Mary Crawford’s Debut #7
“You are remarkably bold for someone so young. Pray, what is your age?”
Not once had the young lady imagined such a conversation, and she hoped her voice did not squeak. “I have only turned seventeen this month, ma’am.”
The towering feather bobbed with each word, its erratic movement making her look less the regal matron and more a flustered crow demanding Mary’s submission. She made a note:
Never wear feathers.
“Hmph. In any case, their desire, as you say, is of no consequence,” the countess continued dismissively.
“Aubrey is a peer of the realm, and as such, his inclinations must ultimately give way to duty. He will not marry beneath him—nor will he marry someone who, while possessing a respectable fortune, is not of the same sphere as his own cousin.”
A new feeling of remorse for Lady Penelope, being forced to marry her dead beloved’s brother, filled her being.
How disgusting that even for a woman of Lady Penelope’s station, choice was limited to the strict tenets of society, nay, family.
The pang nearly made Mary demand that the officious woman leave.
Instead, she affected serenity. “I find that difficult to believe—”
“Do not mistake me, Miss Crawford.” The countess leant forwards, her eyes narrowed like a hawk. “I am not unaware of your charms or your fortune, but I advise you to consider the consequences of pursuing such a connexion. We will never allow it. Not while I have breath in my body.”
Mary’s heartbeat raced, but she refused to be intimidated.
Her pride would not permit her to be coerced by the woman in the silly turban.
Societal pressures would not dictate to her.
“However, as you have addressed, women are not the ones to decide matters of marriage. This is entirely in the hands of the viscount.”
“I grant you are very young, but do not pretend you do not understand the stakes,” her ladyship hissed.
“Aubrey has a duty to his family, to his title, now that his dear brother has departed. To marry beneath him will never be abided. You must release him from your affections before he suffers from the connexion.”
“If Viscount Halstead should choose to disregard his family’s expectations, it will be his decision, your ladyship.”
The countess’s face turned scarlet, and for a moment, Mary thought the lady might have an apoplectic fit, but she stood abruptly.
As Mary rose, her ladyship proclaimed, “This is not the last on this subject. I shall make certain this matter is settled once and for all. To my liking. As I always do.”
The Countess of Huntingdon swung open the drawing-room door, and Mary heard her strident steps all the way out of the hall. As her legs gave way and she sank onto the sofa, Mary could only imagine the surprised faces of the footmen opening the doors as the woman quitted the house.
Dread and defiance both held our heroine in her seat.
But she knew, dear reader, that whatever Halstead’s feelings, she could not let them destroy her.
Mary also knew that no matter how powerful his mother’s influence, she could never dictate the choices of a man who had the courage to choose for himself.
“She descended upon me like some upstart to be scolded. In such imperious tones, laying out her impediments, how I must discard any illusions about her son—how the family would never entertain me as a prospect.” Mary sat with Lily in the sitting room at the back of the house, her words to her friend halting.
Patting Mary’s hand, Lily said, “You poor dear. I regret my errand to the drapers and that I was not here, that you faced her alone.”
“You know me. I am hardly the sort to be so easily swayed by such mean words. If anything, her interference has only strengthened my stubbornness.”
Lily giggled. “You have always been headstrong. I do hope your young man is not too influenced by his mother.”
“Oh, Lily, I am quite confident that, despite her pomp, if Halstead is truly mine, he will make it known.”
As she waxed eloquence on the depth of her feelings for Halstead, a footman entered, bearing a missive on a salver. Though Mary did not recognise the neatly penned script, her trepidation increased at the thought it could be from the viscount.
“Thank you—” taking her correspondence “—that will be all.”
After the footman closed the door, Mary broke the seal and whispered, “’Tis from Halstead.”
Lily raised her brows and said, “Should I leave you to read your letter in peace?”
“Please, stay.” Her fingers trembling, she read to herself.
Dearest,
I pen this letter with the utmost resolve.
I know, through ghastly means of which I am loath to speak, that you have received my mother’s intentions—intentions that, though cruel and unfounded, cannot be ignored.
Indeed, she has commanded you removed from my life, and if not, she threatens to announce an engagement to my cousin in the papers herself.
