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Chapter 11

Posted on Saturday, 28 February 2004

On the following Tuesday, I donned my old grey gown and pelisse, twisted and ratted my hair into the semblance of a prim chignon, and pushed my spectacles onto the bridge of my nose. I had decided to forgo the spots--I felt that perhaps I could pretend my complexion had simply cleared dramatically, if necessary. But I was sure Georgiana wouldn’t mention something like that, even were she curious. I simply didn’t feel like going through the effort of making myself up.

Besides, as I gazed into the long mirror I realized that it was also that I simply didn’t want to be ugly anymore. Even the precautions I had just finished filled me with an inestimable sadness and regret. I guess I was simply getting tired of deception.

But this wasn’t the time for introspection; I had a call to make. I squared my shoulders, then, thinking better of it, slumped them again in my Mary-like way. Finally, grabbing my reticule, I headed for the door.

Alceste, Althea, and Maggie were all in the Gold Salon when I entered, and they clapped in approval at my appearance. “You look absolutely atrocious,” said Alceste with a smile.

“Indeed, you do,” agreed Althea. “A woman without fashion, taste, or means.”

“Good luck,” said Maggie.

I thanked them all for their kind words, did a small pirouette again to their applause, and then left the room. One of Alceste’s carriages was waiting out front, and the footman handed me in when I approached. Only a few moments later, we were off.

We arrived at the Doncaster townhouse in short time. It was an elegantly white three-storey house in Grosvenor Square--very fashionable. Pink roses grew in classically round and well-pruned bushes out front and the very sight of them made me smile. Of course Georgiana would have pink roses out front. They were practically her signature: dainty and well-bred.

The butler answered my footman’s knock and was handed my card. After a short, “I will see if my lady is receiving,” I was let into the foyer. I gazed around at the tasteful ornamentation in the hall as I waited, and in but a few moments, the butler returned to usher me into what appeared to be the drawing room. Georgiana was sitting on a chaise lounge, a tea tray before her, and looked up when I entered. She stood and stretched a hand out to me, which I took and pressed in a friendly gesture which I felt expected of me.

“It is good to see you again, Mary,” she said in her usual speech--hesitant and shy but warm.

“As it is to see you, Georgiana,” I replied politely. I then turned my head to look for a seat and caught sight of the other person in the room. “Elizabeth!” I cried on an involuntary gasp. I shot a glance at Georgiana, unaccusing but nevertheless surprised, and she blushed a fiery red.

“I kept your secret, Mary, truly I did,” she said.

I looked back at my sister, who smiled impishly at me. “I winkled out of her that you were going to be here this morning.”

“But how did you discover that I was in Town?” I asked, sitting down and accepting a cup of tea. “More so, how did you know that I had spoken with Georgiana?”

She gestured vaguely with one hand. “That I knew you were in Town was due to my overhearing someone in the dress shop the other afternoon. At first, I hardly credited that you were the one they were discussing, but I then happened to mention what I overheard to Aunt Gardiner, who said that you were, indeed, in town. She made me aware of your conversation with Georgiana.”

“You didn’t say that you were keeping the secret from your aunt, too,” said Georgiana bashfully.

“And what is all this about a secret?” asked Elizabeth with mock admonishment. “Why were you keeping it from your family that you were here? We would have loved to take you about to a ball or to the theatre or something. Or if you were absolutely opposed to such ‘frivolous entertainment,’ as you’ve always called it, we could have at least had a dinner together, or gone to the Royal Academy when it opens, or a lecture somewhere, perhaps. You could at least have called on us.”

Oh, dear. Now here was a bit of a sticky wicket. How was I supposed to bluff my way out of this situation?

I turned my gaze to my tea cup, where I fiddled uncertainly with the handle, twisting the cup from side to side. At last I set the cup and saucer down on the table and clasped my hands in my lap tightly. “I...I wasn’t sure you’d want me to call on you,” I said in a voice verging on tears. That was good, I felt. Tears always unnerve them.

“Oh, Mary!” cried Elizabeth in a gentle, sisterly tone I’ve only ever heard her use with Jane, Kitty and Georgiana. She came over to kneel in front of me and took my hands in hers. “Of course we would have loved for you to call on us--Jane and Kitty I can answer for as well! You’re family!”

I looked up through eyes brimming with the best tears I could offer, first at my sister and then at Georgiana, who was gazing at me with that doe-eyed sympathy of hers. I concealed the shudder of annoyance that ran through me, mingling with the self-disgust that pooled deep in my heart, and presented a shakily watery smile to my captive audience. Elizabeth smiled back in her usual bracing way, gave my hands one last squeeze, then returned to her seat.

I kept the tears for but a minute more, then took out my shabby handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes. “Thank you, Elizabeth,” I said. Then I cleared my throat and said in my usual Mary tone, though I betrayed (I couldn’t recover too quickly, naturally) a tremor of emotion, “Family ought never to forget that bond forged so early in life. That sisterly affection which holds us all together must prevail against the harshness of the world. Blood ought always to be thicker than water.”

“Hmmm, yes.” Elizabeth’s brow drew downwards, but she cleared her expression quickly and asked, “So what was this about a gown--the women in the mantua-maker’s shop were speaking of it, and I’m curious about a gown they described in no uncertain terms as quite elegant. You were at the theatre, I believe?”

“Yes. Last Saturday we saw Richard III,” I said. “It was adequate, I suppose. I would much have preferred to have seen Shakespeare’s play fully done, but Colley Cibber’s version of the play is not so bad, either--just more streamlined. I’ve, of course, read his, as well as John Phillip Kemble’s. I believe that none can equal the original, but even that has flaws. Looking at the histories--“

“But what of the gown, Mary?” came Elizabeth’s somewhat exasperated query. “I know you were never interested in fashion, but...” she let the sentence trail off with a vague wave of her hand.

“Gown...” I murmured thoughtfully. “Oh, yes. The reddish gown. Well, on the day I had run into Georgiana, Miss Mulvaney and I had just come from a modiste, where I had ordered it. Lady Woodbridge had insisted that I visit this...Madame LeClere. She’s apparently very well regarded.”

Georgiana nodded and added, “Madame has made several gowns for me, and I thought they were very pretty.”

“But I hadn’t realized that you were interested in fashion, Elizabeth,” I continued, turning on the offensive.

Elizabeth shook her head, then took a sip of her tea. “I’m not overly fascinated with the subject, of course, in the normal run of things. But I heard your name mentioned, and it piqued my interest. I had thought maybe you had become a fashionista since we last saw you at Pemberley,” she said with an arch smile.

“I have much more important things to do than spend my time in a modiste’s shop,” I said, tilting my chin upwards slightly. “From all that I have read, I believe that fashion is but an ephemeral sense of superiority maintained by those who have over those who have not. It’s another form of snobbery, perhaps more subtly displayed but nonetheless felt.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s very true in some ways, Mary,” said my sister. And changing tacks, she asked: “How are Mama and Papa?”

“Papa is doing very well, but Mama, I’m afraid, is somewhat the worse for her nerves. Or the nerves are the worse for her. One or the other.”

The other two in the room looked at me in what I could only describe as shock, and I kicked myself mentally. How could I have been so stupid? Mary never jokes. Even one as bad as that.

“Was that a joke, Mary?” Elizabeth finally asked, her voice threaded with a bit of hesitant laughter.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of tea. “I really don’t know what you mean,” I said primly. “Levity, I have found, is highly unbecoming, except in those who have the practice of making mirth.”

“Yes, well, there is nothing wrong with practicing,” she said. “And I think humor would become you very well.” She paused and looked to Georgiana with a smile. “Don’t you think so, Georgiana?”

Georgiana blushed slightly but nodded. “Mary is very pretty when she smiles.”

“Though we don’t see that very often,” said Elizabeth with a laughing glance in my direction. “But I agree with Georgiana, Mary. By the way, have I mentioned how well you look? Have you been using that cream I gave you last time you were at Pemberley? Your complexion looks much improved, I think.”

I could feel the heat creeping up to my neck, and hoped that they would attribute my flush to an embarrassment over the compliment. “Yes, I meant to thank you for that, Elizabeth,” I said, slightly at a loss for what to say. Of course I hadn’t used her cream, as really I had no need for it. “So how are Matthew and Charles?” I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with maternal pride. “They are doing very well. Charles just took his first steps about a fortnight ago, and already is running Nanny Gilbert ragged. Matthew is doing very well in his lessons, according to his new tutor. Especially geography. He seems to be quite the genius. Fitzwilliam is so incredibly proud of both of them.”

“And so Fitzwilliam is also well?”

“Very much so,” said Elizabeth. “When I told him I would be seeing you today, he sent with me his regards.”

I thanked her and said that she should send the same in return. “Which reminds me: I encountered Colonel Fitzwilliam at the theatre last Friday, and he asked that I send his regards to you all when I saw you next. He told me that he was returning to his regiment the following day, and would not have a chance to call on you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth with a nod. “The colonel sent us the briefest of notes informing us of his departure...before he saw you, I suppose, for we received it before we left for Lady Rawling’s rout. And he just happened to run into you at the theatre?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “Lady Woodbridge’s son Colonel John Ryder and he were acquaintances, and he called on us in the Woodbridge box.”

