Mary gathered the flowers, tucked the card into her reticule, and walked out to the waiting carriage. She did not look back at Darcy House. She held the bouquet very gently as she was helped into the equipage.
The road from London to Hertfordshire stretched before Mary like a sentence in a particularly tedious sermon—long, winding, and inevitable.
She sat with her back straight, her spectacles polished to a gleam, and Mr Bingley's yellow flowers arranged on the seat beside her. The bouquet was another passenger, one that beamed at the upholstery and shed pollen cheerfully.
The maid, a sensible woman named Hobbs who had been lent by Elizabeth for the journey, was situated opposite. Hobbs was knitting a grey and shapeless thing, and she did so with the rhythmic clicking of a ticking clock.
Mary watched the city give way to the countryside. The cramped, soot-stained streets of London dissolved into rolling green hills, hedgerows, and the occasional cow that stared atthe passing carriage with the vacant expression of a creature unburdened by the concept of social expectations.
Mary envied the cows. They stood in fields, they chewed grass, and—most importantly—they did not have mothers. Or if they did, the mothers were likely in a pie, which was tragic, but quiet.
She opened the small notebook she had begun keeping, a log of her "improvements," as she called them. Previously, she had only dared to keep these accounts in her head, where no one could see the deficit. But London had changed things. It was important to keep accounts on paper now. One could not manage what one did not measure properly.
The first page contained a list:
Accomplishments Achieved in London:
Mastered the Narrow-Eyed Stare.(Effective on fishmongers, haberdashers, and one unfortunate curate who attempted to explain theBook of Jobto me. He retreated during the plague of boils.)
Played Music That Made Georgiana Weep.(Intentionally. And she thanked me for it.)
Survived Twelve Balls Without Quoting Fordyce.(An unhuman feat of restraint, given the behaviour of some of the gentlemen present.)
Received Flowers from a Gentleman.(Unexplained. Possibly a clerical error. Or a prank.)
She studied the fourth entry. It still made no sense. It defied the laws of the universe.
Men did not send flowers to Mary Bennet. Men sent flowers to Janes and Elizabeths and Lydias—women who sparkled and flirted and made the world seem a place worth living. Mary did not sparkle. She informed. She corrected. She cited sources.
These were different skills, and none of them attracted floral tributes. They attracted silence and a sudden need to check the weather.
And yet.
Thank you for the depth.
What depth?
She had insulted a Countess, explained the economics of trade routes, and compared portraiture to digestive complaints. These were not actions which inspired romantic gestures. These were actions which inspired polite concern for her sanity. She had not been charming. She had been accurate.
Unless.
Mary looked at the flowers. A horrible thought occurred to her.
