Chapter 25

When Mary returned to Grovsnor Square early that afternoon, the butler had a note waiting on his tray. An invitation for a simple family dinner, from Miss R. Carter. It came at a time when Mary was desperately wanting some diversion, but even if it had not come in the form of a dinner invitation, Mary need hardly have resort to stratagems to avoid questions put to her at the dinner table. Lizzy was no longer capable of much sitting in a regular chair; that morning, it had been reported she was rather restless in bed and feeling some occasional though rather severe back pains. The doctor was expected to attend later within the hour, but no other signs of imminent delivery had manifested yet. Georgiana stayed as much upstairs as possible, keeping them all company. Mr. Darcy, until the doctor arrived, was not to be talked out of the room; his pale mood alternated between sitting by the bed and a gentle pace near the open window. At the very least, everyone had a source of fresh air.

At seeing the note in her sister's hand, Lizzy seized upon any other topic. Did she receive an invitation? From who? And the mention of Miss Carter brought a weak smile to exhausted features.

"Mary, I want you to go," she insisted.

Balking at the suggestion: "But Lizzy, what if it's your time?"

"Mary, if it is my time, you still might as well go. Childbirth takes a good while, especially with the first, so I'm told. By the time you go and come back from dining with the Carters, things will be much further along."

"I'd rather stay, please."

"And do what? You'll be sitting here worrying too. I'm trying to get Georgiana here to go back downstairs, back to the piano."

Georgiana sighed. "How can you expect us just to be busy and not worry, Lizzy?"

"Constant worry is not going to do either of you any good. My dear, please tell them."

Mr. Darcy looked to both girls. "I'm afraid she's right, Georgiana, Mary. You would be much happier employed, and time will pass more quickly. Please, Mary, I urge you accept the Carters' invitation. Georgiana, I think you'll be much happier at your instrument than here."

"Well, what about you?" protested his sister. "Who's going to be a support to you?"

With simplicity and warmth: "My wife will support me."

So ended all argument from either sister. Georgiana retreated downstairs for a light dinner and music. Mary dressed and had the carriage ordered to escort her. For according to the note, it would be the four to the table: Miss Carter, herself, her brother, and mother. Mrs. Carter… What was she to say to all this? Mary had only heard of her during casual, comedic anecdotes in conversation with the captain, and among the things recalled, she was a matchmaking type of mama. Did she instigate this invitation? Was it Captain Carter's desire, by way of his mother and sister? Mary rummaged her wardrobe in search of a gown to suit the occasion. This sort of occasion was a lot more difficult in dressing for, more than she realized. Going to a ball, going to the opera—it was the best, most fancy, most elegant thing one owned. For a family dinner, overdressing made fools of smart people.

Once more, Mary selected an Indian muslin of a light green shade, and the silk white shawl she'd worn to the park concert, with a simple gold chain on her neck, not even a pendant. It was perhaps the best, wisest course for an evening as this. It was also to be considered that the Carters' address took her to a very different part of town. Grand town homes and cobbled streets ebbed into neighbourhoods of smaller houses, older and more modest accommodations. In this district, real life involved the keeping of a shop or office, while the women kept tended their vegetable gardens inside the front gate, and children were free to frolic with dogs in the streets. The sight of a carriage sent these children and dogs scampering quickly from the path of the horses. Some load-bearing carts did lumber by, gawking after the barouche. Upon turning one corner, with a couple shops at the end and a row of ash trees on one side, the carriage came to a halt before the house. It caused quite a stir with a flock of geese, flapping and honking; in a way, they announced the presence of the prominent visitor.

Mary almost shrunk back in the seat, if only the coachman would just turn around. The curtains in the windows of neighbours fluttered, with women's faces inside. A small group of children who had kept out of the path of the horses ran up to the very window of the barouche, with their faces pressing up against the glass. Mary heard some friendly, overly curious remarks from the girls. Is it a duchess, asked one. She ain't so prettily dressed, said another. The younger boys were less complimentary, but Mary was quickly rescued from their prying eyes by a much taller boy, of fourteen or fifteen, who approached and scolded the little pack away from the carriage. It was meant with no harm, but the presence of a barouche, she could not deny, in this neighbourhood, was a rare spectacle.