Elizabeth nodded and said that she understood. The conversation lagged for a bit, until my sister hit on another topic of conversation: “I meant to ask you, last time you were at Pemberley, how your studies were doing, Mary. Papa said that you were working on some pieces for the piano, as well.”

I froze. What was that supposed to mean? Exactly what had my father said? “I have been practicing, of course,” I said, trying to feel my way into this part of the conversation. “One cannot improve oneself unless one practices.”

“That’s what Aunt Catherine says whenever I visit her,” said Georgiana. “Of course, I think that’s only because she doesn’t want to admit that she can’t play as well as I do.”

Elizabeth laughed at that. “I have the feeling you’re completely right. Perhaps some day you’ll be able to tell her that,” she said with an affectionate smile at her sister-in-law.

Georgiana smiled back. “I know I’ve been becoming less shy,” she said, “but I don’t think I could ever do that! I leave that sort of thing up to you.”

“And a heavy onus it is!” cried Elizabeth dramatically, placing the back of one hand against her forehead in mock agony. “To deliver set-downs to all overbearing pretensions. I simply cannot understand how I’ve managed to do it all these years.”

Georgiana giggled, and I fought a smile. But apparently I was not successful, for Elizabeth crowed with delight and said, “Ho, Georgiana, we have found the Elusive Smile of Mary. I say we capture it, for I fear that it is a onetime occurrence.”

“We’ll see,” is all I said.

“But now that we have you smiling,” Elizabeth said, “perhaps you can play that piece Papa said you were working on?”

I hedged. “Well, I don’t have the music here.”

“And you don’t have it memorized, I suppose?”

I indicated that I did not. Which, of course, was a patent falsehood, but I wasn’t going to let on. The moment I played that piece, the jig was definitely up. It would have been bad enough if I were playing some piece that everyone had already heard, but at least I might have been able to keep up the deception if that were indeed the case. After all, it’s not that hard to play badly. I would simply have had to concentrate the entire time, instead of losing myself in the music, as I liked to do.

The problem was really that the piece she most likely was referring to was the piece I had been working on for the past few months. I just hadn’t realized that my father had heard it. Which opened up a whole new realm of questions...

“Perhaps some other time,” I said. “But I really ought to be going. I am due to meet Lady Woodbridge, Mrs. Townsend and Miss Mulvaney at the Gloucester coffee-house shortly. I really do not wish to have them wait upon me. ‘L’exactitude est la politesse des rois,’ as the papers say is the favorite bon mot of our neighbor, King Louis XVIII.”

“Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” Elizabeth translated with one raised brow. “I hadn’t realized you knew French.”

“Only a few phrases,” I demurred, rising from my seat.

“Your accent is certainly impressive, at least,” she said, rising as well. “But no matter. I hope to see you again soon, Mary.”

Georgiana added her wish for such an occasion, as well, and I bid her have a safe journey back to Leicestershire. And with another nod to Elizabeth, I left the room, accepted my pelisse and bonnet from the butler, and exited the house.

Well, that was certainly a trial, I thought with an inward sigh as I blinked in the bright noontime sunshine. I wondered how many more times I would have to do this before the Season was over. At least once, probably, now that they knew that I was in town, and where I was staying; I would have to meet with Jane and Kitty and the Gardiners, to make sure I didn’t insult anyone by ignoring them. Maybe a dinner at Woodbridge house...that would be easy to arrange. And control, too, I should think. I would have to talk to Alceste and Althea about it.

But that was a problem for later. I continued on my way.

It was when I reached the bottom of the stairs that I saw him to my left, walking down the sidewalk in my direction. He hadn’t spotted me, I was sure, for his eyes were directed to the pavement where he was idly swinging his cane, but it made me nervous all the same. There were only a few more steps to the carriage--I was sure that I could make it.

Of course, I hadn’t counted on the man coming from my right. I stepped right into his path, knocking us both to the ground. I sat there on my bottom, stunned for a few moments, then gasped as I heard the sound of quickened footsteps coming towards us, no doubt running to help.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” I said hurriedly to the man I had run into, not even glancing his way while picking myself up off the ground. As soon as I was on my feet, I turned toward the carriage again, determined to escape before he reached us, but realized immediately that I was too late. I had bumped into another person, the person I was hoping to avoid, but this time I avoided landing again in an ignominious position by the sole fact that he kept both of our balances by taking hold of my arms.

“Woah, there,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

I mumbled something indistinct, averting my face, grateful for my decision to wear an outdated poke bonnet that morning. I shook my arms slightly, and he released his grasp, for which I was decidedly grateful. I made to move around him, hoping to get those few more steps without something else catastrophic occurring, but it was obviously not to be. The footman had barely had time to open the door and lower the steps by the time I reached the carriage and its yawning mouth of safety, and I was just setting my foot on the lowest step when I heard, “Ma’am, your reticule!”

Oh, for Heaven’s sake, I thought. For a second I considered just leaving it there, but I realized that I had left several things in it of which I had great need. Including my notepad, of course, which had my name written in big, sprawling letters on the top.

I didn’t move. Maybe he would bring it to me and give it to me, and I wouldn’t have to face him at all. But there was no sound from behind me, no indication of an approaching reticule, and I realized I would have to be the one doing the approaching. So perhaps he simply wouldn’t recognize me. It was my only hope.

I turned slowly, keeping my face turned downwards, hoping the brim would hide my features, and walked towards the place I had left the two gentlemen on the sidewalk. Finally I could see two feet on the sidewalk in front of me, and stopped. I held out my hand.

“Well, we’ve got a shy one,” joked the gentleman I had first knocked down to the other. “I don’t think she’s going to let you see her face.”

That’s when something unexpected occurred. One moment all I saw was the pavement, the two feet of the man in front of me, and my reticule--ah! Almost within my grasp!--and the next moment I was staring into the wide eyes of Lord Peter Trelawny as he crouched down before me.

“Mary Bennet!” he said on a slight gasp, almost falling as he rocked backwards in surprise.

I grabbed the reticule from his hand and quickly turned to return to the carriage, but he was faster than me. I was pulled back by a hand on my wrist. “Sir! Unhand me this instant!” I said somewhat angrily, trying to slide my wrist from his grasp.

But his grip was stronger than I expected, and all I got for my pains was, well, pain. “Miss Bennet, explain,” he said after a moment.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I truly don’t know you,” I said, desperately turning my arm this way and that, trying to make him loosen his fingers enough for me to slip away.

A frown formed between his brows. “What game is this? And why, in Blessed’s name, are you dressed up like the proverbial poor relation? Why, I’ve seen flower sellers in better garb than this. And since when did you need spectacles this thick?”

He made as if to take off my glasses, but I turned away again, hitting his outstretched hand with the brim of my bonnet. And the next moment I was saved by the sound of two voices. Well, I suppose “saved” is a relative term.

The first voice was that of the footman who had been standing next to the carriage door, asking, “Miss, are you okay? Is that man troubling you?” And while I appreciated his query, I felt the answers to both questions were fairly obvious. I would have been a bit more grateful if he had tackled Lord Peter first and asked questions later.

The other voice, coming from the opposite direction, gave me a very brief feeling of relief, which quickly evaporated into panicked dismay.

“Mary? Who are these men? Why are they bothering you like this?”

I looked up into the confused and concerned face of my older sister, who was standing in the doorway of the Doncaster townhouse, the butler beside her and Georgiana peering out from behind. “Mary, are you all right?” she repeated.

“Of...of course I am, Elizabeth.” I looked quickly at Lord Peter, willing him to release my hand. He must have either seen the futility of his position, or the plea in my eyes, for in either case he released me, and I straightened my bonnet and glasses in as calm a manner as I possibly could. “As I was coming down the stairs,” I said to my sister, “I ran into these two gentlemen, and they were so kind as to retrieve my reticule and help me to my feet.” I gave the man beside me a gimlet stare. “Isn’t that so, sir?”

“That is entirely correct,” he said aloud to our audience, then softly to me: “’Thou liar of the first magnitude.’”

Ah. So he knew William Congreve did he? “’No mask like open truth to cover lies,’” I riposted.

“A different play,” he responded, smiling and bowing politely over my hand for the sake of my sister. “And different lies. Who are you, Miss Bennet?”

I did not bother to respond, instead turning and approaching the carriage, where the footman still held open the door. Just before I placed my foot on the step, I turned one last time and, curtsying to the two gentlemen, said, “I thank you for your help.”

“Our pleasure,” said the man beside Lord Peter with a bow.

And with a brief wave to Elizabeth and Georgiana, I settled into the carriage, and a moment later we were rolling away down the cobbled streets. Settling back on the soft velvet squabs, I listened with increasingly melancholy thoughts to Lord Peter’s parting words, echoing over and over again in my thoughts: “Who are you, Miss Bennet?”