You, better than most, know how impossible such a decree is to obey.
I wish to tell you plainly that I will not comply.
In any case, I will call on my cousin tomorrow to tell her I will not offer marriage.
I shall marry the woman of my choosing. My mother has no bearing on my inheritance or the title.
My father will stand with me on this. She cannot force my affections where they do not belong.
In truth, it is you whom I love and to whom my soul is bound.
The tyranny of my mother’s commands cannot ever change that, and yet, I am at an impasse.
You must know, my dearest, that you, and you alone, hold my happiness in your hands.
If you return my affections, and if the prospect of such a future does not strike you with dread, I implore you to consider an offer that may seem as mad as it is heartfelt: if you would consent to become my wife, I am determined that nothing will delay my pursuit of you.
Tomorrow, at midnight, I will arrive with my carriage to whisk you away to Gretna, where no obstacle can stand in the way of our happiness.
All that is required is your assent. I cannot bear the thought of a life without you, nor for you to endure the same unjust treatment from my mother again.
If you trust me, we shall build a future together.
I await, with an impatience that cannot be measured, for the one word from you that will seal my fate forever.
Your entire,
H.
She looked up from the words, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Lily. He loves me. He wants to marry me. To run away tomorrow night. To Gretna.”
Lily sat motionless, her gaze fixed, the weight of the decision apparent on her face.
“What the heart desires is often clearer than reason. But you must consider your life as his wife if his family is against you. Marriage to a peer of the realm would be an elevation into a world where duty, conventions, and societal judgements would be a burden upon you—”
“But I—”
“As much as his affections will lift you.” Lily pressed a finger to Mary’s lips and smiled knowingly.
“I have always known you would never be satisfied with the ordinary course of things.
Remember, my friend, if you elope, you may undo ties to his family.
However, if you allow time for the connexion to build in a proper and prudent manner, perhaps his family will come ‘round. Whatever you decide, you have my support, for your happiness is all that matters to me. The choice is yours.”
“It is no small thing, he declares his love, taking such a wager on me. So, I must match his stake. I will chance my heart like a woman of spirit.” Mary clasped her friend’s hand, her pulse thrumming wildly at her temples, and said, “No cold prudence for me. I was not born to sit and do nothing. If Halstead and I lose, it shall not be from not striving for it.”
Mary crossed to a small desk and wrote a single word, “yes,” on a crisp white quarto, and in a bold stroke, signed the missive with only the letter M. She dashed out into the hall and handed the sealed word to the footman, directing him to deliver the note.
The next morning passed in a blur of preparations.
Mary’s hands moved with efficiency as she and Lily packed a small trunk, folding gowns with an urgency that seemed to match her frantic heart.
She sent Jones to prepare a bag for herself, though a guilty knot twisted in her stomach at the thought of leaving her brother and aunt behind without a word.
She wondered what they might think once they learnt she had eloped, but she could not risk their interference.
The viscount had promised, and she trusted him.
Once her tasks were complete, time crawled at an unbearable pace; Mary had never been one for patience. At dinner, she could not recall a longer day. Fortunately, her uncle and brother dined out, so she and Lily were not obliged to feign plans for the coming days in polite table conversation.
Dusk turned into night, and Lily sat vigil with Mary, giggling like schoolgirls in eagerness for the coming hours.
Lily asked, “Tell me how the viscount charmed you. A stolen kiss?”
“Not just that.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
Mary’s cheeks warmed at the unintended confession. “We were on a stroll through the park, and he was telling me about his new mare—a lively thing, he said. And how I reminded him of her.”
“He wooed you, comparing you to a horse?”
Laughing, Mary said, “No, no. Apparently, she is as lively as a summer storm and just as unpredictable. He has a remarkable way of seeing me and recognising my candour. My guileless nature, he says.”
As the hour drew near for Halstead to arrive, thoughts of being his wife and their families’ possible reactions tumbled in a haze of expectancy as she looked out onto the street below, empty, excepting the occasional carriage.
The hush of the drawing room, stifling with anticipation, encouraged uncertainty to creep in. “Do you think he will come?”