The coachman opened the door and assisted Mary, with a hand, down to an unpaved, dirt street. By then, she had been observed by the family, and Miss Carter, with her brother right behind, approached to give her a proper welcome. Reception was warm, though marked by more temperance of emotion from Miss Carter and reserve in her brother. Once inside the house, introductions were made to Mrs. Carter. With one look at the middle-aged woman, instantly, Mary had confirmed all doubts in her choice of dress. Her elegant hostess wore mostly dressed in black, a green shawl and white embroidered cap being the two exceptions. Everything about her person, her home, her table was a tidy vision of domestic comfort. Their dining room was small, an intimate setting, with better privacy from the noise of the street. Its windows overlooked a little garden, with some archways and a bench outdoors. It lacked in the luxury of sprawling green and the fresher country air. House and garden was certainly not devoid of charm. The problem was not the setting, but it was observable that someone in the house had discord with another. Mary just could not make out who or what was behind it.

Miss Carter, the one to initiate the invitation, took on the responsibility to initiate conversation at dinner, which was promptly served, almost as soon as Mary arrived. Was she late for dinner? Did the tardiness start to vex Mrs. Carter? She tried to listen, more so than watch; for Miss Carter seemed a bit altered in her manner, not in pretension so much as uncomfortable. By some time into the meal, it almost seemed as though Miss Carter wished herself anywhere else. Captain Carter rallied, recalled some memories of Hertfordshire, and gave his ladies of the house a retelling of some old stories. Mrs. Carter listened placidly, with a very soft, very minor smile. Both her children had inherited her looks and fair features, no question.

"Now that you've extricated yourself from much harsher conditions for practicing medicine, what is your main field of study, Captain Carter?" asked Mary.

"It's not the most interesting choice, I assure you."

"Dear me, his is a ghastly choice," mused Mrs. Carter. "Please, Luke, you promised, never, no talking medical cases and diseases at my table."

"I intended no such thing, Mother. Those gruesome details are not sensible talk at dinner, maybe after, when the ladies adjourn to the parlour and the gentlemen take their port. But not at dinner. I know better."

"Know better but behave no better, my wicked boy."

"To answer your question, Miss Bennet. I'm actually studying and working with my partner into more research of the internal organs, in particular those involved in digestion: the stomach, liver, kidneys, bowels—"

"Luke, you promised," groaned his mother. "Where are your manners?"

"Oh, I'm not disgusted by it, truly ma'am," assured Mary. "Your son and I discussed medical subjects a great deal in the past. It all came about quite by accident really. From where I come from, a little town called Meryton, we've had an apothecary for many years. My mother practically swears by his counsel, however, the apothecary and myself don't see eye to eye about some of his ethics."

"I think I recall," said Miss Carter, "something of that episode in one of his letters. That is extraordinary for an apothecary to take such high-minded airs, and yet, deny you what you have rights to know. Don't be uneasy though, Miss Bennet. He keeps his confidences. We know no more than that. Unfortunately, we have had much to deal with, a similar attitude, from some doctors here. It takes a little doing and some character references to find an adequate physician. That's hard enough, an even greater difficulty to find one sympathetic in his attention."

"That's hardly complimentary of our own Dr. Edgeworth," with mild reproach from her mother. "I think him very capable and very attentive to our needs."

"For a cold or broken bone, yes, but for more serious… Well, never mind. That won't do." All three family members were turned solemn by it. She did not mean it, but it did inflict a blow, some very small inkling of blame. No doubt, even though Mary knew better than to ask, this was the gap in the family history concerning the late Amelia Carter, or perhaps even Mr. Carter. Going back in years, Mary recalled the captain referring to family back home, which included a father, at the time. The fact Mrs. Carter still wore mourning, even if her children had come out of it, would testify to it.

"Yes, that will not do," warned Mrs. Carter. "Let us change the subject. For I know my children well enough, Miss Bennet. I should like to know you better. Are you enjoying your stay in London?"

"Very much, ma'am."

"I did not imagine for such an accomplished lady, that you would really be, a young lady. It was difficult to picture the country girl in Hertfordshire being the same musician performing at the park concert in Vauxhall Gardens."

"Compared with others, I'd hardly call myself accomplished."

"But a composer? No headmaster or governess teaches you to write music, merely to play it. That is quite a talent."

"… Thank you."

"What is your family like, Miss Bennet? I've heard you come of a large family."

She already knew this, which worried Mary. "Yes. I'm the third of five daughters."

"No brothers?"

"No."

"Count your blessings," retorted Miss Carter, an attempt to lighten things.