It was a good question. And one I didn’t even know where to begin to answer.

Chapter 12

Posted on Friday, 5 March 2004

The rest of the week passed by in something of a blur. I simply couldn’t raise myself out of the ditch into which I had fallen, lost and abandoned as on some far-off moor. I was muddy and unhappy and chilled to the bone. And being chased by an angry ram, too.

But, of course, that was only on the inside.

Well, except for the ram part. Not that I’m implying that there was much of the sheep about Lord Peter. Maybe more like a bull. A big, thick-headed bull. With one of those little nose rings. And perhaps he was not so much angry as he was persistent. So it may not be as apt a metaphor as I first thought.

In any case, I’ve gone fully beside the point.

To everyone I met at the balls and routs and soirees I attended on Wednesday and Thursday and Friday (besides Lord Peter, whom I avoided at all costs), I was the very personification of fashionable politeness, brimming with good humor and clever wit. I didn’t fail the audience that had come to expect of me something sharper, smarter, and funnier every time we came together. I smiled and laughed, delivered bons mots and witty repartee and essentially became the siren Alceste had predicted I would become, that first evening I came to London.

And every night I fell into bed more dissatisfied than the night before. This wasn’t as fulfilling as I had expected it to be. The emptiness I had hoped to banish was still there, deep in my soul, gnawing away at my insides like so many wolves on a carcass.

I had thought that by becoming someone else for a while, becoming someone popular and sparkling and surrounded by people who looked at me with something other than withering contempt would give me a sense of peace, satisfy that craving that had been borne in me ever since I realized I could never receive the love of my family because of my failure to be someone they thought I should be.

I had lied. And that particular lie was finally catching up with me.

I’m not sure when my companions started noticing that I was drooping, or which one noticed it first, but I wasn’t blind to their attempts to bring me up out of my doldrums. At first it was a random smile or embrace, and then a batch of flowers or some sweetmeats left on my dressing table. Flora began to chatter brightly whenever she was dressing me or arranging my hair, keeping up a steady flow of inane prattle, trying to elicit a smile. Even Barton seemed to sense my need for reassurance, because on Saturday morning as I left to go walking in the park, he offered me a brief nod and a lightened expression in his eyes.

It made me feel marginally better to know that my misery was affecting others. Which, when I stopped to consider it, only made me feel worse.

I had been doing a lot of walking in the past few days. Usually I took with me my sketchbook and my notepad, to do work on either of my two passions, but on Saturday, neither appealed. So after walking a bit around the square, ignoring the leaden grey skies above me that threatened of rain, I sat down on a bench in the square, stared off into the bushes, and thought.

Colonel Ryder found me there. “Would you mind if I joined you?” he asked quietly as he came up beside the bench.

I shook my head and scooted over on the bench to allow him some room. He took the invitation and sat down but didn’t say anything at first, allowing me time to gather the rest of my wool and put it away until the next spare moment.

“They’re worried about you,” he said at last.

“I’m really not sure why,” I replied. “As Voltaire wrote, ‘Paradise is where I am.’”

He shook his head. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”

“I’ll have to work on that, then.”

“Would it help to talk about it?” he asked.

I looked at him then in surprise. “Would you really want to hear of my troubles?”

“If you would wish to tell me, I have no objection to hearing them.”

“Why?” I asked baldly.

He smiled gently at me. “Firstly for my mother, because she feels that your unhappiness is due to something she hasn’t done enough of or well enough for you to enjoy your stay in Town. Secondly for my aunt, who blames herself for bringing you here, knowing as she did that London was simply a place of misery--her words, not mine. Thirdly for Maggie, who has been run ragged trying to comfort both of those two while keeping Woodbridge House up and functioning. And lastly for myself, who would selfishly like to see a genuine smile on your face again.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so he went on: “They had a meeting about you last night, you know. After you had retired, we met in my mother’s sitting room and discussed what we thought was wrong.”

“And what did you decide?”

“They came to no consensus,” he said. He paused a moment, to let this sink in, I suppose, and then added: “I didn’t tell them what I know.”

We were both silent for a while, listening to the quiet of the park around us and the not-so-distant sounds of carriages and street sellers. At long last I asked, “What do you know, Colonel?”

“I returned home last Saturday evening,” he began, “and went straight to the library to retrieve a book I had left there, before I retired for the night. Barton was in there, tidying up. He had two glasses in his hand. ‘Have you taken to tippling the Brandy?’ I asked in jest, but he only shook his head in what I thought was a rather sad manner. That’s when I noticed your burgundy-colored lace fan and opera glasses on the desk, Miss Bennet. I inquired further of Barton, but he would admit nothing beyond that Lord Peter was here, too.

“Now, do not blame Barton for revealing so much; it was information inadvertently given. Do not forget that I was present at the council at Vienna, and have had experience in diplomatic circles.” He paused for a moment, then said: “I do not know of what you spoke; I can only surmise. But Lord Peter was in a very foul mood--a very self-despising foul mood--the next morning when I ran into him at my club, and so I deduced that not only had you refused again to sell Landrey Manor to him, but something more important--possibly concerning his honor, which he takes very seriously--occurred.”

He looked at me for confirmation of this, but I kept my expression neutral and continued to stare off into the distance. He resumed: “Later, on Tuesday, a little after noon, Lord Gilbert Barringford--the friend with whom, along with Colonel Fitzwilliam, I had been out on Saturday night--came into the room at my club where I was reading the paper and, sitting down beside me, told me about something that had occurred on the sidewalk near his mother’s townhouse in Grosvenor square just then.”

“Ah. He must have been the other gentleman,” I said.

“The one you ran into first,” Colonel Ryder confirmed. “I convinced him to keep what he knew quiet. And he will do so; Lord Gilbert is an honorable, if slightly scatterbrained gentleman. In fact, I would be surprised if he remembered the event at all past Monday.”

“I thank you, Colonel,” I said. “But what made Lord Gilbert come to you with the story?”

He waved a hand in a vague gesture. “He possibly remembered my mentioning that you were my mother’s guest. Or more likely I was simply the first person he saw afterwards that he knew. Who knows with Gil?”

“Well, in any case I am indebted to you. I can only hope that Lord Peter feels inclined towards silence on the subject, as well.”

“I can vouch for him,” said the colonel. “He will not tell a soul, if only to keep his own behavior quiet.”

I didn’t respond, preferring his vision of his friend to mine, and we lapsed again into silence.

“Colonel,” I asked after a moment or two, “have you ever questioned who you were?”

He thought about it for a while, his brow furrowing, and I took the time to study him at close range. He seemed a lot older than his twenty-eight years, and I wondered if it were perhaps due to all of the things he had seen in the war. Lines and wrinkles creased his face, not all from squinting in the Spanish and Indian suns, and a certain weariness haunted his eyes. He was definitely much, much older than I was.

At last the Colonel sighed and said, “During the war I was very much involved with intelligence gathering, before I became one of Wellington’s personal staff members.”

“You were a spy?” I asked in some surprise.

He smiled wryly. “We preferred to call ourselves ‘exploring officers.’ In that line of work, however, I was often asked to take on certain assignments in which I had to become someone else. Sometimes, while on those assignments, I’d feel as if the character I had been instructed to play had somehow taken over me, that I wasn’t myself anymore. It was a disturbing sensation, and one I fought against for the longest time. After a while, though, I stopped fighting it, and playing my roles became so much easier--on my thoughts, on my emotions, and on my conscience. But by doing so I lost a little bit of my own identity.

“After Vienna, I was sent to India, to join a regiment in Delhi. Suddenly I had no role. I was again simply a colonel in His Majesty’s Army; no more, no less. I spent that whole time I was on the boat, sailing to India, trying to figure out where I had gone, what had happened to John Ryder.”

“Did you find him?”

He shook his head. “Not until three years later. It took me that long to realize that I hated what I did. I hated the army, I hated fighting, I hated everything about it. Well, I liked the people--my fellow officers and I were very close, at least during the war. But most of them had sold out after we routed Boney at Waterloo, and the few that were left had been sent elsewhere around the world. I hated India.”

“So you came back home,” I said.

“I came back home,” he echoed with a nod. “I’ve sold out my commission, though I haven’t told my mother yet.”

“And so I’ve been addressing you incorrectly all this time?” I asked with a laugh. “You’re not Colonel Ryder anymore?”

He shared my laughter. “No,” he said at last. “I’m not Colonel Ryder anymore. I’m an ex-colonel, as of two days ago. I finished the paperwork and was discharged on Thursday.”

I paused to consider the sheer magnitude of the change he had made. From what I had learned, John had entered the army at eighteen, following the path of many a second son. He had fought in a number of skirmishes in the old colonies as well as most of the battles in Napoleon’s hundred days, where he had made his mark. And now, suddenly, he was abandoning all of that for...what? “Have you decided what you are going to do with the rest of your life?”

“I’m not completely sure,” he replied. “I was thinking of taking a look at the few properties I inherited. I’ve always had an interest in farming; I thought maybe I’d try giving that a shot.”

