Mary Crawford’s Debut #4
The maid, ever discreet but no stranger to the social currents of the day, worried her lip.
“That you were the belle of the ball, no question of it. And how his lordship seemed very taken with you, if I may be so bold. But there’s mention how his mother has plans for him to marry someone titled as well. ”
Mary nodded absently, her thoughts already drifting to the implications of this news, even from the servants.
It would have been foolish to expect otherwise.
Halstead—handsome, wealthy, and titled—was bound to be a target for every ambitious mother in the land.
Of course, his mother would have plans for him.
As Jones chattered on about coiffures and helped her ready for the day, she ventured:
But why had it seemed as if there might be more between the viscount and me?
At breakfast, her brother was already seated at the table, his customary papers spread before him. Henry read aloud about the Fashionable World as was his habit, though Mary had little patience for his theatrics this morning.
“Ah, here we are.” Scanning the page, Henry began:
“‘Society is all aflutter after the much-anticipated debut of the niece of a luminary at the Admiralty. The private ball, a veritable triumph, glittered with London’s most distinguished. But it was not the diamonds nor the officers that drew the most eyes; rather, the marked attentions paid by a notoriously eligible viscount to the young lady being fêted. Observers report more than one prolonged conversation, and, dare we say it, a waltz. Is this mere flirtation, or could a match be in the offing? Only time will tell.’”
Mary, who had been sipping her tea, set her saucer down. “Already in the newssheets? You jest, Henry.”
“Au contraire,” Henry replied, with all the zeal of one who took pride in being the first to inform his sister of the latest on dits. “And then there’s this:
‘The viscount, newly ascended to the title, is quietly speculated to be engaged to his late brother’s betrothed. Sources close to both families say the match is seen as most prudent, keeping estates within bounds already sanctioned by familiarity.’”
Engaged? He could not possibly be engaged. To his dead brother’s betrothed! “What rumourmongers. Nonsense. Whoever heard of such a thing?” Why had she entertained such aspirations?
“Though Halstead has said nothing to me, his future has been widely whispered about these many weeks. Of course, Halstead’s family is determined to marry him off to his late brother’s betrothed, his cousin Lady Penelope.
Some such about it was always their mothers’ favourite wish to have their children joined together. ”
Her mien sank at the mention of Lady Penelope Fielding. She had never met the lady but had heard of her—an elegant young woman of fortune and breeding, just the sort of match the viscount’s mother would want for her son.
Henry buttered his toast and then popped it into his mouth, speaking between bites. “She is the ideal match. Fortune, family, and pedigree all rolled into one. So why not continue with the match?”
“Because it is grotesque to think one son might be substituted for another.”
“Yes, well,” Henry went on, oblivious to his sister’s disappointment, “I suppose it’s not terribly shocking. A man in his position can hardly afford to let sentiment dictate his choices for long.”
“How… how convenient for the viscount, then, if Lady Penelope is able to transfer her affections from one brother to the other,” she said, her voice charily neutral.
“His mother must be quite determined.”
She frowned. “Hmph. How very wise of her.”
“All the same, it was a fine evening,” he said, folding the paper. “The dancing, the company. You made quite an impression, Sister. A shame Halstead’s interests are so tied to matters of family, but I suppose that’s the way of things.”
Mary did not answer straightaway. Staring into her cup, she willed herself to appear as unaffected as she ought. “Yes,” she said, after a beat, “the way of things.”
As the day unfurled, so too did Mary’s genteel resignation. The indifference to society’s conventions tempered her brief moment of optimism. What chance did their fleeting moment of possibility stand against “the way of things,” as Henry so crudely phrased it?
Mary sat at the settle beneath the broad windows of her aunt’s drawing room, her cup of tea untouched.
She did not expect any callers as her birthday celebration had run into the wee hours, and the house seemed unusually still.
The butler said her uncle had departed for the Admiralty, and Henry, too, was not in the house, having left for his club.
The papers lay on a low table before her like a viper, bearing more than the latest reports from the Peninsula campaign.
She collected the day’s disappointments and consigned the society’s gossip to the fire in the grate.
