lady," was the reply. "Though that pelisse does look prodigious comfortable, upon my word."
"Mary," Rosamond turned to her, "I should like to introduce Lord Beacham. My lord, may I present Miss Mary Bennet of Longbourn House in Hertfordshire."
"I am honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet," his young lordship said, bowing low. Mary curtsied.
"Miss Bennet is a very dear friend of mine," Rosamond explained. "We met some time ago in Bath, where she and her mother and sister visited for a few months; and she was good enough to come stay with me here for the Season."
"Then I shall look forward to seeing you very often indeed, Miss Bennet," the gentleman pronounced gallantly. "After all, it seems I see Lady Adlam and her husband often enough for anyone's taste."
"Lord Beacham and my husband are thick as thieves," Rosamond said to Mary, with a very confidential tone. "Neither of them can accept an invitation without consulting the other; to see one or the other alone in a drawing room is to see a gentleman very forlorn indeed."
"Speaking of drawing rooms," Lord Beacham said, "shall we see you this evening at the Chalcrofts'? Mother is quite opposed to going, for she has an idea that it shall snow again tonight, but I am sure I can convince her if you will be there."
"If my sisters-in-law will be there, you mean," Rosamond corrected him, with a little laugh. "And they shall be, as shall I."
"I am glad to hear it," the gentleman said, offering each of them an arm. Rosamond accepted his right without hesitation, and Mary, after a brief moment, took his left. "May I escort you anywhere in particular?"
"You may escort us over the Serpentine Bridge, if you like," Rosamond replied, smiling at him. "We are only taking our exercise."
"Truly you are not yet a Town-woman, your Ladyship," Lord Beacham said, shaking his head in mock despair, "for you insist upon taking your exercise even when most other people stay at home, and what is the good of being out of doors, if not to gawk at everybody else?"
Rose laughed. "I fear you shall never make friends with Miss Bennet if you speak so," she warned teasingly.
"Shan't I? And why is that, Miss Bennet?"
"I find the pageantry of Town rather ostentatious," Mary answered. "I have never been particularly engrossed by the scandals and gossip of others. I find it all rather tiresome."
"There are many indeed who say such things," Lord Beacham said, "but I find that there are comparatively few who do in fact exert themselves to live by such a statement."
"Miss Bennet is one of those few," Rosamond said, "I assure you. In four years I have scarce heard a word of gossip pass her lips."
"Indeed! You are then a rare gem among women, Miss Bennet—or among people, I should say, for men are as often guilty of prattle as their wives and sisters. But what, then, do you talk about?"
His bemusement sounded so very sincere that Mary, in spite of herself, could not help but give a little laugh, though she felt it was rather unkind of her. "I talk about all sorts of things," she answered. "Music and literature, chiefly, for they are my greatest passions; but I also like to speak of morality and philosophy, and theology, and other topics along those lines. Indeed I find a truly good conversation is usually as edifying as it is immersing, and both parties come away the better for it, with a little more food for thought."
"I fear all of our conversations are destined to be rather one-sided, then," the gentleman said, "for it sounds as though you are in a far better position to edify me, than I am to edify you."
Mary smiled politely, but did not disagree.
"I was earlier telling Miss Bennet about Lady Chalcroft's fondness for music," Rosamond interjected, "and I expressed the hope that our hostess might invite her to the pianoforte."
"Do you play, Miss Bennet?" Lord Beacham asked, turning to her with eager eyes.
"I do indeed."
"I am a lover of music myself," the gentleman remarked, "and take great pleasure in both playing it and hearing it played. I hope you may have the chance to exhibit your talents for us tonight."
"I should be glad to do so," Mary replied civilly, "though as I told Lady Adlam, I fear my talents may not be impressive enough for a London audience."
"Our audience is never difficult to impress," Lord Beacham answered, "at least not where the pianoforte is concerned; all the young ladies of my acquaintance have long since eschewed it for the harp."
"The harp is considered more generally fashionable these days, I believe," Mary allowed, "but I have never taken it up myself." She did not add that this was because her parents could by no means afford to buy her a harp; instead, she thought suddenly of the tall gilded harp in Rosamond's music-room, and wondered to which elegant Miss Adlam that instrument belonged.