I responded to his smile with one of my own, marveling at his words. I think the part that really got me was the fact that he didn’t know with a certainty what he was going to do. I wondered if I could ever make that kind of change--completely throw away everything I had worked for and start over with a clean slate. I liked to think I could, but I wasn’t sure. Change is good, I thought, but not necessarily that good.

“Well, I wish you luck,” I told him with complete honesty, and he thanked me.

“Did my story help you at all?” he asked.

I didn’t know. At least it gave me the feeling that I was not alone in my self-deceit. Although, at the same time I felt as though I still was. After all; John’s deceit was brought about through need. He had been charged to that duty by his own country.

But what of me? What could I honestly say for myself but that I had deceived everyone through my own selfish desire to remain unhurt by life, and deceived myself at the same time? Not only had I lied when I had believed that the lie was a thing of necessity, but I had also lied by telling myself that my deception was to keep my heart safe when my heart was the very thing that was truly in danger of being hurt.

Was it not Shakespeare who said, through Polonius, “To thine own self be true,/ And it must follow, as the night the day,/ Thou canst not then be false to any man”? And was it not Bacon who said “Be so true to thyself as thou be not false to others”? I had read these words long ago, when I was but a child, had devoured and stored them in my memory, but had never truly looked at them, examined them, dissected them and realized what they were telling me until now: I had lied to everyone else because I had lied to myself.

The question remained, though, what was I to do about it? Did I truly wish to change things now?

“Shall I leave you to think, Mary?” asked the Colonel--or John Ryder, as I must begin to start calling him.

I hesitated, then nodded, watching as he picked himself up off of the bench and walked slowly away with only one quick backward glance. Perhaps, I thought, it would indeed be best to allow myself some time to think about things. I might then be able to put my life into a little perspective.

But I won’t bore you with the progression of my thoughts. Suffice it to say that I came to the conclusion that I was crying over a miniscule amount of spilled milk, and I should stop feeling so sorry for myself. After all, everyone else had their problems, as well; I wasn’t the only one in the world with troubles.

I also came to another conclusion, though, which led me to fetch a maid from the house and take one of the carriages to Clements Lane, just off the Strand, where the offices of Goodwell, Holley and Linster, solicitors, resided. When the carriage came to a stop before an unprepossessing red brick building halfway down the street, I climbed out and, crossing the walkway, mounted the steps.

A rather harried-looking clerk was putting together papers when I entered, and looked up with a distracted air. “Can I help you, Miss?” he asked.

I nodded, gave my name, and asked for Mr. Goodwell. “Is he in?”

The clerk replied that he was and asked if I had an appointment, which I hadn’t. So he left me for a moment and went down a short hallway to a door on which he knocked quietly. He had a brief conversation with the man inside and then returned to me, saying “Mr. Goodwell can see you, Miss Bennet.”

I thanked him and, leaving my maid to sit on a bench, followed him down the hallway to the same door he had just left. I entered to find an older gentleman in a grey worsted suit sitting behind a desk, a stack of papers on the desk in front of him. His white hair and thin, angled face gave him a somewhat hard appearance, but his eyes were warm and friendly as he smiled and, standing up and coming over to me, took my hand in welcome.

“It is wonderful to meet you again, Miss Bennet, and this time in London,” he said with a slight laugh. “I am glad it was you who braved the roads this time instead of I, for I fear that my bones are getting far too old for such journeys. I hope everything is all right?”

I smiled. “Nearly everything, Sir. I want to thank you again for all the work you have done for me already.”

“Not a problem, not a problem,” he said with a wave of his hand, offering me a seat. “So what can I do for you today?”

“Well, Mr. Goodwell, I had several things to ask you. The first question pertains to my man of affairs. I assume you have hired someone suitable?”

He nodded. “I have indeed, just last week. He has already begun to take over your financial affairs and is situated at your new estate in Berkshire. Mr. Jacobs wrote me that he has met with the steward and was very happy to see that everything was so well in order and that the estate is in prime condition. It seems that the former owner was a very competent landlord.”

“I am sure he was,” I said. “And I am glad to hear that Mr. Jacobs is working out so well. I hope to meet him later, when I visit my estate in person.” I paused, hesitating on my next question. “The second thing I wanted to ask you, Mr. Goodwell, is a bit complicated. It involves both financial and legal matters, and since you have been handling both of those areas for me until very recently I was hoping you could advise me.”

“I would be happy,” he said, his chair squeaking slightly as he leaned forward and leaned his arms on the desk. “Now, what is the situation?”

“You know, Mr. Goodwell, how excited I was when I was able to purchase Landrey Manor...”

He nodded. “I do, indeed. Your letter when I informed you that that particular estate was on the market was fairly bursting with enthusiasm, and you were quite eager to sign all of the papers when I brought them to you in Hertfordshire. I was hardly able to get out of the coach.”

I smiled in remembrance. “I admit I was a trifle impatient. But the only reason I bring the subject up is that I have been considering giving the estate away.”

Mr. Goodwell was dumbfounded. “Giving it away?” he finally asked in a choked whisper. “Why would anyone give that beautiful, productive estate away? Do you realize how much of a loss that would be?”

“I do not; not precisely, at any rate,” I replied to the latter question. “That is why I am asking you. Would my finances be able to handle it?”

“Handle it?” he echoed. Then, with a shake of his hoary head and a clearing of his throat, he said, “You must understand, Miss Bennet, that I have never heard of such a thing being done. Oh, I do not mean that no one ever gives away property--that is done all the time, generally through inheritance, but sometimes also a small property in town is donated for a charity or a cottage somewhere is transferred to another owner for one reason or another. But an entire estate? Acres of rich land? No, I have never encountered this before.”

“But can it be done?” I persisted.

He looked at me with round eyes. “Why, of course it can be done. Anything can be done, if you are willing to take the loss. This of course, would be a rather substantial loss, but your finances are such that you would be able to recover. You would not be able to purchase another estate for a number of years, naturally, but given good, solid investments and a few windfalls here or there it could be done. Or, if you wanted another residence immediately, I am sure you would be able to find a small cottage somewhere and live quite comfortably for a very, very long time. I simply do not understand why.”

“That, Mr. Goodwell, I’m afraid I cannot explain right now,” I said apologetically. “My next question is how transferring the deed would be done?”

The next few minutes were spent going over papers and arranging the details of the transfer. “And to whom are you going to be transferring this?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Right now, I’m not completely sure. Would it be possible to hold that information for a while, until I decide?”

“Of course,” he said. “We can arrange everything else, and leave that area blank for now. And would you like it dated today, the first of May, or shall we post-date or pre-date it?”

“That, too, can we delay doing?’ I asked.

He nodded, and in a short while, the document that completed the transfer of the property was finished. He handed it to me to look over. I perused it shortly, then nodded, saying, “It will do. I would like you to keep this on file for now. I shall no doubt be back to complete the missing information sometime within the next few weeks.”

“Very good, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Goodwell. “But may I say again that I think you might be making a mistake? I do not know your reasons for this course of action, to be sure, but I urge you to think wisely before you commit to it.”

“I will,” I assured him, taking his hand in a gesture of gratitude. With gallant civility, he then led me to the door and sent me on my way.

I returned to Woodbridge house to find things in something of an uproar. At the center of it was Alceste, who was far and above on her high ropes.

“I don’t care that the hussy is my daughter-in-law,” she was saying angrily to Maggie as I entered the drawing room, where everyone was gathered. “She had absolutely no right at all! No right!”

“What is going on?” I whispered to John Ryder.

He smiled and rolled his eyes. “My mother had a call from Lucille this afternoon--my brother’s wife, you know, and the current Lady Woodbridge. That situation alone would be enough to send Mother into a tizzy, but Lucille had to be her officious self and first make some rather derogatory remarks on the tea, which of course I had brought Mother expressly from India, and then, in essence, to invite herself over to dinner tonight.”

“How did she manage that trick?” I asked, marveling with wide eyes at the sight of Alceste in what could only be described as a temper tantrum.

“She maneuvered Mother into a position before her guests of either agreeing with her that she was dining here tonight or contradicting her statement that the engagement had been of long standing.”

“Manipulative baggage!” Alceste cried as she threw a decorative pillow across the room, barely missing Althea’s head as she scrambled for cover and knocking a porcelain figure from a shelf into a potted plant.

“Eek,” I murmured softly, sharing John’s grin. “Perhaps I should play least in sight?”

“I’ve been thinking of doing the same,” he replied. “Care to join me?”

I agreed, and we edged out of the drawing room and retired to the library, which was quieter and rather more devoid of hurtling objects. We settled down at the chess board after a few moments of consultation, and began to play a game.

“I wanted to thank you,” I said as I moved my white knight, “for your words of wisdom earlier.”

He smiled. “I so rarely am told that I have somehow managed to spout something resembling wisdom that I will take your compliment and tell you that it was my honor to help you. Things often tend to look brighter when seen from a different angle, I’ve found.”

