Chapter 70
Mary Bennet did not dance.
It was not simply a lack of preference, but an utter absence of skill.
She had always struggled to navigate left and right, and her feet had a habit of resorting to their own devices while she concentrated on her hands.
In vain had she struggled. It even reached the point where she took extra lessons, grudgingly paid for by a father who had not yet given up all hope.
The dance tutor gave up first, shaking his head every time she turned the wrong way.
He did not bother to scold her. It was clear that she would never be Miss Noverre or Salome, but after several gruelling years he conceded that at least she would not break anybody’s toes, except possibly her own.
That, he assured a resigned Mrs. Bennet, was the best they could have hoped for.
Lydia and Kitty danced like sylphs and found their sister’s struggles hilarious.
In a final humiliation, Mary was only allowed one ball without them.
She had been told it was her chance to prove herself - but apparently, she had failed, for the very next morning Mrs. Bennet declared her intention to bring the younger girls out.
Mary’s punishment was to be outshone by her silly little sisters for the rest of her life.
All of that, because her left and right feet could not agree!
Mary actually liked bright fabrics and sparkling jewels. After such a deplorable entry into society she made herself forget about them. Her instinct was to avoid attention at all costs. The last thing she wanted was to attract a gentleman’s notice, for then she was sure to make a fool of herself.
It was better not to dance at all.
Mary Bennet did not dance.
To ensure it, Mary adopted a sour pout and a slouch. She made it look as if she was bored and never showed how much she longed to be one of the butterflies.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had put her into an impossible quandary.
She wanted him to see her looking pretty - perversely, for she knew that he had no intentions towards her.
Nevertheless, he was the only gentleman that she had been able to look in the eye, and that deserved some kind of effort.
Just once, it would be nice to feel like she deserved one of his compliments.
But what if he should ask her to dance? From there lay disaster. Disgrace. Humiliation.
In the end, Mary wore a grey dress, a severe hairstyle and a dejected expression.
She found a quiet spot beside the privet to sit and waited for the ball to end.
She had promised to sit with Georgiana after the third dance.
Until then, she would watch Fitzwilliam and see which pretty lady he flirted with when he thought himself unobserved.
Perhaps he would flirt with them regardless. There was no special understanding between the Colonel and Mary. When she was in a foul mood, they were barely even cordial. Yet, jealously, Mary was prepared to condemn him for his inconstancy.
There was a burst of laughter from a close knot of ladies. A man’s low voice wove through it, like a silk ribbon whispering through warm, perfumed hair. Mary guessed exactly who must be behind such decadent humour. She scoffed.
She did not know that she was jealous until she saw her sister Kitty among the fray. Then, suddenly, she wanted to scream.
Mary leapt to her feet, hands clenched into fists.
She had put on a (reasonably) pretty dress and stood within five feet of a gentleman.
That was more than enough jollity for one night.
She would go and sit with Georgiana early - yes, and take a book so that she would not have to watch him… watch them making fools of themselves.
Resisting cliche at every turn, Mary at once collided with a man who, naturally, turned out to be Colonel Fitzwilliam. Laughing, he caught her arm and opened his mouth to speak. Unfortunately for both of them, Mary got there first.
“If the next words out of your mouth are a joke about dancing, sir, then I shall scream.”
Fitzwilliam was not at all perturbed at by her outburst, and Mary immediately felt guilty. She was apparently such a curmudgeon that she would not only blame the man for something he had not done, but would snap at him for catching her fall.
“Sorry.” she mumbled.
The man gave her a sunny smile. “For what?”
Mary scowled, “For being so harsh! I am always scolding you, and I swear I do not mean it. I am not a bad person. I am not so cruel!”
“Of course you are not.” Fitzwilliam replied, looking boyish and baffled, “There is no need to apologise - none at all! What has caused such an assault upon your character? I, certainly, would never criticise you.”
“Because you are a gentleman! There is much to dislike!”
“Who has told you this?” he growled, finally losing his cheerful look. This was better territory. Mary raised her chin.
“Nobody told me! I am capable of forming my own opinions, you oaf!”
Fitzwilliam grinned, showing teeth.
“Not when they are so misguided. The only thing I agree with is that I am an oaf. Most of my friends would say the same thing. Even Bingley, who would call a rabid mongrel a ‘good dog’, has me bang to rights. As for Darcy…”
“Gentlemen can say such things to one another. I cannot.”
“I am no less an oaf because of your gender. It should not prevent you from being honest with your friends, Miss Bennet.”
She was silent for a moment and then wrenched the words out. They sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “You are different around other women.”
“Oh, that is what troubles you?” Fitzwilliam shook his head, not with his usual teasing smile but a sympathetic frown, “Miss Bennet… Mary, you are my friend. I count upon you to keep my feet upon the ground. They - the other ladies - do not see me as a friend. They barely even see me as a person. I confess that I like to flirt with them, but once we have finished dancing they drift away, and so do I. They have not your… your depth. Most of them are puddles compared to you.”
Mary swallowed hard. She felt as if she was drowning. His voice, soft and raw, made her feel utterly exposed. He looked just as vulnerable, and she could not bear it. She gave him one last chance to regret his kindness, to drift away from her, too.
“You prefer their company, and you should. They are…”
“I prefer your company.”
Her mouth gaped open. Like her sharpness, it was another sign of her inability to be ladylike. Mary realised that her stomach was in knots and she was listening for her mother’s brazen voice, waiting for a scolding that would not come.
“I do not dance.” she blurted out, “Or flirt. You may seek such amusements elsewhere, sir. I shall remain your friend, as Bingley is.”
“No.” he interrupted quietly, “As Mary is. Without flirting or dancing, but with as much as she will allow me. Mary - I am here only for you.”
She looked down at her feet, large and cumbersome, crushing daisies underfoot. Left and right, incomprehensibly disobedient, rooted to the ground so that she could not run away.
Fitzwilliam offered her his arm, and with his touch came warmth and light. She could move again, with him, into the trees and away from the wretched music and beautiful fools.
Mary Bennet did not dance.
But, tonight, that was perfect.