"Do you play duets, Miss Bennet?" Lord Beacham asked. "There is nothing I like so much as a good duet, but in this age of fashionable harpists, it is often difficult to find a partner. Lady Adlam and her fair sisters-in-law have indulged me on several occasions, but perhaps you and I might play together sometime."
"I have never played a duet," Mary admitted.
"Never? But then you must learn! It is so agreeable to play and sing with another person—do you sing?"
Mary thought of her past attempts, and grimaced. "Not well."
"Then I shall sing, and you shall play; at least for the first time. Later we shall learn how to play and sing together. Our friend here shall make a fine teacher for us, shall you not, your Ladyship?"
"I shall take you under my wing, if you wish it," Rosamond laughed, "though I am no Italian Master."
"No, but you have a prodigious good ear. I always make sure to sit by Lady Adlam when we meet at concerts," the gentleman said to Mary, grinning, "for she is always sure to have many opinions, and they are never ill-informed."
"Mary and I used to attend concerts quite often together in Bath," Rosamond told him. "You may sit by her now, if you please; she is as learned as I am."
"Perhaps I shall do so, then," Lord Beacham agreed easily, "if Miss Bennet does not mind my company."
"I do not think I should mind, sir."
"You are very kind, Miss Bennet."
"Here we are at Park Lane," Rosamond broke in, "and here, I think, we shall take our leave of you, my Lord."
"It is only the anticipation of seeing you this evening, that saves my heart from breaking," said the gentleman. Rosamond laughed, and curtsied; Mary hurriedly followed her lead.
"Look forward to Lady Chalcroft's, then, for perhaps you will be privileged to hear my dear Mary play something lovely," Rosamond replied. "Goodbye, Lord Beacham, and thank you for walking with us."
"It was no trouble—and it was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Bennet," Lord Beacham answered. "I shall see you tonight, and we may talk further about these duets of ours." He bowed low.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, sir," Mary said, with no small amount of awkwardness, for she had no experience with the gallantries of London gentlemen; but Rosamond rescued her by taking her arm and pulling her gently away, to cross Park Lane and join Curzon Street again.
They stopped for chocolate and cakes at Gunter's Tea Shop on the Square, which was, Rosamond assured her, hardly ever to be found so empty as it was that day—indeed there were only two other tables occupied, one by a pair of handsome young soldiers and one by a trio of very young ladies, who spent their time giggling in the soldiers' direction, and their lady companion, who spent her time frowning disapprovingly at her young charges. Rosamond and Mary settled at their own table, close to the window, where they could watch the sun struggle to emerge from its gray prison.
"Lord Beacham seems very amiable," Mary offered, once their chocolate had been served. Rosamond smiled.
"He is indeed; I like him very much. And it is very well that I should, you know, for his mother is determined to see him my brother-in-law, and she is a woman accustomed to having her own way."
"He is engaged to one of the Miss Adlams, then?" Mary asked, and a small, ashamed part of her suddenly hoped fervently that Philippa was the young lady in question. But Lady Adlam shook her head.
"Not engaged, no; but probably to become engaged, at least to hear Lady Beacham tell it. She was quite put out when Regina became engaged to Henry Leyes, though I think it a very good match. It is fortunate for Lady Beacham that there are two more Miss Adlams from which she might select a daughter-in-law." Rosamond's tone was wry.
"Do you think Lord Beacham will marry one of them?"
Her friend gave an elegant shrug. "I could not say. Lady Beacham is, as I said, very accustomed to having her way in all things; but Beacham is not always willing to be dictated to by her. And he was one of the few people of Julian's acquaintance who was kind to me from our first meeting; there were plenty others—still are plenty of others—who required a certain amount of convincing that I should not utterly disgrace the rank of viscountess." Her eyes flashed with unmistakable annoyance as she took a sip from her cup. "—But Beacham has never been anything but good to me, and to Robert when they have met, and so I cannot believe he shares his mother's conviction that men of his standing must marry a lady of rank. I think, if anything, he shall marry for love."