“They do, indeed,” I said, countering his next move. “I’ve been thinking of visiting Landrey Manor for a short time--perhaps the space of four or five days, including travel to and fro. Do you think that would be a wise decision at this time during the Season?”

He thought about it for a moment, biting his lip slightly. “Perhaps. I should think that this would be the best time, in fact, for you’ve already gotten through the most important balls of the early Season, and we haven’t gotten to the important ones of the later Season, nor the house parties. I would suggest leaving on Thursday, after Almack’s on Wednesday, and returning the following Tuesday, at the very latest. It wouldn’t do to miss the Huntington masquerade. Have you already chosen your costume for that, by the by?”

“I have,” I replied, “and have already discussed it with Madame LeClere, but I shan’t tell you what it is. You shall have to wait to find out.”

He told me that he was looking forward to seeing it, and we completed the rest of the game in friendly conversation discussing acquaintances. We had just finished when the first dinner gong rang, and I excused myself from him in order to retire to my room to change. And as I selected my gown for the evening, I found that I was in a much happier state of mind than I was even that morning. It is amazing what a day among friends can do.

Chapter 13

On one upper arm I wore a silver circlet that matched my earrings and the intricate silver and sapphire necklace around my throat. Flora had done my hair in a deceptively simple style, bound by a blue bandeau ribbon, with wispy curls framing my face.

I was quite pleased with the result and, after putting on my slippers and pulling on my long white gloves, descended the stairs in a very positive frame of mind. Tonight, I vowed, absolutely nothing could go wrong.

The others were already waiting in the drawing room when I entered, Alceste and Althea drinking a little pre-dinner sherry while having a conversation, John paging through a book, and Maggie doing some embroidery. I sat down on the sofa and turned to my companions. “So our guests have not arrived?”

“Not yet,” said Althea as she and Alceste broke off their conversation to turn towards me. “As you can see, we are all still relatively sane.”

Alceste grimaced. “By the way, Mary, I wanted to tell you that I am very sorry that you had to be witness to my...emotional outburst this afternoon.”

I laughed. “Don’t trouble yourself about it, Alceste. I have relatives, too, about whom I feel the same way. My youngest sister...”

“The one that eloped with the officer?” asked Maggie.

I nodded. “Eloped isn’t quite the right word for it, but yes. Oooh, I wanted to strangle her sometimes. And I have the feeling that my older sisters and my father occasionally felt the same way.”

“There seems to be one of those in every family,” said John as he looked up from his book. “The obligatory black sheep.”

“I really don’t know what Richard saw in her,” sighed Alceste.

“I believe he saw twenty thousand pounds, Mother,” murmured John, closing his book and setting it on the table beside him before rising and walking to the window, where he pulled back the drapes slightly and looked out. “I love my brother, but I recognize his faults. He tends to believe in the philosophy ‘wealth begets wealth’ a little too strongly, I think.”

Just then, Barton’s greeting was heard in the hall, in the company of a high, strident voice that carried clearly into the room we were sitting in: “Richard, I really don’t understand why your father left Woodbridge House to your mother. What was he thinking? Why, the poor woman has absolutely no idea what to do with a place like this. I mean, simply look at the lack of decoration in this foyer. It is positively primitive. I shall have to give her the address for my decorator, for I just don’t know if I could stand being in this cave for as long as it takes to remove my wrap, much less wait for the carriage.”

“Lord and Lady Woodbridge,” announced Barton in wooden tones as he appeared in the doorway.

A woman of tallish height, dressed in a silky gown of a deep violet hue that complimented her pale coloring and dark hair perfectly, swept into the room, the violet-dyed plume in her hair waving madly like a flag. She was followed more sedately by a tall man with light brown hair and hazel eyes just like John’s, but unlike that gentleman, he wore a stern visage and unsmiling expression.

“It is so lovely to see you tonight, Alceste!” cried the woman in violet in a voice as sugary as it was false, a wide, white smile pasted on her lips. “I cannot thank you enough for having invited us to dinner.”

“It was my pleasure,” Alceste said with a smile that showed not in the least how untrue that statement was. “May I present you to my companions, Lucille? You, of course, remember my sister, Althea Mulvaney? She wasn’t here when you called this afternoon, but I believe you met a few years ago at my husband’s funeral.”

The young Lady Woodbridge’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she turned to greet Althea. “Ah, yes. I do recall meeting you, Miss Mulvaney.”

“I hope you brought your own vinaigrette tonight, Lady Woodbridge?” Althea asked innocently “I’m afraid to say that I left mine in Hertfordshire.”

That lady’s lips pursed tightly, and Alceste quickly went into the next introduction. “And, of course, John and Maggie are also dining with us.” The three exchanged greetings, and Alceste continued, turning to me. “And this, Lucille, is a good friend of my sister, and now has become a good friend of myself, as well, Miss Mary Bennet, lately from Hertfordshire. Mary, this is Lucille Ryder, my daughter-in-law and the current Lady Woodbridge.”

I curtsied properly, and she nodded regally. “So you are from Hertfordshire?”

“My family is originally from there, yes,” I replied.

“Fascinating,” she said in a voice that implied the opposite, turning away and taking a seat in the chair nearest the fireplace.

“And this, Mary,” Alceste said with a smile interrupting, the somewhat awkward silence, “is my eldest son, Richard.”

I curtsied again, and he bowed over my hand. “It is very good to meet you,” I said.

He nodded but didn’t reply, instead turning to his brother with a brief “How goes it with you, John?” and a slight narrowing of his eyes.

“Very well, Richard,” that gentleman replied.

“I’ve heard some rumors that you’ve--“

John silenced him with a look and a quick, “We’ll discuss it after dinner.”

And just then the door opened again to admit Barton, who announced in stentorian tones that “Dinner is served.” So we all entered the dining room (after a bit of confusion, mostly caused by Lady Woodbridge, pertaining to escorts and the lack of men) and were seated at table (again, a bit of confusion--hand it to Lady Woodbridge). I sat next to Alceste and across from Maggie, and thankfully both across the table and down two seats from Lady Woodbridge. With a lovely candelabrum placed just in the way.

Unfortunately, I could see John perfectly, and his expression as he helped that lady into her seat was too delicious for words. When he met my eyes as he removed his gloves and pulled out his own seat, he grinned briefly and winked, and I lifted my napkin to my lips to hide my smile. It was going to be a long dinner.

“I hear, my dear Alceste, that you have been keeping company with Lord Thornfield,” Lady Woodbridge was saying. “I really don’t know if that gentleman is quite the thing, you know.”

“Michael is a dear friend,” Alceste replied in somewhat repressive tones. “We have been acquainted for years.”

“Yes,” Lady Woodbridge continued, quite undaunted, “but he gambles quite uninhibititedly I hear. And his reputation, at least as regards women, is somewhat disrespectable.”

Alceste didn’t respond at first, instead waiting for the footman to place her dish before her. “I’m afraid, Lucille, that your persuasions have no affect on me. So, Richard,” she said, forestalling any further comments from Lady Woodbridge by turning her gaze to her left, “I hear that you have decided to make some improvements to the Abbey.”

“I have,” replied Lord Woodbridge. “The stables were becoming quite decrepit. The old building has already been torn down and a new one is being erected as we speak.”

“And where have you placed your cattle as the work is being done?” asked John from across the table, thereby setting the stage for a less formal dinner etiquette that allowed for whole-table conversation.

Lord Woodbridge swallowed the soup he had just placed in his mouth and, dabbing his lips with the napkin tucked into his collar, said in reply, “I have stabled them temporarily at Halsworth’s stable.”

“Speaking of horses,” said Lady Woodbridge, “I have heard that you have two new horses in your stable here in London, Alceste. Apparently, one of them has been cause for comment.”

“I really don’t know what you mean,” replied Alceste.

“I think,” said Althea, entering the conversation, “that Lady Woodbridge is referring to Lysander. Apparently he has not taken well to being handled by anyone besides Jimmy, Mary or myself.”

Lady Woodbridge shook her head (or I think that’s what she did--it was hard to tell with the candles in the way) and said, “I really don’t know what you were thinking to purchase such an unladylike mount, Alceste. No horse should ever be so unmannered around a lady as to give her trouble.”

Alceste sighed. “First, Lucille, it was not I who purchased the horse. Lysander is Miss Bennet’s horse, brought with her to London from Hertfordshire. Secondly, gentlemen find it quite an attractive quality in a lady when she knows how to keep control of a spirited mount. Isn’t that so, John?”

“Quite so, Mother,” John replied, taking a sip of his wine.

“Well,” huffed Lady Woodbridge as she subsided (quite mercifully) into silence.

We passed through the next few courses with more restrained discourse. I spoke mainly with Althea and Maggie, though occasionally I was directed questions by John and Alceste, but was largely ignored by the Woodbridges, especially Lady Woodbridge (possibly because of the large obstacle between us and possibly because I was simply beneath her notice), although Lord Woodbridge did deign to ask me the area of Hertfordshire in which I recently resided and, when he learned that it was near Meryton, if I knew Sir William Lucas.