"That is quite a task. Five daughters." Mrs. Carter served herself another cut of the roast, a smaller piece already sliced and ready for plucking. "I imagine having you published and composing music was not quite the vision your mother expected of any of you."

"Actually, my mother does not know of it."

"She does not?" she repeated, surprised. "Why? I should think she'd be happy for you."

"Mother, maybe Miss Bennet has her reasons," defended Captain Carter. "We ought not to pry in other people's family business." Mary's eyes dropped. Poor choice of words, though sound advice, it was not well-received. The woman did not reply to it, and started to cut more forcefully into her roast.

"Just seems strange. That's all I'm saying. Most mothers would be rejoicing for their daughters' successes, whether marriage, or literary acclaim, accomplishments, presentation at court."

"My mother would probably be delighted by such successes, but writing, composing, being published is… well, a trade, of sorts. I have nothing against it, mind you. My mother's side of the family comes from a line of tradesmen. My Uncle Gardiner in Gracechurch Street keeps a number of warehouses in Cheapside. A profession is most respectable, especially when one is diligent and upholds responsibility to his family."

"Very true. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being in trade."

"I never meant to imply otherwise, ma'am—"

"No, no. That is good, my dear. Most girls would not dare admit to it, if they can possibly help it."

"I'd say such ladies are ill-bred to think themselves too good for it. But regardless, I'd rather my mother remain in ignorance of my progress in the musical community here. After all, I am doing my family the favour of seeking financial independence. Instead of depending on my parents or my sisters or uncles for support, I can earn my own way."

"There's no such thing as independence, especially not for a woman. But, since it pleases you to earn your own living, I salute your endeavours, Miss Bennet. You have a very keen sense of duty. I do admire that."

"I… thank you."

"I think it's very admirable!" declared Miss Carter. "It would be so easy to give into dependence on others, and you won't have it. What I would love, above all things, would be to train alongside Luke. I'm not one for the surgery or anything gruesome, but I am fascinated by the doings and notes and observations of the laboratory."

"You've a laboratory, Captain Carter?"

"A very pathetic one. It's more like a closet. I bring in a lot of plant specimens as samples, and try to analyze their properties, compare them with old catalogues and medical books dating back past centuries. Our great, great grandparents relied a good deal on botany to solve the commonplace ills and ailments we all contend with today. Some of them worked very well, while others had little or poor effects on the health of the user. If we can trace back, we might combine the good uses of the past in medicine with more of our modern understanding. We might develop more effective methods of treatment, for such problems like gout, indigestion, skin maladies, and the like."

"Perhaps you might, one day," said Mary to Miss Carter. "Your brother seems keen on it."

"I wouldn't count on it. She may like the laboratory, but her eyes are not set on mine."

"Luke!" she protested, with a pinch on the arm. A wicked brother's grin appeared. "Now that is bad manners. We've only just been courting."

"Just?" he spat. "Only just—my foot. He's been calling on you a six-month now… Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I tease her very badly, as you can see."

"I do, Captain Carter. You mustn't harass your sister. For whatever you elude to, I was not supposed to know about it."

"Well, since he's being so boorish, I fear I must tell to clear myself of reproach," she said, with mock offense. "One of his friends, Miss Bennet, who attended the same fellowship together with Luke, has recently been paying his respects. He has a different practice in another part of town, and he has a great interest in research, like my brother. One aspect we have in common, and, well, he's a good man."

Mary smiled. "Well, without giving an unwanted opinion, I'll only venture to say that I wish you such an occupation and such a man as you deserve."

A kitchen maid appeared from the back, which signaled for the family an end to the dining and a shift to the front parlour. Being a small party of four, Miss Carter suggested forming a table for whist. Captain Carter led the way, directing Mary to a handsome little sofa, with lilac covering. All the design and work of Miss Amelia. Half the pictures hanging on the wall were done by her, and the other half, Ruth. Why go and buy from a dealer when it could be made themselves? Mary remarked upon the extraordinary amount of detail in the varying pastoral settings. Even if they did not reside in the country, their hearts were with the rustic scenery, with the sheep in the pastures, with the wild violets in the woods, and notably, in the seaside.

"That one is Ruth's," he informed her. "Her most recent creation, actually. I've been trying to save up for a little family trip to Brighton. I told her so much about it, and she probably just conjured this up… Her breaking waves could use a little work, but I love the pair of sailboats in the distance. She got those perfect!"

