Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 (30 page)

Tonight I gathered her hair into a lose knot on top of her head. And then took my sewing scissors and--ignoring Mary's squeaks of protest--ruthlessly snipped and clipped so that a few loose, curling tendrils framed her face.

The difference in her appearance was amazing. I took out a pot of rouge--I have it, still, though I've not opened it in months--and added just a light tough of colour to Mary's lips and cheeks. And she looked lovely, she really did.

I turned her to look in the mirror, and she caught her breath, her eyes going wide. And then she reached for her spectacles, which she had left on the the edge of my night table.

"Don't even think it!" I slapped her hand away. "Do you want to undo all my efforts?"

"But--" Mary cast a longing look at the glasses.

I cut her off. "I don't care how much more intelligent you think they make you look, you are not wearing them tonight."

Mary looked up at me--then down at the floor. "It's not that. It's just . . . I started wearing them when my face had so very many blemishes," she muttered. "They seemed--it felt as though I could hide behind them, a little. And now I feel . . . naked, without them."

I was taken aback. Because as a rule, Mary never admits to uncertainty or self-consciousness--or to anything, really, but absolute certainty of her own wisdom and opinions.

But then she added, "And they
do
make me look more intelligent."

Which sounded much more like the sister Mary I know.

"Gentlemen don't want a woman who looks intelligent, they want a girl who looks like a charming and agreeable companion," I said.

Another flicker of uncertainty crossed Mary's face. "I . . . is that not like lying, then? Pretending to something I am not, just for the sake of attracting what must surely be fickle male attention, if it is based on such untruths? As the poet Mr. Cowper says--"

I sighed. Because I haven't really anything to say to that. It is certainly not as though my own record in that regard has been so outstanding.

But I still interrupted before Mary could start unleashing quotations from poetry. "Let's just start with getting some agreeable gentleman to ask you to dance," I said. "We can worry later about your baring your souls to one another, all right?"

I looked at the clock, then. And realised that I had barely a quarter of an hour until Aunt Gardiner's guests were due to arrive. Which meant that I had approximately ten minutes to dress myself.

I rummaged in the wardrobe and yanked on the first dress that I found--my ivory silk with silver embroidered acorns. And then I sat down at the dressing table to fix my own hair.

I had been playing knights and dragons all afternoon with Thomas and Jack--they are Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's two boys--followed by doll's tea-party with Anna and Charlotte, who are Thomas and Jack's older sisters. And I had spent a good deal of the time holding baby Susanna on my shoulder, as well. So that when I looked in the mirror, I discovered that I still had a smear of green paint on my neck from the dragon's costume--the headdress the boys and I made together hadn't quite dried when I put it on. And that at some point during the tea party, baby Susanna had managed to deposit a sticky smear of what looked like grape jelly in my hair.

There wasn't time for me to do more than hastily scrub the green paint off, though, with the cold wash water in the basin. I pulled my hair back into a tight knot that rivalled the severity of Mary's usual hairstyles, and then covered the jelly with a silver lace bandeau.

After all, it was not as though it mattered especially what I looked like. And I am sure Mary could quote me some verse of the Bible or something has something or other to say about the dangers of vanity over one's looks.

"All right," I said to Mary. "Let us go down. And for heaven sakes, don't forget what I told you. Do not quote poetry, do not criticise any of the gentlemen's apparent vices. And above all, smile from time to time."

Mary looked as though she were preparing to argue--probably thinking up some other quotation about gout and the evils of drink. But I never gave her the chance, only took her by the arm and marched her downstairs, to where the guests Aunt Gardiner had invited were beginning to arrive.

The dinner itself was also perfectly fine. I was seated next to a Mr. Frank Bertram, who talked mostly about--

Actually, I have no idea what he talked about. Horses, possibly? Or boating? My entire attention was occupied with trying to overhear what Mary was saying to her dinner companion. And wishing that I were seated near enough to her to stamp on her foot if she broke any of my rules and started lecturing or sermonising.