“Why, yes, I do,” I replied with a smile. “He was a neighbor of both Althea and myself.”

Lord Woodbridge nodded. “I met him at St. James last year, I believe, and recalled he lived in that neighborhood. We spoke of horses.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

Personally, I thought that the dinner went very well. The courses, no matter what Lady Woodbridge said, were everything that was acceptable, and Cook even surpassed himself on some of the dishes. The roast duck served in a rich wine sauce was, in my humble opinion, quite divine, though La Woodbridge disparaged it as “Frenchified” and over-spiced.

But we made it through to the sweet course, after which Alceste stood and said that we would retire to the music room, where the gentlemen could join us after their Port.

She quite obviously was using the music room as a ploy to avoid conversation with Lucille, and I was proved correct when upon entering she asked Maggie to entertain us with some airs while we waited for the gentlemen. She then quickly positioned herself in a chair that faced the piano and did not have a chair directly next to it.

Lady Woodbridge was too persistent, however, to allow such a trivial thing as a lack of chairs to dissuade her from her course, so she sat in a chair in front of Alceste’s and slightly to the side, that had no arms, and then sat so that she could still converse.

I took a seat as far from the other two as possible and picked up Maggie’s embroidery, to which I paid studious attention, trying to block out the sound of Lady Woodbridge’s voice.

Althea was more sympathetic to Alceste’s plight and took a chair near the other two, addressing herself to their conversation and deflecting as much of it to herself as possible. Of course, this was also mostly to annoy La Woodbridge, I was sure, but still, it was a nice gesture.

Thankfully, the gentlemen did not take long at their Port and cigars, and entered the music room after only ten or fifteen minutes. John came to join me by the fire, at which point I stopped pretending to embroider, and Richard sat nearer the window, curiously far from his wife.

After Maggie finished the next song and a generous applause was given, Althea asked loudly, with a wide smile, “Lady Woodbridge, I am quite sure that we would all enjoy hearing a selection from you. Would you care to entertain us with a song or two?”

Lady Woodbridge smiled graciously, and rather smugly I thought, at her and replied that she would be delighted to perform. She went to the pianoforte (a Chappell piano of which Alceste was uncommonly proud) and, sitting down and arranging her skirts genteelly, began a piece I recognized as Bach’s Fugue in D major, though I noticed she refrained from playing the prelude.

Technically, she was a very skilled pianist. She did not, however, put anything other than the movement of her fingers into the piece, and after she had finished I felt deprived and unsatisfied with her performance of a piece I generally enjoyed. But I applauded politely with everyone else and listened with attentiveness as she went on to play Mozart’s Rondo alla Turca.

“There’s no heart in her playing, is there?” John asked me in an aside.

I shook my head. “None at all. She’s very good, though.”

“But you notice she does not sing.” When I looked at him in surprise, not having realized that myself, he smiled. “She has the voice of a strangled cat.”

I smiled at his sally, but was unable to make any comment in return, knowing as I did my own limitations in that area before being trained by Althea. I suddenly felt less judgmental towards Lady Woodbridge’s talents.

At the close of the song, Lady Woodbridge accepted the applause as her due, but as there was no request for an encore, she was forced to return to her seat, where she replied with a slight sneer to Althea’s gracious thanks for her performance, “I am quite happy that I could have shared my talents with you.” She paused to rearrange her skirts around her, then said, “You don’t happen to play yourself, Miss Mulvaney, do you?”

Althea smiled tightly and replied, “Unfortunately I do not play before crowds. Miss Bennet, however,” she continued before Lady Woodbridge could speak, “does play quite well, and I am sure you would enjoy hearing her perform.”

“Yes, Mary,” Alceste said, turning to me with a smile, “would you care to amuse us with a song?”

“Of course, Alceste,” I replied graciously, and set Maggie’s embroidery to the side, still untouched. I approached the pianoforte with a bit of trepidation, not having performed for a long time before a crowd, and never having performed before those I didn’t know well while employing my true talents. With a nervous feeling in my stomach, I sat down at the pianoforte and, taking a breath, laid my fingers lightly on the keys.

I began with “Fur Elise,” a rather easy piece I had found by a relatively new Viennese composer, a Mr. Beethoven, but it was enough to settle my nerves. The moment the sound of the notes began to fill the air, to swirl around me, I was drawn in, tied to the music in some inexplicable way. I closed my eyes and played, feeling the movement, the swell of the notes that rose and fell in such seductive procession.

And barely had the last note fallen away before my fingers moved on their own accord into the piece I had finished working on months ago, a piece that had become incredibly dear to my heart of late as I practiced it late at night, after returning from yet another party. Before I had gone to bed, I had sat in the dark of the music room with only a candle to light my return to my room, listening to the sound of the work of my hands.

It began softly, almost a caress, the sound of hope and birth, then slowly slipped into minor, falling with mesto into a deep well of pain. Delirante anger, rage, and grief poured out of my fingers into the keyboard, bruscamente, harsh and dissonant chords of agony, before settling into an adiagietto of despair.

But then--a note of hope. Soft and high and repeating in unison with others that joined, slowly gaining intensity as the music swelled to laughter, rising high and falling low, dancing, tripping lightly across a field of warmth. And slowly, almost before you realized its intent, it slipped into a quick, clever dance, notes hiding behind each other in acciaccatura, a game that lasted until the song burst into life with a glissando up the keyboard followed by a riotous profusion of notes that danced with the pure enjoyment of being made, flying freely through the strings ever higher, mingling happily in the air.

And slowly it faded, poco ritardano, to remain in quiet contentment and peace until it at last ended in a gentle morendo, a single note of hope fading slowly into the silence.
When, after a long pause, the others began to applaud, I looked up suddenly to realize that I was not alone. I felt my face heat in embarrassment over having lost myself in my playing. I looked in anxiousness at my audience, seeking their reactions, and was relieved to find no expression of distaste or disapproval, even in the faces of our two guests. I curtsied in acknowledgement of their praise, and made to return to my seat.

“I must say, Miss Bennet,” said Lady Woodbridge suddenly, arresting my steps, “I have not heard such emotional playing in one so young as you before, but it is not scandalous, I suppose, as you are past the age where more demureness matters.” She paused and then said, “But I don’t think I’ve heard that second piece before, Miss Bennet. What is the title?”

I smiled hesitantly. “It is called ‘La Fantasia de la Verdad.’”

“And the composer?” she asked.

I will admit that here I panicked. Perhaps it was being put on the spot like that, or perhaps it was simply that the lie came easily. Whatever it was, I found the only thing I could answer was: “Miss Hutchinson.”

Silence.

“Miss Imelda Hutchinson?” Lady Woodbridge asked in surprise.

Well, once you begin with a lie, it’s really best if you just keep right on going. “Yes.”

“You know Miss Imelda Hutchinson? The author of two quite popular books? The reclusive Miss Hutchinson?”

Again. “Yes.”

Lady Woodbridge was in shock, I could tell. And viewing me in quite a different light than before, too, I could tell. Even Lord Woodbridge was looking at me with new curiosity. Althea and Alceste were looking at me as if I were out of my mind. Which, quite possibly, I was.

“Well!” cried Lady Woodbridge at last. “This is quite a piece of news. Suddenly, I’m rather glad I came tonight.”

I looked in a bit of a panic to Althea, suddenly realizing what exactly I had let myself in for, and she quickly came to my rescue, proposing cards and arranging the tables so that Alceste and I played at piquet while the others played whist and Maggie returned to playing softly on the pianoforte. Even Lady Woodbridge was not able to circumvent this in order to pepper me with more questions.

And the evening passed away quickly until finally Lord Woodbridge declared that they must go, and Lady Woodbridge was made to follow. We saw them into the foyer, where we watched them depart, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind them and their carriage was heard rolling off down the pavement.

“Miss Hutchinson?” Althea said with one raised brow.

I raised my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I couldn’t think of anything else!”

“Oh, I can’t wait until the next ball,” said Alceste with a laugh. “And you thought you were popular now.”

I swallowed hard. Just one more thing to add to my troubles...

Chapter 14

Posted on Monday, 15 March 2004

Releasing a tidbit of gossip into the wild, I have found, is like dropping a bit of red wine onto a white cloth. The stain will spread as far as it is able and will remain there forever, even if washed, and no amount of scrubbing will ever get it out. It will often only make it worse.

So it was with no amount of surprise that I greeted the looks of eager anticipation as I went calling with Alceste and Althea and as I entered the Sheffield’s ballroom on Monday, and then as I served tea in the drawing room of Woodbridge House and later as I sat down at a table for whist at the Lawton’s card party on Tuesday. By Wednesday I was quite sick of the questions I repeatedly had to avoid answering directly, watching what I said for fear of revealing more than I ought, and all the while smiling as if I didn’t mind their predatory inquisitiveness in the least.