Mary was about to make another observation. Whatever it was went entirely forgotten in a moment. Though far removed from the dining room and behind a closed door, the voices of mother and daughter could be heard with some distinction. Mary blushed to hear the low, angry tones of one, and the offense of the other.

"That was very forward."

"Why couldn't you just be civil?"

"She's rather pert and opinionated for such upbringing as hers."

"Mother!"

Captain Carter, for the first time in their acquaintance of Mary's recollection, turned a very deep shade of red.

Undaunted, Mrs. Carter continued: "She's not so haughty, as I half expected, but she'd do herself a favour to keep a tighter leash on her tongue. She doesn't need to be involved in a man's business—"

"It's clear, Mother, you don't like the idea of my being a physician's assistant, and you're vexed that she would agree with Luke and I and disagree with you."

"Forgive me, f-forgive her," muttered the captain.

"I think it's late," decided Mrs. Carter. "I can see you'd both rather be without me. You'll enjoy her company better than mine."

"Oh, don't do this! Mother!"

"I'd rather retire early, if it's all just the same. You both may entertain her. Please give my regards to Miss Bennet, and apologize for my excusing myself early."

"Mother…"

Mary turned a like colour of red, and turned from the wall of paintings. "Perhaps I ought to go now. I can see—"

"Please, don't go. I-I am very sorry for this, Mary. This was not how I wanted the evening to go, and I'd hoped our mother would be in better spirits. Please, let's just go out to the garden, just the three of us."

"I… I'd rather not. I feel I've overstayed my welcome as is," refused Mary.

"I apologize for my mother's rudeness."

"You need not trouble yourself. It's not your doing."

It was her own doing; it must be. She'd expected something very different. It may well have pleased her to have those expectations realized. Then she would be justified to judge the haughty girl. Instead, her house guest was good-mannered and opinionated, encouraging thought and expression from her own opinionated children. For it was only natural, to respond with admitting defeat, leaving her mark, desiring an end to the evening. Mary bowed to it, despite the pleadings of both siblings that she might stay longer. To stay longer would only irritate her more, leaving the brother and sister to the rigors of defense. Captain Carter handed her into the carriage.

"Since we've not had a chance to talk, may I call in a day or two?"

"If it will not risk offense to anybody," replied Mary.

As that itself was insignificant, it was agreed on. Sad business being sent away too soon. No doubt, he wished to inquire after her progress with Dr. Reis. It certainly would've been indelicate to ask in the company of his mother and sister. Perhaps, that, was a possibility. He had observed her ill turn the night of the park concert; he must have guessed the situation well enough. The thought of resuming the acquaintance again would keep her awake and restless for some nights. Before news broke of Lydia's elopement, their correspondence between Longbourn and the camps of Brighton closed a gap of physical distance. It was as if he were sitting in the drawing room or in the garden, talking to her, when she read those letters, with his usual merriment and charm of manner. If only her last letter had reached him…

Upon returning to Grovsnor Square, nobody questioned her returning rather early. A black-clad figure and powdered wig was being admitted as the carriage drove up. A bell was ringing from some distant part of the house. Now, glad to be home earlier, Mary dispensed with her shawl and bonnet, then set to seek Georgiana. No music was playing. She wasn't even downstairs, but she wasn't to be found at the doors of her sister's chambers. A passing maid informed her that Miss Darcy was last seen going to her room. There, Mary found her after a quick knock. The girl was seated before her vanity, breaking her heart and trying to absorb it with a handkerchief.

"Georgiana," she gasped. "What's happened? I just saw the doctor come."

"The second doctor… He's a colleague of Dr. Reis."

"Second doctor?"

"Dr. Reis is already here…" In desperation, she reached into her drawer and snatched up a second handkerchief. "Oh dear, I wish he were wrong. I can't bear it…"

Mary threw herself down on her knees, beside Georgiana.

"Perhaps, your brother is just being cautious?"

"No… Dr. Reis… He says, it will be a breach birth." This wrung a sob from the distraught girl. "Mary, this is terrible. It's one of the worst cases for childbirth."

"Breach? Slow down, slow down. Take a deep breath… Did you say a breach birth? What is that, exactly?"