"Perhaps he will fall in love with Miss Philippa," Mary suggested. "That, I think, would be the ideal solution in such a matter: both he and his mother shall be satisfied, and presumably Miss Philippa as well; and Lord Adlam should surely be pleased to have such an intimate friend for a brother-in-law."
Rosamond grinned. "That is one ideal solution, I suppose, and in your logical way, Mary, you have hit upon it. My ideal solution should be that Beacham marries whomever he wishes to marry, and his mother learns that the world is not obligated to give her everything she desires."
"That, too, is a good solution," Mary admitted. "Mine was based upon equality of happiness to all parties involved, and yours upon what would best serve everybody, whether they should like it or not. I think you make a fine point that equality and fairness are not always the same thing."
"We are very wise, are we not?" Rosamond said teasingly. "I think, between the two of us, Mary, we could solve all the problems of the world."
"You jest," Mary replied earnestly, "but really I think there are very few problems that cannot be solved by careful consideration and honest, logical talk."
Rosamond laughed, and asked her how she was enjoying her chocolate and cake.
It was half past two when they climbed the steps of Breezewood. They were to depart for the Chalcrofts' within the hour, and the house was quietly busy, with the young ladies dressing in their rooms and their maids bustling to assist them. Mary had long been accustomed to sharing a maid with all her sisters; but it was something of a relief to have her ensemble chosen for her (this was a task she had never enjoyed, and she was quite able to ignore the maid's momentary expression of distress upon beholding the clothes she had brought with her), and to have someone else struggle to breathe life and fashion into her limp brown hair. In the end she thought she looked rather agreeable.
They all gathered in the vestibule, talking pleasantly, after Lord Adlam had sent for the carriage. The Miss Adlams, of course, were all striking in their evening-clothes; Juliet was charming and breathless in a gown that was plainly quite new; and nobody could have made a handsomer couple than Lord and Lady Adlam. Had Mary been the sort of young lady prone to self-consciousness of that sort, she would have dreaded entering a strange house with such a party, for she was certainly the plainest of all of them—but Mary knew she was no beauty. At any rate her nerves were focused not on her appearance, but on her limited social graces. For a moment she wished she were Kitty or Lizzie, or even Lydia—anybody who might look forward to a London evening-party full of strangers with excitement and pleasure—and not awkward, solitary Mary, who made poor conversation and was often unintentionally off-putting.
But she swallowed her fears as the carriage stopped before the stairs, and they all went out into the chill of the dimming afternoon.
The Chalcrofts' home was not particularly far, and it was a drive of only a quarter-hour or so, during which the lamps began to be lit in the stately houses they passed. The carriage at length pulled up before a tall building of red brick, the street in front of which was lined with other carriages of varying sizes, and before which two footmen stood at attention. Mary took a breath as the footmen leapt to open the carriage doors and help the ladies down. She felt Rosamond squeeze her arm softly as they were handed to the ground.
"It is only a small party, Mary," her friend said quietly in her ear, "and we shall not stay very late."
"Do not worry about me, Rosamond," Mary answered, trying to sound cheerful, though she knew her nerves crept into her tone. "I am too old to be afraid of a dinner-party."
Rosamond smiled at her, and moved forward to take her husband's arm.
They passed through the vestibule and into the hall of the house, where they met their host and hostess. Lady Chalcroft was a lady nearing her thirties, not particularly handsome, but with a pleasant, amiable countenance. Her husband was some ten or twelve years older, and had silvering hair that made him appear very distinguished. The lady exclaimed "Here is our dear Rose!" as Rosamond curtsied before them.
"Elizabeth," Rosamond replied warmly, and they embraced as their husbands clasped hands. "Allow me to introduce my younger sister, Miss Juliet Hart, and my particular friend Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire."
Mary and Juliet curtsied low, and Lady Chalcroft smiled at them.
"I should have known you for Rose's sister in an instant," she said to Juliet. "That hair, you know, and those lovely gray eyes. What a little beauty you are, my dear! You shall have all the gentlemen dancing attendance upon you this evening, to be sure."
Juliet flushed, and thanked her. Lady Chalcroft's attention turned to Mary.
"You are very welcome to our home, Miss Bennet," she said agreeably. "It always pleases me to meet new friends."