But I realized I could do no less, for to become indignant at their intrusion into my affairs would only draw suspicion I did not want. So I dressed for Almack’s with the usual care; I had ordered a gown especially for the occasion to adhere to the specifications that the proprietresses laid out, for despite the fact that I was not a young miss in London for her come-out, nor was I a matron, I knew that it would not do for me to buck the rules entirely and create my own category--that of “confirmed spinster.” So I dressed in a proper white gown--well, not completely, of course; I did throw in my oar and my fashion sense somewhat. The gown was actually of ivory-colored silk, with gold netting covering the bodice and falling open over the skirt, and gold lace trimming the square neckline and the cuffs of the transparent sleeves. My hair had been arranged in a series of looped braids with gold ribbon threaded throughout. Pearl-drop earrings, a pearl necklace, white gloves, and an ivory-and-gold silk fan completed the ensemble.

I had received my ticket earlier the previous week along with one other for Alceste. However, she and Maggie were going to a literary salon Wednesday evening, so Althea agreed to take me instead. Alceste then urged John to apply for a ticket, and he was granted one easily, the decision based mostly, I would assume, on his status as a war hero and his being somewhat wealthy in his own right, and ignoring his standing as younger son (although his still being Lord Woodbridge’s heir apparent may have added a positive mark). And so the three of us--Althea, John and I--were to go.

We arrived at the assembly rooms at a little after ten-thirty and immediately were the cynosure of all eyes. I pasted a social smile on my face and followed John as he led Althea and I, one on each arm, to where several of the patronesses were standing. I was there introduced to Lady Cowper, Countess Levien, Lady Sefton and Princess Esterhazy, as well as re-acquainted with Lady Sarah Jersey.

After a number of deep, proper curtsies that made me wonder if my knees would manage to hold me up for the rest of the night, Lady Jersey smiled and detached me from John’s arm, saying, “I really hope you don’t mind, Mr. Ryder, but I’m going to steal Miss Bennet away for a while so that I can introduce her to several people I know.”

He didn’t object. And I didn’t argue.

Of course her first intent was to introduce me to eligible gentlemen in the hopes of marrying me off to someone, as all good matchmakers do. I also knew, though, that she wanted to take the opportunity to ask me questions about my acquaintance with Miss Hutchinson. But I felt I could handle her. Nonetheless, I felt a little panicked as I was steered away from John, who had been something of a rock for me these past few days. He had stayed by my side for most of the evening both at the Sheffields’ and the Lawtons’, and had come to my rescue several times on those two occasions and at our at-home on Tuesday. I was really coming to depend upon him.

But at that moment he was being ushered into an introduction with some sweet thing--her status as a young miss on the Marriage Mart made clear by her white frilly gown complete with ruffles and bows--by one of the patronesses, and I turned to Lady Jersey, who had just tapped me on the arm with a small trill of laughter and said, “It was very naughty of you, Miss Bennet, not to have told me that you were good friends with Miss Hutchinson. All that time that we were discussing her books, and you never once mentioned it!”

“I didn’t think it proper for me to bring up the connection, my lady,” I said in as demure a voice as possible. “I could not presume...”

“Ah, but do not forget that having connections is one of the most important things in our society, and occasionally we must show them off,” she replied in a no-nonsense tone. Then softening, she said: “But I suppose that you should be commended for being so modest. It is a trait often lacking in young girls these days. But then, I am sure your age has something to do with your knowledge of propriety.”

I thanked her for the compliment (if it could be called such) and then listened as she went on to talk about some of the more particular examples of young girls who lacked that all-important trait. And after only a few short minutes I found I was quite familiar with the reason she was called “Silence.”

At last, though, we came to stop (and she came to a stop) before a commanding-looking woman and two well-dressed gentlemen who were sharing conversation. “May we intrude?” asked Lady Jersey at the first opportunity.

“Of course,” replied the lady with a regal nod to my companion. Then, raising her lorgnette, she gave me the quick once-over. Well, twice over. Right...by the third time, I was becoming a bit annoyed.

“Miss Bennet, may I present Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, another of our patronesses here at Almack’s. Clementina, may I present Miss Mary Bennet, lately of Hertfordshire and a close acquaintance of Miss Imelda Hutchinson.”

“Really?” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. She examined my dress again as I curtsied properly to her. “So, is Miss Hutchinson a neighbor of yours in Hertfordshire, then?”

“I couldn’t say, ma’am,” I replied with a modicum of regret. “She really prefers her privacy, and I would not wish to be the cause of disturbing it.”

Lady Jersey smiled and said, “Miss Bennet has been quite close-mouthed about the whole thing. She seems bound and determined to keep us all from finding out her secrets.” She then turned to the other two gentlemen who were gazing at me with not-so-subtle curiosity. “This is Maximilian Huntwell, Viscount Benton, and Harvey Preston, Baron Hardesty, some of our quite charming eligible bachelors. Gentlemen, this is Miss Mary Bennet.”

“Lord Benton, Lord Hardesty,” I said with a curtsey to each.

After a few brief, superfluous moments of conversation both requested the honor of a dance with me, and I granted them each one dance under the eagle eye of the two patronesses, whose duty it was to create matches between the poor, misguided young souls in society. For without their help, however would the denizens of the haute ton find their equals in status, wealth, fashion and snobbery--and occasionally love because sometimes you simply can’t avoid it--if not for these matchmaking busybodies? We owe them a generous debt.

Incidentally, I received five proposals of marriage during the course of the evening. One was on the balcony, three were in clever little alcoves around the room, and one was on the dance floor, during a gallopade, just before my partner ran into one of the ropes that are stretched out to mark the boundary of the dance floor and rebounded into two gentlemen and a lady. They all ended up prostrate on the slippery dance floor and required several footmen to come rushing to help them to their feet. Quite naturally, I refused his--and all other--proposals.

On another topic, Lord Benton, I discovered, was the mysterious friend of Lord Peter Trelawny--the one to whom he had been speaking on the balcony that first ball at the Symingtons’.

“I understand, Miss Bennet, that we are neighbors,” he said to me in the tenor voice that I had recognized immediately upon hearing. “Trelawny mentioned something of the sort to me.”

“Do you, then, live in that area of Berkshire?” I asked, attempting to keep the knowledge of my estate’s name and whereabouts under wraps from the inquisitive ears of the rest of society. If the Symingtons heard of their son’s peccadilloes, I assured myself, it would not be from me.

He replied that he did, and we discussed the area. I had been through that region of Berkshire, I told him, four years ago when visiting my sister and new brother-in-law.

“Really? And who is your brother-in-law?”

“Lord Halliwell,” I said with some reluctance.

My dance partner looked at me in amazement. “Jason Blaire? The earl of Halliwell?” When I nodded, he let out a surprised chuckle. “I hadn’t realized you were one of those Bennets. Although, I daresay there is some resemblance; the four of you are all incredible beauties.” I blushed slightly, and he continued: “I don’t recall hearing this little tidbit before, however. I suppose this is not something well-known?”

I replied that it wasn’t and that I had hoped it would not become well-known for some time, and he nodded, saying that he respected the confidence and would not reveal this information, though he was incredibly curious as to the reason for such secrecy. When I looked doubtful, he put on an offended expression. “What, do you not believe that I will keep this to myself?”

“I do not mean to impugn your honor, my lord,” I said, “but no, I do not believe it.”

He laughed. “You know, Miss Bennet, some of us gentlemen actually do behave like gentlemen. We were brought up to respect and adhere to a code of honor.”

“Just because one is brought up a certain way,” said I, “that does not mean that one will behave that way. I believe that our individual personalities have some measure of impact on how we choose which examples of proper behavior to follow and which to ignore.”

“Very true,” Lord Benton said. “Our choices of friends also may have some impact, as well. But I believe, Miss Bennet, that you can set your mind at rest. In my case, at least, I have chosen my examples and my friends well.”

“Speaking of friends,” I asked, to avoid examining his last statement closely, “is Lord Peter coming this evening?”

He shook his head. “No, he is engaged elsewhere. Even if he were, it is a bit too late now, it being far past eleven already. Actually, just this morning he said he was attending the Palmers’ musicale, though I know he had been planning to come here. And while I know he loves music, I really can’t imagine why he’d have changed his mind like that.”

Oh, Lud, the Palmer musicale. What in heaven’s name was he doing there? My mind raced furiously, trying to come up with a possibility other than the one that jumped so quickly to mind, but I could not. I just hoped this wouldn’t mark the beginning of the end to all my careful plans. Ah, “the best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a-gley,” I thought gloomily, borrowing a phrase from Robbie Burns. I suppose that--despite everything else that had occurred--I had just continued to believe I was immune.

Shortly thereafter, the quadrille ended, and Lord Benton returned me to where Althea was chatting with Lady Sefton, who apparently had some acquaintance in common. I had only joined them for a moment (in which time Lady Sefton was able to ask me three pointed questions about Miss Hutchinson and begin on a fourth) before John rescued me, once again, for our second waltz of the night.

“Has it really been as terrible as all that?” he asked as he heard my sigh of relief upon reaching the dance floor, out of reach of the eagerly intrusive Nosy Parkers.

“Worse,” I said. “But it’s my own fault, and I realize that. I must pay a penance for my sins.”