She seemed to do all right, though. She was seated next to Rhys Callahan, who is a clerk in Uncle Gardiner's employ. He is somewhere about twenty three or four, and on the compact side--only a head or so taller than I am-- but square built and sturdy-looking. His colouring is Welsh--black hair and dark eyes--and though he is not strictly speaking handsome, he is a pleasant young man.

Well, to be strictly accurate, I suppose I should say that he
appears
to be a pleasant young man. He is so excessively shy that I have never actually managed to get him to say a word to me, though he is often at the house to discuss business with my uncle, and frequently stays to dine.

He appeared all through dinner to be listening to whatever Mary was saying. And his eyes did not even appear to have glazed over with boredom, nor did I see him yawn. Though perhaps he was only grateful to have been blessed with a dinner companion who did not require him to talk.

After dinner ended, and the gentlemen had joined us in the drawing room, Aunt Gardiner proposed that we have some dancing. I could see Mary poised to offer to play. But I stepped in before she could get the words out, and volunteered to accompany the dancing myself. I don't play nearly so well as Mary. Not even so well as Lizzy, really. But I can manage a few reels and a "Sir Roger de Coverley".

The only drawback to that arrangement was that, though I had prevented Mary from playing, I could not both accompany the dancing and find a way to force Mary to actually dance. Or rather, force one of the gentlemen to ask her; she stood at the side of the space Aunt Gardiner had cleared for dancing. Moving her shoulders awkwardly in time to the music and looking hopeful. But not one of the young men there approached her.

Then at last Rhys Callahan came to stand beside her. But not to ask her to dance. They only resumed their dinnertime conversation.

I could only hear part of what they said, but they seemed to be discussing the new gas lights that are being put up around London. It sounded stultifyingly boring to me. But I actually heard Mr. Callahan utter a sentence or two, so he can not have been entirely uninterested. And--perhaps it was the new dress and hairstyle--but Mary looked quite bright and interested, too. She even smiled.

Then Aunt Gardiner approached the pair of them--and I actually had some hopes, because she was intent on seeing Mary and Mr. Callahan dance.

The other drawback of my sitting at the piano was that I was
still
not immune from invitations to dance myself. At least five of the gentlemen present approached my bench and either offered to turn pages for me or said how hard it was that I could not dance, and surely my Aunt or my sister could take a turn?

I kept having to break off playing to decline. I really am not especially skilled at the instrument, and attempting to talk and play at the same time usually leads to disaster.

At any rate it was during one of these lulls--I was refusing Mr. Bertram, my companion from dinner--that Aunt Gardiner approached Mary and Mr. Callahan. So I was able to hear the whole of the exchange.

Aunt Gardiner said, "Come, Rhys--Mary. I must have you dance. The two of you are the only couple here who have yet to take a turn on the floor."

Rhys Callahan's face flushed beet-red to the roots of his hair, and he started to shake his head and stammer some sort of refusal. Something about Mr. Gardiner requiring that he look over some accounts before tomorrow.

Mary, watching him and listening, looked mortified. Because after all, it is not especially pleasant to have the young man whom you have been speaking with for the past half hour look as though he would much prefer to run a mile in tight shoes than ask you to dance.

Aunt Gardiner saw Mary's face, too. She is very perceptive, as well as kind. She turned to Mr. Callahan and said, "Nonsense, Rhys. You work far too hard, as my husband is well aware. He would not wish for you to cut short your enjoyment of the evening for a mere accounts book. I am sure whatever business it is can very well wait."

There was no way Mr. Callahan could refuse without crossing the line into outright rudeness. Still blushing furiously, he offered Mary his hand and bowed. And Mary took it and moved with him onto the dance floor.

That was when disaster struck. I could kick myself for not thinking of it. But in all my coaching Mary these last two days in how to attract a gentleman's invitation to dance, it never occurred to me to question whether she
can
actually dance.