"Thank you, your Ladyship," Mary answered.
Then Lady Chalcroft was exclaiming over the Miss Adlams with motherly affection, and they were all swept into the large parlor where the other guests gathered.
It was an elegant assembly, as Mary had expected: an elegant assembly in an elegant parlor. It was quiet, as Rosamond had said it would be, but it was not a dull sort of silence—it was only a low murmur of conversation, here and there interjected with low laughter. It was also a small assembly, not more than a fifteen people including their own party, and while Mary had thought that a smaller assembly would be rather more comfortable than a large one, she now realized her mistake; for it was quite clear that all of these people were acquainted already, and in a more crowded room she might not have seemed so conspicuous. There was a group of fashionable younger ladies and gentlemen at each side of the room, and near the hearth sat three or four older people, who talked pleasantly amongst themselves.
Upon their entry, Miss Regina Adlam immediately adhered herself to the side of a pale, serious-looking gentleman, whom Mary took to be her betrothed. The other Miss Adlams were called to by one of the smaller groups, grouped appealingly upon a collection of chairs and settees, and they hastened to their friends' sides, pulling Juliet along with them. Rosamond shook her head fondly as she watched her sister go, before she and Lord Adlam were summoned by the other set.
Mary trailed awkwardly after her friend. Lord Adlam made the introductions, and the ladies and gentlemen greeted Mary politely. Lord Beacham was there, and gave her a smile of recognition.
"Hertfordshire!" said one gentleman, who had been introduced as a Mr. Rutledge. "I spent a few very happy summers there when I was a boy—some cousins of mine had a house near Abbots Langley. Is that close to your village?"
"Not particularly close," Mary replied. "It is rather far east of Meryton."
"Well, it was lovely country, and I am sure your Meryton must be charming indeed if it is anything like," Mr. Rutledge said cheerfully.
"And how do you find Town, Miss Bennet?" asked a Mrs. Kellaway. Mary glanced uncertainly at Rosamond, who only smiled.
"I arrived yesterday," she said hesitantly, "and so I fear I have not had enough time in which to make sufficient observation, and thus draw a conclusion."
This caused a certain amount of amusement in the company, and Mary flushed. Lord Adlam, seeing her discomfort, took pity on her.
"And so you must all be very kind to Miss Bennet tonight, so as to give her a most favorable impression," he said with mock sternness. The others laughed.
"Is this your first Season, my dear?" Mrs. Kellaway asked.
"Yes—my first time in London at all, since childhood."
"But how delightful!" cried a Lady Everard. "It is rare indeed these days that one meets a country-lass coming for her first Season in Town—it seems every young lady in London now was raised here, and has a most artful way about her. Miss Bennet, I declare you are quite refreshing."
Mary's face felt even hotter now, and she ducked her head. This, too, seemed to cause some merriment. Rosamond laid a gentle hand upon her wrist.
"I shall make sure Mary sees all the important sights, and attends all the important events, I assure you," she said to her friends. "I mean to give her a great many amusing stories to take back to Meryton. But now you must tell me, Lady Everard, how did you and your husband enjoy your time on the Continent? I have been waiting all day to ask you!"
"It was quite invigorating," Lady Everard answered eagerly, leaning forward to elaborate; and Rosamond appeared so riveted that soon Mrs. Pierce's account of her travels, likely more stirring for the teller than the listeners, dominated the conversation. Mary said a silent prayer of thanks for Rosamond's tact.
She was therefore a little discomfited to find that she was not seated beside her friend at dinner, but was instead set between Mr. Rutledge on one side and Miss Adlam's beau on the other. (Leyes, she thought his name was.) Mr. Rutledge, a stocky man of about Lord Adlam's age, had already proved himself friendly enough; but the lady on his other side kept him engaged in conversation throughout the meal, leaving Mary to contend with Mr. Leyes.
"You and Miss Adlam are engaged, are you not?" she asked him, once the introductions had been made. He bowed his head in assent. "I had the pleasure of meeting her just this morning. She is very agreeable."
"She is indeed," Mr. Leyes replied, not taking his eyes from his meal, and he said nothing more.