He grinned. “Penance for your sins? Sounds quite serious. Shall I fetch a hair shirt for you? I’m sure it would look quite lovely with those pearls.”

I smiled in return. “Or if not these pearls, I suppose I could always go out shopping for new jewels to match, right?”

“Well, at least, you are still able to laugh about it,” he said.

“If I didn’t laugh,” I replied, “I think would cry. And I have no intention of walking around with a perpetually red nose and puffy eyes. So I laugh. Or at last pretend to. But in any case, this will all just roll off my back like water off a duck. Those of us that live in the present don’t have to worry about what will happen soon, nor what went before. We are some of the happiest people on earth, I believe. We remember of the past and imagine of the future only what gives us pleasure.”

He swung me into a sweeping turn. “And you are telling me that you are happy?” he asked skeptically. “I seem to recall a time last week...”

“Everyone has their low times, Mr. Ryder--” I began.

“I thought we had agreed on it being John?” he interrupted.

“Yes, of course--John,” I amended with a smile. “But, as I was saying, everyone has brief periods of low spirits, I believe. Mine simply happened last week. With everything that has been happening recently, I don’t think you could possibly blame me for faltering in my philosophy.”

“Of course not,” he replied gallantly. We danced for some time without conversation, until he asked me, “And so are you leaving tomorrow for Berkshire?” I said that I was. “I think I shall miss our conversations very much.” I said that I would, too. “To be honest, I think I shall miss you very much.”

My eyes flew to his, and when I saw the expression there, I quickly looked away, emitting only a short, “Hmm...yes,” and feeling a blush rise to my cheeks at seeing such unguarded emotion directed ostensibly towards me. A chilled feeling flowed through me briefly as I considered this possible complication. As much as I thought highly of John--and I did, quite honestly--I couldn’t see myself loving him. Or falling in love with him. And I had long ago vowed to wed only for love; the implication being, of course, that it were I in love, though I don’t know if I actually ever clarified that.

Although I suppose it might be nice just to be loved, even if one didn’t love in return. It would be more fulfilling, I should think, to have a mutual love, but one-sided would be fine, as well, so long as one didn’t reveal that the affections were not returned. But then again it might be hard to keep the other person from knowing. And once they knew, I shouldn’t imagine that love would be long in disappearing, like a bird in winter. And once it had flown, would it ever come back? What would that marriage be like then?

No, any way I looked at it, it simply would never fadge. Which meant one of two things: I would either have to learn to fall in love with him, or find a way to let him down slowly. Once, of course, I made sure of his feelings. After all, it was possible he was merely saying that as a friend. And then again, maybe I was deluding myself.

But in any case, I didn’t want to deal with it at that moment. “So...your sister-in-law is a very interesting woman.”

He let out a surprised bark of laughter that drew several eyes. “That is an exceedingly tactful way of saying that she’s the most repulsive woman you’ve ever met. Come, admit it, Mary.”

I contained my laughter, barely. “She is somewhat grating on the nerves. The most repulsive woman, though? I’m not so sure about that. I do have to wonder, though, how Ceste could allow Lady Woodbridge to be so intimate when she clearly cannot stand her. I could just about have died every time she said ‘my dear Alceste,’” I quoted with a giggle, imitating Lady Woodbridge’s voice as accurately as I could.

“Well, I wasn’t in England at the time to see it,” John said, laughing with me, “but I can imagine that my mother was being her usual self when she met Lucille, and before even two words were spoken, it was ‘Oh, but you must call me Alceste. We are to be family, are we not?’ Of course, she probably hadn’t realized how much she’d come to regret it...”

We both laughed and continued dancing and talking on light subjects until the dance ended, and I was returned briefly to the sidelines before being shuffled off into another dance with a new partner. And as I trotted about the dance floor I made sure to keep one hand free to pat my back for tactfully avoiding what had been in danger of become an awkward situation.

And John didn’t bring up the issue later when we were all returning home in the carriage, though I did catch several glances he shot my way during the ride. But just in case, I determinedly kept up a conversation with both him and Althea, avoiding any mention of my departure tomorrow or anyone missing or not missing anyone else, until I said my goodnights and retired to my room.

When I awoke in the morning, I took breakfast downstairs, knowing as I did that no one would be present. And I wasn’t wrong; it was a solitary meal with only the company of the morning news. Which, unfortunately, turned out to be the worst sort of company I could have before I left London.

Out of habit, I read the political news first, then afterwards turned to the society pages, glancing briefly at the columns, noting with some amusement the reference to myself being at Almack’s in a very modish gown: the “stylish but secretive Miss M--B--” who, to the columnist’s knowledge, was reportedly “quite intimate with Miss I--H--.”

It was with a mixture of dread, however, that I came across another reference I recognized later on in the pages, discussing the appearances at the Palmers' musicale. After listing the performers that apparently performed quite well, there was a mention of a somewhat unexpected guest:

And it was with some surprise that the quite eligible and always delightful Lord P--T-- attended, as it was assumed he would be elsewhere chasing the elusive Miss M--B--, as has been noted on previous occasions. It was with even greater surprise that he only stayed to listen to the excellent performance of Mrs. Warbling and then to converse for some time with a Mrs. E--D--, who to this writer’s memory once bore the same name as another noted member of our society. Could this be coincidence?

Well, dash it all. This was not going well. At least I would be gone for some time, though, and hopefully speculation would die down before I returned. And I could only pray that Elizabeth didn’t read the society pages. Or was less clever than I knew her to be.

The only way to be completely sure that none of my sisters saw this and discovered my little secret was to run to each of their townhouses and steal their newspapers before they were able to lay their eyes on them. But I really didn’t have time for that.

In fact, it was only an hour later that I was out and on the road west out of London, heading down the King’s highway towards my new home. We jolted along, only occasionally stopping to pay tolls and to change horses at posting inns, making quite good time. I didn’t mind the pace, nor did Flora, who had agreed to come with me to bear me company and keep me relatively respectable.

It was nearing dark by the time that we turned into the drive that led, after some twists and turns, to the estate of Landrey Manor. We had only progressed a short ways when I rapped on the roof to signal to the coachman to stop. Flora awoke in an instant, inquiring if we had arrived.

“Oh, not quite yet, Flora. You will reach the manor in a short while. I simply wish to get out and walk a bit.”

“Walk a bit?” she asked in surprise. “Would you be wanting me to walk with you, Miss?”

I shook my head. “No. You go on with the coach to the house. I shall be there shortly. And don’t worry about me; I will be safe on the grounds.”

She subsided without another protest and I dismounted from the carriage, telling John Coachman to continue on to the manor. And as the carriage rolled on along the graveled drive, I stood in the deepening twilight, taking deep, calming breaths of the fresh country air. Now that I had come this far, I felt nervous making it the rest of the way. It perhaps was that which drove me from the confines of the carriage, to walk on my own towards the house.

I left the drive behind, instead walking along the edge of the woods that skirted the estate towards a hill that loomed large in the near distance. And as I crested the grassy hill, I took in the view before me in silence.

I had been here before. Not at twilight, with the sun setting in reds and oranges and purples on the other side of the Southern-facing house, casting a golden glow on the surrounding countryside, but at dawn, when all was new and dew-soaked and sparkling in the pale rays of early morning. It was four years ago, already, but the memory of it was still fresh in my mind, especially here.

We--my mother and my father and I--had been taking something of a tour of England, if one could call it that. We had spent Christmas at Pemberley, visiting with the Darcys and the Bingleys, and then proceeded, after Twelfth Night, to visit Kitty in her new home in Somerset. On the return to Hertfordshire, we had spent the night at an inn not far from Landrey Manor, breaking our long journey into two days. In the morning, I had woken earlier than either of my parents, and decided to take a walk to clear my head and prepare for another long day in the carriage with my mother.

I ended walking much farther than I had expected, through a sheltered woods and crossing a small creek that ran lazily among the shady trees. And when I emerged into the bright sunlight that was already streaking the sky and fields before me, I found myself on this very hill, overlooking a grand manor house, a large lake behind it with a small island that bore a perfect Greek folly, and miles and miles of golden fields of wheat and corn. I had sat down there on that hill, tucking my legs under my dull grey skirts, and watched as an early morning rider rode from out of the woods on the other side of the house, heading towards the stable.

And I knew, simply knew--that was what I wanted. I wanted to live someday in a place like that, a place that fairly exuded peace and tranquility and bore the mark of a loving and competent hand. I wanted to ride across the fields, row across the sparkling blue lake, stroll through the woods, run laughingly up the hill on which I sat and look on this land, knowing that it was mine.

At the time, it was a hopeless dream. I could no more have lived in that place than a pig could sprout wings and fly. But it wasn’t long after that I discovered how well my book had done, and not long after that I made my fortune. And four years later, I stood there, on that hill, overlooking my domain and wondering at the turn my life had taken since I had been there last.

I closed my eyes against the sight of that gold-dipped landscape, opened them again, and then with a small sigh, descended the hill towards the manor, where I knew I was awaited.

Continued in Next Section