"You don't know? When babies are born, their head is supposed to face downward, and the head comes out first… Pardon me. I've no better way to describe it. When it's a breach birth, the baby's feet, one or both, come out first… It's not normal. It can hurt the baby, and the labour can last longer… Mary, I was born the same way. And it killed my mother…"

"Georgiana! Oh no, don't do this to yourself!" Mary often did not see her friend with her hair down and undone. All her dark ringlets cascade down her back and shoulders; tassels near the front clung to damp cheeks. Gripped with terror herself, Mary had a hold around Georgiana, and smoothed her falling curls in a few gentle strokes. "That was a long time ago. A different place and time. It does not follow that the same should happen to Lizzy. I wish I were more knowledgeable in this respect, but it's too early for despair… Please, don't cry. You'll make me cry."

"I'm sorry. I hope so. I don't know what I will do, what my poor brother would do—He's so frightened, I can see it. I couldn't bear—"

"Dr. Reis is with her now, and now a second doctor, whatever the case, we don't know enough yet. Let's not assume the worst, Georgiana." Grasping hold of her hot hand, Mary squeezed it tightly. "When I'm very agitated like this, I find I'm much better off with some tea. I haven't had my tea yet, and you certainly need it."

Mary promptly rung the bell. It took a few minutes longer due to the commotion downstairs, but the maid did go and return with vital reinforcements. Their tray was set down on the boudoir table, with its two chairs. Knowing Miss Darcy's preferences, she brought, along with the tea, a dish of berries and chocolate bonbons. Mary was left to with the biscuits and butter all to herself. After the cold dinner and disaster of an evening's entertainment, and now waiting in suspense upon the doctors, the Bath buns were fortifying. Before long, Georgiana had ceased crying; it was impossible, after all, while chocolate melted on the tongue. By the bidding of her friend and the maid, she changed into her dressing gown. Tonight, the brew was a mild and honey-sweetened chamomile. Perhaps, if Mary had given thought to it, she'd liked to have asked the maid for her own peppermint brew, but it seemed rather a lot to ask given the circumstances. Lizzy may be the one having the child, and in great pains—they could hear her groans every so often. The whole house laboured with her.

"My mother always said that with women in childbirth pains, it seems worse than it is," said Mary, trying not to hear the groans down the hallway. "And with the first child, with Jane, she said it felt like an eternity. She had five children, so I'm sure it's safe to declare her an authority… However, I don't know how accurate she is as a timekeeper. With Jane, she told us it took her a day and a half. Each succeeding sister was a shorter labour. By the time Lydia was born, my mother, in her own words: 'felt the labour pains' right after breakfast, went upstairs, and Lydia was born in thirty minutes. The midwife had not even time to reach Longbourn before Lydia was screaming and put in her cradle." Georgiana laughed a little. "I know nothing about childbirth and babies. That statement, though I cannot believe, would certainly love to hope it were true. For all the harrowing pain it causes, thirty minutes of it seems like nothing compared to one or two days."

"True… You know, I just realized something. For all the time we've known each other, Mary, you don't ever talk much about your sister Lydia."

"Don't I?"

Her head shook. "No, not really… May I ask, is that intentional? Is it because your sister is Mrs. Wickham?"

The suspicion was unexpected. "Well, no… Maybe, somewhat true."

"I've always been, I confess, more than a little curious about her," said Georgiana, blushing, with her eyes in her tea. "My brother doesn't talk about either of them, at least in my presence. And Lizzy keeps any mention of them very minimal."

"But, has not Lydia visited Pemberley since becoming family? I would've thought you'd have seen and met her during her visits."

"She is an occasional visitor, but I can't help notice that she visits Pemberley while I am in town, or elsewhere. I've never met her. I am under the impression that she's only invited or welcome to Pemberley, as long as I am absent."

"Oh!" Another shock. "Well, I can understand why you'd be curious then."

"What is she like, Mary?"

"Like?"

"Yes… Is she a nice girl? Is she… Is she very handsome and clever?" In a different tone, Mary would've judged her inquiry stemming from a deeply buried jealousy. However, her voice was demure and bashful, almost wounded, not the terse expression and false cheer of manner one puts on when attempting to disguise jealousy. Curiosity was indeed a genuine expression.

"When she was still at home, Lydia was… Lydia… It's hard to describe her in all fairness. For I'm sure she has qualities to recommend her, but we, her sisters, did not always have the best of her. In truth, she was always a silly girl. The spoiled darling of her mother, and as such, she was used to having her own way in the house. And therefore, she suffered the usual defects of such favoritism. She was not the most kind or generous person. She could be amusing company to her friends, and when she came out into society, she was very keen to draw attention from every corner of the neighbourhood… When the militia arrived in Meryton, from the first moment, she was infatuated by all officers."