She had not imagined herself in love, of course not; she was too sensible to presume such things. But she had expected…
Expected what? That he might call? More?
But what of this Lady Penelope? Mary imagined a beautiful young lady in black bombazine. Pale but composed. What type of creature might become a bride so soon after mourning?
A repellent woman, that’s who.
It was repulsive. Worse, he might agree to the scheme.
Never had she presumed that he would be the sort of man who could be exchanged for a brother without protest.
And perhaps, he was not, for no sooner had the clock struck three, Lord Halstead presented himself.
Mary’s pulse betrayed her with the rapidity of a heart unacquainted with the vagaries of affection.
She ought not receive him alone, given Lily was still abed.
She ought not care so much that he had come to call.
Indeed, she had reminded herself at least a dozen times since reading the papers that he was nearly a betrothed man.
But when the viscount, with the ease of one unaccustomed to refusal, proposed a walk in the gardens of Berkeley Square, what did our heroine do?
Mary—sensible Mary, who prided herself on reason and good judgement—lifted her chin (which all the novel writers tell us is the universal sign of female spirit) and, with scarcely a murmur, summoned her maid and her bonnet.
It seems that even the most sensible woman has moments of weakness.
They walked silently at first, Jones trailing behind at a respectable distance.
The late spring had uncoiled its green limbs, and the air smelled faintly of primroses and damp earth.
Halstead was a striking figure, and his piercing blue eyes fixed with an intensity that roused her.
Golden locks rested on the collar of his finely tailored coat, and the snowy cravat only accentuated his chiselled features.
Once inside the park gates, his commanding presence drew the eye of everyone they passed.
He civilly nodded or greeted those he recognised, but they did not stop to converse.
Finally, when he did speak, it was without preamble.
“My family wishes me to marry Lady Penelope.”
Mary stared at the trail before her, clasping and unclasping her parasol with all the fortitude of a young lady versed in propriety. “So I read.”
“Yes, I worried you had seen the papers already. I came to you at once. You must know, it is not my wish.”
She glanced at him then. His face bore the wear of a sleepless night, and there was a rawness in his voice that did not suit the polished gentleman she had danced with.
“And yet you will do it?”
“I said it is not my wish,” he repeated. “They believe it suitable. Logical even. Matthew loved her. But I cannot pretend his affections make her mine.”
The prickle of conscience, the echo of every warning that had ever passed between a mother and daughter—her aunt and herself—whispered to her, and still, she asked, “And Lady Penelope?”
“She loathes the idea.” He sighed. “She loved my brother. Truly. She weeps when they press the subject. Yet they believe that grief, if set in a bridal gown, will fade.”
Mary stopped walking. They stood beside a tall plane tree, the path curving away, giving them a corner of the Square all to themselves.
“I should not have come. I know it. I should be dutiful, silent, and cold. But…” He turned to her fully. “I cannot forget your face.”
“Or the way we danced so well together,” she said softly.
Did I say that aloud?
Horrified, Mary burned in mortification.
“Miss Crawford, you are lovelier than sense allows, and I am a fool for telling you so. But if I must be pressed into some mournful mimicry of love, let me at least say what truth I know now.” He reached for her hand—gloved, protected from his touch—but her breath hitched all the same.
“I like you. Truly. I admire your brain. Your confidence. The way you do not rush to fill silences with nonsense.”
Hot tears stung, and she was angry at her weakness.
For heaven’s sake, Mary, get a hold of yourself.
He dropped her hand and turned away as if vexed. “But I fear I am being forced down a path I would not choose.”
Wiping her eyes with a linen square, she straightened her shoulders. “My lord. We barely know one another. This can mean nothing to me.”
As quickly, he faced her. “I find myself in a most particular position, caught between my inclinations to self and the weight of obligations that now bind me. Before…” With the back of his fingers, he touched her cheek.
“But now, the title… This is my lot. I would gladly lay this burden aside to be my own man again were it not for the duty I owe my family.”
His nearness made her tremble, and when his eyes dropped to her lips, heat curled low in her belly.
“So lovely,” he murmured, as if transfixed. Mary was no worldly woman, yet she recognised that look for what it was as he effectively created the same unsteady want in her.