When she was handed down from the carriage into the torch-lit promenade of Netherfield Park, Mary was still struggling with the options before her. She carried her sheet music to the footman and blushed when Luke took it from her hands.
She had quite forgotten that he would be present, and she had been so caught up in her sisters' intrigues that the notion of apologising for the hurt of her absence had never occurred to her. As much as the man still looked coldly at her, she realised that she loathed the thought of looking pathetic before him. He had always professed such a delight in hearing her play, more so than her family volunteered, and now when his heart was already set against her the prospect of disgracing herself further made Mary feel ill.
Before these agonies could be expressed, Luke had turned away and busied himself removing another lady's cumbersome overshoes. The moment passed; Mary made her way into the echoing expanses of the ball room.
After Mr Darcy's astonishing dance with Elizabeth the party sojourned to the dining hall, where tables heavy with elegant fancies awaited even the most ravenous appetites. The crystal may have been rented, by the silver shone with the Bingley crest. Of course, it was safer to transport metal than glass, and so the residents could not be faulted with hiring the dainty tableware over risking their family treasures for a short-term lodging.
The design on the silverware was unusual, being formed of two contrasting styles. Miss Bingley was heard to explain that the new style had been incorporated into their traditional crest, to modernise and enrich the family shield. Now, around those stolid knightly arms, the exotic bouquets of sugar cane and Antiguan foliage illustrated the scope of their great holdings.
A few decades ago such a display would have been considered vulgar, but – as Miss Caroline delicately sampled a delicate pastry, she reminded them of the inestimable renown of their father's renewal of fortune. His commercial and political ventures had brought the family from disgrace back into the forefront of polished society in the space of a few short years. No-one would have disputed the lady's word, although Mary could not help wondering if the late Mr Bingley would have boasted of his enterprises in such a manner. She espied Mr Bingley escorting Jane from the table, and knew then that Caroline was ignorant of the ignominy her words suggested.
It is a common conceit that the possession of wealth can forgive social ills – and the greater the fortune, the more sincere the absolution. While the Bingleys did not have the standing to permit them the notoriety of the nobility, their financial consequence granted them some freedom to express opinions counter to common truth or even fashion, if they so dared. Had Miss Lucas spoken so plain of her father's rise in fortunes she would have been scorned. Caroline Bingley, swathed in satin and bedecked in pearls, rejoiced in the ruthlessness of her forebears.
Those estimable men were of noble stock, with centuries of good breeding and connections to the noble houses of Spain, England and… but the Gallic country's name was best left unspoken. The unfortunate weakness of Miss Bingley's grandfather was also evaded; the narrative of her father recovering the wealth lost at the tables and thresholds of Venice was a far better tale.
By astute dealings and strict economy Joshua Bingley had gained an enviable reputation as a filial son. Upon his death, it was said that his son inherited several thousand pounds a year from extensive holdings in the West Indies. Charles Bingley had never visited the plantations himself, pleading a weak constitution, but when the fashion turned towards his outmoded family crest he lay claim to that land's aesthetic intrigues as quite his favourite design. The new crest paid respect to his father, erasing a little of the ignominy that his grandfather had brought to the family name.
It was said, although in whispers, that had Mr Bingley troubled himself to examine his business in Antigua he would have been less inclined towards an enjoyment of the sugar field. Such concerns did not trouble the young man; upon becoming the master of his estate he delighted in sharing his fortune among those in his company who still believed that sugar brought sweetness in its wake.
Mary wondered if Mr Darcy knew differently. He watched his companion with the slight amusement of a hostler breaking a new-born foal. It was whispered that he had been offered a share in one of Bingley's endeavours, but had politely declined. He had little need for money, as the farmlands and slate mines of his own estate were diligently overseen and productive enough to keep his tenants in a goodly manner. Darcy often oversaw the harvest himself, expressing an aversion to the kind of boredom Bingley so enjoyed.
When Jane was drawn away from Caroline's arrogant boasts, Mary saw Mr Darcy smile for the first time that night. It was a cruel expression, not so much a sneer as a twist of the lips, and so full of self-satisfaction that it would not have looked out of place adorning the face of Mr Collins. Whatever thought the man had been enjoying had evidently been proven correct. Mary asked herself if that platitude had concerned Bingley, Caroline or Jane. She could not help but believe that the man would not be flattering her sister; when Mr Darcy looked upon Jane his entire bearing seemed to draw up and away, intractable even at that remove.