Mary frowned into her soup. She could respect the gentleman's taciturnity; to some degree she shared it; but she had already felt quite uncomfortable and out-of-place, and Mr. Leyes' complete disinterest in her only cemented these feelings. For a moment she was seized with a wild, aching longing for Robert, with whom conversation had never been a struggle, and to whom she could say anything she pleased.
If you were here, Robert, she thought, I should tell you how very glad I am to see your sister so happy, but that I am even more glad that we shall never be obliged to attend London dinner-parties when we are married, and that I should like to dine every evening at home with you.
Yet Robert was not there; there was only pale Mr. Leyes, who did not speak to her for the rest of the meal, and who left her to enjoy the very fine dinner with growing self-consciousness.
The gentlemen went into Lord Chalcroft's smoking-parlor after they dined, and the ladies retired to the parlor where they had sat before. Here Mary was glad to sit again beside Rosamond, amongst the same ladies she had met before.
But whether it was the absence of the gentlemen, or the effects of the wine they had drunk at dinner, or simply some natural habit of these particular ladies, this time everybody in their circle seemed quite eager to divulge confidences to each other and to Lady Adlam. The conversation swiftly turned to events that the ladies had all attended, and people that they all knew, and other matters in which Mary could have no say, and she began to feel quite as though she were being left out. Every now and again she glanced across the room, to where Juliet was sitting and laughing with the Miss Adlams and their friends, and she could not help feeling just a little envious of her young friend.
Rosamond's tact had not deserted her; but her friends were so numerous, and so set upon talking together as they usually did, that even Rosamond could not manage to include her friend in the conversation. At length Rosamond turned to Mary apologetically.
"This must be very dull for you, dear Mary," she said, "sitting with all the married ladies. Perhaps you would rather go sit with Julie and my sisters-in-law; they are sure to be more interesting than we. I should be happy to introduce you—they are all very agreeable, and should be glad to meet you."
At that moment a loud burst of merriment sounded from that side of the room. Mary swallowed. That did not sound like a company into which she could join any more naturally.
"It is quite all right," she answered.
"Then let us take a turn; I am grown rather drowsy, at any rate, and some exercise should do me good." Lady Adlam rose to her feet, and held out an arm for Mary to take.
"You do not have to abandon your friends for my sake," Mary protested, but Rosamond was quite insistent, and after a moment of hesitation, Mary rose to link their arms.
"I am afraid my friends have an unpleasant habit," Rosamond said, as they left the couches upon which they had been settled, "of forgetting that not everybody knows the people and the places that are so familiar to them. It is a failing, to be sure."
"A failing, perhaps, but a common one," Mary said.
"I found myself quite at a loss, when I first met them," Rosamond went on, "without any idea of what to say. It was only after meeting them several times in a row that I began to feel at all comfortable, and now they consider me quite one of their own, I suppose."
"I am sure your being a viscountess played some role in their acceptance of you," Mary said, and then immediately wished she could retract it. Rosamond only gave a little shrug.
"I am sure it did; that is the way of things in Town, after all. None of these people should ever have paid any attention to Miss Hart."
"But now Miss Hart sits among them quite naturally," Mary replied, nodding in Juliet's direction. Rosamond smiled.
"Yes; Miss Hart may now giggle with heiresses and flirt with baronets. I am glad to have given my sister some advantage, but I do wonder if perhaps things might have been...simpler...for her. If I had not married Julian, I mean."
Mary made no reply; she was not sure what reply to make.
It was only a few more minutes before the gentlemen came in, boisterous and amiable. Now the room was a little noisier than it had been before, and Lord Adlam came to walk with them.
"The Rutledges and Bodsons are to play a round or two of cards," he said to his wife, "and should like us to make a third pair. If Miss Bennet does not mind, of course," he added solicitously.
"Not at all," Mary assured them, already feeling a little guilty for having earlier distracted Rosamond from her friends. "I shall go sit with Juliet, and be quite merry."
Rosamond gave her a rather disbelieving look, but allowed herself to be led away by her husband.
Mary did as she had said she would, and went and sat by Juliet; but Miss Hart was too engaged with her new friends to afford Mary much more than a smile and a happy greeting. It was good, at least, Mary thought, that these well-bred young ladies seemed already so fond of Juliet—she wondered if that was due to Juliet's own charm, or her connection to the Adlams.