Georgiana nodded, listened.

"As to her being handsome," shrugged Mary. "I'd say she is handsome, but rather in a common way. I think she's more handsome than me, but we were all told that we were nothing in looks compared with Jane. For I've always been the plain one of all my sisters, but now, I don't mind it so much anymore. I'd rather be sensible of my own plainness than under any delusions, fancying things about myself that are nonexistent. And I do believe that was a great failing in her. Lydia thought too much of herself: her looks, her charms, her popularity. Ironically, the deficiency in her education or good manners did not bring any shame. She was perfectly content being ignorant about the world. She never thought about tomorrow. And when officers were roaming the streets of Meryton, she never gave much thought to life beyond the wedding day, very little, except that she would be able to chaperone her older sisters to balls and parties."

"That's hard to believe, visualize, of a girl even younger than myself. That must have been a trial for all of you."

"Does it ever pain you, anymore?"

"No. Only a couple years ago, I had pangs every so often. I don't feel the same anymore when I come into the room and hear the Wickhams mentioned. Perhaps, my brother is over kind, trying to spare my feelings. I do regret my own conduct. I regret that I was so naive about Mr. Wickham, but in all honesty, I don't feel I was ever so angry with him, as I was with Mrs. Younge."

"Your governess?"

"Seems silly of me, to be so morbidly curious and inquire after Mrs. Wickham, when I know you've had your own curiosity about Mrs. Younge."

"When first coming to Pemberley, Lizzy put a gentle word to me, that when it comes to your personal history, not to ask too many questions about it."

Georgiana had opened her mouth about to say more, but the sound of a carriage came from the window, rolling towards the house. Mary set her sea and bun aside perplexed, walked over, and shielded herself behind the casement.

"Why, it's Rietta! Looks like is dressed to go out, and, I do believe Miss Andrews is with her, and a couple of others."

"It's rather late for house calls. I wonder what she wants."

It was just past eight-thirty, on the tiny clock of the nightstand. Dusk had gone, and the streets were lit for the darkness. The bell to the front door rang.

"I better go down," said Mary. "I'll just make my excuses."

"Well, if that is all, Mary, the butler can make your excuses. For all that's going on, I'm sure Miss Sothern will understand."

"No doubt, I'm sure. I'd just rather not be rude."

Mary did not wait for any further comment. Her friend was dressed for going out and probably stopped by to cordially invite her. The butler, whom she passed, offered to make a plea for the family, that nobody need be disturbed at this time. Mary thanked him, yet still accepted the charge before her. Rietta stood waiting in the foyer, glowing and all smiles, ready for a most pleasing evening. As soon as Mary informed her of the presence of doctors, the light mood instantly altered.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, Mary," she gasped. "If I had known, I would not have come."

"You could not have known, Rietta. It's no trouble. I saw the carriage. Are you all going out this evening?"

"Yes. We are dining with friends from Vauxhall Gardens. I had come to invite you, but of course, you should not come now. I do hope your sister will have an easy, smooth time of it. You're all in my thoughts."

"Thank you, Rietta."

"Another reason I wanted to stop by quickly, actually, was to say goodbye for a week."

"Goodbye? A week?"

"Yes. I've received an invitation from an old friend, well friend of sorts, to come stay with her in the country. It's been some time since we've seen each other, and should relish the chance to renew our acquaintance. So I'm afraid our composing sessions will have to be postponed until my return."

"Oh dear, that's unfortunate. Well, of course, not that you should be going, but just to go as we've come so near to completion."

"I know! I know! I beg you forgive me. There's no resisting her."

"But I do have something for you, Rietta. Something to take with you," suggested Mary.

"A present for me?" she purred. "You know I cannot ever say no to a present."

"Yes, a present, and no, you will not deny me, my dearest friend." There was something playful and easy about Rietta's dramatic phrasing of words, expressed without the immaturity of intensity. It took a bit of time to become accustomed to it. To now use such expressions herself as dearest friend came readily to the tongue, and her dearest friend, or Miss Judge or Mrs. Bowman, accepted such playfulness with great pleasure. Mary detoured into the drawing room, to the piano forte, and unfolded several sheets of music. "This is the rough draft we've been working at, you'll see. And this, is a copy I've made. I've been of the mind we might finish faster, but also, if you have the chance in your spare hours, to look it over and play it yourself. Perhaps you'll find some areas for necessary adjustment."