Kitty appeared at her elbow, her gloves already stained from the sweating escort of nervous soldiers. She attempted to conceal them beneath her shawl, and her voice was breathless. "You remember your promise to me?"
"I w…would scarce forget." Mary returned heatedly, and then mollified her temper. "I h…heard you practising all a…afternoon."
"I am nervous." Was the confession, and then there was a shy laugh. "I know full well I have not the talent to outshine the ladies here, but with your assistance I can at least be favoured among our family."
"You are not a p…poor musician." Mary spoke with more honesty than tact. "Be clear, be c…confident; your voice is s…sweet and you shall shine."
"I am grateful." Kitty reached up and kissed her sister. Mary recoiled a little; it was such an unnatural gesture that she could not trust or believe in its affection. Nevertheless, Kitty was smiling, and then Lydia called and the girl vanished to her sister's side.
"She is a vixen." A voice said with some humour. Elizabeth approached, and her face was alight with intrigue. "What mischief is she planning this time?"
Mary defended her younger sister as best she could. Elizabeth studied her with level surprise, and then her tone became as overbearing as that of the gentleman whose arms had of late borne her about the gavotte. "Well, no doubt your judgement is quite sound, my love, for you to sacrifice yourself upon the altar of Kitty's pride."
"She is not p…proud." The girl stumbled indignantly, and again attempted to explain the depths of emotion whose surety had so turned her heart. In such halting language the descriptions weakened into excuses, and she found herself tripping even more in her disquiet, and eventually fell silent with much of her heart still so burdened that the sense of the matter was quite removed. Lizzie shrugged and returned the opinion that she could not work out the difference between this event and her sisters' habitual foolishness.
"Recall you, Mary, when they conspired to trip Jane from her pony last year?" She asked. "They said they meant not to hurt her, only to muddy her fine gown, but I do not think they would have lamented a few bruises marring her features for the dance that night."
Mary thought then of Kitty's shared confidence, the bitterness: Jane cannot be less beautiful. She coloured.
"That was L…Lydia's scheme, not Kitty's." She protested, and reminded Lizzie that a thirteen-year-old child was prone to such weaknesses of character that an older girl would not indulge in. Her sister scoffed, and her words were sharp.
"Clearly, the want of a few years allows for far better judgement. You, I think, would not indulge in any foolishness."
It was some time before Mary could imagine some retort, by which time her sister's hand had been captured by Charlotte Lucas. The young lady affected such effusions of wonder at the behaviour of Mr Darcy that Lizzy was easily coaxed away.
Mary looked about her, at the crowing mother, indifferent father, and sisters who, through their simpering, sarcasm and silliness all betrayed themselves as just as deplorable as each other. How they all seemed to hate each other! How obvious it must appear to each person who gathered about the ballroom and studied the creatures within. Mary felt she deserved not her own reputation, which she knew to be both unearned and unwanted. She was not vain, or coarse, or full of unwarranted pride. Those were vices indeed, and must indeed be cultivated through conscious desire and repeated habit. What was Mary's defect, then? She stuttered! She might as well have been born ugly or lame, for all of the effort that her vice had demanded from her. Lydia might task herself to be less petty, but Mary could not train herself to speak with ease. Yet, despite the obvious pointlessness of wishing for a resolution, it was she among her sisters who felt the greatest sting of rebuffal. She was, and always would be, the least among them all.
The thought made her angry, a species of pique which moved her to action. When the ladies were urged to exhibit she advanced upon the instrument with such alacrity that she caused some upset with the ladies of the house. No matter - - her heart was resolved towards proving her deficiencies, was it not? Both the minutiae of social impropriety and the shrewish affectations of Caroline's upset served only to flatter the hypocrisy of Mary's mind. And so she played, and instead of Mozart or Handel she let her heart run into her fingers and scream out her loneliness.
This time it was they who stood speechless; she berated the company with the most brilliant articulacy graced upon her, and let them feel every perfect phrase resonant with the plaintive cries which could never fall from her lips. Minor chords, yes, and the major triads which shone with the hope of broken sunlight before the bleak clouds of the lower octaves returned. Then the thunder, the tenuto lingering over crass sforzandi, her fingers aching until she leaned upon the pedal and let the vitriol ring out unaided.