But sitting with the single ladies was as awkward as sitting with the married ones, for they all seemed already to be in each others' confidence, and the gentlemen present seemed far more interested in the London beauties than in plain, gawky Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire. Mary gave a great sigh, and again wished Robert were there—or even Kitty, who would have made her feel as natural and comfortable as she could like. How was it, she wondered, that some people could make new friends and acquaintances so easily, and others seemed to go utterly unnoticed and uncared for by the general population? Why had she not the gifts of charm and ease that so blessed her four sisters?
At that moment, the empty chair next to her was filled by a long, lean frame, and she looked up to see Lord Beacham smiling at her.
"Are you enjoying your evening, Miss Bennet?" he asked amiably.
"As much as is to be expected," she replied. "It is always a little queer to meet a large number of strangers."
"Indeed it is; but we are not all strangers here. You know Miss Hart and the Adlams of course—and you and I met this morning, which in London terms means we are the most intimate of friends." He grinned at her.
"I am afraid I am not particularly prone to intimacy," she answered stiffly. "I have a rather reserved nature, which it seems does not lend itself well to London society."
"You seem intimate enough with Lady Adlam, and that shall do all right for the present. Come now, Miss Bennet; I should like to introduce you to my mother."
"Your mother?" Mary asked in disbelief.
"Of course—I told her about meeting you, and she wishes to be introduced. She is rather fond of Lady Adlam, you know, though you wouldn't expect her to be, and when I said that you were her Ladyship's particular friend, she was all eagerness to make your acquaintance. Come now." He stood and offered her his arm. Mary, feeling a little dumbfounded, took it.
From Rosamond's description, she had expected Lady Beacham to be a woman of significantly advanced years, with handsome but querulous features, not unlike Lady Catherine de Bourgh (of whom Maria Lucas was still rather terrified). Instead, the woman Lord Beacham approached, sitting with Lord and Lady Chalcroft near the hearth, was surprisingly youthful in appearance, with only a few faint streaks of gray in her dark upswept curls, and a very fine complexion. Unlike Lady Catherine, who had clearly once been a beauty, Lady Beacham could still be considered a beauty—though not a young one. Mary estimated that she could not have been much older than forty.
"Well, Thomas," she said, glancing at her son, "and who is this?"
"This, mother, is the young pianist of whom I was telling you," Lord Beacham replied. "This is Miss Bennet of Hertfordshire. Miss Bennet, may I present my mother, Lady Florence Beacham."
Mary curtsied clumsily. When she rose, Lady Beacham was regarding her with interest.
"You are staying with the Adlams?" she said.
"I am."
"How agreeable," the lady said. "And you play upon the pianoforte?"
"I do, your ladyship."
A corner of Lady Beacham's mouth twitched. "I did not think many young women played upon the pianoforte these days. It seems that the harp is far more fashionable."
Mary reddened. "That may be, ma'am," she answered, "but I have always preferred the pianoforte."
Lady Beacham looked at her quite curiously, as though she had never heard such a thing before. "Lady Adlam has said that you are a very great reader," she said, after a moment.
"I should like to think I am; I enjoy reading almost above anything else." Mary was surprised to hear that Rosamond had ever mentioned her to her London friends.
"Yes," the lady said, "I can see that; you seemed quite uninterested in any of the people here this evening. I imagine you should rather be at home with a book just now. Not to say, of course, that your hospitality is wanting, Elizabeth," she added to Lady Chalcroft, who smiled and waved a dismissive hand.
Mary reddened further. "I—hope I did not appear impolite—"
"Of course not," Lady Beacham said languidly. "But it is true all the same, is it not?—Will you play for us, Miss Bennet?" she asked, changing tacks rather abruptly.
"I—"
"Come, Elizabeth," the lady said, turning to Lady Chalcroft. "It is your home, and your evening; you must invite Miss Bennet to play for us."
"I was just going to open the instrument," Lady Chalcroft said to Mary. "I should be glad to have you exhibit, Miss Bennet, if it pleases you."