"I highly doubt that… but are you certain? I feel that we make the best of it working together," debated Rietta. "When you try to revise perfection, our efforts can undo the effects of it."

"I wouldn't say it's perfect."

"Mary, is there a problem with it being perfect?"

"Well… no… I suppose perfection is a matter of opinion."

"If that is my opinion, imagine who else will believe so too. For two amateurs like us, who never write arias for operas, we managed to write a song anyway. By the time we present it the Grandison publishers, they will eat it up!"

"You know I have a high respect of your opinion, but I insist you take it with you. You'll likely feel differently once you've slept on the matter."

"It will give me a chance to practice. And we must practice before it debuts… Do you think it's nearly complete?"

"I don't feel, honestly, that it's all finished, but think on it yourself. I'll work on it in the meantime. And I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, Rietta."

Stepping forward, the two embraced with all the warmth of a lifelong bond, with many years yet to come.

"You know, I've never had a real friend, especially not within the Starlight Circle," said Rietta, still locked in arms. They gradually released. Perhaps it was that both seemed to be in the grips of anxious cares; Mary for Lizzy, and Rietta, something unknown. "So genuine and honest. Though we have competing interests, we're not enemies for it. I wish it were like this, with all the other ladies of our society. Our lives would not be such a struggle, would it?"

"No indeed. It is a shame… Maybe it would be a good idea, in time…"

"What is it?"

"Perhaps, we ought to approach Lady Herncastle, you and I and any others who feel the same way, to put right some wrongs about the musical society. So that way, the mischief of ones like Miss Quinn and other duplicitous members will not be tolerated if they cannot reform."

"… I have little hope, no hope of that, Mary," she sighed. "More often lately, I think it would be best to break from the Starlight Circle altogether. Does that sound so shocking? Breach of contract is no trifling misunderstanding. Still, to be able to fly freely, spread one's own wings, be your own mistress, earn your wage—not a commission. Until we find a way, you and I and all the members are bound together."

That cold chill returned, wrapping tendrils about the heart, like the first winter frost taking hold of green vines. However, this was coupled with a reassurance, that Mary was not alone. Even Rietta, one of the greatest stars of the society, was being suppressed by legality. If Rietta must feel it, if she herself felt it already, how many others? Was that something to hope in? Could the vast majority of the Starlight make a stand? For the more days that passed by, the longer she meditated on it all, the wisest course seemed the most contentious—break free. How would such a thing be managed? And for Mary, how would that be managed, without giving alarm to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy?

Rietta bid her another tender farewell at the door, then alighted back into the carriage, with a hasty promise that she would write to Mary on her brief holiday. Another weighty thought for Mary upon her returning ascent: should she break her contract? Could she do so without trouble? Would others follow? Could she manage it without the knowledge of her family? Would her parents come hear of it, if a lawsuit occurred? No! If a lawsuit did occur, what could she possibly do? Would Mr. Cummings help her? Would Captain Carter help… She remembered the encounter with Mr. Jones about the mystery tonic. Captain Carter… Dr. Luke Carter… If Lizzy had not gone into labour, Mary longed to sit down quietly with her, by the fireside, and unburden herself of Mrs. Carter's polite smiles and whispered judgments. Lizzy seemed so glad of her going and would wish to know. Of course, she had a confidant in Georgiana, someone always truly sweet and dear and willing to listen. However, when she returned to Georgiana's room, aside from the blaze of her fire, coziness and warmth had gone from the room.

She was still staring out the window, watching the carriage roll back up the street.

"Rietta is leaving for the north tomorrow on a holiday," said Mary. "She was going to invite me to join them, but she didn't know about Lizzy. She sends her compliments and hopes for a speedy recovery for her. So it's farewell for a week or so."

Georgiana drew a deep, calm breath. "That is kind of her," she answered evenly.

"Georgiana? Is anything the matter?"

"… Just over tired," she shrugged. Her royal blue dressing gown shimmered in the light of the moon, and as she neared the fireside, the satin caught its golden glow. In a courteous but brusque tone: "Care for more tea? Your cup is cold now." She proceeded to busy herself, warming the chilled liquid with a fresh, steaming serving.

Ever since their night out at the opera, Mary had an instinct about it—ever since that conversation in the carriage, when they returned Rietta to her flat. Now, at the window, it was finally confirmed in no uncertain terms. Georgiana disliked her friend Rietta.