Mary Crawford’s Debut #8
Lily nodded. “Of course. He promised.”
With renewed buoyancy, Mary said, “The clock is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated by the clock,” making Lily snicker.
The minutes stretched into an agonising eternity. As each one passed, Mary noted how Lily’s lips pressed into a thin line, her only indication of doubt. But at a quarter before midnight, Mary glanced at the clock.
What if he never received my note?
At midnight, she counted the twelve chimes to herself.
Still, his carriage had not arrived at half past. “I do not understand. He said…”
Lily’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps something has delayed him.” But even as Lily dithered, her voice quavered with uncertainty.
Has he changed his mind? Has his family discovered the scheme and…?
Another quarter of an hour passed. And then another.
Enough!
Mary stood abruptly, a sense of finality descending over her. “He is not coming. Something must have happened. I cannot sit here at this window any longer.”
Exhaling deeply, Lily wrapped her arms around Mary. “I am grieved for you. Desperately grieved.”
The ladies climbed the stairs and exchanged one more embrace before separating for their beds. Defeated, Mary sat at her dressing table and said to her reflection: “I have made such a mockery of myself. I trusted him. And now…”
Jones, who had started to brush out Mary’s hair, shook her head. “You must not blame yourself, miss. How could you know he would not—”
“But I did know.” Mary nodded wearily as she repeated the hollow words: “I did know.”
That night, she tossed in a fitful sleep, unanswered promises pressing on her, but finally succumbed to her disappointment as the inky night gave way to the lavender glow of daybreak.
She did not know the time when Lily entered her bedchamber the following morning. Mary had been staring at the ceiling, feeling betrayed and foolish. She hoped the anger brewing within her would soon chase away her feelings for the man. How could he do this to her?
Lily sat on her bed, a newssheet in her hands.
Please, dear God, no. He could not have pledged himself to Lady Penelope. And left me to read it in the Times!
Without a word, Lily handed her the paper. The headline: “Viscount Killed in Riding Accident in Hyde Park.”
Mary’s stomach lurched. She hopped out of bed to reach for a basin but found her legs would not support her, and she crumpled to the floor.
“No. No! There must be some mistake.”
Lily fell to her knees, clasping Mary’s body to hers. “It is true. I am pained to tell you, but it is true.”
She knew not how long she sobbed but finally was urged back into bed. Lily kissed her forehead and said, “I will return with tea and toast,” and was gone before Mary could decline. She looked at the headline in horror and disbelief, but decided she must know all, so she picked up the paper.
It is with most profound sorrow that we report the untimely death of Aubrey Dearlove, the Viscount Halstead, who met with a fatal accident whilst riding in Hyde Park late yesterday afternoon.
It is said the young viscount, having been in excellent spirits and riding his favourite mare, was suddenly and most tragically thrown from his horse.
Witnesses strolling near Rotten Row said it appeared the beast was startled by an unforeseen disturbance, causing the viscount to lose his seat.
Death was swift. His lordship’s passing has cast a pall over the family, especially as he had only ascended to the title when his brother, Matthew Dearlove, The Viscount Halstead, died last summer due to a short illness.
At the time of publication, it was unknown who would inherit the title.
He is mourned by many, especially his intended, Lady Penelope Fielding.
And Miss Mary Crawford.
With his untimely death, the possibility of such rare marital bliss vanished suddenly and irrevocably, as if the sun had set on Mary’s horizons.
She had conceded her emotions and sense to stray, unbidden, towards the idea of a life as his wife.
The sorrow that enveloped her was of a nature that Lily and Jones believed no consolation could alleviate, in no doubt of her devotion to the viscount and how she had gambled her young heart.
It was not only the viscount’s passing that grieved her; it was the cruel finality, the extinguishing of such young love.
After a se’nnight in bed, Mary noticed that one of the maids had opened a window.
The fresh air seemed to revive her. Turning to her side as the curtain rippled in the light breeze, she caught a sour whiff of her unwashed body and grimaced.
Mary sat up, and her pale reflection in the mirror arrested her.
Tres misérable, she thought. This was not what she was about.
And certainly not who Halstead loved, not who she loved.
Get up. You have indulged in self-pity long enough.
Though others may dwell on guilt and misery, Mary quit such odious subjects as soon as she was able, impatient to restore herself to tolerable comfort and be done with the rest.
She rang for Jones. She needed a bath.
No more would she permit herself to be led by the unchecked forces of her feelings.
The viscount, by his untimely demise, had taught her that affections are not always satisfied and that to give oneself wholly to another is to risk a loss that no earthly comfort can mend.
Henceforth, she would love only herself and selfishly guard her peace—resolute in the knowledge that, as painful as it might be, the tenderness of the heart must remain a lesson learnt and one never to be repeated.
She had been taught by her aunt and by this grief that sentimentality was too fragile a thing to be freely given, and the experience of ill-fated love had left her with a conviction that would not be shaken.
Her practical judgement, her penchant for survival with the most modern sensibilities, and certain questionable principles, perhaps, even if they rendered her less than wholly acceptable in the more refined circles of the ton.
For better or worse, she determined never to be a young woman discounted, nor suffer such heartache again.
Accordingly, in the solitude of her bedchamber, Mary Crawford made her resolution—a resolution borne not of impulse but necessity. Though it is the unfortunate inclination of many young persons to speak in the heat of emotion, her vow was meant to keep. “I shall never love again.”
~ The End ~