Mary's heart pounded. She had not really expected to play this evening, however much Rosamond had hinted, and the thought of doing so before these people—who had scarcely given her a moment of notice all evening, and were sure to be quite critical—warred with her pride. At length she responded,
"If you would like me to play, Lady Chalcroft, I am happy to do so."
Lady Chalcroft smiled, and went to open the pianoforte. Mary trailed behind her, forgetting as she did so to bid farewell to Lady Beacham.
"Are you going to play, Mary?" Juliet called, seeing Mary take her seat. "Rosamond, look, Mary is going to play for us!"
Rosamond looked up from her card game, and beamed at her from across the room. Juliet, too, seemed quite delighted, and leapt up to come stand beside the instrument as Mary shuffled through Lady Chalcroft's music, looking for something she recognized.
"I shall turn pages for you," the young lady said, "unless Lord Beacham would like to do so." She smiled at the young lord, who had come to stand beside them.
"You may turn them, Miss Hart; I have no intention of being of any use to anyone. I only come to watch."
Mary paid little attention to this conversation, for she had found a piece of Haydn that she knew quite well from her days in Bath, and placed it upon the rack. After a moment, in which the room suddenly seemed quite terrifyingly silent, she began.
The performance went much more smoothly than she had anticipated; it had been quite awhile since she had played for anyone besides herself or her family, or every so often a gathering of neighbors in Meryton. But she knew the piece well enough, and the audience was surprisingly appreciative; upon closure of the song, she was afforded a great deal of admiration from Lord Beacham and Juliet, and from several others as well.
Lady Chalcroft insisted that Rosamond be the next to play, and then Mrs. Kellaway; then the harp was brought out, and each of the Miss Adlams exhibited in turn, looking stunning indeed with their dark hair and bright eyes as they leant their pale cheeks becomingly against the tall instrument. Then Lord Beacham and Rosamond played a duet, and were pressed to play another, though Rosamond refused laughingly.
"I am afraid I shall fall asleep at the instrument," she declared, rising from the bench despite the earnest protests of her partner. "It is early enough in the Season that I may plead unfamiliarity with these late nights; my body still thinks it is at Locksby."
Mary, too, had been yawning, though she had found the musical portion of the evening to be quite enjoyable—certainly more so than anything else. Her body, she supposed, still thought it was at Longbourn; the thought sent a surprising jolt of longing through her, which she endeavored to ignore.
And so she was pleased when they all bid their farewells, and bade good nights to everybody else, and made their way out into the cold night, where the Adlams' carriage was waiting.
Breezewood was quite still when they arrived, though the upper windows glowed dimly, suggesting that the servants were preparing their rooms. And indeed, when Mary had bid good-night to the rest of the household and entered her chamber, she found the fire crackling merrily, the bedclothes pulled back enticingly, and her own woolen night-gown laid out for her.
"Shall I help you undress, miss?" asked the maid, coming in from the dressing-room; and Mary agreed, rather too tired to wrestle with her own stays.
It was only the work of a moment before she was settling against the pillows, pulling the blankets over her, and leaning over to blow out the candle. The room plunged into a warm darkness, lit only by the shifting glow of the fire, which cast restless shadows upon the walls. Mary watched them for a few minutes, sleepily mesmerized; then, suddenly, the awkwardness of the evening rushed back to her, and she rolled over to bury her face in her pillow.
Is this what all London is to be like? she thought, rather miserably. It was really no more than she had expected—she was quite aware of her own shortcomings as far as Society was concerned, however much Rosamond might protest—but suddenly the prospect of spending months in such company, at such gatherings, seemed the most painful thing in the world. If only she could spend the Season here at Breezewood, with Rosamond and Juliet and, in the spring, Lizzie and Robert too; if only she were more like Kitty, and less like Mary! If only she could ever think of things to say! Why was she able to speak to some people so easily, and to others not at all?
If you were here, Robert, she thought, rather miserably, I should tell you how much I enjoy making you laugh, and knowing that I may say anything to you, and you will understand it.
This thought carried her off to sleep, where she was comforted by dreams of long days alone with her Robert, out in little Glastonbury, where nobody expected her to behave as though she were in London.