She cannot. At least, she cannot dance well. I remember her having dance lessons when we were young, with all the rest of us. And I can't recall that she was so especially unskilled then. But I suppose it has been years since she had the opportunity to practice. And I am not sure that she has ever danced in company with a young man.

Not that it was her fault entirely. Once he was on the dance floor, I could understand Mr. Callahan's reluctance. He is, quite possibly, the worst dancer I have ever seen. He tripped and stumbled and stepped on the other dancers' feet--and could not to save his own life keep to the beat of the music.

I could only see them out of the corner of my eye, since I was playing. But the combination of him and Mary together was like something from a
Punch and Judy
show. They reeled around, crashing into the other couples in the line. And then Mr. Callahan stepped on the hem of Mary's gown as she turned to move away from him during the
allemande.

There was a rending sound of tearing fabric. And Mary lost her balance and was yanked backwards off her feet, her arms flailing wildly. She landed flat on her back in the centre of the dance floor.

There was a moment of absolute silence when the entire room seemed to stare at her, collectively uncertain of what to do or say. And then Mary scrambled ungracefully up and bolted from the room, her hands covering her face.

I got up from the piano and ran after her. Mr. Callahan was standing where Mary had left him, looking acutely horrified and miserable, as well. But I was much less concerned with him than with Mary. It was entirely my fault that she had attempted dancing tonight at all.

I should have expected her to run upstairs to our room. But I suppose she was not thinking clearly and simply chose the nearest bolt-hole. Which happened to be the downstairs cloakroom at the foot of the stairs.

As I came out of the drawing room and into the hall, I saw the door bang behind her, and heard the key turn in the lock.

"Mary?" I knocked on the door. But there was no response. Nothing but the sound of a muffled sob from inside. I felt truly dreadful, then. That's twice in three days that Mary-the-Complacent has been reduced to tears.

"Mary, please come out." I knocked again. "Everyone knows it was just an accident. No one will laugh at you. Besides, it was my fault. I ought to have made sure that you weren't a complete disaster on the dance floor before I sent you out there tonight."

In hindsight, it was not the most tactful way I could have phrased it. I didn't mean to say it--I was just feeling both guilty and irritated at the same time, and it simply slipped out.

Renewed sobs sounded from behind the locked cloakroom door. But Mary didn't answer or show any signs of being willing to come out.

I tried several more times. Without any better results. And then finally I gave up, leaning against the panel, uncertain of what to do. Clearly I was making no headway with trying to apologise or reason with Mary. And yet I didn't feel, either, as though I could simply go and rejoin the party and leave my sister weeping in a cloakroom.

I was debating whether to try knocking again, when I felt a touch on my elbow and turned to find a young man standing beside me. A very handsome young man--really, one of the most handsome men I have ever seen, with wheat-blond hair combed very straight back from his brow, a lean, chiselled face and eyes of a deep, piercing shade of blue.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Bennett, I wonder if you would--"

However handsome he was, at sight of him my temper abruptly snapped. I had been refusing offers from young men like him all night--and for weeks before this. Scores and scores of handsome young men incapable of getting it through their thick skulls the definition of the words 'no thank you.' And now this young man had followed me out here to pester me while I was already feeling wretched about Mary.

I cut him off. "No. I would
not
care to dance. I would
not
care to have you turn pages for me at the piano. I would not like to step outside with you to see the moonrise." I looked him up and down. "As you are no doubt already aware, sir, you have very pretty blue eyes. But go and turn your lovelorn attentions on some other girl than me, because there is no invitation you could issue, no request you could make that could lead me to say yes. Do you understand?"

The man took a step backwards at the vehemence of my tone. And then he said, one eyebrow raised, "Not even if I requested you to convey my regrets to your Aunt that I must leave at once? I am called away to attend a parishioner, who is gravely ill."

He held up a scrap of folded paper in one hand--the message, presumably. And I noticed what I had overlooked before: that above his black evening jacket, he wore the white collar of a clergyman.

His mouth quirked up at one corner. "Though I am, of course, deeply sensible of the compliment about my eyes."