She turned and left the parlour, with her head held high. She nodded to the footman in the hall, who was mildly confused to see a guest retreating upstairs in the middle of the afternoon. Mary ignored him. She walked with the grace of a queen, waiting until she rounded the curve of the banister and was firmly out of sight before allowing her shoulders to slump.
She did not go to her room, though. She turned sharply left, heading for the end of the corridor, to the one room in Darcy House where no one could follow her without a musical education and a tolerance for minor keys.
The music room.
She slipped inside and pressed her back against the door, the heavy mahogany shutting out the muffled sounds of thehousehold. The air here was different. It did not smell of marital bliss. It smelled of old paper and the distinct, dusty aroma of silence. It was delicious.
Mary crossed the room to the instrument that reigned in the centre of the floor.
It was a Broadwood. A massive, glossy beast of a pianoforte that looked as though it ate lesser instruments for breakfast. It waited there, gleaming under the chandelier, looking at her like it expected Mozart, or perhaps a visiting Archduke.
Mary gave it a look in return. One that said:You will be lucky to get Clementi, and you will like it.
It was a magnificent piece, far superior to the battered upright at Longbourn, which had lost a battle with humidity in 1798 and never fully recovered. She sat on the velvet bench, her reflection staring back at her from the polished fallboard.
She looked at herself. It was a sobering exercise.
The spectacles were new, framed in wire, utilitarian and severe. Her hair was knotted back so tightly it pulled at her temples. Her dress was the colour of a potato. It was a sensible, durable, entirely forgettable brown that seemed designed to blend into the wainscoting.
She took a breath and began the inventory. She had always kept accounts in her head. It was safer than hoping, and the mathematics were rarely wrong.
The London Season Ledger:
Balls Attended:Twelve.
Dances Requested:Four. (Two by Robert, two by Darcy. All arranged in advance like diplomatic treaties to prevent a war).
Conversations of Substance Initiated by a Gentleman:Zero.
Compliments Received:One. (Viscount Keathley had remarked that she was "frighteningly punctual," which, while technically true, is a compliment usually reserved for the Royal Mail coach and executioners).
It was a brutal ledger.
She was the plain Bennet. It was not an insult. It was a classification, like a genus of fungi. Jane was the Beauty. Elizabeth was the Wit. Lydia was the Scandal. Kitty was the Echo. Mary was the Other One. The one who filled the empty chair at dinner to balance the numbers. The one who quoted sermons because she had discovered early on that if she could not be admired, she could at least be righteous.
"And where has it got you?" she whispered to the empty room. "Righteousness is excellent for the soul, but it is terrible for conversation."
She lifted the lid of the keys. Ivory and ebony, waiting like teeth. She had spent years mastering them, drilling scales until her fingers ached, learning the most complex concertos she could find. She had thought that if she were technically perfect—if she never missed a note, never faltered in tempo—they would have to listen. They would have to value her.
But they did not listen. They tolerated.
They nodded politely, their eyes glazed over, waiting for her to finish so they could resume their laughter. She had been playingatthem. She had been demanding their attention with every aggressive arpeggio, wielding Bach like a broadsword ina desperate bid for relevance. And she had only succeeded in becoming part of the background noise. A very loud, very precise piece of furniture.