Thus disconnected from the keys, she found out the faces of her sisters and saw not one iota of comprehension, only embarrassment and anger. Meeting their eyes in turn, she picked out the trite refrains of their own rehearsed performances, mimicking their hesitations and idiotic simplicity just as they had mocked her stumbling words. She followed them with a rapid phrase which showed more true skill than the whole of their works could ever aspire to. Their faces reddened, even Jane's, as they understood the insult.
Mary was set to continue her own angry tirade when she looked around once more and saw the two faces in the room who were alight. The first did not surprise her: Mr Bennet was quite flushed with wine, and he was laughing with such honest amusement that, in this moment, his daughter felt close to her father. The estimable man was renowned for his sardonic wit, and there were few men in the county who were so ready to be delighted by the idiosyncrasies of those around him. His laughter was muffled by a raised handkerchief, but it was not cruel. He met Mary's heated eyes as if he was sharing a joke. She smiled back and her fingers found a gentler refrain, affectation sweet in the lilting chords.
The second face was also predictable, and yet it was astonishing. Mary had so convinced herself of Mr Darcy's disgust that his smile quite unnerved her. She knew it not, but he had heard such performances before. Of every person about her, he was perhaps the only one who could hear the words amongst the cacophony. His amusement was born from the indulgence of nostalgia and, indeed, more than a little admiration for the skill which such an exhibition required.
Mary finished her set and sat in the seat with her heart thudding. She remained there for so long that people began to murmur to one another: surely she did not mean to perform another piece? At least, not another such piece? As if he had been summoned to her side, her father appeared and spoke thus:
"You have delighted us long enough." Only Mary could see the gleam in his eyes and hear the genuine note of pleasure in his drawl. Then he leaned closer, conspiratorially, and pulled a face at the neat stack of popular whimsies waiting upon the music stand. "Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."
She smiled shyly at her father and took her leave. It took her all of her art to evade the anger of her sisters, and so caught up was she that the ball was near ended before she was discovered in the dust of the library. It happened that her intruder was Luke, who laughed at her exclamation of surprise and pressed a piece of paper into her hand.
"He said you should have it." He leaned on the first word heavily, and the words were a meaningful drawl. Then his shoulders drew back and his tone became arrogant. "I told them all I, and none other, would know your hiding place."
"How clever of y…you." She returned sourly, "To seek me in s…such a distant remove. I am n…near two chambers away f…from the others!"
He looked about him and raised his arms in a shrug, the gesture wide and graceless. The gold frogging on his tunic strained against the seams for a moment. "None of the other ladies would bother coming here."
Luke was smiling a little as he looked back at Miss Bennet, and she knew that she had been truly forgiven. Whatever ill she had committed to him must have been resolved – or, at the least, by boasting of his familiarity he had reminded himself of the pleasures of their intimacies. Exchanging a few further awkward, yet well meaning, pleasantries, Luke gifted her a second smile and left her in peace.
Mary waited for him to leave before she broke the seal on the note. She watched the wax crumble to the floor, and opened the heavy paper. Defying her cautious heart, she spelled out the elegant hand.
You have surpassed yourself, Miss Mary Bennet.
Be not alarmed by my message; your performance is of the character which I have oft felt the lack of. I detect my sister's hand in your artistry and applaud you both – regrettably at this written remove, but naturally our connection cannot become common knowledge, and your display tonight demonstrated improprieties enough in other respects for me to keep my counsel.
Nevertheless, I am convinced that Georgiana should enjoy the pleasure of your company, and have determined that you should visit her at her convenience.
I write this note in some haste, in advance of her invitation, as I appreciate that both discretion and the necessary preparations for travel will take some time.
As to your parents, I have related your father to my sister's notion of offering musical patronage, and suggested that your unique manner may intrigue her. He made some witticisms which you may guess at, rather I spare you the details and assure you that he has promised to make all arrangements required.
It only remains for you to await my sister's invitation.
In good faith. D.
So. She had not been consulted – but then, neither had Georgiana. Mr Darcy had observed, planned and acted so rapidly that any objections either of them made would be far too late. Mary found that she could not feel anger towards the man, however proudly he had acted. She had no chance to doubt herself at this remove, and now could only enjoy the thrill of excitement which his letter arose.
Tucking the paper into her sleeve, she abandoned her hiding spot and went to find her father. Upon gaining the atrium she was informed that he had departed long minutes before, and so too had her sisters and mother. Mary drew her shawl a little tighter around herself and stood alone in the doorway, waiting for the carriage to return.